by Lea Geller
“Agnes?” he called. “Is that you?”
“It definitely is,” I said.
“Where’s Grace?” he asked. “We never run without her and the giant stroller.”
“I’m dumb enough to run in this weather, but not dumb enough to drag her along.” I laughed. “She’s still in day care.”
“About that coat . . . ,” he said.
“Yeah,” I interrupted. “There’s a reason I never see anyone running in a down coat. I’m broiling.”
The February chill seeped deep into my bones, and once it got inside me, it stayed there, taking up residency all day long. Each night I sat, steeping in the tub, thankful not to be paying the water bill.
Then there was the snow. Halfway through December, I wondered where it was. None fell on Christmas. By New Year’s Eve, I thought we were in the clear. Like so many other things, I assumed New Yorkers had been exaggerating about the snow.
One Friday night in early February, I noticed a cold, metallic smell in the air when I went outside to take out the trash.
“That’s snow,” chirped Stacey, who appeared as I stood on my stoop, sniffing the air around me like a curious puppy. “You can smell it the night before it falls.”
“For real?” I asked, looking at her. Although it was only five, it was almost pitch-black. We were both in sweats, robes, and shearling boots.
“Oh yeah. Trust me, you’re waking up to snow tomorrow. Is this your first time?” she asked.
I wanted to tell her about my real first snow, the year Jack had taken me skiing in Tahoe. I wanted to tell her about the alpine lake and how it changed from sapphire blue to emerald green and then back again each time I looked at it. I wanted to tell her about the mountains of soft, fluffy, powdery snow that went as far as I could see. For a moment I thought about our hotel, the wooden beams in the ceiling, the fireplace in the bedroom, the sleigh bed that hung over the lake.
“No,” I said. “I saw it once before.” It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. Some memories were just too painful to revisit.
Stacey saw right through me. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
I needed somewhere to unload this memory, and Stacey Figg was standing right there. I was vulnerable and she could smell it on me.
“My husband,” I said. “I first saw snow with him.”
“No word yet?” she asked. Oh, I’d had plenty of words—I just didn’t have Jack.
“Nope.”
“Wine?” she asked me.
I grabbed the baby monitor, and we resumed our positions on Stacey’s couch. She brought out something white and bubbly. I could just hear Jack’s voice in my ear. “What is this?” he’d drawl. “Soda?”
“Thanks, Stacey,” I said, trying my best. “This is perfect.” I drank the soda wine. It was sweet and lifted me, so I quieted Jack’s voice in my head. Besides, it felt good not to be alone. Stacey asked about my students.
“I think half my job is just convincing them that I actually like them,” I said.
“We do like them, don’t we?” she asked.
“Not everyone does,” I said, looking down into my wine.
“Gavin likes the boys, Agnes. He really does.” I didn’t trust myself to make eye contact. “He has their best interests at heart,” she said.
“I guess he has a funny way of showing it,” I said.
“Well, this is a safe place,” she announced, holding out her hands. “You can come here and talk about anything, even Gavin.”
I looked up. “Thanks, Stacey,” I said.
“Oh, honey,” she said, beaming, “it’s my pleasure.”
Grace and I woke up the next morning to snow. By the time she called out for me at six thirty, it looked like snow had been falling for hours, because there was already more than a foot on the ground. I was giddy. I ran in and scooped up Grace, hastily changed her diaper, and threw coats, hats, gloves, and boots on both of us, right over our pajamas. The snow felt different than it had in Tahoe. It was icier and wetter, but seeing it spread out across the campus, watching how a landscape that had once been so familiar was now transformed—that was glorious. I held Grace’s hand. She was able to toddle if she grasped a few of my fingers. She shuddered when the snow hit her cheek, and when her mitten fell off and her hand plunged deep into the snow, she wailed. I picked her up and wiped her off.
