The Weight of Winter

by Cathie Pelletier

  “I’m not sure,” said Amy Joy. “Somebody just called and told me that the ambulance is at Pine Valley, but I don’t know who it’s for. And there’s no answer.” She hung up the phone and flipped the blankets back. “I gotta start the car so it’ll warm up. I’m gonna drive down there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Miranda, and disappeared back into her own room.

  ***

  The road ahead of them was flecked with sparkling ice diamonds, those little secrets in the snow.

  “It’s a good thing I had the block heater plugged in,” said Amy Joy. “I doubt the car would have started.” But she had planned to drive to Watertown early the next morning for a dental appointment, so the car had been ready, the block heater keeping the antifreeze warm, the antifreeze keeping the engine warm, the warm engine keeping the oil from growing thick with cold.

  “At least it’s not snowing,” said Miranda.

  “It’s too cold to snow,” said Amy Joy. She was leaning in over the steering wheel, peering through the defrosted hole growing on the windshield. “Try not to think,” she warned herself silently. “Just drive.” She applied a bit more pressure to the accelerator pedal, and the little brown Cavalier breathed more cold air into its carburetor.

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” asked Miranda. “All the tall banks, everything white.” Her voice was a soft, even monotone, a reassuring little wave coming at Amy Joy, washing up from the darkness on the passenger side. “Bless her,” thought Amy Joy.

  They followed the river, which lay like a blue shard of ice, reflected in moonlight, shimmering like a dream. The ancestors’ river. The old road.

  “The snow is so pretty,” Miranda said. Yard lights, scattered along the road to St. Leonard, threw glistening shadows on the banks. Houses were bundled against the cold, their windows black eyes in the night, their chimneys breathing smoke.

  “Did you know that snow is made up of different crystals?” Amy Joy asked. The only thing they could do was keep talking, as she had so recently done with Bobby Fennelson in the warm kitchen, she at the sink, Bobby with his sweet, strong hand on the doorknob. “There are seven common types of crystals, and that’s what decides the kind of snow it’ll be. Whether it’ll pile up, or drift, or pack down hard. The next time it snows, we’ll catch some flakes and I’ll tell you what they are.”

  “Maybe I can paint different snowflakes,” said Miranda. “I don’t think anyone’s done a snowflake study.”

  “Sell them in Florida,” said Amy Joy. They were rounding the last glittering turn before Pine Valley. “You’ll have a hard time unloading them in Maine.” She could see the blue light now, still swirling in violet circles about the snowy yard. She would buy Sicily a thousand crossword puzzles. She would listen to the twisted, rewritten parables of the Bible. She would agree that George Bush was the next best thing to sliced bread. She would—yes, she would—take her to the blasted Thanksgiving co-op dinner.

  “That’s Patrice Grandmaison,” Amy Joy said, and pointed to the woman hovering about at the open doors of the ambulance. Patrice looked up in surprise as Amy Joy’s little Cavalier crunched to a halt beside the ambulance. There was no crowd, except for Maxine Monihan from the trailer park next door and a couple of St. Leonard faces Amy Joy could not recognize. Dr. Brassard was there, giving some instructions to the attendants.

  “Who is it?” Amy Joy asked Patrice. Miranda had followed her from the car and was now shivering, her arms hugging her own body.

  “Mathilda Fennelson,” Patrice whispered. “She’s had a stroke.”

  Amy Joy leaned forward before the attendant closed the door and saw Mathilda’s old body on the stretcher. Her eyes were open, glassy blue, and her mouth, while not exactly smiling, seemed content with all the ruckus.

  “Poor thing,” said Amy Joy. Maxine’s flushed face appeared before her, excitement painted all over it.

  “Sorry,” Maxine said. “I thought you and Lola would want to know, your mothers being here and all. I know I would.” Her nose was red with a cold, and she sniffed before producing a Kleenex.

  “Someone needs to take the telephone away from you, Maxine,” said Amy Joy. “The telephone wasn’t meant for people like you.” Mr. Watson, come here. I want you. Amy Joy stepped back as the ambulance pulled away, a spray of frozen snow spitting up from its tires. Dr. Brassard followed in his own car, its red taillights bouncing out onto the road.

  “Your mother’s fine,” said Patrice.

