Thawing Jack Frost

Winter. The deep freeze. Christmas Eve.

Snowflakes dance down from the sky, flittering in the breeze and painting the world in brightness and cheer. Wood fires burn, casting their heat and soft glow into the homes and pubs, a measure of pleasant comfort against the darkness of the December sky. Festive songs jingle faintly from my neighbours' homes, lifting spirits to mirthful jubilation. Lights drape the houses in a sea of merry twinkling.

Everything is cold.

How awful.

Everyone's inside, basking in their cosy homes. All except a little girl in a red hat, who dances and rolls alone in the thick powdery whiteness concealing the street. She shudders as ice drips down her collar before picking up a snowball and launching it at a window. The occupants open it and gesture. She scarpers.

Unruly children.

I slump back in my chair, leaning away from the window. It's cold in here and dark, too. I never feel warmth. With the meagre wood fire burning in the fireplace behind me, I witness life go on for the hundreds living around me.

I live here, alone in this house. I rarely leave the living room or its window. My bed - the sofa - isn't comfy. But I can't go back to that untouched oasis of memories.

I never have.

The flames dance, casting shallow light. It's empty, meaningless, and only there because of routine, like the sun on an overcast winter's day. My neighbours and their festivities are precisely the same. They find inexplicable cheer at this time of year, a vile attitude of happiness and unnecessary goodwill. Things they don't really believe in - not unless they receive gifts and wasteful mountains of food in exchange, of course.

I can't stand it.

I always leave.

But I can't. The snow is two feet thick. I can't reach my car.

I have to stay.

I have to sit.

And stare.

And mourn.

In silence.

Alone.

I watch the girl in the red hat bash on a door across the street. The same one she hit with a snowball not a few minutes ago. The couple that lives there answers the door and shoos her away. They turn to each other and giggle, wrapped up in each other's arms, as they shut their home away from the bitter cold. I curl my lip. That companionship. It can be there for a person's whole life. And then snatched away in an instant.

The photograph of Mindy sits in its frame on my window sill. She watches over me, a whispering, fleeting echo of fifty years of marriage reduced to silence in a cruel moment.

This particular photo was taken a few days before she was killed. I run my thumb over her face. The colour has faded over the years, but I remember all the details vividly. That coat was a faded but rich blue, like the sky. Her white hair gleamed, illuminated by the light bouncing off the snow. Her smile was small and slight, but her eyes and presence brightened a room. She was perpetual joy.

I scarcely recognise the cheerful person hugging her tight. Deep lines have grown over my face, and my resting countenance is now one of fury rather than excitement.

The things grief does to us.

* * *

It's been five years to the day since she passed away, a life snatched from this world long before her time had come.

Christmas Eve had been much the same as any other that year. We had finished our Christmas shopping, decorated the tree, hidden our gifts for each other and stoked the fire, just as we always did. We bundled up and trudged to the car to head off to the local carol service where Mindy would sing.

But I slipped. The ice had built up beneath a layer of snow. As a younger man, I would never even have noticed such a fall. But I came down hard, and ten minutes later, I was bundled up in the same armchair that's now my daily abode.

Mindy insisted I stay. I wanted to come, but once she made her mind up, there was no stopping her. Sometimes, she was like a freight train - she would not be hindered, nor would her course be altered.

"You have to stay here, Jack," she'd said, leaning over me in such a way as to deter me from standing. Her white hair twinkled in the firelight, casting its own lustre in stark contrast to the dark features of the room. "I need you to stay tucked up and warmed up." She'd tell me that every night. "Thank you for wanting to come. I've got it. Besides, you're getting too old for this now."

"Hey!" I laughed. "You cheeky rascal!"

She chuckled back at me, stroking my cheek.

"See you later."

We kissed goodbye. Little did I know it would be our last.

Our car was parked on the street, and I could see Mindy wading towards it through the snow. Her footsteps crunched until she reached the salted and cleared road. I kept my eye on her from my chair with the fire burning and my leg enveloped in ice on the footstool. I was content.

I raised the mug of cocoa she had prepared onto my midriff and closed my eyes as I listened to an engine rev up from down the road.

An earth-shattering bang shook the house. It was enough to make me leap upright, spilling scalding liquid down my shirt and sending a jolt of severe yet numb pain through my leg.

The noise came from outside.

I immediately knew something was wrong. The sound faded into nothing in seconds. It was so quiet. Not a soul was moving, like time had been frozen in the deep freeze of winter.

Mindy had been hit by a truck. Sirens wailed, blue lights flashed, policemen asked questions, paramedics hung their heads, neighbours ushered their children inside and gaped in horror. These memories are blurs. All I heard was ringing.

I was not there.

My wife had been killed. I would later learn that she died almost instantly. I found her body in the hedge of the house three doors down.

It was a hit-and-run. They never found the culprit. The case went cold.