We walked across the fields. Kids were sledding down the snow-covered glacial rocks. Teachers were out walking or playing with their kids, as though everyone had temporarily come out of hibernation. I saw a couple of Smug Runners wearing what looked like snowshoes. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be joining them today. Adam waved at me from across the field, and I even got a wave from Ruth Moore, who was walking across campus in enormous furry snow boots. I found a quiet spot and put Grace down on her feet. Then I dropped down onto my back and made a snow angel, just like I’d seen on TV. I stood up and showed Grace my design in the snow. Then I laid her down and had her make one. She liked that a little less. A bunch of kids sledded past us.
“Wanna ride?” It was Caleb, Art, and two students from my other classes.
“Sure!” I yelled out at them.
The boys trudged over with a long black sled.
“Let us take her, Ms. P.,” begged Art. “Remember, I have sisters.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Just bring her back.” I watched Art carefully put Grace in between his legs and Caleb ran, pulling them along. I could hear Grace shrieking with joy, and by the time they brought her back to me, she was finally sold on the snow.
It snowed through most of February. When the snow fell it was white and pristine, full of light and possibility. Days later, when the snow stubbornly refused to melt because the ground was frozen solid, it turned gray and ominous. It piled higher and higher by the side of the road and stared at me, menacing, as I maneuvered Grace’s battered stroller through it. Poor stroller. It had been purchased for walks on the beach, not for the filthy slush of February in New York.
With each fresh snowfall, I knew I’d see the boys sledding. Grace had become a middle school mascot, and they fought for her attention. She was more than happy to oblige. I didn’t invite the boys in on snow days; too many people were out. But I often made hot chocolate with marshmallows, and we drank it on the steps in front of my door. We even used the time to work on the boys’ first big essay for me. I was using the notebook method I’d devised for Caleb, and so far it was working well, even if Art kept moaning about his dysgraphia (I had to google that) and Davey had lost three notebooks in two weeks.
On a particularly snowy day, I gave them an impromptu lesson on thesis statements.
“Yeah, what do you want ours to be?” Art asked me.
“Sorry, boys,” I said, taking a sip of cocoa. “You guys are coming up with your thesis statements.”
“But what if we’re wrong?” asked Guy. He lobbed a snowball at some kids walking by but missed and hit the bushes.
“You won’t be,” I said. “And the essay will be easier to write, because it’ll be about what you think, not what you think I want to hear.”
Guy did not look convinced.
“It’s true,” said Caleb, grabbing a fistful of marshmallows from the bag. “Writing is just thinking,” he announced, and when he was sure nobody was looking, he smiled at me.
-6-
Grace would soon turn one. She was slowly making moves to walk on her own and was moments away from being a full-fledged toddler. The night before her birthday, Stacey dropped off a glittery pink party hat for Grace to wear at breakfast. “Every girl should be a princess on her birthday,” she said, her voice falling slightly. I thanked her and put the hat on Grace’s high chair so I wouldn’t forget.
That night, I spent a long time putting Grace down to sleep. I hadn’t anticipated it being so hard to let go of this year, the year in which we’d been abandoned, the year in which we’d been forced to move across the country and to live in a way I had not planned. As har
d as it had been, it wasn’t easy to watch Grace’s first year slip away. I sat on the floor in the corner of her room, singing her to sleep.
I ran my fingers along the soft, nubby carpet, the carpet where I’d sit and change Grace’s diaper, sing her to sleep, fold her laundry, and, lately, where I wrestled her into her clothes.
I’d had a patch of carpet in Modesto, not in my first foster house, or my second, but in the house I lived in for my last two years of high school. It was the carpet under the windows in the corner of my bedroom. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell and feel that worn patch of carpet and the netting underneath. I sat on that patch of carpet and filled out applications for jobs, not just summer jobs, but spring jobs and fall jobs. I sat there and worried about paying for class trips to Disneyland and new clothes. I sat in that spot and filled out financial aid forms and scholarship applications, and I sat there wondering if I’d be able to go to college at all.
I did not want Grace to need a patch of carpet.
