Lighting Candles in the Snow

by Karen Jones Gowen

  Jeremy had never mentioned anything, despite my asking him repeatedly about his background and childhood. Yet another irritation: his lack of openness and honesty.

  After Jeremy, Zac was a breath of fresh air, easy to talk to, not holding back. I knew more about Zac’s background after one walk and one long phone call than I ever did about Jeremy’s. I wanted to like Zac. I really wanted to. And in a way I did, only I wasn’t sure how much. Or how far it would go.

  Zac said his last relationship ended because he didn’t want marriage. Not many guys would freely admit that to a girl of interest. His family lived in the area: four grandparents, two parents, a married brother and two married sisters. He had nieces and nephews, didn’t want kids. His passion was snowboarding; he enjoyed a good time with friends. He drank socially but that was it, no addictions except for the snowy slopes. No alcoholism. I had lived with an alcoholic and knew the signs. Zac didn’t have them. He had gotten into pot in high school but gave it up in his mid-twenties.

  Zac had been blessed with a sweet childhood and didn’t want to grow up. Jeremy had grown up too soon and wanted to forget his past.

  I drove up Mill Creek Canyon and parked at the first trailhead I saw. No one else was around, being early on a weekday afternoon. I set out at a fast pace, breathing deeply of the fresh clear air with its promise of spring.

  The mountain stream, swollen with snow melt, churned wildly on its downward path. This was what had allowed a civilization to inhabit the desert, the Salt Lake Valley before the Mormons came. Nobody else wanted the arid land. The Mormons, attacked and driven out of everywhere else they had settled, figured that here they’d be safe from persecution. Brigham Young had said “the desert would blossom as the rose.” It was a lovely place to live. I would miss it.

  The weather was seasonal yet mild, except for three months in the winter when it could be fierce with blizzards and freezing temperatures. Skiers like Zac relished every storm, living for the snowfall, the beautiful Utah snow; soft and dry, not like the wet and icy Midwestern snow that crunched when you walked on it. Utah snow blanketed the ground like a fluffy quilt, and walking across, one would sink down into it. A month earlier and I’d have needed snowshoes to hike this trail.

  In the spring when the snow melted, it provided water for the valley. It filled the irrigation ditches, the reservoirs and holding tanks, allowing the “desert to blossom as the rose.” What a beautiful phrase. I kept repeating it in my mind as I walked and took in the scenery—the fragrant pine trees, blue skies, rushing mountain streams, massive boulders and newly blossoming wildflowers. My life had been a desert and now it would blossom. Love would bloom for me once again. Not sure exactly how, but I would find it. Or it would find me. I would have a real family of my own.

  “Why should Suz have all the babies?” I muttered.

  I wanted a baby. First, a husband, and then a baby. Mountain Woman might be strong but she didn’t want to stay single.

  I thought of Mrs. London, who had borne two babies, yet she sat alone in her house with no family to speak of. What a sad and lonely place. I wished that Jeremy and I had been closer to her, that we could have been that family she wanted. That I wanted.

  As I hiked, I thought about this place and all that had happened to me here. It was because of Suzie that I came and because of Jeremy that I had stayed. For a brief time that night of our reunion, I had tossed out the California idea. But Jeremy not contacting me spoke volumes. It had been a one-time thing, it didn’t mean anything—like he had said when we were married and I found out about his cheating. Or when we argued about pornography sites and sex calls. “It didn’t mean anything.” How many times I had heard those words blurted out of his lips.

  Regardless of what his mother claimed, Jeremy didn’t love me. We were through. I had given in to a lustful impulse when he looked at me like that, with desire and longing that mirrored my own. But now I would be strong. I walked faster, swinging my arms in a power walk, feeling my muscles stretch. Yes, I was strong. Mountain Woman.

  If Jeremy did happen to call, I’d tell him to forget about us, to forget that afternoon and pretend it never happened.

  Mrs. London’s story helped me understand Jeremy, but it didn’t change our relationship.