  “I tried to phone first,” said Amy Joy. She was watching Maxine’s stout silhouette as it moved away, back to the trailer park, back to the tiny kitchen and tiny living room and tiny bedroom of Maxine’s own tiny life.

  “I wasn’t in my office,” Patrice explained. “I was in Mathilda’s room. We had to wait for Dr. Brassard to arrive before we moved her. He forgot to plug in his block heater and his car wouldn’t start.”

  Miranda and Amy Joy followed her back into Pine Valley. Old faces peered out of doorways, aging men and women in pajamas and nightgowns, hands to their mouths, eyes torn between sleep and panic.

  “Go back to bed, everyone,” Patrice whispered loudly. There were other residents still asleep, some too anchored in their own minds to care, others too deaf to hear.

  On the way to Sicily’s room, Amy Joy and Miranda passed number 32, Mathilda’s old room. Amy Joy stopped and peered inside at the empty bed. The resident nurse was just cleaning up. Lights blared loudly, reflections from so many silver things: spoons, thermometers, catheter tubes, suction tubes, oxygen tubes, steel pans and bowls. A container of swab sticks sat quietly, their heads snow white, waiting for the next battle. Amy Joy picked up a tube of salve that lay on a table by the door.

  “For bedsores,” said the nurse.

  ***

  In her own tidy room, Winnie was sitting on one of the two chairs, sobbing, while Sicily rubbed her neck.

  “Mama!” said Amy Joy. “I was scared to death.” She put a hand on Sicily’s arm, but it wasn’t necessary. Sicily was in control, kneading Winnie’s shoulders with the skill of a masseuse, comforting her in a lullaby voice.

  “You’re never ready for it,” Winnie sobbed.

  “Mama,” Amy Joy said again. “I was so afraid something had happened to you. Maxine called me up and told me the ambulance was here.”

  Miranda leaned in the doorway and watched. At first Sicily seemed to notice only Winnie, working around the little brown moles on her neck, calming her with shushes and there nows. She glanced up, suddenly, at Miranda.

  “You’re like looking at my sister Pearl,” said Sicily, and Miranda smiled. “Look at her, Winnie. Ain’t she the spitting image of Pearly? This here is Pearl’s great-granddaughter.” Winnie looked up, tears in her eyes, at the lanky girl in the doorway.

  “You’re never ready for it,” Winnie said. “I don’t care who you are.”

  “That crazy Maxine should be shot, that’s what,” a voice said loudly from down the hallway. A cloud of commotion followed it, people scuttling, winter coats swishing, boots thumping along the tile. From her resting spot in the doorway, Miranda was able to survey the racket.

  “A little skinny woman and a big fat woman,” she whispered to Amy Joy, who frowned. Lola and Dorrie.

  “Calling a person in the middle of the night for no reason at all.” Lola’s voice was coming closer. Behind her, Dorrie’s thick, heavy breathing was audible, the sound of dead weight being propelled forward.

  “Let’s go, Mama,” said Amy Joy. She was hoping to make a clean retreat before the dynamic duo arrived. “We’re going home. I’ll come back for your stuff tomorrow.” Sicily stopped kneading Winnie’s motley neck.

  “I ain’t dressed,” she said.

  “Put your coat on over your gown,” said Amy Joy. “The car is warm. Your old bedroom is all made up and waiting.” Winnie began to sob louder. />
  “There she is,” said Lola, her face appearing like a weed in the doorway. “You okay, Mum?” she asked Winnie, who was still weeping. Miranda stepped back to let Lola pass.

  “Excuse me,” Lola said. She knelt dramatically at Winnie’s knee. “Now, Mama, you got to remember that Grammie Mathilda was a hundred and seven years old. Most folks don’t get to keep their loved ones that long. She’ll go to heaven now, with all them other old-timers, folks she used to know. She didn’t recognize anybody anymore. Don’t you want Grammie Mathilda to go to heaven?”

  “I want you to go to hell,” Winnie cried. “When was the last time you come to visit her? When was the last time you come to visit me?” She had begun to rock softly on her chair, comforting herself now.

  “Listen to you,” said Lola. “I ain’t been here ten seconds and already you’ve started. People won’t want to visit you, Mama, if you’re nasty to them.” A huffing Dorrie materialized in the doorway, wearing her bulging stadium coat.

  “She okay?” Dorrie asked.

