Where the Staircase Ends(37)

My younger self nodded, walking backward across the frosty ground so she could admire the tracks she left.

“Will you come on already? I don’t want it to melt before we can finish.”

I watched the girls dart back and forth across the yard, mashing handfuls of snow against a growing snowman. They worked mostly in silence, stopping every few minutes to admire their progress. It made me laugh—they looked so serious, which was funny because I remembered that sixth-grade snow day as being one of the best days ever. Why was I reliving it?

The younger Sunny and Taylor packed the snow tightly onto the snowman, wearing matching looks of determination. Their cheeks were pink against the cold air, but the temperature didn’t seem to faze them.

Sunny took two smaller balls of snow and slapped them against the snowman’s chest. “There,” she said after she’d formed them to her liking. “Snowboobs.”

The backdoor opened and my mother came out holding a bowl full of supplies. She trudged through the wet backyard in her slippers and terrycloth robe, squinting against the whiteness.

When she handed the bowl to younger me, I sifted through the options carefully, settling on a green jalape?o pepper and two olives to use as the eyes and nose.

“I guess he’s a she,” my mom said, eyeing the two B-cups Sunny had planted on the snowman’s chest. “Should I get one of your grandmother’s hats for her?”

“Yes!” Sunny nodded enthusiastically while inspecting my placement of the vegetables that now made up the snowwoman’s face. “What do you think about the name Betsy?” she asked after my mom had gone back inside. Young Taylor made a face, weighing the pros and cons.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Betsy seems kinda old.”

My mom came back holding one of my grandmother’s hats and the fur coat she kept buried in her closet for special occasions. We carefully hung the coat over the snowwoman’s stick arms and adjusted the netting on the hat so that it hung over one of the olive eyes. Then we all stood back to admire her.

“Yeah, she’s a Betsy,” said the younger me with a curt nod.

“Let me get a picture.” My mother motioned for us to stand around our creation. We stood on either side of it, our smiles wide and happy as she snapped away.

It was the same picture I had tucked into the frame of my bedroom mirror, right next to the drawing Logan made of me sitting in class.

I followed when everyone went into the house, where my mom and dad were busy making chocolate chip pancakes.

“Nice work, ladies,” my father said, ruffling younger Taylor’s hair as he looked out on the backyard. “I think that is the smartest dressed snowman, er, woman, I have ever seen.”

He helped the girls disentangle themselves from their winter gear, then joined them at the table as my mother set a heaping stack of pancakes in the center.

“A toast,” he said, raising his glass of orange juice so we all knew to follow. “To the two best snowman builders in the county.”

“To a free day off from school,” said Sunny, raising her glass.

“To eating pancakes in the middle of the afternoon,” added young Taylor.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey,” my mother said.

“To Betsy,” said my Dad.

“To Betsy!” they all yelled, clinking their glasses together in agreement.

They worked their way through the pancake stack until their fingers were sticky from syrup and the plates were empty.

“Taylor, why don’t you take Sunny upstairs to pack up her things,” my mother said once the food had been demolished. “Her father is going to be here soon.”

I started to follow the girls upstairs, but hesitated. Mom hummed softly to herself as she rinsed off the dirty plates. It was the same tune she always hummed, the melody soft and sleepy. My dad came up behind her and circled his arms around her waist, then planted a kiss on the back of her neck.

“They’re good kids, aren’t they?” he said.

“Mmm hmm,” she murmured, passing him a dish to put in the dishwasher.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and a few knotted tendrils trailed down the nape of neck. She still wore her robe, and something about the late afternoon PJ ensemble reminded me of Christmas mornings, when my parents both lounged in their pajamas long after the gifts had been opened and breakfast had been eaten.

My father’s salt-and-pepper hair curled around his ears, the front starting to thin like the fur on an over-loved stuffed animal. When he smiled, deep creases circled his mouth. They made him look both jovial and distinguished.

I felt a pang somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach, part sadness and part anger.

“Where have you been?” I asked my parents. “Why haven’t I seen you on the stairs?”

It was a question I hadn’t thought much about until that exact moment. Why was it that I’d seen everyone from the past week on the staircase except for them? Surely they had plenty to haunt me about. My mother alone could probably fill a novel with the things she wanted to change about me. Maybe I hadn’t seen them because they didn’t want to see me?

The thought left me gutted.

My parents didn’t respond, not that I actually expected them to. Instead, my mother leaned against my father, her gaze trailing out the kitchen window toward the melting snowwoman.