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One degree colder, and I think my nipples will literally flash freeze, and break off.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived in Minnesota, I have never been able to get used to the shrill wind and temperatures that are so low, I sometimes entertain the thought of starvation in lieu of facing the elements and going to the store. Thank the big guy above for food delivery services. From pizza to the damn limes I always seem to forget when making cilantro rice, I don’t ever have to leave the sweet, safe,warmconfines of my home.
It’s too bad I can’t use them now to deliver me from the nightmare ahead.
“Did you find it?” My mother’s voice is almost lost to the onslaught of wind that’s been slapping against my face since I gathered enough moxie to open my car door.
My teeth involuntarily chatter as I stand upright, pulling the faux rock from the cluster of real ones near her peonies at the front porch, which are somehow thriving. They mock me with their vibrant colors, meanwhile, I’m the same hue as the snow that looks seconds away from breaking free from the low-hanging clouds. “Yep. Give me a sec.”
Lifting my shoulder to pin the phone against my ear, I fumble with gloved hands to slide the bottom plate of the rock open to reveal the spare key to my mother’s house. It takes two ridiculous attempts of trying to squeeze my fingers inside the small opening before I mentally face-palm myself and tip it over in my hand.
I blame the cold. I’m pretty sure it damages brain cells.
I’m quick about shoving the key in the lock and pushing inside, nearly tripping on the way, courtesy of the next large gust. After I’ve managed to close the door, I grip the phone and grunt through clenched teeth. “I’m in.”
“Twenty-six years here, and you still can’t function in weather below thirty. I’m surprised you haven’t up and left for Arizona by now.”
I roll my eyes and grunt again. She knows exactly why I haven’t given up the yards of snow and found sanctuary on a hot bed of sand somewhere. I’m her only family. Her only friend. It’s especially true now since she and my stepdad of the past almost decade are days away from finalizing their divorce.
Todd is—was—a great husband. He was polite, helped around the house without being asked, gave Mom nightly foot massages after her twelve-hour shifts, and updated her on my volleyball games he never missed. They didn’t argue, kissed way too much, and were both incredibly supportive in regard to anything that dealt with me or my stepbrother.
But even all that wasn’t enough when it came down to it.
My mom has worked in the medical field since she graduated college and has always,always, put her career first. Over the years, as she grew as a surgeon, her schedule constantly changed, which sometimes meant missed birthdays and parent-teacher conferences. Dinner left in the fridge, and unsigned field trip forms.
I don’t think it ever really bothered me because when we did spend time together, it was as though I was her whole world, and nothing else mattered. Not in those moments, at least. So when she did miss one of my games, or wasn’t able to come to muffins-with-moms, I didn’t mind because I knew she was saving someone’s life.
Todd understood, too. Until he didn’t.
Time off felt less substantial because as she aged, she needed more rest to recuperate between shifts, leaving the quality moments between them few and far between. Then, there was her refusal to retire anytime soon, severely affecting his plans to travel and see the world before sixty.
He felt guilty for wanting her to leave the profession, and she felt the same for not being able to commit time to their marriage. So, after eight years, they’ve decided to amicably split.
But not before one last Thanksgiving as a family.
Releasing a dramatic huff, I drop the grocery bags my driver, Winston, delivered to my place thirty minutes prior on the kitchen counter and slip into a barstool. The warm amber and cinnamon musk of the house settles into my lungs, melting my tight muscles.
The annoyance from the weather dissipates as my eyes trail over the familiar fall decorations my mother puts up every season. Be it the nostalgia or the realization that things are about to change, I manage to bite back whatever comment I consider making and smile into the receiver. “And leave you to figure out how to close the seventy-six open apps running in the background on your phone alone? You think so little of me, mother.”
She laughs, and I imagine her shaking her head, the short midnight strands catching on the clasp of her glasses. “I’ll have you know Cindy, in pediatrics, helped me delete all those applications I didn’t need.”
Yes, the ones she was opening by accident but didn’t letmedelete because “she might want them later.”
I can’t stop my eyes from rolling, but manage to mask it in my voice. “How long will you and Todd be? Did you need me to start some stuff?”
It’s still pretty early, but the quicker I begin, the quicker this can be over, and I can get back home where I don’t have to socialize with anyone but Ryan Gosling on TV and a glass of Moscato.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though I don’t like Todd—it’s the exact opposite—and knowing this is the last time I’ll see them together is a little bittersweet.
They were married the summer before my senior year of high school, and even though I dreaded and severely opposed their union in the beginning, the joy he brought her was more than enough to make me rethink my position. And while their divorce is amicable, I know deep down, she’s going to lose a bit of that joy.
“Actually, it may be a little longer than I thought. The ham is already done, but if you would go ahead and put it in the oven and then start the potatoes, that’d be great.”
My eyes flit to the window above the sink. Just above the high peak of my old treehouse is a thick blanket of gray. It’s a bit darker than it was this morning. “Be safe, and get here before it starts coming down.”
“We will. Your brother will be there soon, and he’s—”
My internal organs twist and turn so abruptly I can’t even make out the rest of her sentence.
