Page 44 of Snowman

Mine.

The word echoed in my head.

How?

I couldn’t. Not again. I couldn’t let this happen again.

Fine.

I am fine.

But I wasn't fine. Not even close.

FIFTEEN

SNOWMAN

12 YEARS OLD

I sat on agreen bench in the park, my eyes fixed on the playground. It was late 1994, and I had just turned twelve. Mom had gone to pick up medicine for my younger brother, Erik, leaving me to wait out front. The city had changed so much since the last time we were here; more people, more noise, and more strangers I didn't want to meet. I watched other kids play, their laughter and shrieks ringing through the crisp autumn air as they ran and pulled on each other, lost in their games. None of them came near me. If any of them had, I would've said no, but, it would have been nice to be asked.

I saw Mom come out through the glass doors of the pharmacy, brown paper bag in hand. She was wearing her blue coat and matching hat, her other hand tightly clutched to Erik's as she led him toward the car. She waved at me, calling for me to join them. I stood ready to go, but then a little girl appeared beside me.

"Hey," she said, her voice bright. "Wanna play?

I turned to her. She couldn't have been more than six, her blonde pigtails tied up with red ribbons matching her dress. Her wide blue eyes stared up at me, searching my face for an answer. For a moment, I hesitated. I wanted to stay. I wanted to play. But I couldn't. If I didn't go straight to the car, we would all pay the price later.

I shook my head and turned to run, leaving her standing by the green bench staring at me hopefully as if expecting me to turn backward.

By the time I reached the car, Mom was waiting with a knowing smile, her arms across her chest. "If you keep running away from girls like that, you'll never have a girlfriend," she teased, chuckling.

"I don't want a girlfriend," I hastened to say, plunging into the back seat.

Erik was already there, leaning against the window, his face pale and drawn. His head leaned limply against the glass, where his breath fogged it. I reached over and touched his hand; it was warm, too warm. My stomach twisted as I turned to Mom.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes," she said. "It's justfrostbite," the words sounded thin, like a tarp too small to make anyone warm.

Frostbite, that was what she called it, when we got sick afterward from one of Dad's"lessons."Last night, he had left us in the woods once more, wanting to"toughen us up."The cold had seeped into our bones while the woods, with all theirwhispers and shadows, crept into our minds. Erik had felt it worst of all.

The drive back to the farm took half an hour. The silence in the car was thick, with only the soft hum of the engine and Erik's shallow breathing breaking the stillness. Finally, we pulled up, and Mom turned to us, her voice hushed. "If your father asks where you were, just say you went to visit Aunt Ilda."

We nodded, knowing full well that we didn't have to be told twice. We knew what Dad was capable of, how quickly his anger could turn violent. We'd learned to lie, to play the game. It was the only way to keep Mom safe.

As Mom got out to unlock the garage, Erik turned to me, his hand reaching for mine. His grasp was weak but urgent, and his wide, feverish eyes searched mine, and he whispered, "It's not frostbite."

"What do you mean?" I whispered back.

"I saw something," he said, his voice shaking. "Something they didn't want me to see."

"What did you see?" I asked, a tinge of fear creeping into my chest.

"They take them," he said, all the while his hand tightening mine. "Dad and Joe—they take them to the river and..."

He didn't finish, but then again he didn't need to. His words seemed to hang in the air, the unsaid saying it all. It grew colder in the car, darker, as though some of the shadows of the woods had followed us home.

But just as Mom came back into the car, Erik suddenly clammed up, bringing a finger to his lips. He turned back toward the window to stare out, as though nothing had been said.

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