I made my way back into our house. My house. Alone.

We had no children or family. Most of our friends had died. Hardly anybody knew us by name or knew we existed. We had only each other.

The gifts sat unopened, never to be touched. The tree mocked me with its sparkling lights and overdone tinsel. The fire had burnt out, leaving an everlasting, bone-piercing chill.

The emptiness.

That's all winter is.

Emptiness.

Death.

Left alone.

* * *

No matter what I try, the trauma will never leave. Part of me doesn't want it to.

But it seems that this year, I have to face it. There's no way out. No possible means of escape. Could this winter get any more bleak?

A light tapping sound echoes through the house. My hearing aid barely registers the noise.

It must be rodents.

But then it comes again - tap, tap, tap.

Someone at the door.

"Can't you just leave me alone?" I shout out in the vague direction of the door. The door through which Mindy left. The door through which she would never return.

Tap, tap, tap.

Growling in frustration, I haul myself upright with a grunt. My knees creak and groan. My back can no longer straighten. My feet shuffle across the hard floors.

Bang, bang, bang.

"I'm coming!" I yell.

There is no urgency about the knocking, just persistence. It reminds me of Mindy, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to believe it's her.

No. Don't.

I reach out and tear the door open. A young girl, no more than five years old, stands on my step. Her red hat ruffles in the cold wind.

"What do you want?" I scowl, anticipating a snowball to the face.

I hate the cold.

And I hate anyone who doesn't.

"Please, sir, I'm cold," she blinks. "I got snow on me."

I look her up and down and allow the silence to extend and continue. She does look chilled.

But it's not my problem.

"What do you want me to do about it?" I retort.

She says nothing but places her hands on her hips. Her eyes widen even further. Her lips purse and tremble.

"Beat it, kid!" I yell, slamming the door in her face. Snow shakes off from the roof and whooshes down, showering her in frigid powder.

I cautiously peer through the window panes. She's white all over. Sitting down on the snow in front of my step, her eyebrows and forehead are furrowed as she scowls back at me, her eyes narrow under that vibrant beanie.

The girl who would not be moved.

I look away at such a thought. I cannot let her see the hint of a smile it brings to my face.

Begrudgingly and somewhat sheepishly, I reopen my door.

"Hey," I begin hesitantly. Those eyes are not happy.

Silence.

"You're cold?"

Her jaw locks.

"Where are your parents?"

Nothing.

Gazing out towards the street, I sigh. There's nobody in sight.

"Are you cold?" I repeat, slowing my words down.

Her gaze softens, and her furious eyes release me from their spell as she looks down and begins to visibly shiver. I watch in horror. These are full-body shakes.

She's freezing.

She nods.

"You've been outside for a while, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir," she gets out through chattering teeth.

I let out a deep sigh and hang my head. "You'd better come in, then."

I see her peek up at me out of my peripheral vision. That blend of thankfulness, appreciation and gratefulness.

Mindy.

The little girl scampers inside and makes a bee-line for the fire. She sits in front of it, staring at the shimmering flames. Her hat remains perched firmly on her head. I see now that it's in tatters. She pulls her knees up to her chest and hugs them tight. Those boots, too, are filled with holes and tears.

Those flames that burnt out five years ago are warming someone else's soul.

I flinch a little as I feel a prickling sensation on my fingers. It takes me a moment to place it. Warmth. Something I haven't felt since…

I shake my head.

"Little one, where are you from?" I ask. A nagging feeling wells up within me. I'm suddenly troubled. "Where are your parents? They'll be worried."

She glances up at me and takes a deep breath, contemplating whether to tell me the truth.

I interrupt. I can feel my face softening. Part of me is recalling who I really am. Who I was before I lost Mindy.

"It's okay, little one," I comfort her. "I'll look after you. I promise I'll do what's best for you."

Her eyes narrow and widen, and her focus diverts as she weighs her options. I notice how she evaluates the quickest paths to the doors and windows.

Intelligent.

"I won't harm you," I press.

Still nothing.

The pause that follows seems to stretch into the night, an unspoken, restless security.

"What do you want?" This time, when I ask her, my voice isn't irate. My blood isn't boiling. I sound gentle, but deep down, all I feel is concern.

"I don't know where my parents are." Her shoulders droop, and those big eyes drop to the cold wood of the floor. "They went out one day and never came back. I'm still waiting for them."

I struggle to grasp the situation. "But… where did they go?"

"I don't know!" she shouts, eyes and teeth bared like a feral cat.

Her voice makes me recoil.

Gathering myself, I hold up my hands. They're open, facing her - "It's okay. I'm sorry."

The girl's stare returns to the flickering flames. "I live in the black house around the corner."

My old brain can't process as fast as it used to. A black house?

