The Snow Child: A Novel (28 page)

She retrieved her sketchbook and a copy of Robert Hooke’s
Micrographia: Or Some Physiological Descriptions of Minute Bodies Made by Magnifying Glasses
. It was one of the few natural history books of her father’s that she had brought with her, and she thought of it one evening as she worked on Faina’s coat. The old book contained illustrations of magnified images, and as a child Mabel had been particularly enamored of the foldout copperplate engraving of a louse with all its spindly legs. But she remembered, too, that there had been drawings of snowflakes.

“Exposing a piece of black Cloth, or a black Hatt to the falling Snow, I have often with great pleasure, observ’d such an infinite variety of curiously figur’d Snow, that it would be as impossible to draw the Figure and shape of every one of them…” and beside these words Hooke had included his sketches of a dozen snowflakes, looped and feathered, stars and hexagons. Mabel copied several of the designs. Then, from memory, she tried to re-create the one she had seen on her coat sleeve the night she and Jack made the snow child.

She followed a simple coat pattern she had ordered from a catalog. In the evenings, even when it was still bright outside, the trees and roof eaves kept the sunlight from coming in through the small cabin windows, so she lit a lamp and unfolded the fabric on the table. Following the pattern offered a kind of comfort, a quiet balance to working in the fields during the day. The farmwork was coarse, exhausting, and largely
a matter of faith—a farmer threw everything he had into the earth, but ultimately it wasn’t up to him whether it rained or not. Sewing was different. Mabel knew if she was patient and meticulous, if she carefully followed the lines, took each step as it came, and obeyed the rules, that in the end when it was turned right-side out, it would be just how it was meant to be. A small miracle in itself, and one that life so rarely offered.

As much as she enjoyed the sewing, it was in the embroidery that she would express her new hope, each stitch a devotion, each snowflake a celebration of miracles. The first she chose to create was Faina’s, the one the child had held in her bare hand—a star with six perfect points, each with an identical fern pattern. Between the ferns the points of a smaller star overlapped, and at its center, the hexagonal heart.

Mabel was bent over the embroidery hoop in her hands, her nose a few inches from the fabric, when Jack came in from feeding the horse. She didn’t mind that he stayed out later and later each evening, though she wondered why he avoided her. It was his irritability that gave her pause.

“Is everything all right?” she asked as she looked up from her needle and thread.

He nodded in her direction.

“I see it frosted last night,” she said. “Will we get all the potatoes out of the ground soon enough?”

Another brusque nod.

“Is Garrett off to bed? I had meant to give him another book to read. I was thinking of another Jack London, or perhaps
Treasure Island.
If he doesn’t finish it in time, he can always take it with him.” Mabel bit the thread in half and held the embroidered snowflake at arm’s length to inspect it. She could show it to Jack, but it would only make him angry. The coat, the snowflake sketches, all talk of Faina caused him to tighten
his shoulders and stop speaking. She could have asked why, but she feared the answer. Leave it be, he was fond of saying, and so she did.

A week later, the last of the potatoes were in burlap sacks, and they woke to a skiff of snow across the land, but it was early and thin. By midday it would be gone, and Mabel was certain it would be several weeks before winter came to stay. All the same, the sight of it delighted her. She quickly fixed breakfast for Jack and Garrett and then put on her coat and boots.

“Where are you off to?” Jack asked as he scraped the last forkful of egg and potato from his plate.

“I thought I’d go out for a walk, just to see the snow.”

Jack nodded, but in the tired creases around his eyes, she saw his misgivings. That she was soon to be disappointed. That Faina would not return. That the child wasn’t the miracle Mabel wished her to be.

Mabel buttoned up her coat to the neck and pulled on a hat and work gloves before stepping outside. It was warmer than she had expected. Already the clouds had cleared and the sun was coming through the trees. The cottonwoods and birches had lost their leaves, and the new snow lay along the branches in thin white lines. Her boots tracked the snow as she walked, uncovering dirt, browned grass, and yellowed leaves. Past the barn and the cottonwood, the fields were unbroken white. She thought she would walk to the river or follow the wagon trail to the far fields, but then she remembered it was Garrett’s last day. He was going back with his family for the winter, and although they would surely see him during the next months, it still seemed a goodbye of sorts. She meant to let him choose a book to take with him.

When she returned, Garrett was washing the dishes.

“No. No you don’t. Not on your last day.” Mabel hung her coat on the hook beside the door. “What will we ever do without you, Garrett?”

“I don’t know. I could stay instead.”

“I don’t think your mother would agree to it,” Jack said, stacking the plates beside the washbasin. “She’s ready for her youngest to come home.”

Garrett looked doubtful but seemed to bite his tongue. He had grown and changed these past few months. He had taken on much of the responsibility of the farm, and in the evenings they talked about crop varieties and weather patterns, books and art. Mabel no longer sat outside the circle of conversation. She was as eager to discuss the type of turnips they would plant as to describe the museums she had visited in New York.

Who would think that an adolescent boy would have anything to teach an old woman? But it was Garrett who had led her into the fields and closer to the life she had pictured for herself in Alaska. She could think of no way to explain that to him. With a mother like Esther, surely he could not imagine a woman doing anything against her will, or worse yet, not knowing her own will. It was as if Mabel had been living in a hole, comfortable and safe as it might have been, and he had merely reached down a hand to help her step up into the sunlight. From there she was free to walk where she would.

