Chapter 6 Ilsa
Ilsa
Snow was falling outside in fat, pillowy flakes. They floated to the ground, adding to the thick, white blanket that covered the forest and lake. Only four windows in the house, those on the yard side of the cabin, weren’t blocked by massive drifts.
It had taken me an hour this morning to dig and shovel out the front door. Even longer to cut a path to the shed behind the house and another to my car. Not that I was driving anywhere. My little Rabbit wouldn’t be able to get out of the driveway.
I was well and truly stuck in this cabin and had been for two days. The storm that had blown in Monday had made me its prisoner.
When I did finally decide to venture into town, I’d have to take Dad’s truck, if I could find the keys.
They hadn’t been in any drawer or cabinet in the house.
Hopefully, I’d find them in the ignition.
But even if I found the keys, I wasn’t going anywhere until the county transportation department sent a grader to clear the road.
Though I doubted they’d plow until this snow stopped. At least the howling wind had calmed. It had blown hard enough last night to shake the walls.
The school was closed this week as all of Dalton hunkered down to wait out this storm.
According to the radio broadcast I’d listened to before it had started to snow, it was predicted to end today.
I would have loved another update, but the radio and the television weren’t getting any reception at the moment.
Both gave off static and a blaring hiss. At least my phone still worked.
I turned away from the window, sipping from the cup of coffee I’d poured myself after lunch.
When I’d heard warning of the storm, I’d made sure to stock up on food and essentials.
Part of me had worried the water pipes would freeze, so I’d left every faucet on a slow trickle, and thankfully, those drips hadn’t stopped.
Maybe this storm was a blessing in disguise. With nothing else to do, I’d stopped procrastinating and cleaned this house.
I’d sorted through boxes. I’d scrubbed away years of dirt and dust and soot. I’d even ventured into Dad’s bedroom to sort through his things and stow the box of his cremated ashes in the trunk at the foot of his bed, crying the entire time.
Ever since that day Jerry had brought me Dad’s cryptic letter, I’d stopped fighting the tears.
Surrendering to the sorrow, giving myself permission to grieve, had been cathartic.
And when I wasn’t cleaning or sobbing or watching it snow, I was replaying my conversation with Sheriff Raynes from last week.
I wasn’t sure what to make of Donnie.
Every time I imagined Dad heartbroken and alone after her death, my insides twisted. How long had they been together? What had she been like? If he’d loved her, why hadn’t he told me about her?
It hurt to know I’d been left out of such an important part of his life. Though it wasn’t like Dad had known Troy or any of my boyfriends.
Donnie was simply another shard to our broken relationship.
As hard as it had been to learn about her from Cosi, his recounting of Dad’s death had been just as difficult to hear. Though I suspected he’d kept the more horrible details to himself.
Jerry had said Dad’s death hadn’t been an accident. Knowing now that Dad had been suffering through his own grief, what if it had been—
I shuddered, refusing to let myself go down that path. I didn’t want to believe that Dad had been in a place dark enough to take his own life.
Besides, if there’d been any hint of something other than an accident, Cosi would have investigated, right? I’d only spoken to him a few times, but he seemed like an honest person. He seemed like a man who cared about truth and justice.
Maybe that was me being blinded by his handsome face, but my intuition about people was usually right, and nothing about Cosi Raynes struck me as lazy or deceitful.
As much as I wanted the truth about that day in October, the reality was . . . I’d never know what had been going on in Dad’s mind during his final hours. All I could do was say goodbye.
So I’d focused on the task at hand. As the snow had fallen outside, I’d finished going through every box in this house.
Most of Dad’s things would be trashed. Anything I’d deemed worth selling at a yard sale this spring, I’d carted to the small shed behind the cabin.
And the few items I’d decided to keep were now stowed in the closet to take with me when I left Montana.
The reason I’d shoveled a path to my car was because I’d needed a place to put the junk. Anything that was going to the dump was now stuffed into the Rabbit, where it would stay until my next trip to town.
With the cabin cleaned, it was like the home from my childhood.
The furniture was polished. The floors were mopped.
The couch was exactly as I remembered, cozy and comfortable.
And on the coffee table, I’d left Dad’s glass ashtray and a box of his cigars so that when I sat down to read or grade papers in the evenings, I could smell the tobacco.
