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Last night, I endured an uncomfortable two-hour dinner with her, Dad, and Tobias at the Cantina. Afterward, Dad and Tobias went out on the fifth-floor veranda for cigars with a gentleman they had met at the Summit Bar while Mom and I settled in on one of the couches in the lodge and watched the late skiers while enjoying a Rumchata cocoa.
It was nice to just sit with Mom and talk about life—not skiing, not my fall, and not when I would be coming home. We discussed the latest books we had read and loved, a Netflix series she and Dad were obsessed with, Patrick’s new condo and girlfriend, and how much she liked perusing Main Street in Balsam Ridge yesterday afternoon.
“Are you enjoying working here?” she asks.
“Yeah, I am. This place is special. The people are crazy and wonderful, and some are bizarrely welcoming. I can’t explain it. I’ve felt more at home here the last couple of months than I have anywhere in a long time.”
A look of sadness passes over her face.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean—”
She raises her hand.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Your brother has made a home somewhere else as well. One day, you’ll know how hard it is to watch your babies move away. I wasn’t ready. I blinked, and you both were gone.”
She reaches over and lifts my chin. “You were gone way before I was ready. Oh, how I wish I could get those years back.”
Me too, Mom.
I change the subject by leading her to the equipment rental room and getting her fitted with gear.
We find Dad suited up.
“I hope you girls don’t mind that I decided to join you,” he says.
Mom rolls her eyes. “There goes our fun morning of skiing.”
“What?” Dad feigns offense.
“You always turn it into a competition. We just want to leisurely ski, not race down the mountain,” she quips.
“I can do leisurely,” he says.
Mom and I give each other a look.
“I can. Watch me,” he says.
The three of us head out to the lifts.
Dad makes a valiant effort to casually cruise down the slopes.
In the end, Mom bows out, and Dad and I race the double diamond.
I win the first two attempts.
“Best out of five?” he asks.
We get in line for the lifts behind a group of girls. One turns to speak to another, and we lock eyes.
“Oh my God, aren’t you Zoey Phillips?” she asks.
“One and the same,” Dad tells her.
“You’re my hero!” she cries.
“Is that right?” I ask.
“Yes. You were the best. I used to watch you all the time. That downhill you did in Japan was legendary.”
