The Snow Angel

by Glenn Beck

  I gave him a quizzical look and turned my attention to the slick paper in my hand. It was a photo of me.

  The woman in the picture was so young she looked like a child. Her hair was loose, eyes wide, blue T-shirt stark against the pale lines of arching collarbones. I felt the air leave me in a quiet rush, but not because of the way the photo captured my fleeting youth. Because of the way it highlighted the bruise.

  I was turned away from the camera a bit, and the curve of my cheekbone as it angled for attention was glossy and purple. It really was an ugly injury, the sort of mark that was difficult to look at because I could almost feel the hot, tender ache of the swollen skin.

  “I remember when you took this,” I said, tapping the photo with my fingernail. “You snapped it when I came to collect my things after Cyrus told me I couldn’t see you anymore. You took several of me and Elena together. But I don’t understand why you kept this one. It’s such a horrible picture. You have lots of nicer ones. Prom and wedding pictures …”

  Max ducked his head. “I kept it because it tells the truth.”

  “What truth?” My eyes shot to Max. “I told you I slipped in the shower.”

  “That’s the oldest line in the book,” Max said, shaking his head. “Along with ‘I tripped down the stairs, I fell off my bike, I slid on a patch of ice …’ I think Elena and I heard them all. And we never believed them. Not once.”

  “What didn’t you believe?” Sarah quipped as she swept into Eden. Her eyes sparkled as she unwound a scarf from her neck, and her lips were turned up in a breezy smile. She had come with David’s pickup to help us transport the boxes, and I was sure that getting caught in the middle of an awkward exchange was not at the top of her priority list. I opened my mouth to change the subject, but before I could utter a word, Sarah noticed the photo in my hand. “Is that you?” she asked, peering over my shoulder.

  “Well, yes, but …” I trailed off at the look on her face.

  “Wow.” Sarah’s smile had disappeared completely as she studied the stark photograph. “Look at you. How in the world could that monster raise a hand to you? You’re nothing but a child.”

  I was so used to covering for him I didn’t even flinch. “Cyrus didn’t do anything,” I said almost indignantly, but the lie screamed like fingernails on a chalkboard. In that instant, something inside me shifted and I felt the full weight of my life and what it had become. “Oh.” I whispered. I don’t know if it was the look on Sarah’s face or the fact that she was right—that the woman in the picture was hardly more than a little girl. Either way, I think I understood for the very first time just how bad things really were. “Oh, no.”

  Sarah put an arm around me and bent her head to mine so that our foreheads touched.

  “How did this happen?” I gasped. “How could I let him do this?”

  Max came around the other side of me and put his arm over Sarah’s so that they held me up between them.

  I struggled for air. “I can’t believe I’ve been so … How could I … How could he?”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said. “How could he? It was wrong before, but now that I know how long it has been going on, Cyrus’s abuse is downright heinous.”

  “Twelve years.” She wasn’t asking for an account, but all at once I wanted to lay it all bare. “Cyrus has been abusing me for twelve years. It’s mostly verbal abuse. Emotional, I suppose. But he hits me sometimes, too. He’s bigger than me, stronger, and when he’s upset about something … He’s like a kid who doesn’t know his own strength.”

  “He knows his own strength,” Max said. “He’s perfectly capable of controlling himself in every other life situation. The fact that he loses it with you does not exonerate him of wrongdoing.”

  I put my hands to my mouth, holding in tears or more damning words, I didn’t know. But I did know that something irrevocable had happened: They knew. Max and Sarah knew exactly who Cyrus was. What he had done. I couldn’t take that back. I couldn’t pretend that the wounds he had inflicted were the result of my own clumsiness anymore. Every time my skin blossomed beneath a bruise, they would take one look at me and know.

  It was a frightening thought. But freeing, too. I wasn’t alone anymore. And like a bird who has been caged for too long, I watched almost fearfully as the door to my prison creaked open. I didn’t know if I had the courage to fly away.

  The days after Max and Sarah comforted me in the back of Eden were some of the most conflicted of my life. Lily was still giving me the silent treatment, and I couldn’t bring myself to call up Max or Sarah, even if that was the most logical course of action. I was so ashamed. They knew me, they knew the dirty secret of my messy life, and in the light of their understanding I felt filthy and dark.

