by Ilie Ruby
Leila gently places Lucas in his playpen. He immediately turns over on his stomach. Then she drops to her knees. The house is silent. She listens to him cooing sleepily, watches him twist the blanket around his fist. “We’re going to find Mommy,” she tells him. “I promise you.” Then, right there in the middle of the living room, Leila curls up on the floor, a draft pricking up her skin, her back pressed against the warm chest of the dog, whose breath drags along like a freight train echoing through the empty house.
Leila remembers how isolated she felt that one February when it snowed for two weeks straight. Snowflakes the weight of silver dollars sank tree branches to the ground. She remembers looking out the window at the snowdrifts and thinking they looked like geese licking the wind. Luke would have noticed it, too. It was as if all the other birds had left the earth.
The world was silent, as it had been in the months after his death. This was a dead snow, heavy and slow, the kind of snow that stops time. Meteorologists didn’t see an end in sight. The roads froze over quickly, forming opaque sheets of shark-gray ice. A snow emergency went into effect, hollowing out the streets, but the occasional screech of a car spinning into a telephone pole would wake her at night. Awake in a fright, thinking of Luke. It had been three years, but he was still very much with her.
That February, Leila had been inside so long that she looked out the window and saw only squalls of geese hunting for breadcrumbs in the road. She knew she had gotten so used to the darkness and her own imagination that she stopped turning on the lamps inside, preferring to walk the dark hallways and find her way by touch. All her other senses had become decisively clear. It was February, the cruelest month, and she was lonely and heard about someone else who was lonely. She went to great lengths to disguise her need as just being charitable, but eventually, she realized she was in too deep. Suddenly, everything had changed. The dull snore of a man in the guest room, for instance, made her feel safer than the bolt on her front door that had kept her protected for years, that had even kept out Victor since the divorce. The taste of her homemade bread, heavily packed with walnuts and raisins, was not filling enough no matter how much of it she ate. And her daughters’ voices sounded so compliant and distant that she lay in bed picturing their weddings and imagining how she would say good-bye, just as she had said good-bye every night since Luke had been lost.
They called it the Blizzard of ’94. The girls were in the throes of early adolescence. February vacation was already in full gear. The neighborhood kids grew sullen, feeling gypped that the snow emergency hadn’t occurred during school. Temperatures loped below zero. Radiators broke. Pipes froze. Tempers flared. Even the biggest bullies in the neighborhood turned down ice hockey, preferring to stay inside and save their mothers the worry. Aside from an occasional plow denting the narrow street, Leila couldn’t see anything moving outside but the blinding snowflakes. The blizzard was only a natural extension of the chaos that was going on in her house.
She and the girls had gone stir crazy, sleeping too much and never feeling quite awake. They wandered through rooms like zombies as the days blurred together. Soon, the girls could hardly look at each other without an argument. The fighting was growing worse. Leila didn’t know what to do. They were like magnets, bonded one minute, violently repelled the next.
Sometimes Leila wouldn’t see anything but there would be crying. Other times they hardly noticed her telling them to stop, too involved in their fight, ring-bound, hypnotized by the footsteps in and out of a circle only they could see. They fought with fists. They fought with words. Sometimes there were tears but never any voices or blood, as though the feel of their tiny fists didn’t register any real pain until the death blow was given. Inside, each girl felt as though her heart was a frozen lake.
They told Leila that Luke talked to them in dreams. And sometimes Leila would overhear one of them talking back to him, when they didn’t think anyone was listening.
The fact that Charlie Cooke was willing to brave the snow and come for a Valentine’s Day dinner both surprised and terrified Leila. She knew he was on temporary leave from work, and she had overheard that his wife, Candice, had asked him to move out just weeks before, but as Leila cooked a turkey in haste, she half wondered whether she had lost her mind to the darkness. Her divorce was over. She hadn’t thought she would ever date again. When Charlie returned her call, she had mistakenly asked him to arrive at five instead of eight, which would have given her enough time to have everything ready. And when he eagerly agreed, she was so nervous she hadn’t corrected herself.
