Snow Faries

         “I have no ears,” Maggie, my sister, says, but what she means is, No one is listening to me. In high school, Maggie learned of a psychological disorder called “primary process thinking”. A disorder involving the breakdown of certain conceptual images. At the time, Maggie thought it was cool to speak odd little sentences. Instead of being angry, her face flamed. Maggie wouldn't meet you at eight thirty in the evening, she would see you when the sky had a million eyes. On it went like that, for five years now. I'm afraid that, somewhere along the line, Maggie has lost control of her speech patterns.
         “Don’t,” Dad says, lifting his finger, pausing for the space of time needed to express an unspoken threat. “Don’t start with that crap.” He tosses back a shot of whiskey. Dad’s starting the Thanksgiving feast early.
         “It’s not that we’re not listening to you,” Peter, my younger brother--in Ohio State to be a psychologist, by the way--lays his left hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Just tell us what you need help with and we’ll help you, right honey?”
         Norma, Peter’s wife, doesn't answer. She’s too busy staring at the antique rocking chair in the corner of the family room where we all gathered. Dark wood, preserved by varnish Dad put on it years ago, with arm rests set wide apart, almost too wide for any human being with a normal shoulder width. We were warned as kids not to sit in it.
         “How much do you think it’s worth, Norma?” Dad says, and swallows another shot. “I’m not dead yet.”
         "I don't understand why you feel the need to make me the scapegoat of your paranoid fantasies, Dad," Norma says.
         "Spoken like a psychologist's gold-digging wife," Dad grabs the whiskey bottle and pours another shot.
         "I think we should walk to Mother's stone," Maggie repeats the phrase she thinks we aren't listening to. Dad slams his shot and rubs his face with his thin fingers. His eyes are red; some of it due to the whiskey, most of it isn't.
         "No," he says.
         I’ve been here for a grand total of ten minutes, and I already feel like I’m a child again, a small child with little control of my life's outcome.

* * *

         When I was ten, my mother died of a stroke. I have few memories of her, but one I think about every now and again is the explanation of the snow fairies. It's one of the last conversations we had.
         We lived in a small house in one of the outer suburbs of the Cleveland Metropolitan Area, and when Winter arrived, it arrived with quiet persistence. It came to take the color away from the landscape. And it came to stay, for two or three months at least. Mom had grown up near Lake Tahoe, though, where the sky could still be blue while snow fell.
         “It snowed, and on those rare occasions where it would snow while the sky was blue the sun would shine through the falling flakes," she told Maggie, Peter, and I. "If you looked closely, you could see the snow fairies living inside, laughing and pointing at you.”
         “Sort of like when the sun’s out while it rains,” Peter said, eager to show off his second grade scientific knowledge. "There's a rainbow in the sky."
         “So is there a different fairy living in each falling snowflake?” Maggie had asked. “That's a lot. Where does the queen live?”
         “Up in the clouds, of course,” Mom had an answer ready. "She commands the cold winds and the blizzards. She's in complete control of where snowflakes fall in the world."
         "Wow," Maggie smiled, and her eyes peered out the front window of the house, the edges of which were covered with frost. "She must be beautiful."
         "Oh, all of the Snow Fairies are," Mom said. "You just need the sun to see that."
         "Come on," I decided I had heard enough. "It's just snow." Mom gave me a look I didn't quite understand then. I understand it now.
         "O.K., what about catching snowflakes on your toungue and eating them?" Peter asked, folding his little, seven year old arms across his chest. "Everyone does that."
         "What do you think makes them taste so good," Mom said with a smile.
         "Yeah," Maggie added, and for the next three winters, until she was seven herself, she would follow Peter and I around, screaming at us not to eat the snowflakes.

* * *

         I’m peeling potatoes with Maggie while Dad has long since passed out, head down, drooling on the kitchen table. Good thing we’re eating in the living room. Peter and Norma are watching television in the family room.
         “Where’s Jean?” Maggie asks, and I peel a bit faster.
         “She couldn’t make it this trip,” I answer, trying to distill as much truth as I can. I nick my index finger with the peeler blade and wince. Actually, Jean woke up one morning, about two months ago, looked in the mirror, and decided living with me accelerated her aging way past acceptable limits. I’m quoting from the letter, the note written on the back of a phone bill, that Jean left me. We’ve been separated ever since, and divorce is hovering, circling overhead. "She's spending Thanksgiving with her family," I tell her. It's as good a guess as any.

