Chapter 2

Morning came with a heaving breath, with dim, shadowed light echoing into the room from the window. Leilora yawned and wiggled further into the blankets—burrowing from the chill of the air in her room. A moment later, when the memory of newly fallen snow found her conscious thought, she sprung from bed and gazed out the window, anxious to see the transformation.

There, before her, the world slept, buried in what, she guessed, sixteen, eighteen inches? And the snow was still falling. Her heart was racing, but she exhaled slowly, combating the invigorating chill. For a moment she stood apart from the world, but never more connected to it. This was peace, happiness, joy; this space of time was what dreams were made of. She closed her eyes; she thought of nothing. She lived, enthralled with existence.

Then she jumped back into bed, and curled up beneath the covers. Staring at the tree outside her window—the boughs laden with snow, yet still trimmed with golden leaves. She pulled the comforter up to her chin and turned to her back, gazing at the white plaster of the ceiling, asking it the natural questions any soul might ask on a snowy day. What shall I do today? Hmmm? I suppose I’ll make breakfast, she answered herself sincerely. Then I’ll shower. Perhaps I’ll read a book—but what book? It’s cold enough for Joyce or Lawrence; I have time enough for George Eliot or Tolstoy. But I think a day like this forces a person to read a single author: Jane Austen. Yes, she decided, she would eat, shower, and pick up Pride and Prejudice for the fifteenth time in her life and read as long as it snowed.

And she did so, as a bird sets its mind to cracking a nut, though she lost herself briefly in the shower to the influence of the steam and the heat and the massage of the water on her skin. When she had dried and clothed herself, seated herself on the couch across from the most expansive window in the house, she saw the mailwoman drive up.

It had been several days since she had checked her mail and so Leilora threw on a jacket and waded through the snow to her mailbox. It wasn’t as cold as she had suspected outside, yet she still shivered while she pried open the lid. Newspaper, several letters—bills perhaps, and a postcard were the extent of the contents. She high-stepped back to the door, kicked off her boots and shut the door. She flung the mail to the table and hung up her coat, carefully dusting the snow from it before putting it in the closet. The newspaper was yesterday’s weekly issue; she pushed it aside as she sat to examine the others: a bill from the electric company, of course. Two letters from charities seeking holiday donors she threw immediately into the trash. The postcard was from her dentist, wishing her a happy Thanksgiving—it made her smile, at least, before she pitched it. The last envelope had her name hand-written on the front in shaky cursive—though the return address (without a name) and her own were printed in a quick, accurate hand.

She opened the envelope as she always did: with a pencil. Inside was a letter penned in the same brisk handwriting as the addresses:

My dearest Lei,

How have you been, love? I have missed your warm smile and silly sentiments; my place is much colder without your visits—no matter how many candles I tell them to light.

I’ll bet your wondering why I’m writing to you. Well, I seem to have misplaced your phone number, and God knows I can’t call anyone else in our family. I do fear a letter to be too slow, however. The good doctor says I’ll soon be rid of those plastic smells I hate about his office. And you know I did, do. I’ll be leaving soon; not to return until Judgment Day.

I’m dying Leilora, my precious girl. The good doctor says a week at most. I feel tired is all—tired of the monotony, of those horrid plastic odors. I’ll be glad to go when the time comes, girl.

Oh now I know you’ll get so worked up about this; you’ll become so sentimental and call immediately and inquire of my health. But sweetie, you don’t need to worry about me; you need to worry about yourself.

I must focus, Pradi tells me. Oh she’s wonderful, Lei. She takes such very good care of me. And such wonderful eyes! I told her to write an exclamation point, too. And that, too, of course, as if I were writing it with my own hand.

Lei, you are the prize jewel in the crown of my life; I know we didn’t meet often enough—your parents never took kindly to my habits around you. But I do miss you, my girl. I wish I could see you now, all grown up.

I have a favor to ask of you, I do hope you’ll oblige an old dying woman her final request. Ha! You must do it now. Heh. I’ll still ask politely; I am a lady after all…

If you would kindly journey to my old estate—that old brick place on Prince Street. You remember. Where we planted strawberries that summer. You were what? Seven, eight years old? No matter. I ask that you look in the attic, where I showed you my wedding dress, remember, Lei? I can just barely. Take two steps towards the window from where the mirror used to be and look up.