  Complicating everything was the fact that Cyrus was unusually quiet. Our house echoed with an uneasy hush. Sometimes, over the scrape and clatter of knives and forks at mealtimes, I would chance a peek at my tight-lipped husband only to find him staring at me. He’d smile thinly at me over the dish of green beans, and though it seemed an innocent, even friendly gesture, his eyes were cold.

  I half expected Cyrus to confront me. Surely his icy calculation could only mean one thing—he knew. But I kept up appearances and tried to explain away any strangeness on my part by citing the upcoming holiday.

  Thanksgiving was a big day for the Price family, and all of the work fell to me. Cyrus’s mom flew in from Atlanta with her new husband, and extended relatives came from all over the United States to congregate in the tiny town where they had all originated. Cyrus and I hosted a giant feast that could have been featured in the pages of Better Homes and Gardens.

  Although everything was picture perfect, Thanksgiving was always an awkward afternoon complete with embarrassing displays of family dysfunction. But the Price family was nothing if not proper, and we all politely looked the other way when Uncle Theodore drank too much or Aunt Rose complained about how hard it was to find good help these days. Cyrus even tolerated his arrogant stepdad, Walt, without resorting to shouting or name calling. Of course, he was helped along by generous amounts of single-malt scotch.

  When everyone started arriving on Thanksgiving afternoon, I was knotted so tightly I was convinced you could practically see the tension radiate off me. Cyrus welcomed our guests with an unusual expansiveness, a forced benevolence that made me more nervous than if he had scowled and hidden in his study. But I tied a neat bow in my designer apron strings and twisted my lips into a semblance of a smile. If I could make it through a Price family holiday, I could make it through anything.

  “Hello, Diana,” I said, bussing my mother-in-law’s cheek as she swept into the kitchen. She studied my sparkling counters with a critical eye, then plucked a carrot spear from the platter of crudités I had set out. After sniffing it delicately, she took a tiny bite.

  “I hope your turkey is organic.” Diana’s voice was whisper-smooth but it carried a blunt edge. “Walt is on a special diet.”

  “You should have told me,” I said. “I could have customized the menu to fit his needs.”

  “Too late now.” Diana breezed out of the kitchen, but not before she gave me a pointed look. There was no way I could have known about Walt’s new diet, but her meaning was unmistakable: You should have asked.

  Everyone else arrived with similar expectations and feelings of entitlement. Aunt Rose was put out that the weather was crummy. Uncle Theodore was unimpressed by Cyrus’s selection of scotch. Even Lily was petulant. I had made three kinds of pie for dessert, but not her favorite, raisin cream.

  “Sweetheart, no one eats it but you,” I told her when she realized that there was apple, pumpkin, and pecan, but no raisin cream. “I’ll make you your very own pie next week. You can eat the whole thing.”

  “Whatever,” she huffed and stormed to her room.

  I had carefully penned place cards, but when everyone took their seats before the Thanksgiving feast it quickly became obvious that no one had liked my arrangement.
Cyrus’s family had swapped cards and sat wherever they wanted, and I ended up sandwiched between my fractious mother-in-law and my brooding husband. As I slipped into my chair I shot up a prayer for patience.

  Cyrus read from the Bible, but I wasn’t paying much attention. The sound of scripture as it rolled off his tongue often carried a metallic clang. It seemed harsh and judgmental, not at all like the love story that Max and Sarah tried to convince me it was. I had grown up in a culture steeped in rules and regulations, swift punishment and rigorous standards. Cyrus’s God was an exacting taskmaster and one that I had grown to distrust.

  At the end of Cyrus’s long-winded prayer, everyone said, “Amen.” Then the dishes were ceremoniously passed. It started with the heaped platter of turkey and progressed from stuffing to mashed potatoes to homemade cranberry sauce. There were gravy boats on either end of the table and an assortment of salads that were mostly ignored. My sweet potatoes were legendary, and I tried not to roll my eyes as I watched Walt scrape off the brown sugar and pecan topping, forsaking the creamy potatoes beneath. I was quite sure the calorie-rich crumble didn’t meet the restrictions of his diet. But I smiled politely and held my tongue.