“Garrett, I was thinking you could borrow a book to take home with you. Only if you would like to, of course.”

“Could I? You wouldn’t mind? I’ll be real careful with it.”

“Of course you will. That’s why I’m offering.” Mabel led him into the bedroom and knelt on the floor to pull out the trunk.

“Here, I can get that.” He easily tugged it out from under the bed. “This is full of books? This whole thing?”

“That one, and a few others as well.” She laughed at Garrett’s surprise. “You should have seen my father’s library. A room nearly the size of this whole cabin, lined with shelves and shelves of books. But I could bring only a few of them with me.”

“Do you miss ’em?”

“The books?”

“And your family? And everything else? It must be real different than here.”

“Oh, sometimes I wish I had a certain book or could visit with a certain friend or relative, but mostly I’m glad to be here.” Mabel opened the trunk and Garrett began pulling books off the stacks inside.

“Take your time. Your mother isn’t expecting you until dinner.” She stood and dusted off her skirt. She was at the door when she heard Garrett say, “Thank you, Mabel.”

She thought of expressing her own gratitude, of trying to explain what he had done for her.

“You’re welcome, Garrett.”

Dearest Ada,

Congratulations on your new grandchild. What a blessing! And to have them all so near. It must be wonderful to hear the pitter-patter of all the children’s feet on the old wooden stairs when they come to visit. I was so sorry to hear of Aunt Harriet’s passing, but it sounds as if she left the world the best way any of us can, quietly and at an old and respectable age. All your news of the family was a precious gift to me.

We are well here, and I truly mean it. I know you thought us mad to move to Alaska, and for some time I wondered that myself. This past year, however, has made up for it all. I have begun to help more with the farmwork. Imagine me—the one they always called “timid” and “delicate”—in the fields digging up potatoes and shoveling dirt. But it is a wonderful feeling, to do work that really seems like work. Jack has transformed this untamed stretch of land that we call home into a flourishing farm, and now I can claim a small hand in it as well. Our pantry shelves are stocked with wild berry jams and jars of meat from the moose Jack shot this fall. Oh, I do sometimes miss “Back East,” as they call it here, and certainly my heart longs to see you and everyone else in the family, but we recently decided we are here to stay. It has become our home, and Jack and I have a new way of life here that suits us well.

I am sending you a few of my recent sketches. One is of the strawberry patch I am so proud of and that filled many a strawberry pie this past summer. The other is of fireweed in bloom along the riverbed. In the background you can see the mountains that frame this valley. The last is of a snowflake I had the pleasure of observing this past winter. Several times I have redrawn this single snowflake, as I never seem to tire of its infinitesimal elegance.

Tucked among these pages is also a pressed cranberry bouquet. The small white flowers are easily overlooked now that they are dried, but they are so lovely when they fill the woods in the spring. And I am sending a pair of booties for Sophie’s new baby daughter. The fur trim is from a snowshoe hare a neighbor boy provided to me. I hope they reach you before she has outgrown them altogether.

I expect we will soon have snow. The mountains are white and the mornings have a chill, and I look forward to its coming.

Sincerely, your loving sister,

Mabel

W
inter came hard and fast at the tail end of October. It wasn’t the slow, wet snow that marks a gentle end to autumn, but instead a sudden, grainy snowstorm blown by a cold river wind. Just after dinner it was already midnight-dark, and Jack and Mabel listened to the storm knock against their cabin. Jack looked up from greasing his boots by the woodstove and Mabel paused in her sewing at the kitchen table. The knock came again and again, louder. At last, Jack went to the door and opened it.

He had the momentary notion that what stood before him was a mountain ghost, a bloodstained, snowy apparition. Faina was taller and, if possible, thinner than he remembered. Her fur hat and wool coat were covered in snow, and her hair hung like damp, fraying rope. Dried blood streaked her brow. Jack could not speak or move.

The girl took off her hat, shook the snow from it, and looked up.

It’s me. Faina.

She was slightly breathless, but her voice, even and cheerful, broke his spell. He took the child in his arms and held her, rocking on his heels.

Faina? Faina. Dear God. You’re here. You’re really here.

He wasn’t sure whether he spoke the words aloud or only heard them in his head. Then he pressed his beard into her hair and smelled the glacier wind that blows over the tops of the spruce trees and the blood that courses through wild veins, and his knees nearly gave way. With one arm still around her shoulders, he pulled the girl into the cabin and closed the door.

My God, Mabel—and he knew he sounded shaken—it’s Faina. She’s here. At our door.

Oh, child. I wondered when you’d come.

Mabel, calm and smiling. How could she stand so assuredly when he, a grown man, was staggered by the sight of the girl? Why didn’t she cry, run to the child, even fall at her feet?

Mabel stood behind her and brushed the snow from her shoulders. Look at you. Just look at you.

Mabel’s eyes glistened and her cheeks were bright, but she did not shriek or bawl. Faina began to unbutton her coat, and Mabel helped her out of it, shook off snow.

There. Now let me see.

She held the girl at arm’s length.

I knew you’d have grown.

Grown? Surely Mabel had lost her mind. No talk of the blood, the child’s desperate appearance, her months-long absence.