Dressing properly is of the utmost importance. I wear two pairs of woollen gloves and a pair of leather mitts over them that make my hands look like clumsy animal paws. Annie Bearspaw convinced me that mukluks are the warmest thing for the feet. I was skeptical, since they appear so slight, but once again I was proven wrong. I don three pairs of woollen socks, lay strips of rabbit fur inside as insoles, and then pull on the mukluks, wrapping the strings tightly around my calves to keep out the snow.
I’ve frozen my feet only once, and I must say the pain of returning life to chilled limbs is almost unbearable. I sat in the rocking chair beside the stove while George bathed my feet in snow, and there was nothing for it but to suffer. I tried to remain silent while the tears coursed down my cheeks. It gives new meaning to the word tenderfoot.
Frostbite can cause permanent damage. One settler was caught in a blizzard overnight and survived, although both legs were blackened with frost. The rural doctor amputated them quite skilfully below the knees. Now his wife and children do the heavy work, but Angus provides all their meat. He hunts on horseback, gripping the reins between his stumps, never failing to bring home a deer or a rabbit.
We have visited the McKays only once since Christmas. I placed a large oval stone in the oven overnight, and after breakfast we set out wrapped in a buffalo robe with our feet on the heated stone. We survived well enough, but the horses suffered. Their noses iced over, and we had to keep stopping so that George could clear their nostrils. Little icicles hung like white beards from their chins. Their breath left a trail of fog that hung over the trail behind us, through which the sun shone with a dull yellowish light. We will not force them to endure such a hardship again.
Last fall George chinked and plastered the barn to keep out every draft. Inside, the temperature remains above freezing as the livestock generate their own heat. However, they must drink from the creek. George chops open the water hole twice a day. The cattle hasten down to the hole, slurp the water thirstily, and practically trample each other in their haste to return to their warm quarters. The horses don’t need to be tethered as they have not the slightest interest in running away.
Death is so close that one can feel its icy breath. Last week two ranch hands were caught on the trail when a blizzard descended. They built a fire, but that alone would not have saved them had they not kept moving all night. They took turns — one dragged wood out of the bush and fed the blaze while the other walked the horses in a circle around the fire. When the sun rose, both men and horses were exhausted but alive. Even cattle will succumb if they don’t remain in motion. One rancher lost his entire herd during the same storm. To protect themselves the cattle huddled together with their backs to the wind, yet in the morning all were dead on their feet, rigid and covered with ice, like some enormous frozen sculpture.
We rise in full darkness now, and George lights the lantern and tends to the livestock while I stoke the fire and prepare breakfast. After we eat, we sit together and watch the dawn break. As the rosy light turns to gold and fills our house with the brief but welcome daylight, we hasten about our work. Within a few short hours, the sun falls below the horizon and we are plunged into gloom once again.
George pointed out that dear old Killarney has only fifteen hundred hours of sunshine each year, while this part of the world has more than two thousand. I only wish those daylight hours were balanced more evenly throughout the seasons.
Will spring ever come? One feels as if the white fields have been here forever and will remain long after our little lives have passed, our footprints erased by the drifting snows of eternity.
Days remaining: 214.
18
January–February
The darkness closed around us like a fist. The sun rose and set so quickly now that it looked like a loonie tossed from one horizon to the other by an unseen hand.
We turned down the lamp wick at ten in the morning, and lit it again five hours later. I wrote on my shopping list: “More lamp oil! More batteries!” My digital watch had stopped, and I no longer knew what time it was. I carried a flashlight everywhere, peering into the shadows since the drapes were tightly shut to keep out drafts.
I drank my morning coffee as if it were a life-giving elixir while I watched the pale dawn lift like a magic curtain, revealing the dim shapes of trees and barn. When the sky was overcast, a feathery white blanket hung above the earth. On clear days the rising sun painted the snow salmon and tinted it with violet shadows.
After it grew light, I bundled myself in multiple layers of clothing and did the outdoor chores while the frozen snow squeaked and squawked beneath my feet. I emptied the dirty slop water from under the sink outside the back door, where it instantly froze, and trudged along the path to the outdoor toilet where I dumped the toilet pail down the hole before returning it to the cubicle under the stairs. Although it meant going into The Cold Part to use the toilet, it was away from our living quarters. And the cold air meant that it never smelled. In fact, it often bore a skim of ice.
Then back to the house for the ashes, retrieving them from the metal drawer below the firebox and tossing them into the yard behind the cabin. Finally, I made a dozen trips from the barn, carrying armfuls of wood. The stove was devouring wood like a ravenous animal in its battle with the bitter cold.
No need for an alarm clock now, since I woke in the night automatically. I was attuned to nature’s subtle signals — the intensity of the darkness outside, the quality of the stillness, the force of the wind as it waxed and waned. I fancied that I could even hear the fire calling to me for more wood.
The fire was the glowing heart of our home, our only defence against the enemy outside. Now I understood the Scottish toast to good fortune: “Lang may yer lum reek,” or “Long may your chimney smoke.” After stoking the fire, I ran back to bed and listened to the comforting sound of the wood crackling and snapping, as humans had done for thousands of years.
