A Perfect Holiday

He never had any respect for what hung in the balance. The day had started off with such promise. The sun shone, glittering on the snowbanks and she had packed a perfect picnic lunch, roast beef on a hard french roll, hard-boiled eggs, a thermos of thick mocha and a sleeve of chocolate sandwich cookies. It had been one of those February days when spring tiptoed to the front door and stuck his nose out, while the sun was still high in the winter sky. She was always the one to attend to the details, she thought. She'd suggested the weekend, booked the little villa, checked the children's boots and skis, and carefully thought through the details of the day.

The children had lessons, but were novices. She was the most experienced. But now it had been years since she'd practiced wedelen and the skis had been different then, not the super side cut parabolics that felt so different carving through the snow. He'd been a quick learner. He always wanted to be the one who was most adventurous. Even when they were dating. This had driven her crazy. He lit fireworks and stood too close, and he derived pleasure out of watching her kneading her fingers, brow furrowed, having already pleaded and cajoled with him not to light them. This only added fuel to his fire. He would tease her then, holding the fireworks in his hands, dropping them only at the last minute when they exploded in a frenzy of light and sound. Of course, it had been fine. It always was. That's what was maddening.

There had been other times, as well. They'd stood on the swinging bridge and he'd held the baby. She, white knuckled and hanging onto the side rails. Each time a breeze blew she'd shut her eyes tightly. She'd been too frightened even to remonstrate with him then. He'd laughed throatily. He wanted to know why she worried so much. She hated this. She knew it was manipulation, and yet she seemed to fall for it every time. She would resolve to be just as bear-hearted as he was, or if not, at least to not say anything. Instead, she felt anguish, despair over not being able to control his actions, anger at herself for being frightened.

Today was different, though. It seemed as though in the space of a few minutes the weather had changed. Black clouds had passed over the white sun and the wind had picked up. She'd already been breathless over taking a few runs down some of the steeper slopes. It had been a rush of adrenaline. She hadn't pushed herself in so long. She'd been distracted, or maybe her life had changed. No more racing with friends down the mountain. She'd traded her skis for a life of diapers and clocks, of wiping spilled glasses of milk and putting together jigsaw puzzles. She hadn't realized how stifling it was until she'd had time for a few lone runs on the mountain. It was only then that she'd recalled the hissing of the wind in her ears, and she felt as though she was winning a race against the wind, cheating with the tempo of each short-radius turn until she'd dug her skis onto the snow for a hard stop, raining powder feet into the air. She'd waited for five to ten minutes for him then. He was reckless and had taken a spill, but arrived smiling and ready for more.

She hadn't liked the idea even then. He'd picked up the older child from ski school and they'd taken the gondola up the mountain. It had still been cheerful then. The younger girl was still learning "french fries" and "pizza" and had only been too happy to remain with the instructor. Their son loved to be on a run by himself with only his mother and father. When they reached the top, the lift operator was singing Tyrolean music and they had all laughed, happy to be part of a ski holiday.

Those laughing men and women were gone now. There were a group of sober ski patrol men and women in bright red snowsuits to replace them. They hadn't chided her when they saw her. In fact, they'd said nothing, but only spoke in a foreign language to the team of dogs they'd brought along. How much time had passed, she wondered. She looked at her watch. Two and a half hours. She stood alone and put her face into the wind to hide a film of tears that she could feel forming. How could he be so selfish? He was a bastard, an idiot. And she supposed she was, too. But how could she blame herself when he'd been pulling such antics for years? She'd grown tired of being the one to say no, to warn everyone to be cautious, to be guffawed at and teased. Especially not here. Skiing was her interest, not his. Still. She should have known better than to say nothing.

The sky was black now and rain was falling. She could hear thunder in the distance. She knew this was dangerous. In the mountains, lightning could bounce off rocks and could strike more frequently than on flat ground. She imagined what it would be like to be stuck. If Colin couldn't keep up, he'd have to step sideways up the hill. She imagined Colin's small, cold hands, his tears of exhaustion as both tried to find their way back to the trail. What if they met up with a bear? There were bears in the mountains here. They wouldn't know what to do. They lacked the skill to even get away quickly. She thought back to his spill on the mountain. He was a mess. She couldn't believe she'd said nothing.

She approached the men at the ski patrol. It was now two hours and forty-five minutes. They were speaking to the dogs in some unknown language and new people, men in black snowsuits, local police, had joined the crew. What language is that, she'd asked, trying to distract herself from thoughts of what might be happening. American Indian, had been the response. Why, she'd wanted to know. It's such an obscure language to teach a dog commands. There had been a pause, and she'd looked searchingly into the faces of the gendarmes. One of them smiled at her, with an expression she could not quite read. The other told her why. They used American Indian so that they could command the dogs to look for dead bodies without upsetting the family.

She turned away then. She couldn't hold it in any longer. Hot tears on her red face. She would have to pick up Annette from ski school. Annette would want chocolate sandwich cookies. She recalled that Colin had saved a handful, left them in a small sandwich bag for his sister in a rare moment of sibling thoughtfulness. They would still be there. She retched. She couldn't help it. Nothing came out. Dry heaves. Hard and prolonged, they left her gasping for air. The tears came harder now. Life would be hard. How would she explain to Annette what happened? They would never ski again, maybe never travel again. It was ruined. How could she have been so selfish, such an idiot? Colin was only seven. What kind of mother would allow this to happen? Another wave of nausea, unproductive.

None of the men approached. They were blase. Life would go on for them. Just another idiot who went off-piste, unqualified to do so. Served him right whatever happened. She wondered what would happen when the patrol would have to break the news. She swooned then, and one of the patrolmen, a strong, rubicund blonde, had come over to make her sit down. She wanted him to tell her that it would all be OK, but she didn't dare ask. If she asked, and then he said no, her hopes would be dashed. She couldn't ask.

The rain had turned to ice pellets now. They hurt on her bare head, and she replaced her helmet to stop the tiny rocks of ice from pelting her. More crashes. Or was it something else? She couldn't hear through the thick padding over her ears. It sounded different. Like gunfire? What if there was a hunter or mountain-dweller who fired at them, thinking that they were wild animals? No, this was a different sound. This was barking. Wild barking, loud, convulsive, purposeful, desperate barking. The dogs were going crazy, barking and running from the black woods.

And suddenly, they emerged. He was grinning broadly, and little Colin was smiling, being carried by one of the ski patrolmen. "Mommy!" he shouted.

"Hi, Sweetie, we're back," her husband was chortling. "You weren't worried were you?" She thought she detected an edge in his voice.

"No," she said, turning her face into the wind, which erased her tears as swiftly as they had appeared. "I wasn't worried."