Hadn’t they managed to have a perfect dinner? Charlie took the seat at the head of the table before Leila offered it, as though he had always sat there, pushing aside any images of Victor still lurking in her memory. When Charlie led them in saying grace, the girls bowed their heads without a smirk, and later impressed Leila with their pleases and thank-you-ma’ams, and soon Leila wondered if they were aliens or whether they had always spoken that way. After dinner, Leila and Charlie talked over the dishes and the girls offered to go upstairs to clean their room. Clean their room? Leila was certain she was dreaming as the girls waved and disappeared, and Charlie rolled up his sleeves to dry the dishes. She felt a little nervous, a little stunned that things between a man and a woman could feel this peaceful, for this kitchen had been the source of many of Victor’s rages. But as she listened to Charlie tell her about his longtime dream of having children, she began to relax. Leila told him about her adoration of an old farmhouse that she had driven by but had never gone into that was for sale. Charlie asked her a million questions about the place, which made her deliriously stupid with hope, and neither of them noticed the snow piling up against the doorway, or the frost creeping across the windows, blocking even the tiniest shreds of light. When Charlie went to leave at 4 A.M., even the veritable detective of thirty years had to resign himself to the fact that he could not and should not open the door. And both he and Leila were secretly relieved.
For three nights, he slept in the guest room without complaint. The pillows were extra hard and the room not completely dark. But he slept deeply, better than he had in years, he said, leaving the door generously open, somehow knowing his presence was filling a deep void in the home. The girls hardly blinked the first morning when there was a man who was not their father reading the paper at the kitchen table. Leila explained about the snow emergency and the girls shrugged, and said, “Okay,” as they kicked each other under the table and ate their bagels and cream cheese. They felt safer somehow. Charlie’s presence had created a short cease and desist. Everything was so off, a stranger’s presence normalized things. When he walked in on a fight about to brew, the girls glared at each other but turned away and separately went off to play in different rooms of the house.
During the day, he read anything he could get his hands on. Old hunting magazines of Victor’s that had gotten lost at the bottom of the magazine rack, some books of poetry and Leila’s Farmers’ Almanac. Every once in a while, Charlie got up and stared out the window, muttering something about the city plows, but Leila knew it was lip service. Charlie seemed lighter, jovial even. He wants to stay, Leila told herself, as she and the girls made birthday cake for Melanie. He seemed relaxed, almost relieved as he sipped a beer and leaned up against the doorway with his white shirt untucked, watching them as if this whole scene was the fruit of his own life’s efforts. After Melanie blew out her candles, Charlie pulled two comp movie tickets from his wallet and handed them to her. Melanie hugged him hard and quick, and he looked stunned. When Maya started to pout, he made her an origami swan out of a five-dollar bill, which made her happy. Leila’s adolescent jungle was an oasis compared to his desolate motel life.
On the last night, the girls had volunteered to go to bed early. Leila was up late trying to fix the wires of the VCR, which Old Sally had plowed through yet again, the cords catching in her feet. Charlie came to her then with a question about sheets. He followed her into her bedroo
m and when he shut the door and put his hands on her, she forgot about who she was.
When the sun finally filtered through Leila’s curtains the next morning, even in a half-dream state Leila knew two things had happened: the snow had stopped, and the man had left.
Hearing the clock tumble from the bedside table, the girls ran into the room with glowing faces. Leila had forgotten to set the alarm, somehow trying to ward off the reality of morning.
Excitedly, the girls took her hand and led her down the stairs and into the doorway. Melanie flung open the back door. They had shoveled out the entire driveway and the sidewalk.
Imprinted in the snow, two snow angels shimmered across the lawn. No, there were three, the last one smaller than the others, and off to the side.