Beeks called first thing in the morning.
“Happy birthday, Grace,” she said, on speakerphone. I told her I’d tried to bake a cake and failed. The cake seemed to be cooked on the outside but was completely raw on the inside.
“It looks like a Boston cream doughnut,” I said. “And I know what those are, because I don’t live in LA anymore.”
Stacey dropped off cupcakes she’d baked for Grace, each one perfectly iced and bejeweled. My birthday cake was sinking deeper into itself by the minute, and I was never so grateful for Stacey and her ornamentation. I fed one to Grace and two to me. I packed another in my bag, just in case. Once we were cleaned up and ready to go, I sat down on the floor and faced her.
“Happy birthday, sweet girl,” I said. “I love you so very much.” She crawled over and pulled herself to standing while holding me. I squeezed her tight, and in honor of her birthday, I let her hold my keys all the way to day care.
On my way to class, I got a text from Jack.
Happy birthday to Grace. Dinner tomorrow?
Before my brain could process the text, my fingers typed, Yes! I’ll make sure she gets a good nap so she’s awake for it!
Sorry, darling. Adults only.
Of course. What had I been thinking? We had never been the kind of parents to take a baby to dinner, but I still couldn’t help but feel uneasy. I knew this day meant nothing to Grace, but was it possible that it also meant nothing to Jack? I wanted to say something to him, but I also wanted to see him.
Will find sitter.
My first thought was of Beeks. I could drop Grace off with her on my way to meet Jack, but even though she was trying her best, I knew Beeks and I knew myself. I wasn’t strong enough for her questions or her withering glare, and honestly, I still didn’t think I was ready to step back inside her apartment after Thanksgiving. I wondered if I’d ever be ready to go back. Once I had dropped off Grace at day care, I texted the Figg.
My husband wants to have dinner tomorrow night. Would you be able to watch Grace?
She responded immediately.
Of course. With pleasure. I can even watch her at your place—easier that way.
My next step was to do something about my hair. The next day, I taught my morning class and took the rest of the day as a personal day.
My online search led me to Mark Anthony on the Upper East Side. It was the salon with the combination of the highest ratings and the fewest dollar signs. Still, Grace and I were going to have to spend a month or two eating mac and cheese to pay for this. A very blonde, wiry receptionist took my coat and led me back to Kirstin, my even thinner, blonder colorist. (Apparently all the thin blonde people had been hiding here on the Upper East Side.)
I took off my hat and ran my hands through my hair. “Fix this,” I begged. “Please.”
She laughed and her eyes widened. “Whoa! What happened to you?”
“Don’t ask,” I said, putting the hat back on again. “Just tell me. Can you help me?”
“You know,” she said, directing me to her chair, taking off the hat, and running her fingers through the disaster on my head, “the best way to fix ombré like this is to just cut it out. Marco can give you a really cute bob.” She raised a toned arm and pointed to a very tan man in the skinniest jeans I had ever seen on a male. I tried not to think about my own once-toned arms, which now resembled flabby strings of spaghetti. My sporadic running was doing nothing to help matters.
“My husband has a thing for long hair. I think I’d better not.”
“They all do.” She shrugged. “Have you thought about extensions?”
Of course I had. Who in LA hasn’t? I thought back to a particularly insufferable mom from baby group who wore them. She religiously tossed her hair—or whoever’s hair it was.
“Aren’t they pricey?” I asked, wondering how much longer I was going to have to worry about how much things cost.
“There are tricks,” she said. “You can start out with a small amount, and we can add more later.”
I agreed to the extensions and sat in Marco’s chair, letting him cut off all the bleached-out ends. Then I moved back over to Kirstin, who colored my hair a beautiful “Upper East Side blonde,” as she called it. When she was done she wove in some extensions. She kept lemony-blonde extensions in stock because there was never a day when someone didn’t walk in off the street and ask for them.
I gasped when I saw myself, and not in the way I had done in Evon’s chair. My hair seemed to be lit from within. I just stared, taking in the new-old me.