It was a shame to waste the heat, so we baked often. Bridget’s favourite treat was Paddy Bundles from the Five Roses Cook Book, just because she liked the name. Together we mixed a soft dough and cut it into chunks. On each chunk we placed a peeled, cored apple and worked the dough around it, then filled the hole with sugar, butter, and cloves and covered it with more dough. Baked and served warm with evaporated milk, they were delicious. It seemed a little extravagant to use our precious butter and sugar this way, but baking was something we both enjoyed, and we licked up every last crumb.
We had run out of oranges weeks ago, and I wondered if we would get scurvy. Perhaps I would have to resort to the old Cree remedy that Wynona had told me about, boiling spruce needles and drinking the broth. I wrote “Vitamin C” on my list.
Although the days were short, they passed slowly. We slept a lot, like hibernating bears, drowsy from darkness and inactivity. I worried that the lack of sunshine might affect our health. I wrote “Vitamin D” on my list.
I had the notion that we must go outside every day, no matter what the temperature. Often we were outside for less time than it took to dress in our winter clothing, but the landscape was filled with extraordinary things — dead flowers wearing tiny pointed dunce hats of snow, mice tracks that looked as if the fairies had been dancing.
One sunny afternoon we waded through the deep snow as far as the creek. We could hear the Laughing Brook gurgling beneath his armour of ice. Suddenly Bridget stopped short with a look of concentration on her face. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said anxiously.
“It’s too much trouble to walk back home. Just go right here.”
“Mama!” Her voice was outraged. “I’m not going to the bathroom outside!”
“There’s nobody to see you. I have a piece of toilet paper in my pocket.”
Quickly I unzipped her snowsuit. Bridget watched, fascinated by her own ability to create a steaming yellow hole in the pristine snow. This was the same child who a year ago wouldn�
�t use a public bathroom because it was too dirty.
I couldn’t help smiling. During these dark days, Bridget was my shining light. If it hadn’t been for her, I think I would have pulled the covers over my head and surrendered to my fate, like the settler in his cabin. But her cleverness and her funny little ways kept me from sinking into despair.
One morning when I was emptying the ashes, I saw a green truck driving north down the gravel road. It looked like Colin McKay’s truck. It slowed as it approached the entrance to our driveway then stopped. After a few minutes the truck pulled away again, heading north. Maybe he was on his way to the reserve. The sight of his truck made my cheeks burn in spite of the temperature.
Every time I thought of him, I castigated myself for being a fool. I had been so badly hurt by men in the past that I had sworn them off entirely. Now I felt like an alcoholic who had fallen off the wagon, experiencing the most bitter self-recrimination and remorse.
Never again, I thought, and this time I meant it from the bottom of my heart.
We arrived at the lawyer’s office on February first with a long shopping list. I hoped the monthly payment would cover everything. Even Riley was eating more in this weather. I couldn’t help thinking about the rental income that I should be receiving.
“Well, doesn’t she look like a different child!” Lisette whispered.
“Do you think so?” I looked at Bridget, trying to see her objectively. She had grown, and her robust body was like a neon pink sausage in that snowsuit. The biggest change, though, was in her attitude. She was sitting up confidently, her head cocked on one side as she studied her colouring book. She hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages.
Lisette and I sat down on the leather couch. The book lying open on her desk was called Master of the Highlands and showed the usual scene: a woman with flowing hair kneeling before a bare-chested man in a kilt.
“How is it that you always look so glamorous, living out there on the farm without power or water?” Lisette asked.
I glanced down at myself. I was wearing my black ski pants and my black down parka. I thought I looked fairly drab, especially compared with Lisette. She never made any concession to the weather. Today she was wearing a ruffled denim miniskirt and a shiny, electric blue blouse. Her beehive was taller than usual, and her stiff bangs looked like a sausage roll glued to her forehead.
“And your hair!” Lisette’s admiration was embarrassing. “It’s so lovely, the way you have it pinned up. I wish I had naturally curly hair!”
I was amazed that anyone would envy what I considered a lifelong curse. “Lisette, there’s nothing I would like better than straight hair,” I said feelingly. “Why don’t you blow your hair straight and see how you like it?”
“Yeah, that’s what Brittany, my hairdresser, keeps telling me. She’s always trying to get me to change my hairstyle. But Franklin, I mean Mr. Jones, says he likes my hair just the way it is.” She blushed, and dropped her eyes. “He likes me to wear bright colours, too. He says it’s so gloomy around here in the winter that I’m like a bird of paradise.”
I bit my tongue, wanting to scream at her. “He isn’t around that often. You can dress however you want to when he’s not here.”
“I guess so.” She looked doubtful.
As we drove home, I wondered why Lisette’s plight was obvious to me when I had failed so miserably to see my own. I remembered the poem by Robert Burns: “And would some Power the small gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us.”
Fittingly, the title of the poem was “To a Louse.” And that reminded me of my third and final lover. That time I knew, I simply knew, Chase was the right man to heal my wounds. He was different from the previous two disasters. I realized now that I had been searching for a father figure. It was textbook.
But Chase was only two years older than me. He was an artist, rather than a cold-hearted mathematician. And best of all, he was single.