Then it dawns on me. The burnt-out wreck. The manhunt for the young couple a year ago. Detectives knocking on everyone's doors and asking questions, swearing us all to secrecy. What had they been accused of, again? Corporate fraud? Murder? Oh, yes. Both.

Was this… their child?

Did they leave her behind?

Alone?

Suddenly, the warmth comes flooding in, pouring through my clothes and skin and hair and eyes. I'm drowning. It's too hot. I hold my head and bend over, scrunching my eyes closed. I'm overwhelmed, struggling to keep breathing.

A rushing sound.

Blackness.

Nothing.

* * *

A small, slight touch on my wrist - urgent but not violent. A coat rustling. A fire crackling. Wood smoke.

Pain. Pain in my leg. Pain in my heart.

Worry.

Care.

Love.

Mindy.

These are my first sensations as I come to.

I lie on the floor. My eyes twitch open as I comprehend what happened. The little girl sits next to me. She strokes my arm.

"Hello?" She sounds frightened. "Are you okay, mister?"

Groggily, I reassure her. "Yes, little one," I begin, "I blacked out. I just…"

My eyes well up with tears.

I have never expressed anything to anyone about Mindy. Not since the day she passed. Not for five whole years.

And nobody has ever asked me if I'm okay.

And here is this little girl. A stranger. Barely old enough to go to school, although she's certainly never been anywhere near an educational establishment. Opening me up and letting all my grief out.

She smiles soothingly. Innocence.

"What?"

I take a deep breath. "Five years ago, I lost my wife. It happened on this very day."

"Where did she go?"

"Oh. She died. She was hit by someone driving a fast car."

"Oh. I'm sorry. That must make you sad."

Simple words to describe a fact I have long overcomplicated. Yes. I am sad.

"Yes," I admit.

"Hmm." She frowns. "Well, I'll help you."

"How will you do that?" She's emotionally intelligent for one so young and catches the scoff in my tone.

"Hey!"

"I'm sorry."

"I've been by myself for a long time. I'm waiting for Mummy and Daddy to come back for me. Maybe I can wait for them here with you. And they will come back," she insists.

I don't know the legal aspects of what to do here. Besides, the last thing I need is another mouth to feed. I open my mouth to refuse.

And then I see Mindy.

She isn't there, not really. But in this little girl resides a kindred spirit. Quiet but kind determination, a rock that cannot be moved.

I shake my head. Better for her to stay here than to be left abandoned in that wreck.

"You can stay."

"Yippee!" she yells, skipping around the room.

I sigh. "Come on then, young one. This way. Let's get you tucked up and warmed up." I gesture at the sofa, covered in blankets and long-deformed pillows. "This is where I sleep. There's a bedroom in this house nobody has used for a long time. It might be dirty and dusty and smelly but you can have it to yourself if you want."

She doesn't say anything but hugs herself and stamps her feet in anticipation, an awestruck grin stretching wildly across those flushed cheeks.

I take a deep breath and show her the way. Down the hall. Around the corner. The room I haven't touched in five years. The approach terrifies me, but the youngster's excitement drives me onward.

"I'm sorry, this room might be uncomfortable," I begin, twisting the knob and opening the door. It creaks on its hinges. It hasn't been touched in so long.

The smell isn't great, but it's a far cry better than the sub-zero temperatures outside. There's still a whiff of Mindy's scent in the air, and a few of her clothes lie discarded on the dresser. I glance away.

I'm afraid of what the girl might think. What if she doesn't like it?

I needn't have worried. A promise of a whole room to herself, complete with a bed and blankets - she looks around in disbelief. "This is all for me?"

She's so excited. Just like Mindy always was.

The lights barely work, but the room brightens as I turn them on.

She has no pyjamas, of course, but she doesn't seem to mind. Neither do I. She seems perfectly comfortable to snooze in her clothes. She's probably been doing that for months.

She clambers up the dusty sheets, and her dirty face and hat flop onto the pillow. Only earlier this evening would I have shouted. Not now. All that matters is keeping her warm.

I tuck her into bed, my arms and hips still bruised from my fall. I should go to the hospital, really, but I have never wanted to sit at home so much. Not for a long time.

"Um…" She looks at me as I fold the blankets around her.

"Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"It's Jack."

"Hmm." She turns the word over. "J-A-ck. That's nice."

"And what's yours?" I ask, playfully pulling the hem of her red hat down over her eyes. She sniggers and clutches it as I tug it back up.

"Everyone calls me Rascal."

I guffaw.

"I bet they do!"

"Jack, I'm glad I'm not alone any more."

A tear. Soon to be a torrent.

"So am I."

I reach to put out the light. There's time for one last encouraging smile.

"What?" she asks, weary eyes barely open.

"Oh, nothing," I whisper as I flick the switch. A warm feeling spreads throughout me, infecting my bones and driving out the very notion of cold. "You just remind me of someone."