January is Always Cold

     I am standing in front of the picture window, the one in our living room that faces the front yard, looking out at a sea of snow. It is winter; the snow has every right to be here. But to me it feels like Mother Nature is rubbing salt into our wounds, isolating us as if we were living inside a snow globe.

     Staring out the window is a great way to kill time, and that is all I do now, waiting out the season, waiting out grief, neither of which seems to have an ending. But I'm not just staring; I am searching, I'm on the lookout for life. Anything. Something that is alive, other than the two of us. A bird, a deer, a fox, a loved one; anything or anyone would do. Earlier, I saw a car slow, as if to turn onto our driveway, but it drove off, taking my hope along with it.   

     "Honey?" I turn and wander into the kitchen and see Dan, still seated at the breakfast table, his cereal a bowl of mush, his hands covering his face. 

     He doesn't look up or even acknowledge that he heard me. He just sits there, rubbing his eyes over and over again, something he does so intensely I worry someday I will look at him and his eyes won't be there anymore, just two black gaping holes instead.

     "Dan?" I walk over to the table and sit across from him. "Dan?"

     "What?" He hisses. I shrink into the chair, unaccustomed to his menacing attitude. The man who used to be the life of the party can no longer have a simple conversation with his own wife. I know what changed him though, so I try to be forgiving.

     "Do you think that maybe today, maybe whenever, you can arrange to have the driveway plowed?" His hands drop like lead weights onto the table, rattling the spoon in the bowl and I can't weather his look, so I focus on cleaning an old coffee stain at the edge of the table, dampening the edge of my robe's sleeve with my tongue and rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, but the stain remains.

     "We don't have a car." I know, and he knows I know. We had one, up until that night. A cherry red 1967 Mustang Dan bought and restored himself; we called it our second child. "Why plow the driveway if we don't have a car?"

     "Well, so people can come and visit with us."

     "And who would that be?" 

     "Friends. My mother, your sister." People who would want to be there for us. I don't say this out loud, because saying it would admit that we haven't been there for each other.

     “No one is coming to see us.”

His response silences me, the pain of his words splitting my heart in two. There’s no beating around the bush: we’ve been scorned by everyone we know. Their absence makes it clear to both of us. But I am hopeful that one day our loved ones will look past the horrible, awful choice we made that night and realize that we need them. Soon, any day now, a loved one would walk through our front door and reciprocate the love I’m so desperate for. 

I reach for Dan's hand, but it's too late. He pushes his chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the wood floor, and heads over to the counter to rest against it for a moment. I stare at the bowl because watching him is painful. His gait is off-balance, as if he’s about to fall off a cliff but is stopped by whatever is in front of him, his hands catching the edge of the counter, or a wall, or a doorway. If there's nothing within reach to stop him, his six-foot frame hits the floor with a foundation-shaking thud. 

     And when I do glance at him, all I see is filth: His white t-shirt is covered with stains that are spreading like a fungus and I can smell his stench from here, the body odor combined with his foul mood creates a formidable force. His feet are bare and covered with dirt; his left one is caked with dried blood.

     "What'd you do to your foot?"

     "Huh?" He looks down at his foot. "You mean you don't remember?" 

     "No." I wait for an explanation that doesn’t come. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

     "It's not my fault you don't remember." He aims his body toward the basement door. "I'll be downstairs." That’s where his workshop is; that’s also where I’ll never go. Not that it matters. The separation between us is greater than that. His mood makes me feel worse if that’s even possible, so it’s a relief to see him go. 

     "Can you please see if you can get the furnace working?"

     "It's plenty warm up here."

     "But I'm freezing!" He leans against the door, glaring at me and I look away, unable to process the tension between us.

     "You only think you are." He leaves before I have a chance to reply, but I have nothing more to say to him. His dismissive attitude toward my needs makes me wonder if our marriage will survive this nightmare.

#

I call my mother. No matter what Dan says, I refuse to believe my own mother would never want to speak to me again.

     “Mom?”

     “Hello?”

     “Mom, It’s me, Jane.”

     “Hello? Hello?”

     “Mom! Can you hear me?”

“Hello?”

     Dial tone. I call back but she doesn’t answer. The weather must have damaged our phone line; it happens every winter. That must be the reason. I am restrained by my environment and have no choice but to sit idle until the sun shines and the snow melts.