  “She’s fit as a fiddle,” said Lola, and gave Winnie’s limp arm a squeeze.

  “I don’t care who you are,” Winnie was whispering again. “You’re never ready for it.”

  “Someone ought to put Maxine on a bus to Bangor,” said Dorrie. “She can claim it’s a chemical imbalance if she wants to, but I know better.”

  “Let’s go, Mother,” Amy Joy said to Sicily, and motioned with her head toward the door.

  “Look who’s here,” said Dorrie. “Seems like I run into you the last time I was here.”

  “We’re on our way home,” said Amy Joy, and with a hand on Sicily’s arm maneuvered her out the door. In the hallway, Miranda raised her eyebrows into a question.

  “Idiots,” Amy Joy whispered.

  “You’re looking fit and trim, Amy Joy,” said Lola. Winnie was now crying loudly.

  “You probably been real busy lately, though,” said Dorrie. She and Lola exchanged a meaningful look.

  “Mama, you’re gonna wake up the whole place, sweetie,” said Lola. “Now you just calm yourself down. So help me, I’ll wring Maxine’s neck the next time I see her.”

  In Sicily’s room, Amy Joy found her mother’s black boots beneath the bed and pulled them out. “Grab her purse,” she said to Miranda. She found a clean towel in the little bathroom and wrapped Sicily’s toothbrush, comb, and denture cream in it. In the closet she found Sicily’s coat.

  “Can’t we take Winnie?” Sicily whispered loudly from the hallway.

  “Oh, don’t start,” said Amy Joy. “Please.” She looked across the hall, to where Lola and Dorrie peered like traffic cops out of Winnie’s room. Lola shouldered her purse strap and patted Winnie a final time.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetie,” she said. “You get you some sleep now. I’ll check with the hospital about Grammie and call you first thing.” Dorrie followed her back out into the hallway.

  “I’m glad my mother didn’t wake up,” said Dorrie. She had passed Claire Fennelson’s room on the way in. “They must be giving her sleeping pills again. She misses everything that goes on down here.”

  “You’re taking Sicily home?” Lola asked. She had seen the bundle in Amy Joy’s arms. “Dear heavens, but this is the best place for her. She’s got company her own age and lots of good medical attention.”

  “Mind your own business, please,” Amy Joy said.

  Miranda had found Sicily’s purse and was waiting in the hallway. Dorrie noticed her there, saw the dark eyes looming large behind the glasses. This was not a Pine Valley worker, as Dorrie had originally thought. Yet, this girl looked vaguely familiar. Her stadium coat bulging, Dorrie maneuvered herself out into the hallway.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name,” Dorrie said.

  “That’s because I didn’t throw it,” Miranda answered, turning her wide McKinnon forehead toward Dorrie, regarding her with a cold McKinnon stare.

  “There’s no need to be rude, Amy Joy,” Lola said. “But then maybe you’re in some kind of emotional state.” Amy Joy ignored her by going back into Sicily’s room. She had just remembered that her mother would need a change of clothes for the next day. Sicily’s bed was now as empty as Mathilda’s.

  “You’re just trying to make one of them statements of yours,” said Lola. “You’re just taking Sicily home to make the rest of us look like terrible daughters. You always did think you was a peg up the pole.” Amy Joy pretended not to hear. She found Sicily a clean dress, some underwear, and a sweater, something she could wake up to find on the foot of her own bed, back at the house where she’d been born. The house where she should die, when the time came. She snapped off the lamp by the bedside.

  “I’d think you’d be too busy to take Sicily back home,” said Dorrie. She and Lola exchanged another look. “That you’d have the house just full of company.” They clomped off down the hall, the sound of their voices ricocheting off the tiled walls, following them like a sad, obedient dog.

  “I’m gonna wait till she ain’t expecting it,” Lola was saying. “Then I’m gonna call Maxine up and tell her a tree fell on that frog she married.”

  Amy Joy stood in the tiled hallway and watched the women go, Dorrie waddling as effectively as any duck, Lola leaning forward as if into an invisible wind.

  “Amy Joy’s just trying to make the rest of us look bad,” Dorrie said, repeating Lola’s earlier accusation. They disappeared around the corner, the sound following in an angry echo, engulfing them, until it, too, disappeared.