Take whatever you find there to old Uncle Max on Dawson Place; he’ll be able to tell you what to do with it next. And believe me, he’s still alive. It’d take two tornados and a flood to kill him.

Please. Do this Lei. For an old lady who regrets so much.

Well, they want me to nap now; they say I’ve used too much strength. See you on the other side then.

Farewell, my precious Leilora.

Aunty Mary

P.S. You have found a good man, haven’t you?

Leilora held the letter several seconds longer than her fingers wanted to. The surge and sweep of memories like waves climbed further up her beach of thought. Candles and strawberries and that musty old attic were among the things she had managed to forget—the mirror, though, she could never block out. At last the letter slipped from her grasp and both pages spread over the flower-filled tablecloth. Her hands found her face, folded as if in prayer, as she pressed her lips together, squeezed her eyes shut to control the flood of memories.

*

“Why hello love! Come give Aunty Mary a kiss,” the lady with bright, curly white hair implored. The girl, aged fourteen, looked to her mother with caution. Something about the sparkle of the deep red lipstick she wore, or the gleaming, squinting eyes, or the silly smile plastered on her face seemed faulty to her.

“Go on, honey; your great aunt Mary hasn’t seen you since you were born. You’ll have a splendid time with her,” the mother encouraged hastily. Leilora inched forward towards the great old woman and kissed the wrinkly cheek lightly. The two embraced and then she found herself held and arms length, being inspected.

“Oh my God! How you’ve grown! You’re much cuter in real life than in the pictures your mother didn’t send me! Beautiful child,” the elder woman exclaimed, “why don’t you come in and we’ll have some ice cream together?”

Leilora searched past the old lady’s glittering red dress towards the massive brick house in the distance and stepped back. “I don’t want to, Mom,” she muttered.

“Honey, I’ll only be gone a few days. Aunty Mary will take fine care of you,” she assured her daughter with a threatening side glance at the old woman.

“I bought some strawberries we can plant in the garden out back, too…” Aunty Mary goaded. “You like strawberries, dear?”

*

Leilora gathered the letter together and stuffed it back in the envelope, hoping that it would help propel the gathering memories back into their own container—wherever that was. She shivered. What did she need? Something, anything to reign in her wandering mind. She could bake something. Scones? No, she had no sour cream. What else, she wondered. She ticked off the impossibilities: brownies, poppy-seed cake, banana bread, blueberry muffins. What else, she asked the floor, tapping it impatiently with her slippered foot. She browsed her pantry, mentally scanning recipes for an ingredient match. Chocolate chips, brilliant! she mouthed when her eye landed on the half-full bag. Shortening she had, as well as sugar, and flour. She piled them in her arms and searched the rest of her mental recipe: vanilla, eggs, baking soda, baking powder, salt. Yes, they were all there, she assured herself. Then a prick in the back of her mind: brown sugar. She remembered being low the day before when she had made oatmeal for breakfast. She rushed to the cupboard and found less than a quarter bag. Just enough, she sighed.

This bowl isn’t big enough, she told herself. Each time she made her father’s recipe, she swore she would buy a bigger bowl. She put the sugar and salt first, creaming it with the shortening, adding the eggs and vanilla next, and adding the flour, baking soda and powder to the mix last. As she began to spoon the dough onto the baking sheet, she realized something was missing: the chocolate chips. How could she forget! she chided herself. Half a bag was a little lacking for this monstrous recipe, but it was better than nothing.

The work of baking cookies was tedious. One couldn’t simply make the dough or batter, pour it into the pan and wait for it to cook. There was the alternating cookie sheets—the baking time for one sheet was just enough time to unload the previous to the cooling racks, let it cool, and reload it. And with this, her father’s monstrous recipe, she knew she’d not get back to Jane Austen for several more hours. So she turned on some jazzy music and decided to make a morning of it.

