Snowhook by Jo Storm

“It isn’t,” said George, “but he’s going in now, and he’s my ride.”

“Is it a big storm?” Kelli asked.

“Very big,” he answered, going into the bedroom. “There are power outages, and it’s not just snow, but ice and freezing rain, too.”

“An ice storm!” said Kelli. “I bet it’ll be pretty. Like a forest that shines back at you. Pretty! Can I come?” she asked, coming to stand in the doorway to the bedroom.

“No, honey, you can’t come. You stay here with Mom and Hannah and have fun, okay? I’ll be back.”

Hannah watched her mom in the kitchen, where she was wrapping up sandwiches. She stopped wrapping for a moment, and then when she started again, she was a bit slower, like she had to concentrate harder. “How long?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Not long, Mina.”

“But what about the sledding?” said Kelli.

“You’re big now, you don’t need to have everyone around when we do things,” he said.

Kelli said nothing.

It wasn’t long before the lights of Scott Purcell’s truck winked through the trees down the driveway. Nook and Rudy ignored the vehicle, but the house dogs went wild, barking. When Hannah opened the door, Bogey went bounding out to the truck at full speed, jumping on Scott to lick his face and pressing and twirling against his legs, almost knocking him over. Scott laughed and thumped the Lab’s sides, and both dog and human looked very pleased.

You’re not that special, thought Hannah from the doorway. Bogey does that to everyone.

Before Scott had arrived, Hannah’s parents had gone into the bedroom and closed the door. Even without seeing their faces, Hannah knew they were arguing. Her father hated to argue in front of people, hated yelling. He wanted everything calm and talked about reasonably. Hannah had met her mom’s family only twice, but each time she had been shocked at the volume of their conversations. They spoke and laughed and cried at the same volume: deafening. Around them, Hannah saw her mom become a different person, argumentative and teasing, and much louder. Normally, she never raised her voice.

Scott came in stamping his feet, but didn’t remove his boots, standing on the living room mat and dropping snow all around him. Kelli retreated to the folding stepladder again and stared at him from there, glaring at his feet.

“Hey, Hannah,” he said, then, “Let’s go, Williams, time’s a-wastin’!” He nodded to Hannah’s mom. “Hello, Mrs. Williams.”

“Hello, Mr. Purcell.”

“I’ve come to take your boy away,” he said. He did not look sorry. And when Hannah snuck a look at her father as he came out of the bedroom carrying his duffel bag and coat, neither did he.

It was a quiet night after Hannah’s dad left, driving off into the dark. Hannah’s mom took her insulin injection and then they ate supper. Afterward, Hannah and Kelli cleaned up while their mother read a book about accounting. She was taking a course at the community college near their house in Toronto. She was tired of her job as a gym teacher at a private school.

The darkness outside was thick, as though it were pressing down on them. Kelli complained that her head hurt.

“It’s just the low pressure,” said her mom. She said it would be gone by morning.

The next morning Hannah’s mom divvied up the chores that their dad usually did. Afterward, Sencha and Bogey came out to play with Kelli, who had strapped on snowshoes and wandered past the yard at the back of the cabin, tromping down the path she had made that went into the Moss Garden. This was a large open space under the tamarack and poplar and birch. In the summer, a thick, spongy moss grew on it, as well as harder, stiff, white crumbly stuff her dad identified as lichen.

Later, they came ba

ck inside and played a dice game.

“When’s dad coming back?” asked Kelli, whirling the plastic cup that held the dice and dumping it upside down onto the table. “Ooh, a full house, one roll!”

“No one knows yet,” replied her mom. “Don’t worry, he’ll let me know.” She turned to Hannah. “Hannah, get the radio out, please.”

“Why?”

“Just get it.”

Hannah went to the kitchen and fished the radio out from under the counter. Like everything else in the cabin, it was old and ugly, with green metal casing on the sides and broken white plastic on the front. There was one dial to tune the radio — not even digital — and a single speaker. The back had a big space for batteries.

“Turn it on, please,” said her mother.

Hannah shrugged, putting the radio on the counter between the phone and the small brown box that held her mom’s insulin ampoules — small glass cartridges that fit into a special needle. Her mom had been prepping her lunchtime dose.