Page 38 of Snow Creek

“…what am I supposed to do now?” she was asking.

I moved a little closer, though still out of view. It was nighttime, and I was wearing a pale yellow flannel nightgown. On my feet were slippers made to look like pink bunny rabbits. I loved those slippers more than anything. I never saw them again after that night.

“…tell me just how that’s supposed to work?”

After a long silence, Mom hung up the phone. She stayed very still on the sofa and wrapped an old crocheted blanket around her shoulders.

I remember something else just then.It was Christmas time.Our tree was up next to the fireplace. Why hadn’t I remembered this before?

I take my mind back to that place. I stood there frozen, watching Mom. I had the impulse to run over and hug her, but I was too scared. Later, when I thought about the reasons for my reluctance to interfere, I figured that it had to do with the fact that my mother was a private person. To see her crying almost seemed like a violation of her privacy.

Then she saw me. I felt a jolt go through my body. I was caught. She recovered a little and motioned for me to come closer. I followed the trajectory of her finger to a spot next to her on the sofa.

“Honey,” she told me, “I’m all right, but I do have something to tell you. It’s about tomorrow. We’re going to take a little trip tomorrow. It’ll be fun.”

Her eyes were red and nothing that came from her lips seemed like it could possibly be fun.

“Where?” I asked.

“That’s the fun part,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “I don’t know.Wedon’t know.” Her eyes left mine and wandered around the room. I followed them until her gaze stood still.

On our coffee table was a travel magazine with the image of a log cabin in the woods.

“We’re going out West,” she said.

Her random choice scared me. It felt desperate. “Why?” Yet my mother had pulled herself together now. She was in full-on survival mode, an affectation that I later knew to be a complete façade. “Because we have to get away from someone. Someone bad. Someone who wants to hurt me.”

I didn’t understand what she meant. The funny thing about it was that I didn’t even ask. I just accepted it. The next morning, I found her in front of the fireplace burning papers and photographs. I watched my own image get licked and then devoured by orange and blue flames.

Ten minutes later, we were gone, and my name was no longer Shelly. We took nothing with us. Not even those pink bunny slippers. I always missed those slippers so much.

“Anna,” she said, trying out my new name as we drove toward the highway, “starting over will save us. Starting over is the only way we can survive.”

* * *

My pizza is long gone. Two beers too.

I think of Joshua and Sarah and how they’ll have to start over their lives. Just like Hayden and I did. Depending on how the family court judge rules, it is possible that Sarah will go into foster care until more permanent arrangements can be made. Among the list of things that Hayden hated me for was how he had to, as he said, “serve time” in foster care. I was out there somewhere, and he was alone with strangers. It was my doing. I left him. He didn’t know why.

Not then.

Nineteen

The night had been a rough one. I doubt I slept more than two or three hours. I tossed and turned and struggled to find the cool side of my pillow. I dreamed of cats and Hayden. I pick up my phone and open my email. Nothing but a bunch of spam offering me things I don’t need and don’t want. Nothing from my brother. I remind myself, as I put my feet on the floor and head to the bathroom, that someday he’ll write me back. Hehasto. He’s my blood. He’s all I have.

I put a pod in the coffeemaker and wait while it pushes hot water through the ground coffee. My phone pings and my heart skips a beat.

Hayden?

I look down. It’s not my brother. It’s an update from the crime lab.

We will run the samples this morning. Expect a call after lunch.

I finish my coffee, take a quick shower and dress for work. My first stop is at the community planning office where I’ll ask for a printout of the property owners closest to the Wheatons, before heading out to Snow Creek.

The printout is scant in information. There are only four property owners—Maxine and Earl Jacobson, Ida and Merritt Wheaton, Regina and Amy Torrance, and Daniel Anderson. The house with the sweet potato vine is a ghost on the page. A squatter, I think. A squatter who’d been there for what seems to have been a long time. A notation indicates that the previous owners had left the area before we went digital. They owed back taxes to the tune of $2,024 and apparently felt the tax bill didn’t justify the reality of what they had.

I completely agree.

---