The Sudden Weight of Snow

by Laisha Rosnau

“What is it, Harper,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

  Though he didn’t sound very welcoming, I walked into the room and sat down across from Thomas at the table. “Um, well,” I started and stopped, then started again, blurting, “I think Susan wants me to leave the farm. She doesn’t think Gabe should be in a relationship now.”

  Thomas looked at me carefully, then got up and walked to the counter, turned around, and leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. “And I’m taking it you don’t want to leave.”

  “No, that’s not it. I mean, no, I don’t want to go but that’s not the point. The point is, what does she know about Gabe and me? How can she know when he should or shouldn’t be in a relationship?”

  Thomas turned so that one hand was on the countertop and dropped his head slightly. He appeared to think for a moment before he said, “Harper, to be honest with you, I don’t know if I’m the right person for you to talk to about this.” When I didn’t say anything, Thomas continued, “Look, you can choose to stay here, at the farm, you know that, but there’s nothing I can do for you. You have to realize that this is probably about more than just you and Gabe. That fire has affected a lot of people. Some people have spent years making this their home and to have such an important part of it gone, just like that, well, it causes us all to reconsider things.”

  “I know.” I looked down at the papers spread on the table.

  When I touched the edge of one with a finger, Thomas offered “Insurance” by way of explanation.

  Withdrawing my hand as though he had reprimanded me, I pushed away from the table and moved toward the stairs. At the top, I paused. “Thomas.” He was turned toward the counter then, both hands flat on the surface. I took his lack of response as a sign to continue. “Did anything happen the night of the fire? I mean, anything between us that I can’t remember?”

  Thomas turned around. Steam rose from the kettle behind him. He looked straight into my eyes for the first time since I’d been there. “No. You were stoned. Gabe was nowhere to be found. I got you out of the cold and put you to bed.”

  I felt something flare up in me then – disappointment or resentment. The kettle began to wail. I didn’t know if Thomas was being completely honest with me. “Too bad.” I said. Thomas continued to look straight into my eyes. “I hope you’re all right,” I said and turned, walked down the stairs. I hadn’t said what I wanted to say, but I wasn’t sure I knew what that was.

  GABE

  Your first complete memory is this: It is fall and Peter and the other fathers on the farm have collected a spring and summer’s worth of fallen trees, leaves, dead wood. Twigs and dry vines that the garden has expelled off the edges of its harvest. They are going to burn it all in a bonfire in the middle of the farmyard and sparks will scale the sky. In the late afternoon, before it is lit, you and the other kids circle the pile and mimic things that make the adults wonder whose children you are, where you have learned these roles. You are Indians pounding the earth with your feet, hands clapping open mouths to mute war cries before letting them burst out again. You are soldiers who believe that the pile holds power, that to bow down before it is to receive strength for battle. And so you do – drop to the ground and gather dirt in your fists, smear it on your faces, then argue whether it is war paint or camouflage, if it can be both.

  At some point during this ritual, you realize that this has happened before. Last year, the fathers gathered the things that hadn’t lived through the summer and burned it all before the first snow fell. Then, as now, you united around the unburned pile with other kids and shared a sense of reverence, excitement. You knew then that it would be gone soon, and in such a spectacular way. Fire climbing so high it would challenge the night, spark new stars. It all makes sense to you now. In a few weeks, the snow will fall. After a few months, the farmyard will turn to mud and things will smell wet and achingly green. This will be spring. Summer will follow, when the yard turns to dust and the sun makes you so delirious that you stumble through the heat until your mother finds you, demands you accept shade and water. And then, it will all happen again.

  You arrive at a sudden understanding of seasons, there in front of the scrap pile. You may have had some inkling of them changing before, but never before this moment have you realized how certain they are, how persistent. How they will happen every year without fail and each time one passes, you will be older and already into the next without knowing how you got there. You have no idea of how to explain how happy this new knowledge makes you, how peaceful. You want to tell someone – the other kids, Peter, Susan, anyone – but you can’t find the right words. Years later, you will tell Harper what this meant to you. You tell her when you have returned to the farm, the place where you began, and this early memory comes to you, complete.

