“You will still be coming here, Hannah. You’re not staying in the city by yourself.”
“Then I want to go to camp this summer,” said Hannah. “I can’t stand it here. I want to do what normal kids do.”
“Normal kids wish they could do what you do, Hannah.”
“No, they don’t! They stay in the city and go shopping or to the museum. They go on the subway.”
“They’re cooped up indoors,” answered her mother. “They never see the sun. All they see are strangers.”
She was using the same voice with Hannah that she used with Hannah’s dad, as though she were being exceptionally polite to spare her feelings, even though Hannah was obviously wrong.
Hannah was never right.
“They have fun!” shouted Hannah, sweeping her arm angrily off the counter. Her elbow hooked on the stretched-out phone cord and it shot off the counter; a loop of it was caught around the little brown case of ampoules her mother had taken out for her evening dose. Hannah watched as the case sped across the counter’s surface and then crashed to the floor, striking the corner of the indoor woodbox on its way.
“Hannah!” yelled her mom, rushing over and picking up the box. When she lifted it, Hannah saw the corner darken, and then it began to drip as the contents of the ampoules leaked out. Her mom put the box carefully on the counter and sharply told Hannah and Kelli to stay away in case there was broken glass. The box made tinkling sounds as she righted it, like cold change.
CHAPTER FOUR
It stopped snowing just before they went to bed, but the wind rose, bending the laden trees and whipping branches against the cabin. Hannah had stoked the big stove in preparation for the cold night, but the wind brought with it warmer air, and the cabin began to feel uncomfortably damp — close and sticky.
The humidity inside rose, and with it the smell of wet wool, a wet dog scent, and a cloying, heavy feeling. Kelli slept deeply through it all, but Hannah lay awake, listening to the scree scree scree of the branches scraping against the walls, watching the low clouds race across the windowpane. As she looked up, the clouds got lower and thicker, and the wind slowed down, but then the snow came again, almost like the wind and the snow were arguing over who was more important.
The morning was hard to discern. All that really changed was that the grey of the clouds and the sky was more noticeable. Hannah pushed the snow away from the end of the driveway. The plow had not been by yet, and there was a neat line where her shovelled path ran parallel to the road. They were usually the very last road to be plowed, because there were only two houses, and then an endless swath of Crown land — land that belonged to the government.
Dimly, Hannah heard the crack of the screen door whacking shut, and a few seconds later two low shapes came hurtling at her: Sencha and Bogey. Trailing after them was her mother.
“There’s no use shovelling the thing again, Hannah,” she said as she got near. The snow was already puffing over the toes of her thick boots. “I’ll call Jeb to come and clean us out once the storm has passed.”
Sencha used Hannah and her mom as a bulwark, racing around them in a game of tag with Bogey struggling, mightily and happily, to catch her. In tight turns the Dal tucked her tail like a rabbit and changed directions very quickly, then leaped forward. For one moment she looked like a greyhound, racing low and fast. The next, she went head over tail as the big-boned Lab plowed into her side and they both tumbled through the snow.
“The first time you walked was out here,” said Hannah’s mom. “In the winter. At home, you’d sit upright and grab the railing, but never walk on your own.”
Hannah watched Sencha jump up in mock outrage and pounce on Bogey, who lay on his back, tongue extended and paws waving.
“We were out here for Christmas, and I took you outside and put you in the middle of the driveway near the car, and you walked all the way to the cabin door because you thought we were leaving.”
“Mom, do you even like it here?”
Sencha came up, panting and wiggly, and pressed against her mom’s legs. Her mother paused, stroking Sencha’s ear, pulling the soft flap out over and over.
“Who taught you to snowshoe?” she asked.
“You did,” said Hannah.
“Who bought you cross-country skis?”
“That doesn’t mean you like it here.”
“Who went tenting with you in blackfly season so we could catch fireflies while your father,” she motioned with her head to the cabin, “moaned about them like a little boy?”
Hannah smiled. “You did.”
“I love it here,” her mom said, pressing harder on Sencha’s skull. “The trees … so many trees, so much space. No one tells me I can’t do something. No one tells me what to do at all.”
“Dad does.”
“Dad tries.”