Page 43 of Loud Unspoken Memories

“It’s fine.” He stands, taking our empty plates to the sink and starts washing.

I turn. “The water still works?”

“Water and toilet. I’m on well and septic, and the water pump has a battery backup. It’ll work just fine. It just won’t get hot.”

“Well, that’s a relief. On both counts. For a second I thought we’d have to go outside to do our business like Bex.”

His shoulders shake in silent laughter. They do that a lot. I get the idea he doesn’t like to laugh, but that sometimes it just happens spontaneously.

After he cleans up and I package the leftovers, I stare at the massive amount of food. “What should we do with it now that the fridge is out?”

He goes into the hobby room and comes out with two large coolers. “We’ll put all the refrigerated stuff in here and then fill them with snow. We’ll just have to keep doing it a few timesa day and drain out the water. As long as we don’t open the freezer, everything in it will keep for a few days. You never know, maybe the weather will break and I’ll get my propane delivery by then.”

Sudden sadness washes over me. If the weather breaks, that Luther guy will be up here with a tow truck. He’ll take me into town, I’ll rent a car, and that’ll be it.

Will Dallas even think about me when I’m gone? Or will he just regret me?

“You okay?” he asks.

I swallow. “Yeah.”

He hands me one of the coolers. “You want to fill this up halfway with fresh snow? Ice would be better, but I don’t want you anywhere near the pond.”

I try not to smile. He’s worried about me. He’s protecting me.

While scooping snow into the cooler, I take note of its consistency. It’s heavy and wet and seems to clump in my hands. My cold lips curl up into a sinister grin. I pack snow tightly between my hands, forming a snowball, then I place it on top of the rest of the snow inside the cooler. I take it back inside, set the cooler down, open the lid, take my weapon out and launch it at Dallas, hitting him square in the back.

He spins and looks down at the chunks of snow, amused. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

“I did indeed,” I say, with zero regrets. “And you now have the distinct honor of being the first person I’ve ever hit with one.” A thought occurs. “Hey, why don’t we go outside and work off some of those calories? We can have a snowball fight.”

He thinks about it then turns away. “I’ll pass.”

I walk the cooler over to him, set it down, then put on the warmest clothes I can find, which consist of another one of hissweatshirts, his beanie cap, and the coat I keep borrowing. “Suit yourself. I’m going out.”

“To have a snowball fight with yourself?” he asks over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes. “You’re a party pooper, Dallas Montana.” I pat my thigh. “Come on, Bex. Let’s you and me go have some fun.”

He barks once and trots after me. At least someone is as excited to play in the snow as I am.

I make a large snowball and throw it at the front door in spite, watching it clump to the ground. I’d like to say it came to rest on a welcome mat, but there isn’t one. Dallas isn’t exactly the roll-out-the-red-carpet kind of guy.

I get it. He wants his space. He wants to stay up here and chop wood and read and learn a gazillion languages and, what… stare at all his wife’s creations? Is that what he was doing in there for hours? How depressing. I mean, I know the feeling. After my own losses, I’d sleep with a shirt or a blanket that smelled of them. I was devastated when the scents began to fade. I wanted to keep the memories alive. Over the years, my therapist—and quite frankly, Asher—have taught me how to do it in a much healthier way.

I look back at the house, wondering if he’s ever sought out therapy. I doubt it. Not if he’s been living out here ever since. But I know one thing, if anyone was ever in need of a therapist, it’s him.

Movement flashes in the window and I catch Dallas watching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware that I see him even though I’m looking right at him. Is he daydreaming? Zoning out? Wishing me gone?

I push the thoughts aside and go back to making another snowball, but instead of tossing it at the window—no need totempt fate and risk breaking it now that we’re without power—I keep adding more snow and it gets bigger and bigger.

I’ve never made a snowman before, but I assume this is how it starts. Too large to hold in my hands now, I put the snowball on the ground and then use my hands to scoop the surrounding snow onto the snowball. But all I end up doing is making it look like a lame, asymmetrical blob. Come on, how hard can it be to build a snowman? Kids do it.

It makes me wonder if Charlie has been playing in the snow. He’s not that far from me. A few hours at most. Surely it’s been snowing there too. He must be even more mesmerized by it than I am. I hope someone has taken him out, maybe even built a snowman with him. I know he’d love it.

But Anita is grieving. Is my son sitting in a corner, forgotten, as his stepmom mourns his father?

My need to get to him is strong. But knowing there are many relatives to care for him does offer me comfort. Surely someone will step up and make sure he’s being well taken care of. Most of her family didn’t even know Charles. They won’t be as distraught as Anita. This gives me confidence that he’ll be alright. My kid is resilient. Adaptable. He’ll be okay. I just wish I could talk to him, assure him I’m here and close and will be with him as soon as I possibly can.

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