I walked out of the salon many, many hundreds of dollars poorer. It hurt to think about the money I had spent. So I didn’t think about it. Instead, I pulled out my phone, did some quick research, and went in search of something to wear, as well as something to wear underneath. The single thong that had made the trip from California had been eaten up in the washing machine months ago. I went straight to a well-reviewed boutique near the salon and found a black dress. I walked into a boutique next door and bought a replacement thong in a soft, creamy nude and a matching push-up bra. I held them high and imagined Jack’s face when he saw them.
Beeks called while I was paying for the clothes I could not afford.
“Wanna meet for dinner?” she asked. “Brian is taking the kids to a hockey game. I can come up to you.”
“Um, I can’t.”
“Why do you sound that way, Aggie?”
“What way?”
“Like you’re afraid to tell me something,” she said.
“Because I’m afraid to tell you something.” I listened to her silence. “Beeks, I’m meeting Jack for dinner.”
“Really?” she asked. “In the city?”
“Yup.”
“Alone?”
“Yup.”
“Want me to come up and watch Grace?”
“Actually . . . ,” I began.
“There goes that sound again,” she said. “Let me guess. The Figg is babysitting.”
“She is indeed,” I admitted, squeezing my eyes shut in preparation for the yelling portion, which never came.
“You don’t have to be afraid to tell me this stuff,” she said in the nicest voice she could muster. “I can handle it, Aggie. I’m a big girl.”
“I know.”
“Anyway, have fun sexing it up tonight,” she said over the growing background noise of her life.
“It’s just dinner, Beeks. I am not staying over. I don’t think much sexing up is going to happen.” If that was true, then why had I just shelled out for underwear?
“You’d be surprised what happens in the bathrooms of swanky New York City restaurants,” she said.
“Really?”
“So I’ve read. I have to go. Alec has thrown the cat down the trash chute again. I have to go down to the basement and rescue it.” She did not wait for me to say goodbye.
I used a dressing room in the boutique to assemble myself. Stacey was picking Grace up from day care, so I didn’t have
to go home.
Grace. I was desperate to see Jack, to be alone with him, so desperate that I had just shelled out for clothes and hair that I could not afford, but I still couldn’t understand how Jack didn’t want or need to see Grace when it was so hard for me to be away from her. I shoved down any bubbling resentment and got to work on the rest of my appearance. My hair was already done. I pulled a makeup bag out of my purse and then put on the new underwear and the black dress. I yanked a pair of heels out of my bag and dusted them off. These heels hadn’t seen the light of day since LA. Sadly, even though spring was technically days away, it was freezing and I still needed to wear the comforter coat. The coat aside, I was ready for Jack.
-7-
In LA, sushi had been one of our mainstays. At least once a week—usually on Tuesdays—we’d eat at either our local sushi restaurant or one of the famed omakase bars in town, where a short-tempered sushi chef would decide what we’d eat, the order in which we’d eat it, and with which sauces, if any. I couldn’t even remember the last time I thought about sushi, let alone omakase, but I found myself in a dark downtown sushi restaurant looking for Jack. I wondered who had recommended this place to him, or where he’d read about it. I pushed open a heavy oak door and inhaled the smells of raw fish and vinegar. I walked up to a willowy hostess and gave her my name. “Agnes Parsons,” I said. “I’m meeting my husband.” I swallowed the last words, letting them rest in the back of my throat.
I handed her the comforter coat, and she motioned for me to follow her to the back of the restaurant. I was surprised. Jack didn’t like the back of restaurants, and he always preferred the sushi bar. Was this intentional, or were we in the back because Jack was a fish out of water, in a city without his arsenal of connections to get him a good table around Valentine’s Day? I walked back and saw Jack sitting, wearing a light-blue shirt and a dark jacket. He looked up, saw me, and stood immediately, smiling tentatively. Maybe he was as nervous as I was.
