Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [34]
Evidently he wasn’t finished stirring me up. I feigned interest in the flames, ready to fight back with words, or with my fists if he took a shot at me.
“Ain’t surprised. You’re stubborn, just like her.”
“Who? Brittney?”
“No. Your mother.”
I looked over at his face hidden in the long shadows. 114
“I don’t remember her being stubborn.”
“That don’t surprise me neither. She was one hardheaded Norsk. Once she’d made up her mind someone was in the wrong, she’d dig in her heels and then, look out.”
“What would she do?”
“She wouldn’t think of raisin’ her voice. In fact, she wouldn’t talk at all, which was worse.” He adjusted his cap. “First year we were married she wanted some expensive cake pan she had to special order from Norway. I said no and told her to use a cake pan she already had. Got the cold shoulder all week. The followin’ weekend I went lookin’ for my ratchet set and found out she’d taken all my tools out of the garage, leavin’ me with one screwdriver.
“When I demanded she tell me what she’d done with my tools, she suggested I use the screwdriver I already had. I lectured her about needin’ the right tool for the job, and realized I’d proved her point.”
“So she bought the cake pan?”
A pensive look crossed his face. “She bought the whole set.”
I’d never heard this story. In fact, I knew nothing about my parents’ marriage. As a child I’d been too selfabsorbed to care. As an adult I’d been too full of hate.
“You’re getting close to the same age she was when she was killed.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“Just sayin’. . .” He shrugged. “You look like her. 115
Not a little; a lot. You could be her twin, ’cept for your eyes.”
For the first time I wondered if that was the reason he’d become so violent. Looking at me was a constant reminder of what he’d lost. He couldn’t take out his frustration at her for being dead, so he took it out on the closest thing to her: me.
Fucked-up logic. Probably made perfect sense to him. I glanced over to see his ropy forearms resting on his thighs and his face aimed at the floor. My stomach pitched as my mind returned to another memory I’d blocked out.
The day after my mother’s funeral I’d seen Dad in the same morose position on the end of their bed. My mother’s favorite nightgown twisted in his big hands, pressed against his face while he cried.
He hadn’t noticed me, would’ve beaten me for witnessing his grief. But peeking through the crack in the door, hearing him sobbing her name, a cruel sense of satisfaction surfaced in me that he was hurting for a change. Again, fucked-up logic, because I’d been hurting too. I hadn’t understood why my triumph had been so bittersweet.
Bad time for those long buried emotions to surface. I didn’t trust myself to deal with them fairly and nearly leapt to my feet to escape. “I’ll fill the wood box. Then I’m going to bed. Thought I’d sleep on the couch. That way I can keep an eye on the fire.”
No response.
116
I donned the stiff outerwear again and ventured out. The snow was still coming down hard, blowing sideways. I smoked a cigarette and studied the driveway leading away from the house. The plows would be by tomorrow. They had to be. I didn’t know if I could survive another day with my father.
Wood stacked, fire stoked, I rolled out the sleeping bag I’d found in the hall closet and crawled in fully clothed. I didn’t know where my dad had gone and didn’t care.
I expected the day would dawn bright and sunny, with a clear blue sky, as it so often did after blizzards. Doomed to disappointment again. The continuing frigid air and monumental snowdrifts were Mother Nature’s big fuck you— a reminder of who was in charge. A reminder I probably wasn’t going anywhere today.
Yippee fucking skippy.
Gray light barely peeped through the window
blinds. The fire burned steadily, though we were nearly out of wood again. I ignored the useless coffeepot as I poured my second bowl of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. At least