Each was the perfect shape of a child. Each, she knew, was a careful work of art. The children noticed the smaller angel as soon as Leila did, and they argued about who had made it, both denying it. Leila’s eyes watered up as she stared into the blinding whiteness so that the images would freeze their impressions inside her, filling her emptiness. She didn’t say anything about the three dead blackbirds she spotted lying near the fence. Later she would bag the frozen bodies and hide them in the trash.
When Leila felt a sudden hand on her shoulder, she jumped, but it was only Clarisse Mellon wanting to share in the sight of snow angels.
As the girls ate their breakfast in silence, Leila tried not to think about Charlie. In just a few days her entire world had changed. His absence was even more palpable than his presence. The girls seemed to sense her emptiness and stayed unusually close to her, hugging her, styling her hair, trying to take up the empty space.
Wind is flooding through the pale organza curtains. The shock of cold air hits Leila’s face. Old Sally raises her head and lets out a low groan before pushing her nose back into the plaid woolen blanket. “Is she back?” Lion says, startling Leila. “Mom. Did she come back?” He shuts the door behind him.
“What time is it?” Leila says, sitting up. “Oh sweetie. I must have fallen asleep. Did you find her?” Lion notices how tired she looks and his heart sinks. Leila looks curious in the gray suit. Not a suit to sleep in. Not a suit to drive all night in. The fact that it’s the one thing that makes her feel like she is a part of the everyday world doesn’t occur to him. All he knows is that at certain times when she turns her head just so, he catches sight of her delicate features, the small thin nose and ice blue eyes, and it makes him feel connected to Melanie.
Leila runs her fingers through Old Sally’s thick black fur and peers into the dog’s face. She fixes the blanket around the dog’s head. “I haven’t heard from Melanie. I stopped by the apartment and let myself in. I hope that’s all right. Obviously, she wasn’t there.”
“Okay,” he says. Lion tries to appear calm and lopes off into the kitchen. He grabs a piece of French bread from the bread bin and shoves it into his mouth.
“Where did you look for her?” calls Leila, smoothing out the folds of her skirt as she gets up. She doesn’t want to nag him but she’s growing more and more worried. “Grant Shongo called me last night.”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” he says, pouring a glass of milk.
“Your cheek is cut, Lion. What happened with Rory?” Leila asks, gently touching his face.
Lion’s cheek feels a bit sore, but not bad. “Nobody’s out to get me,” he says, turning away.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m worried you’re a danger to yourself—”
“To myself? No. I’m dealing with things in my own way. Let me deal with it. And I’ve been praying, okay?” he says, staring into her eyes.
“You are the only thing holding us—”
“I thought you trusted me, Mom.”
She loves the way he calls her Mom, adores it. It melts her heart. And she also knows he sweet-talks her. But it doesn’t matter. She waited a long time to have children. When she married Victor at forty, having children was something she had given up on. But miraculously, within a month she was pregnant with Melanie, and Maya came soon after. Hearing the word Mom was the most beautiful sound Leila could have ever imagined. She had thrown herself into the role as though she had been a mother forever. She sewed corduroy jumpers for their first day of school and made dragonfly wings for Halloween costumes out of netting, duct tape, and hangers she’d collected from the cleaners. She soaked pieces of rhubarb in orange juice and baked apple-rhubarb pies from scratch, and invented bedtime stories about a family of fairies that lived in a junkyard. After Luke was born, she and the girls grew even closer. Luke was the glue of the family, the bridge between so many things that were hard to describe. He was such a glorious child, despite the asthma that evaded the pills and shots. Even when he was unable to talk, he’d reach out and take her hand, trying to calm her.
She would do it all again in a second. Seven priceless years with him had not been enough. Even if he was the focus of Maya’s jealousy, her temper tantrums. Even if Maya resented the amount of attention paid to him, Leila chalked it off to normal sibling rivalry. When he died, Leila dreamed about having another son, but the opportunity had passed. She was too old. The doctor told her that her eggs had dried up. Maybe it was a blessing that a woman’s body knew when to quit. Victor’s drinking had become unbearable, and the way he would go outside in the backyard and shoot birds in the trees frightened them all. It was dangerous. He smelled like death, like dirt and blood and whiskey. She had slept in that scent for years. Despite a three-day stint of sobriety, when he’d repainted the kitchen a horrible hospital green without asking her, he was rarely home, which was better for everyone.