* * *

         The company I had been with for seven years, working part-time through college, then full-time when I received my degree in English, decided to downsize their personnel the beginning of this year. Downsize, a nonchalant word I would have come up with to mask the more brutal term--laid off. I had been one of the first to be let go.
         Jean took the news poorly, and the four weeks it took me to find a new job crawled by, leaving Jean cranky and myself frustrated. I'm a Technical Writer for Infoseek, a Database company in San Francisco. I don't remember the interview that landed me the job; I remember the night before. I had just returned home from the store.
         "Any replies?" Jean started in as I had walked through the front door.
         "Do you see me jumping for joy?"
         "I see you not contributing to this family."
         I dropped the bag of groceries by her feet and fixed myself an Old Fashioned. Looking back on it now, I can see how automatic we had become, how quick to push each other's buttons. Jean grabbed the bag and started unloading the groceries.
         "If you persued a job as well as a drink, you'd be employed by now," she said.
         I slowly set my glass down and turned to face my wife. "There's always tomorrow," I said, and walked out of the house, as I had done so many times during that month.

* * *

         I can’t hear Peter’s voice in the living room, but Norma’s comes through loud and clear.
         “For Christ Sake he’s always drunk, Peter. I told you we should have gone to my parents for the holidays.” I think I hear Peter’s muffled voice, then Norma’s again, “How you survived in this nightmare is beyond me.”
         I shake my head and peel the potatoes faster. At least Peter has a shot at his own family. A normal family. The peeler becomes a blur in my hand. Maggie stops me in mid-motion, the peeler blade a half inch away from my thumb.
         “Is Peter ice?” she asks.
         At first I make the connection to temperature, Maggie's wontering if Peter's cold, but being cold manifests itself in many ways; goose bumps on your skin, hugging yourself to keep warm, wearing a heavy coat. Maggie probably understands that. Then it occurs to me that sometimes, when you're cold, you shiver. You can also shiver trying to shake off fear.
         “No,” I answer, looking into her eyes. “He doesn’t think this family’s a nightmare.” I look at Dad, snoring away on the table. “I think he’d classify us as troubled.”

* * *

         Our mother died in the early morning hours on a Saturday. This was important to keep in mind because our family had a very specific routine on the weekends. Our father would be out mowing the lawn and focus on other back yard work, our mother would travel to the grocery store with Maggie, Peter would be up watching Bugs Bunny, and I would sleep the morning away.
         On that particular Saturday, I was awakened by a soft, repeating voice. Shaking the sleep out of my eyes, I focused in on the voice.
         “Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up.”
         It was Maggie. I looked at my alarm clock. What’s she talking about? I thought. Mom’s gone, she’s at the store. They both should be at the store. I thought Maggie was having some sort of dream, but by the time I lumbered over to my bedroom door, I could tell Maggie’s voice came from the hall bathroom.
         “Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up.”
         I walked to the bathroom doorway. Mom was propped up in-between the bathtub and the toilet, head back, mouth open, eyes closed. I knew just by looking at her pale yellow skin. I didn’t have to see Maggie continually pull Mom’s hand.
         “Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up.”
         I didn’t have to watch Mom’s hand slip through Maggie’s grasp and drop to the floor. I watched for a minute, then I ran out to get Dad. We both ran back to the bathroom. Back to Maggie trying to raise the dead.
         “Wake up, Mommy. Mommy, wake up.”
         Dad passed Maggie, around his body, back to me. I held her while Dad shook Mom for five minutes. Then his head fell into his hands and he shook for five more. Maggie escaped my grasp and returned to her chant, trying to hold Mom’s hand.
         “Honey, Mom can’t answer you,” Dad told her, and tried to pull Maggie’s hand away from Mom’s cold, dead one.
         “Why not?” Maggie asked.
         “Because she’s,” Dad hesitated, “passed on.”
         “Passed on?”
         “She’s gone away.”
         Maggie shook her head. “But she’s right here,” she said.
         I walked back to my room, sat down on my bed and cried. I never heard the paramedics arrive.