  As much as I wanted to put Jeremy out of my mind, and as much as I didn’t want to think about Mrs. London’s story, it ended up being most of what I thought about during my four hour hike in Mill Creek Canyon.

  Mountain Woman Trail Mix

  (For when you’re ready to leave Weak & Depressed Woman far behind.)

  In a large bowl, mix together:

  2 cups raisins

  2 cups chocolate chips, semi-sweet

  2 cups M & M’s, plain, peanut or almond

  2 cups dried fruit, such as apricots, bananas, apples

  1 cup walnut pieces

  ½ cup whole almonds

  ½ cup pumpkin seeds

  ½ cup sunflower seeds, shelled

  Mix well and store in large Zip-Loc bag in freezer. Take out as needed and put in small lunch-size baggies for power snacks.

  Chapter Nineteen: Mrs. London’s Story

  I married my first husband when I was twenty. We were very much in love. He was a good man, only a year older than me. We were young, and we imagined our shared life unfolding like an endless silk ribbon before us. We settled here in this house, a small place as you can see, but we were happy.

  Jeremy was born a year after we moved in. He was a healthy, perfect baby with lots of dark hair and these big eyes that saw everything. When we took him out, people would stop us and tell us he should be in baby commercials, he was that beautiful. His daddy and I were proud of our little guy.

  We looked forward to a promising future, a large family. We wanted four children, two boys and two girls, what I thought was the ideal combination. The two boys could play together and the two girls would come next, and their older brothers could watch over them. I had everything figured out.

  My husband’s name was Gerald London, Jerry for short. Jeremy was named after him in a way, but we decided not to call him Jerry. Too confusing. Although I never called my husband Jerry; I liked his full name better, thought it sounded dignified.

  We were the most contented little family you ever saw. We didn’t have much. I stayed home with the baby while Gerald went to work. He did drywall, working for a man who finished basements for people throughout the valley. It was a good job, always plenty of work, and the boss liked my husband.

  Shortly after Jeremy’s second birthday, my husband took sick. They think it was his heart, that he was born with a problem that never got diagnosed.

  One day he came home from work early with what he thought was the flu. I was in the kitchen making dinner, Jeremy toddling around at my feet. He was excited to see his daddy, wanting to play.

  Gerald told him, “Let me rest a bit, Jeremy. Daddy’s tired. I’ll sleep until dinner and then afterward we’ll go outside and play with the ball. You go help Mommy first, okay?”

  I took Jeremy by the hand and set him in his high chair with a banana cut up, to keep him occupied while I made dinner. It was beef stew and biscuits. To this day I can’t stand the sight or smell of beef stew. Or biscuits either.

  Gerald laid down on the couch to rest, and he never got up. I called dinner, no answer. I took a plate in for him and one for me, figuring we’d eat there in the living room so he wouldn’t have to move. His hands blue and waxy, his lips white. I went to check for his pulse but I knew. He was gone. He had died in his sleep that afternoon while I was making the goddamned beef stew. I hadn’t heard a sound. I figured he didn’t suffer one little bit, and that one belief helped get me through the grief I thought would never fade.

  I was twenty-two years old, and my life had ended before it began. Jeremy doesn’t remember his real daddy. I kept pictures around, hoping he would grow up seeing the face of the finest man I ever knew. Pictures of Gerald holding our baby on his shoulders, pic
tures of him and Jeremy hiding Easter eggs in the back yard. Jeremy could barely walk, but on his first Easter his daddy wanted him to hunt for eggs. Gerald and I had colored them while Jeremy sat in his high chair watching us and away.

  When Gerald died, his boss sent flowers for the funeral, along with an envelope stuffed with cash. Two thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. Gerald had life insurance, too, because he was that kind of man, the kind who would provide for his family no matter what, no matter that he was young and strong and thought he had a whole life ahead of him.

  Part of the policy paid off this house. There I was, a grieving young widow with money in the bank and a home paid for. My little guy and I would be okay financially, but that didn’t stop my tears, or cure the ache in my heart that hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep at night. For months afterward, I sat up in a chair like I do now, watching TV and dosing off and on. That was the only sleep I got.