  You are determined that this memory will always remain whole. Now that you have retrieved it, you will keep it intact. Unfortunately, other recollections have unravelled to such an extent that you don’t seem able to follow the threads of your own thoughts, your own stories. How much have you remembered correctly? How much have you already forgotten?

  You are tired of this – tired of trying to sort out where the past ends and the present begins, which memories are accurate, which you’ve embellished. You are tired of trying to figure out what other people are thinking, what they think of you. It’s dangerous to try to imagine the coordinates of another mind, even more so to lodge yourself in there.

  Gabe hadn’t told me where he went the night I saw Thomas but that wasn’t so unusual, and I’d become used to not asking. I knew the answers already – different versions of needing space, a place to think, time alone. I had convinced myself that we were each mature, independent, free. We didn’t need to know where the other was at every moment.

  Late that night when he returned, I simply said, “Hi,” and started to get undressed for bed, as though his presence was all I needed for sleep.

  “Hi,” Gabe answered and did the same until we were both naked and lying in bed. We watched one another, our gaze moving from mouth to eyes and back, slowly, carefully, as though trying to discern if the other was a threat or a solace. I saw that the cut from eyelid to forehead was almost healed. It would leave a scar, a delicate white ridge to trace with a finger. I wanted to say something, to put words in the space between us, something to which we could respond or react. Because I was too tired to conceive of a way to broach the subject gradually, I said, “Your mother doesn’t think you should be in a relationship.”

  “What?” He sat up quickly.

  “I said, your mother –”

  He cut me off. “I heard you the first time. How am I supposed to respond to that?”

  “What do you mean, how are you supposed to respond? Try honestly. Try telling me what you think. Did you tell her that?”

  Gabe didn’t say anything for a moment. He stared straight ahead before turning to me. “Okay, you want honesty? No, I didn’t tell her that, but I don’t know if I should be in a relationship either. How’s that? I don’t even know if I want to be here let alone whether you should be here or not. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be – I just feel so much pressure from all sides, and I know I shouldn’t. I know I have no right to. I’m sorry, Harper – and I’m sorry about Susan. She had no business saying that to you.”

  “Too late.” I knew what would come next, what usually came when we had exhausted our ability to use language. We stared each other down, emotions colliding until they became one thing, the desire to touch one another, or perhaps simply to touch something warm, malleable. Gabe started crawling up my body, pushing me into the mattress as he did. He balanced on his arms, kept his upper body weight raised as if challenging me to push him off or pull him down. He moved slowly, watching my face. I let him, kept every facial muscle still, held my eyes on his. It wasn’t until his entire body met mine and pressed me to the bed that I tried to bring my arm up, shove him away. I wanted to think for a moment, to brea
the. I moved my mouth away from his.

  Gabe propped himself up and pinned my wrists to the mattress, the weight of his forearms on mine. When I tried to pull free, he held my wrists tighter. “Harper, what do you really want?” he asked. I watched his eyes for a long time, then turned my head and let my body yield under his. When I did, I concentrated on how our torsos met on the same breath, fell away. I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything else. Fingertips, hands, mouths on skin, the only ways left to communicate. This was a different language, one in which it didn’t matter what was said, only how we felt and how it grew. It didn’t matter if the emotion was anger, frustration, tenderness, as long as it intensified to the cusp of release. I sought that – release – the kind that words and conversation could never seem to bring to me. I opened my eyes again and kept them on Gabe as we built to that point. Kept them on him until the moment before orgasm. When I saw that he was gone from me, I closed my eyes. When I came, I tried to join him in the place I thought he had gone to.

  The next morning, I felt a sense of calm so complete, it seemed to lift me off the bed. When Gabe woke, I pretended to be asleep. With my eyes closed, I held that sensation of buoyant calm in me. He dressed and left the shed, probably to go to Susan’s for breakfast or to walk in the forest, plotting which trees to attempt to fall once the snow had completely melted.