Now that the house was in order, it was time to turn my attention to Dalton High School.
To the students who so desperately needed me to teach them basic math.
Maybe I’d even win over Paul Johnson. Unlikely, considering he’d started calling me Miss Crone during each and every first period class, but a teacher could dream.
I refilled my coffee mug, and carried it to the small, round dining table that separated the living room and kitchen, where a stack of tests and my red pen waited.
These tests were the same as I’d given that first week at Dalton High, and I prayed that the extra time I’d spent reviewing with students would mean the grades would be better.
Regardless, this storm had given me a welcome break from the classroom and time to formulate a plan for the rest of the semester.
Next week, we’d be going back to basics in every class. We were going to start with the fundamentals and work our way up. Together.
It might be too late for some of the seniors—Paul wasn’t going to learn anything just to spite me. And a single semester simply wasn’t enough time for most. The kids going off to college next year might struggle in future classes, but I’d do whatever I could to get them ready.
Except before I could dive into the tests, the phone rang. The chime was so much louder now that the house wasn’t filled with boxes.
I crossed my fingers as I hurried to answer, hoping it was news about the county snowplow. “Hello?”
“Hi, cutie.” Mom’s voice was as familiar as it was surprising.
“H-hi, Mom.” We hadn’t spoken since the day I’d called to tell her I’d arrived in Montana. The day she’d informed me she was mad, and when she was done being mad, she’d call.
I guess that was now.
The thing I loved most about my mother was that she was real. Where my father hid his emotions—himself—from the world, Mom was an open book. She didn’t pretend things were okay when they weren’t. And I never had to guess how she was feeling.
That openness had made for a few dicey moments during my late teens when we’d fought and I’d threatened to move to Montana—we’d both known I was bluffing. But I could always be honest with Mom, in all things. Even in our disagreements.
“I figured you would have erased this phone number from your memory,” I teased, stretching the phone’s cord so I could hop up and sit on the kitchen counter. “I guess this means you’re not mad and pouting anymore.”
“Oh, I’m still pouting, cutie. I still don’t understand why you’re in Montana. But no, I’m not mad.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry, Ilsa. You know when it comes to your father, I tend to overreact.”
“I know. And it’s okay, Mom.” Even if I hadn’t moved away from Phoenix, me being in Dalton was always going to be a hard pill for her to swallow.
She understood that I had to be the person to settle his estate. She also knew that it would be painful. And even though now he was gone, Mom was tired of me being hurt by my father.
When Dad would promise to visit for my birthday but cancel last minute, it was Mom who’d make sure I had a cake with candles and an extra present to open.
When he’d vow to visit for a dance recital or junior high band concert to see me play the flute, but never show or bother to explain, Mom would be the person to clap twice as loud and make up for his absence.
When he’d stopped calling on Sundays, it was her shoulder I’d cried on.
She blamed him for my tears. And he blamed her for robbing him of the chance to be a father.
And standing somewhere between their pointed fingers was me.
“I miss you,” she said. “I went to JCPenney yesterday, and I didn’t have anyone but the clerk to tell me if the pants I bought made my butt look big.”
I laughed. “Your butt is not big.”
“But does it look big in my new pants? I guess I won’t know until you move home.”
Except I wasn’t moving home. A conversation for another day. A conversation I wanted to have with her in person, not over the phone. “I miss you too.”
“So how’s my girl? How’s teaching? How’s that cabin? Are you okay?”
“Well, I’m currently snowed in,” I said.
She gasped. “You are? Do you have food? Water? Can you make it to a neighbor’s house? I don’t like you stuck out there all alone.”
Probably because she’d been stuck out here alone once too. It was years ago, when she’d been pregnant with me. Dad had driven to Missoula for an engine part to fix her Oldsmobile. He’d only planned to be gone a day, but a nasty storm had blown in and they’d closed the highways.
When he’d finally made it back to Dalton, the road to Cotters Lake had been snowed in too, which had kept him away another night.
Mom had been scared and alone, trapped in this cabin with no word from Dad because the phone lines hadn’t been run to this remote stretch of the county until two years later. And the storm had knocked out her power. It would have freaked me out too.