Lion is her son now. He is. It has everything to do with intention. When Melanie brought him home for the first time for one of Leila’s famous lasagna dinners, he talked openly about his abstinence. Leila had breathed a sigh of relief. Some mothers would have questioned the wisdom of mixing races. Sure, the kids would undoubtedly run into prejudice. But she saw that they had something stronger between them. She liked the idea of a wayward soul that had come back to save others. To Leila, it meant he was seasoned, and he would be strong enough to deal with life’s challenges, namely Melanie. He talked a little about what he had lived through in California—the earthquakes and the riots. He said he had wanted to get away to the other side of the country, to the Northeast, where America had begun, where people could start their lives over.
Leila felt that the most important reason to love Lion was that he loved her daughter. She watched his unwavering support as he listened to Melanie, not so much to her words but to what was going on underneath. He saw through Melanie’s tough-girl act. He knew her vulnerabilities but he didn’t exploit them. Melanie had always been self-conscious about the scar on her face, which Maya had inextricably put there when she pushed Melanie into a table during one of the girls’ fights. In Lion’s presence, it faded. When Melanie painted a mural on a brick wall in an alley off Main Street, Lion sat beside her for three days in the searing heat, mixing her paint for her and bringing her ice for the back of her neck after a sunburn turned it the color of red apples.
Leila’s love for Lion only grew over time. His difficult past gave him an appreciation for the smallest things. Whether she fixed him a snack, reminded him to tie his sneakers, or bought him a turtleneck sweater for Christmas, he was incredibly grateful. But, he had gotten Melanie clean and he made her happy, which was no easy feat. For this, Leila would always be the one who was grateful.
She pulls the tray of lasagna from the refrigerator. The sauce is cold and the noodles are sticky, but Lion will eat anything. She spoons a heap of noodles into a bowl and drenches them in sauce. Then she puts the plate into the microwave.
“Help,” says Lion, the handle of the diaper bag in his teeth, Lucas wailing in his arms. Leila rushes over and takes Lucas. She hugs him to her chest. In the delivery room, Lucas had let out a scream so loud Leila had to clasp her own hands behind her head to keep from pushing her
way through the crowd to get to him. He had been whisked away, his little purple fists flailing, then cried for ten minutes in the incubator. He had looked so brave and unearthly, his skin shriveled like a raisin, his white-blond eyebrows and long lashes trembling as he punctuated his debut with several loud hiccups.
“I do trust you,” Leila says. “You know that, right?”
Lion smiles. “I guess.”
“If you tell me she’s okay, I will believe you.”
“She’s okay.”
“Well, I looked everywhere. I called Cheever. She did go there to see Maya, but no one saw her after—”
“Don’t worry.” He pops open a can of Pepsi and chugs it down as though he hasn’t had a drink in a week. “I’ll get her back. Today. I have a plan.”
Holding Lucas in one arm, Leila sets the plate of the lasagna in front of Lion. She watches a cloud of steam climb off the plate. She pats Lucas’s back and tries to relax. “If only Melanie was the way she used to be. How I miss that little girl.”
“Argh,” he says between mouthfuls. “That’s hot.”
Leila stares at him, wondering how he can be this calm. “I know it’s probably hard for you to imagine there ever was a ‘before.’ But there was. When she was younger. Melanie was such a good girl. You know, such a little mother herself. When I was volunteering at the retirement home, Melanie always wanted to come. She’d carry her box of colored pencils and paper from table to table, doing portraits. It was all very serious. She’d ask about everything: What color do you want your hair? What kind of mouth do you want? She’d list their choices—smiling with teeth, smiling with no teeth, not smiling. I wish you—”