  The feeling of lightness, of peace, seemed to come from a sudden instinct that I had to leave. I wasn’t sure for how long I would go but I felt like I was riding a balance then and that I needed to leave before things slipped, went bad. I knew that despite what Gabe had said, he wouldn’t ask me to leave. The only person who could convince me to go was myself. I considered doing the rounds to say goodbye but I didn’t want to have to explain anything to anyone. I called Krista from Brenda’s place, not wanting to go to either Susan’s or Thomas’s. “I’m going to spend a few days with a friend,” I explained to Brenda, although she didn’t ask. “Then, I don’t know. I might even go home. I might be back.” I left Krista’s number with her, telling her to give it to Gabe if he asked.

  “Remember, whether you’re with Gabe or not, you’re welcome here any time, love,” Brenda said, then paused. “Where is Gabe?”

  I shrugged, and said, “I don’t know, but I think he’ll understand why I’m going. I just –” I stopped.

  “Take care of yourself, Harper – and be true to your own heart, no matter what anyone says.” I hugged Brenda because that was what she expected and told her I would, although I hardly knew how anyone could be true to a heart, it being a vague and inconstant thing. Something that pumped blood and moved it around.

  I was standing in the farmyard when Krista and her mom pulled up in their truck. “She wanted to come,” said Krista, jerking her head toward Therese as she jumped out of the passenger’s side.

  “These things have to be done quickly, honey,” Therese said. “We don’t want anyone changing their minds.” She came toward me, then stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the site of the fire. She looked out of place with her white boots and pink ski jacket. “So, that’s where you’ve been staying since that building burned down?” she asked, motioning to the shed, a forced but reassuringly cheerful note in her voice.

  “No, that’s, uh, where I stayed all along.”

  “Oh,” she said surprised. “Oh, well, that’s certainly – okay, well, I’ll just wait here for you two then, eh?”

  It didn’t take long for Krista and me to gather my belongings. When we were finished, Krista took most of my things and left me alone in the shed. I stood in the middle of the room for a moment, unmoving, then went to the table where Gabe and I had eaten our microwaved dinners, where I had done homework. I shifted dishes and papers in order to make sure I had everything that was mine. Among the scrap paper and various diagrams was a shiny purple stone, under this a letter, still in the jagged-edged envelope, as though torn open with a crooked finger, addressed to Gabe from Anise.

  I stopped and read the letter, knowing Krista and Therese were waiting for me outside, knowing I shouldn’t. It began with a page and a half of description of the girls – they were adjusting relatively well, finding outlets for their emotions. The oldest could now executive a flawless back handspring, the youngest had joined a children’s theatre troupe and the middle one, she would find herself soon enough. I smiled at the description of these girls, their names on the page. Aubrey, Sage, and Mia. It was as though separating myself from their half-brother made them more than simply part of his story, but more real to me, whole and alive somewhere.

  My smile slipped when I came to the end of the letter, the words there. The girls miss you, Gabe, and so do I. I don’t know what I want to say. I just wish you were here with us, with me. You helped me so much in those last few months. And the way you were with me. The way you are. When we were together – some things probably shouldn’t have happened but I’m not sorry they did. I guess I shouldn’t tell you things like this. I felt a knot of nausea lodge in my throat and tried to swallow it. I read the words again. The way you were with me. I thought of all the time I spent with Gabe. The way you are. The stories we told each other, how our mothers kept creeping in, stepping on our toes as we tried to leave them behind. Some things probably shouldn’t have happened.

  Gabe came into the shed then, scaring me with his, “Hey,” and I jumped up from the table, guilt radiating from me. He didn’t seem to notice, though, looked at me for a moment with a puzzled expression then started to take off his jacket, went into the workshop to hang it up. I scrambled to slip the letter back into envelope as he did.

