Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [33]
My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten all damn day. I suspected Dad hadn’t either. I was too tired to pull any of that feminist a-man’s-capable-of-making-his-own-meal crap. He’d started the fire; I could rustle up dinner.
I rummaged in Trish’s kitchen, finding roast beef, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, spicy German mustard, everything to make hearty sandwiches. I added a slice of homemade apple pie, and a side of canned peaches. By the time I brought Dad a plate, he’d fallen 111
asleep by the fire. No reason to wake him. Wasn’t like the food would get cold.
Plus, I’d rather listen to him snore than listen to him talk.
After I ate, I set my head on the table and closed my eyes.
I dreamed. Wind howled and snow gusted through the cracks in the settler’s cabin, an abandoned shack where I’d seen horrific things. A location my mind returned to again and again whenever I was stressed out. Snowdrifts covered the windows. My gaze tracked the ghostly snow snakes slithering across the dirty plank floor. They dissipated upon reaching the discarded bodies.
I couldn’t escape the vision of those bodies, even in my sleep.
Bodies once full of life, once smooth flesh plumped with blood, were deflated like forgotten balloons. Dried husks of skin and brittle bones, a human powder that would blow out through the cracks of the shack like earth’s dust had blown in.
A baby cried. The wind shifted tones, masking the mournful wail. But I knew that sound. Was that my baby? I saw the manger in the corner and ran. Before I reached the brown box where a bloody chained hoof waved at me, the roof split open. Mountains of snow crashed through the gaping hole, sleet stung my face, flash-freezing my eyeballs. I tried to scream, but the snow funneled into my open mouth like a white 112
tornado. Spinning, filling me with coldness, first my toes, then my legs, packing my womb with ice, distending my gut, coating my throat with frost until I couldn’t breathe.
The clank screech of the woodstove’s iron door jolted me awake.
Whoo-ee. Talk about a nightmare. Not the
bloody carnage and Old West shoot-out variety I’d recently had, but bad enough.
Thud thud sounded as Dad tossed two split logs into the black-bellied stove and slammed the door. Both sandwiches I’d made him were gone. He’d shoved the empty dishes to the center of the table. I imagined he’d expect I’d clear them. I imagined I would do it despite not wanting to.
I wondered how long I’d been asleep and I scooted my chair closer to the fire. Molten red embers glowed through the ventilation holes at the base of the stove. Hot air streamed out as the dry wood crackled and popped. There was something soothing about staring at a contained fire. In recent months I’d spent many hours gazing into the big fireplace in Martinez’s living room. Dad didn’t make small talk. He’d propped his feet on the brick ledge and leaned back in his chair, Wyoming Cowboys ball cap pulled low on his wrinkled forehead. Couldn’t tell if his eyes were open. I craved a cigarette. Standing in the subzero wind to sate my nic fit would cause him to make a snide 113
comment, and the silence between us was at least tolerable. I shifted in my chair. The aches and pains from the hellish afternoon were making themselves known, and I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
“See you’re still as fidgety as you were when you was a kid.”
When our life was somewhat normal—before my
half brother Ben showed up and my mom was another drunk-driving statistic—he used to call me flibber-gibbet, in a teasing, affectionate tone I hadn’t heard since.
“Brittney’s just like you. Girl can’t sit still to save her life.”
I smiled, thinking of the freckle-faced waif. “I noticed.”
“I’m surprised you’re takin’ an interest in her.
’Course I’m pretty sure I know why you ain’t interested in DJ.”
Don’t ask, Julie. Keep your fucking mouth shut. His feet hit the floor and I flinched. He stood