  “Come on, Mama,” Amy Joy said. Sicily was standing in her big black coat at the door to Winnie’s room. From behind her shoulder, Winnie’s sad face peered out, like a winter’s moon.

  “If I’m going, Winnie’s going,” said Sicily, and pointed to her foot. Amy Joy looked down at what appeared to be a dark brown cord tied around Sicily’s ankle. She was about to ask what it was when Winnie stepped up alongside Sicily, and Amy Joy saw that Winnie, too, had a similar cord knotted about her own ankle. No, it was the very same cord.

  “What is that?” Miranda asked, leaning down to investigate.

  “It’s a nylon stocking,” said Amy Joy. And indeed it was, the old-fashioned, rubbery kind, with a heavy seam running up the back. “They’ve tied themselves together.”

  “Do you want me to get some scissors?” Miranda asked. Sicily frowned. This little girl didn’t only look like Pearl.

  “You get scissors and we’ll scream,” Sicily promised. Winnie continued to weep. Amy Joy considered sending Miranda off for Patrice, but then Patrice had been getting ready to drive to the hospital, behind the ambulance.

  “That’s it,” said Amy Joy. “I’ve had it. Stay here then if you’re going to act like that.” She put Sicily’s clothes down on the tiled floor and motioned for Miranda to leave the purse. She had taken only ten steps when Sicily began to cry too, her voice joining Winnie’s in harmony.

  “I don’t want to die here,” Sicily wept. Amy Joy could hear voices rising up from other rooms, muffled whispers, the tenants of Pine Valley tuning in on the fracas.

  “I don’t want to die here either,” Winnie wailed.

  “Shut up!” a male voice down the hall advised loudly.

  “You just shut up yourself!” Winnie screamed back.

  “I should’ve had more children,” Sicily was now announcing between sobs. “I should’ve at least had twins. Maybe one of them would take me home to die.”

  “Shit,” Amy Joy whispered. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” she said, one for every step she retraced to Winnie’s door. “Come on,” she said to the two old women. Sicily stopped crying. She had been on the verge of shouting, “Nice talk!” to Amy Joy’s retreating back until this new development surfaced.

  “We’re taking Winnie with us?” Sicily asked.

  “We’re taking her with us,” said Amy Joy
. She had knelt and was trying to untie the nylon. The knot held firm. How could such old hands find strength? “Where are your scissors?” she asked her mother.

  “I don’t have any scissors,” said Sicily. “Only the pair we had at home.”

  “Do you have any scissors?” Amy Joy asked Winnie, who shook her head. Miranda tried the knot, but it still wouldn’t budge.

  “You’re going to have to walk like that until we get you home,” Amy Joy said. Sicily and Winnie nodded like well-trained seals. “Get Winnie’s coat and a few things,” Amy Joy told them. She couldn’t help but wonder what Lola would have to say about this.

  “Come on, Win,” said Sicily. Together, they hobbled toward Winnie’s closet and found her coat. Sicily helped guide Winnie’s arms into the holes.

  “Let’s get my toothbrush,” said Winnie. They ambled off, trussed up like convicts, in the direction of the Pine Valley dresser. Amy Joy picked up the bundle of Sicily’s belongings she had dumped by Winnie’s door.

  “I came here tonight because I was worried about my mother,” said Amy Joy. “And now I’m going home with Chang and Eng.” Sicily and Winnie had rounded up a few things, and now they hobbled in unison back to the door.

  “Are you gonna be sorry for this tomorrow?” Miranda whispered.

  “I’m sorry tonight,” said Amy Joy. But as Bobby Fennelson had said one sunny afternoon in her kitchen, Things have a way of working out. Winnie would need to sleep in Sicily’s downstairs bedroom. Otherwise, she would be forced to climb the steep stairway. Amy Joy would need to change the big four-poster bed for narrow twins.

  “This is better than Cocoon,” said Miranda. She took the articles Sicily was piling into her arms—Winnie’s purse, Winnie’s reading glasses, Winnie’s big worn Bible. Off they went, Amy Joy and Miranda in the lead, Winnie and Sicily limping along behind, down the tiled corridor of the Pine Valley rest home.

  “This is just like being on the yellow brick road,” Sicily said happily. Amy Joy, wearing her heavy snow boots and not a slick pair of ruby slippers—which would be hell on ice—considered her mother’s comment.