Chase had called Aztec Accounting after the Internal Revenue Service went after him for failing to file his income tax for three years in a row, and I was assigned to his file. He showed up at my office one day looking appropriately artistic, with blue jeans, sandals, and a luxurious dark beard.
Although it certainly wasn’t standard practice, and despite some trepidation on my part, he persuaded me to go to his apartment to help sort out his paperwork. When I arrived, I could see why Chase had failed to file his taxes. His place was a disaster. It was filled with piles of paper, dirty dishes … and art.
I had to admit that I found his paintings a little creepy — his favourite subjects to paint were decaying animal carcasses. His apartment was filled with stacks of unfinished canvasses showing bones bleached in the desert sun, clouds of vultures circling overhead.
Before getting down to work, he insisted on pouring me a strong margarita and giving me a tour of his apartment. It was fascinating and appalling.
The paperwork was everywhere. We sifted through piles of unpaid bills and random receipts he had tossed on every surface. There were even some under his bed.
After three weeks of visits and countless margaritas, we ordered a pizza and then ended up in that same bed. His sheets had a fusty smell that I took to be further proof of his high-mindedness.
Chase and I began “dating” although dates were not his strong suit. He would stand me up for dinner and then knock on my door at midnight, wanting to spend the night. Of course by then I was incapable of saying no, convinced that he was the answer to a maiden’s prayers. I stuck with him through thin and thinner.
I was consumed by the desire to help him, to polish this rough diamond. Opposites attract, I told myself. His easygoing nature would counteract my compulsive orderliness while I could organize his finances and put his career on track.
Chase rarely showed up on time for anything, so I bought him a Rolex watch for Christmas. He gave me a tiny exquisite painting of a cactus flower and said it reminded him of me, prickly but beautiful. It was the most romantic gesture he ever made. In fact, it was the only one.
Six weeks after we started our relationship, I realized that my period was late, but I put it down to stress. I was working hard and sleeping little, between the demands of my job and my new all-consuming affair. I wasn’t using birth control, but Chase had a whole collection of colourful condoms in his night table. Unfortunately he didn’t always use them, and I was so anxious to please him that I didn’t insist.
After eight weeks, I went to the doctor because I thought I must be developing chronic fatigue syndrome or some other ghastly illness. I was so drowsy I could barely stay awake in the afternoons. I was astonished when the doctor told me I was pregnant.
I drove home in a state of dream-like ecstasy, picturing the wedding, the new apartment, the nursery decorated with Chase’s hand-painted murals, the happy life unfolding before me.
It was snowing again. I had heard that the Inuit had a hundred words for snow, and now I wondered ironically how they made do with so few. We must have seen a thousand variations of snow by now. Today the flakes were dancing rather than falling, pirouetting like a billion tiny ballerinas.
I lifted my head from my sewing machine when I heard a triple knock at the back door. I dashed into the back kitchen and threw open the door. Surely, I thought, even Wynona wouldn’t walk over here in this weather. But there she was. She burst inside, along with a blast of snow that covered the floor in a speckled white sheet.
“Wynona! What are you doing here?”
Without speaking, she pulled off her boots and followed me into the kitchen. When she drew her balaclava over her head, I saw that her face was red and swollen.
Bridget ran out of the bedroom and flung her arms around Wynona’s waist. The older girl still didn’t speak although she hugged Bridget tightly. Then she unzipped her parka and threw it over the back of a chair.
“Is anything wrong, Wynona?”
She kept her eyes on the floor. “Yeah.”
“What is it?
Something to do with your family?”
“Nah.” She looked as if it were an effort to move her lips. “It’s my friend Rocky. He was sniffing glue. He decided to walk over to his cousin’s place and he never made it. They found his body yesterday in a snowbank.”
“Oh, Wynona. I’m so sorry.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. She smelled unpleasant, reeking of smoke and rancid grease.
“Bridget, would you do me a favour and let me speak to Wynona alone for a few minutes? That’s my good girl.”
Bridget rolled her eyes and sighed, but she went into the next room and closed the door.
Wynona sat down heavily at the table. I pulled out another chair and sat beside her. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Nothing to tell. I knew he was getting high every day but I didn’t think he’d be dumb enough to go outside when it’s this cold. What a moron.”
I reached out and took one of her hands, even though it was filthy. I resisted a cry of horror when I saw the fresh cuts on her wrist.
“Wynona! Give me your other hand!”
Meekly she let me push back her sleeves and examine her wrists. I felt the familiar rush of nausea and dizziness at the sight of the crimson lines, three on her left wrist and four on her right wrist — definitely cuts made with a thin blade, perhaps a razor.
I closed my eyes and held both her hands tightly, needing the support myself while I fought an almost overwhelming urge to run from the room. I couldn’t reject her now although the sight of those angry slashes sickened me.
The sight of Wynona’s wounds brought me immediately back to the day that my blood phobia originated. Not only could I recall the day, the very hour it occurred was etched in my brain. I was living with the Sampsons. I had come home from school early, and I was walking down the hall toward the kitchen when I heard Mrs. Sampson talking to the next-door neighbour.
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