     How long has it been? I look up at the wall calendar, the one I keep next to the phone and see that December was a busy month. There were dentist appointments for all of us, the kindergarten Christmas recital, and the PTA Holiday Festival; I had a hair appointment and a physical. Then, Merry Christmas! After that, there was New Year’s Eve. In the tiny square that marked the last day of the year, I had drawn a star and inside that star, I wrote Tracy’s Party. Just looking at that day pains me. I rip off the entire month only to find that there’s no January. And without any reference, I have no idea what day it is.

#

     I am upstairs in the bathroom, the only bathroom in the house, and stare at the claw foot tub with the set of bright yellow rubber ducks stacked in one corner, their joyful expressions screaming at me. I can't remember the last time I bathed, but I do remember the horror I felt the last time I was in water.

     I turn to the mirror, which I've put off doing because I'm ashamed of my reflection. The darkest circles I’ve ever had surround my eyes. My hair has thinned and I notice streaks of grey for the first time. The lines on my face are more severe than usual and my lips are chapped beyond repair. By comparison, Dan looks better than I do. I tighten my robe. I should change out of my clothes, but it will take too much effort and the thought of exposing my bare skin to the chilly air makes me shiver. I leave the bathroom, having accomplished nothing.

#

     I am in Rory’s room. It’s the warmest room in the house, warmed by love and memories and innocence. But it is fading; his clothes don't smell like him anymore and his bed sheets have grown stale from his absence.

     I open his closet door, crouch down and crawl into his fort. It was constructed of bed sheets and cardboard, just big enough for the three of us. I've filled the empty spaces with stuffed animals. There's Rowdy the elephant, Chewy the rabbit, and Carmel the camel. I take Chewy and hug him as tight as I can, wanting to sleep but also forcing myself not to. 

     That night. Every time I close my eyes, I see that night all over again. This time when I close my eyes I catch a glimpse of Rory's body being pulled from the water, just out of my reach. I can only close my eyes for so long these days.

The nights are much worse. Every morning I find myself in a different part of the house. Sometimes in here or on Rory’s bed, in the hallway, the laundry room floor, having no clue how I ended up there. My memory has become a great fog, thick and dense with grief and every day my head throbs with a sharp pain that never fades. It’s only in this tiny walk-in closet in our son’s room that I feel a small amount of relief.

Silence followed us home that night. A house without a child is like a tomb. So when I hear the hinges squeak as Rory’s bedroom door opens, I don’t move. The last thing I want is Dan’s company. This is my sanctuary and honestly, I don't want him stinking up the place. 

     His heavy footfalls don't come as expected. Instead, I hear soft ones, as if he’s tiptoeing, which is not something Dan ever does. It reminds me of Rory, the way he would sneak around and try to spook me, then run away laughing. If Dan was being this quiet, he wouldn't want to find me in here. I clutch Chewy tighter and hold my breath, hoping he won’t find me. 

     I hear a dresser drawer open, some ruffling around, a drawer shut, and another open. What on earth is he looking for? It’s not Dan’s nature to be discreet, and whatever he’s doing, he wants to keep it from me, so naturally, I have to know.

     As soon as I start to slither my way out of the fort, the movement stops, so I stop as well and crane my neck out just far enough to see over Rory’s bed. A chill travels down my spine because in the corner of the room, I see a rainbow of color in the shape of a child, like a hologram. I push the closet door open all the way for a better look and the shape dashes out of the room, slamming the door shut, hard enough that I see the dust on the floor rise and fall.

     I speed-crawl out of the fort and race to the door, swinging it open wide so it slams into the wall, and I see him, I see Rory, but I can also see through him. I don’t understand, but I don’t care. “Rory!” I cry out as I run to him, my arms open wide, ready to embrace him. Rory lets out a gasp and runs to the stairs. I try to catch him in my arms, but I go right through him and crash onto the floor.

     Dan is driving; Rory is sleeping in the backseat. I'm watching the road, and Dan, watching his eyes open and close, watching his concentration wane, watching the alcohol take over. It's a moonless night and the road is slick with ice; the headlights give off only a faint yellow glow.

     "You sure you don't want me to drive?" I ask him, even though I'm no better off than him. The party was vibrant and we told ourselves we'd leave right after midnight, then after one more drink, then one final drink.

     "No, baby, I'm fine. We're almost home anyway." He picks up speed a bit to prove just how fine he really is and takes the curve too wide, the same curve that killed the Miller's boy five years ago, and we are no longer on the road but in the air, then in the lake, the lake where we spent our summer days swimming and fishing.