  We were all right for a few years, but I was awfully lonely, I don’t mind admitting that. When Jeremy started school, I went out looking for a job. I didn’t need much, just something to get me out of the house and bring in a little cash. I didn’t like the idea of using up the life insurance money without bringing anything in. And I needed to meet people, to talk to someone about things that don’t matter, like how people do at work.

  I worked mornings while Jeremy was in kindergarten, and once he started first grade I took on longer hours. It was a job in the bakery at the grocery store down the street.

  My hours fit with Jeremy’s school schedule, and there were women in the neighborhood willing to babysit when I needed. Mrs. Evans next door helped me out. Her kids were grown, her husband worked long hours, had his own business and couldn’t retire, and she befriended me. She took care of Jeremy a lot back then, picking him up from school when I ran late at work and watching him ’til I got home.

  When Jeremy was six, I met my second husband. Hank used to come into the store on weekday mornings and get donuts, the filled kind—raspberry and lemon were his favorite. Hank was a charmer, kept asking me out; wore me down until I agreed.

  At first, he was loving and attentive. He filled the lonely hours, wanting to be with me every second, and he treated Jeremy like his own son. I thought Hank was devoted to us, would make a fine husband and father. I considered myself lucky to find another good man.

  We were married six months after we met. And that’s when it changed. Gradually at first, insignificant ways that I brushed away, thinking he was tired, or stressed from his job, or uneasy over money. Hank always worried about money. We did okay, but it wasn’t enough for him.

  He liked to go to Wendover on the weekends, when he felt anxious with pressure building, and him feeling he needed to get away. I was too naïve to see the gambling for what it was. And there was the drinking. It made him ornery. He was one of those goddamn mean drunks. I never saw that part of him before the marriage. Before, he was all tulips and roses, holding hands at the zoo, smiles and promises. Once we tied the knot and he got his hands on my money all that changed.

  The first time Hank hit me, I made excuses for him. It was still our first year together, and I didn’t want to believe the worst of him. And I didn’t want him to leave me. I tried to get along and keep him happy. Jeremy needed a dad, a man to teach him how to play ball, to take him up to the mountains fishing and hunting. I wanted Hank to be there for my boy, to do those activities that Gerald never had a chance for.

  Hank was a poor substitute for Gerald, and I never loved him like I did my first husband, but at least there was a man in the house to be a role model. Only before long, once he showed his true colors, I could see he wasn’t someone I wanted my boy to take after.

  One day I came home from work and couldn’t find either him or Jeremy. Hank had a schedule where he got off before I did, and he could be there when Jeremy’s school let out. Jeremy was a first-grader, too young to stay alone.

  I pulled into the drive and noticed Hank’s truck was gone. Had they gone somewhere? Maybe Hank had taken Jeremy with him to the store, or to the park.

  When I walked into the house, it was still as death. I felt worried, because of the tense feeling in the rooms. Nothing there but the sense of ruin, of apprehension. I couldn’t settle down. I went to the kitchen to start dinner but couldn’t focus. Something was wrong.

  I went to Jeremy’s bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking around at his toys and stuffed animals. He had everything organized as usual. He was the neatest little boy, not like most children. I never had to tell him to clean his room.

  A sound came from under the bed—a tiny whimper, like a hurt animal. It was Jeremy, barely conscious and bruised over his face, with huge, ugly purple marks that were starting to swell. He was curled up in a tight ball holding his stuffed beagle dog.

  “Jeremy, honey, it’s mom,” I said. I kept my voice calm but my insides were screaming. “Can you come out, sweetie?”

  He absolutely would not come out from under that bed. Finally I scooted in next to him and put my arms around him. I was a skinny little thing back then, not like now. I couldn’t even get down to that level these days, not with these knees.

  Jeremy was shaking and whimpering, unable to cry, afraid to make any sound. I held him, trying to soothe him with words of love and comfort, until the sun set and the room got dark.