  Gabe came back into the room and said, “So, I saw Krista and her mom outside,” and sat down on the bed, leaning back on his arms and looking up at me, squinting slightly. “You’re going.”

  “Yeah. I guess I am,” I answered, looked out the window to the tract of field, the patches of brown growing larger by the day. “I left Krista’s number with Brenda. I’ll be there for a few days, at least. You can call me there, you know.” I got up from the table and stood in front of Gabe.

  “So, you were just going to leave?”

  “You know what you said the other day about wanting to make a decision and then be able to just do it? Well, this morning when I woke up, I realized I had to go. I feel like there’s too much pressure on both of us here – like we’re trying to be something for each other we’re not. You need to be in this place now, but I think I need to not be here. I know things are complicated for you, I don’t want to be in your way.”

  He took both of my hands in his then, and parted his knees slightly. I shifted so that my legs were against the mattress, Gabe’s on either side of mine. I looked straight at him. He tried to smile. There were so many things I wanted to say – that I had read the letter; that whatever had gone on with him and Anise, it was wrong; that I didn’t care. I hoped that my going would relieve some pressure on at least one of the sides.

  “You’ve never been in my way,” he said, running his hands up my arms so that I instinctively leaned towards him. I was about to put my hands on his thighs when he said, “You don’t have to explain yourself. I mean, especially after what I said last night. I’m sorry, Harper. I think that I will –” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’ll probably go too once I sort some things out.”

  “When, where?” I felt a hit of panic then, a feeling of losing footing, handholds, and crouched down in front of Gabe, between his knees.

  He turned his head to the side, that muscle in his jaw clenching like it did on men in the movies, pulsing there. “I don’t know.” He looked back at me, put his hands on my shoulders, then slid his palms down my arms to my wrists where his hold tightened, slackened. “I guess neither one of us really belonged here, hey?”

  I was dizzy with something – longing, loss. “I should go now. Krista’s waiting.” I started to stand. Our faces were so close. I rested my forehead on his, raised my hand, touched his face. I wanted to kiss Gabe
then, but didn’t. Instead I placed a finger on his mouth and he parted his lips, sucked it into the space between his teeth and bit. I smiled, withdrew my finger and placed it on my own lips and then straightened up.

  “I’m not going to say ‘see you around,’ ” I said.

  “Okay, Harper. But keep in touch, okay?”

  “I will, Gabe. You too.”

  “I will.”

  On the ride back to Krista’s, the sense of calm settled into numbness, then exhaustion. I fought sleep until we got there, then climbed under Krista’s pink gingham bedspread and fell asleep on top of the blankets.

  When I woke, I went downstairs. Krista and Therese were in the kitchen. Therese dished strawberry ice cream into a bowl, the closest I’d seen to her preparing food, and offered it to me. Krista spooned out her own and we took it upstairs and ate on her bed, the pink canopy matching the ice cream. I felt sticky and hot.

  When we finished the ice cream, Krista asked, “So, what do you want to do now? I mean tonight.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, then, let’s get out of here. Harley’s at hockey practice with the Old Timers. Therese is going out line dancing. We can’t hang around this empty, boring house. It’ll just make you more depressed. Let’s just go.” Krista dumped the contents of her backpack onto her bed and left the room with it, coming back wearing it and holding my jacket out to me. I put it on and followed her out of the house.

  While we walked, Krista’s backpack sloshed and clinked with the sounds of liquid and glass. We climbed out of her subdivision until the streets ended in orchards and we slipped a fence. The orchards were wet with melted snow, the trees twisted and bare. Orchardists had figured out how to both increase the yield of fruit and make picking easier by pruning small, bottom-heavy trees. It had warmed up enough that the ground released the smell of rotting windfalls from the last season. We filed our way through rows of trees to an old picker’s shack on the edge of the property where the hill rose up out of the orchard and into the forest. We had been there before, although not since the previous summer. In the early fall when harvesting began and the shack was populated by pickers, we stayed away.