     I open my eyes and allow myself the briefest of seconds to come back to the present day. When I hear the front door close, I jump to my feet and take the stairs so quickly it’s as though I’m flying down them. I’ve never moved so fast in my entire life.

I reach the front door and glance over at the coat rack. To go outside without protection would be suicide, but I’ll take the risk, I’ll take any risk put in front of me just to see my son again and I don’t have a second to spare. 

     When I open the door, a gust of arctic wind hits me like a tidal wave, but I power through it and step out on the porch, taking in the enormous snow bank in front of me. But there is also a small path, Rory’s size, that cuts through it. I wrap my arms around my waist and glance at my house slippers, the ones Rory gave me for Christmas. I hope they survive what I’m about to do.

     The first steps into the snow are torture and I do what I can to ignore the agony of the cold as I look out to the tree line, hoping to see Rory. As if it were meant to be, there he is, a flash of a rainbow, dashing between the trees. 

"Roar-eeee!" I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth. "Roar-eeee!" Anyone on this side of the county line would hear me. "Roar-eeee!" I take a deep breath and yell until my voice cracks. "Roar-eeee!"

     Nothing but silence in return. I feel I could call for him all night, just with the hope of hearing a reply from him. The wind picks up, quick and strong gusts, and thick, heavy snowflakes begin to fall. Within seconds, I’m blinded by it and I can't see the trees at all. My skin begins to freeze, and my tears leave icy trails down my cheeks. I go to holler one more time but I feel Dan’s massive arms around me, pulling me back to the house.

     “No, Dan, No! Stop, I saw Rory! I saw him!” Dan doesn’t stop, not until he’s pulled me back into the living room, the two of us crash-landing onto the sofa.

     "What the hell Jane?" 

     “Didn’t you hear me? I saw Rory! I saw him!” I’m trembling, from the cold and from the adrenaline, and I look at Dan, expecting his face to light up with the news I just gave him, but his expression doesn’t change. In fact, it gets worse. He looks away and shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but he was here, in the house. I saw him in his room and I ran to him, but he ran off.” I relive the moment and feel a pain in my heart. “I followed him out of the house. He went through the trees. It must be his ghost, his spirit or something—he looked like a rainbow.” Dan rubs his face with his hands and I give him a shove. “Wake up husband! Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?” I stand up and face him, my hands on my hips. “Don’t you believe me?”

     Dan drops his hands and he slaps his knees. “I do believe you.” I exhale in relief, but I hesitate to take another breath. There’s a look in his eyes that says he’s not finished; he’s calculating. “You saw Rory. And he ran from you. He ran away from you.”

     “He did, I don’t understand why he would be scared of me, I mean I hear ghosts are skittish, but I’m his—”

     “Jane. It’s people who are afraid of ghosts. Especially children.”

     Dan stares at me, he stares and stares as I process his words. My mind doesn’t operate the way it used to, before the accident and I can’t wrap my head around what he’s saying. “What do you mean?”

     “Rory’s alive.”

     “Alive? You mean like us? Rory’s alive? Dan! Why haven’t you told me?” Tears stream down my face and I wipe them away with trembling hands.

     “I have told you. I tell you every day, Jane. Every. Single. Day.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” My voice is shaky as my fear and anxiety and all of the other awful, terrible emotions begin to pour out of me like a broken dam. 

     “That night. You died of a head injury, Jane. I was trapped, my foot was caught and I watched you die as I drowned. Rory was pulled from the lake and resuscitated. He lived. We didn’t.” 

I begin to shake my head violently back and forth as my tears pour out of me. “But I’m breathing! I’m crying—" 

Dan rises and places both of his hands on my cheeks and looks directly into my eyes. “You only think you are,” he speaks slowly, and behind his shroud of impatience and anger is sadness; in that sadness, I see his love for me. I fall into him, and he catches me, wrapping me up in his arms. We hold each other, our grip growing tighter and tighter as if we’ve never been hugged and will never hug again. I rest my head against his chest and listen for a heartbeat that never comes. 

#

I am standing in front of the picture window, the one in the living room that faces the front yard, looking out at a sea of snow. But I'm not just staring; I am searching, I'm on the lookout for life. I can feel it, like a faded memory, like a single snowflake I’ll watch fall from the sky but lose sight of as soon as it lands in that sea of snow. There must be someone out there.