Somewhere between setting the timer for the second batch and unloading the first, she thought of her sister. How many times had they helped their father make cookies during their childhood! While she always waited for the finished product to take and eat, her sister, Liz, always went for the dough straight away.

*

“Liz, you’ve eaten like thirteen cookies worth of dough!” Leilora whined, half in petition to her father to stop the apparent travesty. Liz just smiled.

“That’s why Dad makes so much!” she countered. “So that you can eat thirteen cookies after they’re baked and I can eat thirteen before they are.”

“I have not eaten fifteen cookies, Liz.”

“Not yet, you haven’t,” she laughed. “But you eat one cookie for every year of your age.”

“Girls, come on. I need someone to put these on the cooling rack,” their father announced.

“That’s Lei’s job!” Liz proclaimed. “I scoop out the dough. She needs to be over there to eat all the finished cookies.”

“Liz, I don’t…argh. Will you stop eating the dough?”

“Don’t worry about it Lei,” her father soothed. “There’s plenty for everyone,” he paused. “Including me!” With that he reached one hand around Leilora and grabbed a freshly baked cookie and stretched his other hand around Liz and snatched a ball of dough. The two girls were caught squealing in the crook of his elbows and he simultaneously embraced them and ate his treasures. When he finally released them and licked his fingers, the room was awash with laughter.

“What’s going on in here?” a voice echoed from the front door. The girls went back to their jobs, leaving their father to address the woman striding towards them.

“Hello, Valerie,” he offered. She ignored him.

“Girls, come on. Time to go.”

“Aww, but Mom!” Liz complained, “We haven’t finished all the cookies yet!”

“We have an appointment at the theatre with Mr. DeMann at 6:30. We cannot be late. And you girls still have to shower up and get into your dresses. Come on, say goodbye and let’s go.”

“Daddy do we have to?” Liz asked, hoping for any sort of rescue.

“Do as your mother says. I can finish the cookies by myself and send them in a package later, okay?” Leilora slid the last cookie off her sheet and onto the rack and walked from the kitchen without looking at her mother. Liz, however, hadn’t finished fighting.

“I don’t want to go,” she pouted. “I want to stay with Dad.”

“Elizabeth you will put on your shoes and your jacket and get in the car this instant!” her mother affirmed with a fiery gaze.

Liz looked at her father, eyes begging for salvation. He smiled wearily at her and bent down to her level. “Look Liz, we had a great time this afternoon. Hold on to that.” Then leaning in closer, he whispered, “And when you’re at the opera, remember to look for all the old ladies who messed up their make-up. That will cheer you up. Now I’ll see you next weekend right?” Liz nodded and sniffed, blinking the tears from her eyes. She hugged her father and scampered off to find her coat.

“Did you really have to interrupt us so coldly?” he asked the impatiently waiting woman.

“I’m busy, James; I don’t have time for games.”

“Look, Val, I know what the courts said. I won’t undermine your authority here. But think about the girls next you spoil their fun.”

“I don’t need your advice, James; you’re lucky you get to see them at all. Girls! Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Leilora scampered from the back room first. “Bye Daddy!” she exclaimed and hugged him enthusiastically. Liz was right behind her, but lacking the same energy in her embrace.

“Bye, Dad,” she mumbled and strode out the door. Leilora followed her, calling shotgun. Their father watched with far away eyes as they raced to the door, arguing over whose right it was to ride up front.

“Have a good evening, Val.”

“You too, James,” she replied and pulled the door shut behind her.

*

Leilora found herself stirring the dough furiously; she was panting and her forearms ached from the strain. She strode to the window, staring at the snow and pressing her temples with her fingertips. Minutes, hours, years passed while the flakes filled the air, blew through the window, surrounded her in an impenetrable wall of ice. Colder, colder, she felt herself freezing in place—a snow-woman without coal eyes or a carrot-stick nose. She felt herself breathing more slowly, as if it were an unnecessary burden. The snow piled upon her, covering her clothes with patches of white powder. She stared at a single flake which alighted on the palm of her hand; the complexity of the single gave strength to the immensity of the flakes changing her organic cells to crystallized ice.