  Conversation was sporadic and littered with gossip. Everyone from out of town wanted to know the local buzz, and Diana regaled us with salacious stories of her social circles in Atlanta that sounded a lot like the plot of a reality TV show. I tried to tune it all out and even managed to catch Lily’s eye once and dart her a furtive wink. She ignored me.

  Because I wasn’t paying attention to the tedious banter, I didn’t hear Diana’s complaint until she had already voiced it twice. Suddenly the entire table had turned their attention to me, and I found myself looking up from my plate as if I was coming out of a trance. “Pardon me?”

  Diana sighed. “I was just saying that your potatoes are pasty. Did you boil them too long?”

  I had a forkful of potatoes poised in midair and I slowly lowered it to my plate. “I suppose so,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

  “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s pasty potatoes.” Diana gave an affected little shudder and shoved the remains of her gravy-soaked potatoes to the very edge of her plate with the tines of her fork.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Cyrus looked past me and gave his mother a sympathetic smile. “Rachel’s not exactly the world’s best cook.”

  Diana laughed and put a slender hand over her heart as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. “Honestly, honey,” she said, addressing me, “I don’t know what you do all day long. If I were you I’d at least master the art of making decent mashed potatoes.”

  There were chuckles around the table, and I tried to muster up a sheepish grin so that they knew I was laughing with them. Cyrus’s family loved nothing more than to remind me of my humble roots, and in light of some of the other insults I had endured in the past—being called everything from white trash to the daughter of a worthless nail bender—complaining about my potatoes was nothing. Usually I had the grace to bear it. But the events of the past few weeks had brewed together to create the perfect storm, the sort of emotional chaos inside me that was one snide comment away from unleashing destruction. I felt my hands begin to tremble, and I pushed my chair back so I could escape for a moment to refresh the water pitcher. A few minutes alone would do much to fortify my patience.

  I was on my feet when Lily spoke up. Her voice cut through the murmurs of amusement, and it was razor sharp. Hard as steel. “My mother is an amazing cook.”

  Diana’s smile withered on her lips and fell away. Lily was her only grandchild, and though Diana could not be considered loving, she had a certain proprietary affection for her granddaughter. They enjoyed a polite relationship that consisted mostly of expensive gifts and the occasional light, ladylike chat.

  “I was only teasing her, Lillian Grace.” Diana fluffed her platinum coif with the palm of her hand and sniffed. “You don’t have to take things so seriously.”

  I ducked my head to hide the glint in my eye. No one stood up to Diana, and while a part of me wished that Lily had just left well enough alone, it was hugely entertaining to see my mother-in-law so frazzled. In my mind I gave Lily a quick squeeze, then I reached for the water pitcher as if nothing had happened.

  But Lily wasn’t finished. “It’s mean,” she huffed. “I hate it when you do that.”

  My eyes flew to Diana. She was staring at Lily, her jaw uncharacteristically slack. “Excuse me?” She turned to Cyrus. “Did your daughter just call me mean?”

  “Of course not.” Cyrus gave Lily a hard look. “Did you?”

  I could tell just by glancing at my daughter that this thing was not going to blow over. She had moped in silence for weeks, but I should have known that it was just a matter of time before everything came bubbling to the surface. We had covered a lot of ground in the two short months that I worked for Max, and Lily’s polished life had taken on a very different sheen. I had hoped that we could deal with it slowly, over time. But it looked as if all her angst was going to come out in the worst possible place: over the Thanksgiving table.

  “Lily,” I cut in quickly, “I need your help in the kitchen. Come with me, please.”

  “No,” Lily and Cyrus said at exactly the same time.

  “She needs to apologize to her grandmother,” Cyrus said, shushing Lily with a raised hand.

  “I will not apologize.” Lily crossed her arms over her chest and gave the entire table her most belligerent glare. “It’s horrible the way you all belittle Mom. I hate it. You need to apologize to her.”