* * *

         Dinnertime. The wall heater in the living room kicks in and ten minutes later the fun starts. Trying to put stuffing on his plate, Dad crashes the spoon into his water glass, and we discover he has only slept off some of his alcoholic stupor. Maggie has set the good dishes out, dishes that Norma has eyed for the past forty-five minutes. The Waterford Crystal glass tips over, rolls to the edge of the table, and shatters on the floor.
         “That...that was Waterford Crystal,” Norma glares at him.
         “Norma, calm down,” Peter puts his hand on Norma’s shoulder, but she shrugs it off.
         “Was it?” Dad says, and tries to stand. He succeeds for about ten seconds, then starts to sway. He picks up Maggie’s glass. “Subtract this one from my worth, Norma.” That one he pitches full speed at the wall. When it shatters, a fragment makes a small nick in Norma’s cheek.
         “You have no clue as to how much damage you do to this family, do you?” Norma asks, the red line on her cheek has become her war paint.
         “The only reason you are a part of this family is because my youngest son lacked the reasoning to leave you at the alter.” Dad picks up another glass, throws it straight at Norma, who sidesteps it.
         “Stop bruising,” Maggie screams. “Stop bruising each other.”
         “It’s ‘fighting’, Margaret,” Dad turns to her and grips the end of the table so hard his knuckles turn white. “Stop ‘fighting’ each other. Say it.” It occurs to me that Maggie could make a good argument for her word usage this time. “Say it!”
         “Dad, stop,” Peter stands up and walks over to them. “You’re displacing. You’re blaming Maggie for Mom’s death.”
         “I can’t believe this,” I join in. “We don’t need Freud here. We’re not laying down on your fucking couch, Pete. We don’t need that crap, we’re family.” How the hell did I get wrapped up in this. Why am I so angry? “All of you make me sick,” I say, and leave the room. Dinner’s over.

* * *

         I introduced Jean to my family three years ago, at our wedding. Our reception was just for the immediate family and close friends. Held in my in-laws back yard, a large, open field with a veranda off to the left side. Jean's parents did what they could and my family...well, they were my family.
         From my elevated table position I watched my father drink wine and eat a few bits of chicken. His face hit the table before we cut the wedding cake. Maggie ate carefully, taking each bite after looking over at Dad.
         Pete and Norma walked up to us, holding hands, after they dumped Dad in the family car, a Ford station wagon with the front end crunched.
         "We're heading back," Pete said, and for a moment I had the image of Pete, Norma, and Maggie dragging Dad across the motel lobby and down the hall to his room.
         "It's great to see you two still together," I remarked, and made the proper introductions. "Who knows? If you keep going, you two may be next."
         Norma laughed and patted Pete on the back. "Oh no," she said, "this one wants to go on to college, become a phychologist." She paused for a moment, looking at the tables, the decorations, everything. "It would be nice, though. This was a wonderful wedding."
         I hugged Norma as Maggie walked up. "Dad's in the car," she said. "It was a great wedding, guys," she hugged both of us. "It was great seeing you again," Maggie smiled at me. "Don't be such a stranger," she said.
         I watched them walk away slowly, as if they forgot something. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jean move away, beginning a conversation with her Uncle. I kept watching my brother and sister. Maggie turned around at the far end of the yard.
         "Mom would've liked the wedding," she said. "She would've thought it smiled."
         I winced. "She would've thought it was beautiful, Maggie. Stop that Primary Process Thinking shtick, it won't make you popular."
         Maggie smiled, turned, and left.

* * *

         The next morning I’m sitting on the front porch, looking out at the white, snow-covered ground. God, I used to love snow as a kid. You could throw it, build things with it, sled down it, try to walk on top of it (if the top iced over). As a kid, snow was the material of one hundred and one uses. Now, it just seems to have one; to cover. To hide the ugly, uneven, dirty ground. Yes, it takes the colors away, but sometimes that could be a good thing.
         I hear the front door close. Maggie sits down next to me. She’s wearing a heavy, blue winter coat and mittens, which reminds me just how cold it is, even though the sun is shining today.
         “Does your chest move?” she asks.
         I think for a minute. I decide I can’t figure this one out.
         “I don’t understand, Maggie. What are you trying to say?”
         “Your chest, rising and falling? You don’t look like you’re living,” she traces my lips with her fingers. “No smile.”
         Oh. Am I happy? I think hard about the answer.
         “No. No I’m not. I lied to you before, Maggie. Jean left me, she went away to God knows where.”
         Maggie starts to cry. “You mean she’s dead? Jean’s dead? Oh, I’m sorry--”
         “No, wait. She’s not dead,” then I remember Mom’s death, and I understand Maggie’s sorrow. “She’s going to divorce me.” I actually say that word. “I’m not happy, because I see my brother with a wife, a shot at having a stable family of his own. My brother who seems to have dealt with Mom’s death, and I want that so much to be me.”
         Maggie puts her arm around me. “I wish the snow fairies would visit today,” she says.
         I look up at the blue sky, then across the white ground below. “So do I,” I answer. Then I stand, and walk inside to go apologize to my brother.