  Finally, we crawled out, and I fixed him dinner, cut up hot dogs with ketchup, his favorite, and apple slices with peanut butter.

  He ate a little and then I helped him get his pajamas on. I didn’t make him brush his teeth, not with that swollen mouth. I held a cup of water up to his mouth and told him to take a little, swish around in his mouth then spit it out. When he spit in the sink it was bloody. I washed his face carefully with warm water and soap, and dapped salve on the cuts.

  Nothing was broken. No bones, that is. No teeth were missing or loose.

  I didn’t want to take him in. Maybe I should have, I don’t know. It’s hard to know what to do when you’re in the middle of it. I was afraid if they saw him like this, they’d take him away from me.

  We went to sleep in his bed. Hank mocked us when I did that, those times when Jeremy was scared or feeling too sad to fall asleep on his own.

  Hank thought I coddled him. He called Jeremy a baby, a little girl, a weak sissy. All kinds of names like that. Hank wanted him to grow up tough, to be a man. But this is a child who can’t even read yet. We argued a lot over how to raise Jeremy. I wanted him to enjoy being a little boy, but Hank wanted to wipe out his childhood and turn him into a tough guy.

  That was the worst of the beatings Hank had given Jeremy, and then abandoning him like that! My boy could’ve died under the bed, alone.

  After that, I decided to leave. I didn’t care about the house, even though it was my home bestowed by my first husband. I wanted out, to get Jeremy away. I would buy Hank off if that’s what it took.

  Except it turned out I was pregnant. When I found out, I thought I better stay with the man at least until after the baby came.

  Once I recovered, then Jeremy, the new baby and I would skedaddle it out of there. We wouldn’t live like this anymore. I didn’t care if I lost my money, lost my house. We could rent a little apartment, I would find a new job with more hours than I got at the bakery, enough to pay our way and cover day care.

  I was twenty-nine. By my thirtieth birthday, I would be free and independent. For the second time in my adult life, I had it figured out.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next day, twenty-four hours after my visit to his mom, and three days after his visit to my apartment, Jeremy called, making me wonder if she had tipped him off.

  I asked him outright if his mom had talked to him about us. I left out the part about my visit, letting Jeremy assume the “us” meant him and me.

  “My mom? Why would I tell her about us? She doesn’t get in my business that way.”

  I let it drop. I didn’t want it to slip that I’d been to
see her, in case he thought I was checking up on him or chasing him down.

  I said, “No reason. But I’m surprised to finally hear from you.”

  “Why?” he asked, innocent-sounding, like it had not been three entire days.

  “Well, I figured our night together was a fluke, a mistake, a one-night stand, so to speak.”

  I kept my tone light. After all, we weren’t married. I had no claim on him, or him on me. I didn’t want to come across as jealous ex-wife with a possessive attitude.

  Besides, now I was interested in Zac. Not Jeremy.

  From our many years together, I was aware of Jeremy’s tendency to run away and hide when he felt threatened or insecure, and after hearing his mother’s story, I understood why. I had always supposed it was him fleeing from me and our relationship, when in reality it was stressful situations he tried to escape, not me personally. Although I rationalized Jeremy not calling was Jeremy hiding, it was still hard for me to take.

  I fought against myself in this moment, trying not to resent him for those three days with no contact. Not a text. Or a knock at my front door. I had waited, nerve endings alert, ready to hear his voice, see his face. I had longed to touch him and once again be wrapped in his embrace.

  When Zac rang my doorbell the other day, and I ran to open the door, it should have been Jeremy coming over with a spring bouquet to make amends. God knows he had plenty to apologize for.

  But that wasn’t Jeremy’s style. He never did what was expected or normal. I suppose I had grown up steeped in my father’s traditional behavior, so that Jeremy, who represented danger and excitement and exploring new vistas of experience, held a strong attraction to me.

  Hot Zac, with his tall good looks and sexy smile, with his zeal for snowboarding still had nothing on the energy that emanated from Jeremy. One look from those brown eyes of my ex-husband and I’d be suckered in, a goner. Pathetic.