  My heart turned to stone in my chest. “No, Lily,” I said. “It’s fine. They’re just teasing.”

  “No, they’re not.” Lily turned her focus to me and I was surprised to see the depth of emotion in her eyes. She was desperate to be heard, to be understood. “I just want everyone to see you the way that I do. You’re so beautiful, Mom. So good at what you do … so talented …”

  Cyrus snorted. “Not at mashing potatoes,” he said snidely.

  The rest of the table relaxed: We were back in familiar territory. They thought one cutting attempt at humor would put this all to rest. But even as they went back to their turkey, I could see that Lily was downright furious. I hurried around the table and put my hands on her shoulders, willing her to keep her mouth shut with the press of my fingers. “I need your help,” I told her again. “Let’s go.”

  “Mom is very talented,” Lily hissed as I half dragged her out of her seat. “She could run a catering business. Or start a bakery.” Lily’s eyes went wide and she stabbed a finger into the air triumphantly. “Better yet, she could open her own tailor shop now that Mr. Wever is going out of business. Did you know that just one of her suits is worth two thousand dollars? Two thousand dollars.”

  Lily came abruptly to her senses as a hush descended over the table. She gave a little gasp, but after that harsh sound the room fell so flat you could practically hear each individual heartbeat. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could still feel the heat of shock as everyone turned their attention to me. I should have said something witty, tried to deflect the weight of all that was coming, but I was too numb to respond.

  “Mr. Wever? You mean that immigrant seamstress?” Cyrus said, his tone light. I hadn’t noticed that he had come out of his chair, and when he put his arm around my waist I was so startled I jumped. He tightened his grip, pulling me toward him as he whispered, “Max Wever … Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MITCH

  December 24, 5:00 P.M.

  Mitch isn’t hungry, so the nurse’s aide brings him dinner in his room where he can nibble at his leisure. The tray is deceptively grand, a trio of plates topped with elegant chrome food covers that reflect Mitch’s face back to him in distorted caricatures like the trick mirrors in a fun house. He studies himself from various angles before peeking at the meal that lies beneath, but after a feast of pancakes, b
lueberry sauce, and sausage in the morning, the evening meal is uninspiring. Lukewarm chicken a la king and green beans that look like lengths of plastic tubing.

  The only thing Mitch eats is dessert. One of those poke cakes with red and green jello swirled through the white and an inch of whipped cream on top. There is a mini candy cane on the plate beside the cake, and although he doesn’t like candy canes, he loves the smell. Mitch takes the plastic wrapper off so that he can sniff the peppermint.

  Scents are a powerful trigger, Mitch decides, because breathing in the sharp, bright fragrance stirs up a hundred different memories. They flit around his mind like confetti in one of those fancy snow globes, and though he cannot single one out and examine it, Mitch is happy for just a moment to enjoy the feeling of warmth the candy cane evokes. Somewhere, deep inside, everything is still there. It’s just hidden away.

  Mitch takes one last sniff of the candy cane, then deposits it on his dessert plate. He carries the lunchroom tray to the small table just inside his door and shuffles back to the rocking chair in his slippers. There’s a photograph of a little girl on the windowsill, and a pretty paper ornament hanging from the latch. It sparkles in the light from his lamp. But Mitch doesn’t pay much attention to either of these things. Instead, he reaches for the tattered notebook that rests on the seat of the chair. He picks it up and eases into the worn cushions with a sigh.

  There are a thousand things he does not remember, but this notebook fits the contours of his hands. He has held it so many times the blue cardboard cover has faded to a milky white in places, and the edges of the papers are rolled and frayed. But in spite of the fact that it has been heavily used, Mitch always anticipates opening the cover with an almost childlike excitement. No matter how many times he has read the pages, Mitch does not remember what is written inside.

  His mouth curves in a bittersweet smile as he lifts the cover and pushes down a wave of anticipation that is tinged with sadness. It’s a diary of sorts. No, a book of letters. There is a date scribbled in one corner, and, glancing at the calendar that hangs over his bed, Mitch realizes that the words were penned seven years earlier. Seven years. It’s a long time. A lifetime.