Chapter 27
In my years and adventures, in this life and that one, no sight in nature has ever stopped time like the one before me right now.
I can practically hear the gears of my clock ceasing to grind, slowing to a divine stop, my angel up there perhaps watching, amused—maybe even guilty of tampering with the timepiece herself.
This right here—the view, anyway—feels like heaven.
Can my heart align with this view already?
I want to know this majesty in my bones.
We opt to sit on the terrace of the slope-side restaurant, which epitomizes rustic chic.
Sun on our faces, panoramic view of the Swiss mountains stealing our oxygen.
Skiers swoosh past. Gondolas float in the distance.
In the center of the spectacular scene, the Matterhorn punctuates the cerulean sky, peaking toward heaven like the hands of a prayer.
Mine, maybe.
Leaning back, I exhale. My wooden lounge chair is draped in an ivory cowhide. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had,” I gush to my mom. “Don’t you think?”
She points to her half of the famous sandwich, the seeded bun and juicy patty. She throws me a huge thumbs-up, even though she’s currently muted by a bite of our vast charcuterie. House-cured meats, sharp cheeses, sweet honeys. That new website Pinterest has nothing on this.
I smile.
“All of it,” she says, mouth half-full, “is heaven.”
We’re perched in the middle of the actual Alps, at a world-famous restaurant accessible only by mountain. The century-old converted farmhouse is crowded with lunchtime skiers and rich with the scents of its farm-to-table cuisine. It’s cozy, elegant, otherworldly.
Turns out that, yes, the Matterhorn is all I wanted, and more. Every run of this ski resort has a direct view of it, too. I was expecting a brief look, but no. It’s been a whole morning of Matterhorn grandeur, from every angle imaginable. This gift of a day with my young, vibrant mother.
She surprised me with matching bright-red nineties-style one-piece ski jumpsuits. Complete with Russian black-fur snow hats. I have to say, we’ve never looked cuter. I keep wanting to pinch myself that I’m getting this trip, with her, in both our primes.
“Your form is beautiful out there, Mom.” I swallow a bite through the observation. “Truly. Your skiing is immaculate. Never been better.”
It hasn’t, and neither has she. She’s in the best shape of her life; I can’t help but notice. I wonder if she always looked this fantastic at fiftyish—or if I’m only seeing it now.
“Thank you!” she says brightly. “I learned from the best. Your dad.” She smiles. “He’d love it here.”
Still hard at work running the family business, Dad oversees a collection of storage units.
The management, investments, and operations.
Quiet, steady, dependable—that was my dad.
He’ll keep working until he’s seventy-two, despite seventy-two more promises before then that he will sell the business “next year.” He can’t help it.
He adores his work. But more importantly, he adores us.
This was his way to show love—by making sure we were always cared for, protected, my mom and me.
He never coached or cooked or drove carpool, but he was there for me, no matter what.
I realize now that so much of who I am came from him.
Because of my dad, I understand commitment.
I work hard because he did. I fight for my family because he did.
I watched him show up for us, day after day—and he taught me that a life doesn’t have to be flashy to be deeply good.
Rather that daily devoted drops are what make love into an ocean.
I’ll throw him a massive retirement party, and he won’t believe how many people his life has touched.
I almost say to my mom, Reid would love it here, too, but catch myself just in time.
Reid doesn’t ski, but he snowboards, and gosh, does he do it gorgeously, gliding.
We love to race down the slopes. Or . . .
we used to. It’s been years since we saw the snow, since our early thirties.
The sport became too much with young kids and two busy jobs.
The piles of clothing, bins of gear, tantrums in the shivering cold—we gave up after five years. Decided we weren’t a snow family.
But from this seat, I wish we stuck with it.
We should get back out here again.
Mom clasps her hands together. “I need to find the bathroom.” She points at her burger. “Don’t touch that while I’m gone.”
As she tromps away, I sit, saturated in the cold sun and laughter of diners, thinking of Reid, my dad, and my lives.
What a sight.
What a place.
I breathe in.
A moment later, my bliss is pierced by a cry. And a whine. Then a scream, in what I have to say is the cutest of all British accents, even as it rattles the restaurant: “I’m not going back down, Mum! You can’t make me!”
Bizarrely, but viscerally, with zero warning, my mom instincts spike into gear.
I’m poised.
I’m ready.
A soldier.
I all but salute.
Instinctively I reach into my pockets to see what kind of ammunition I’ve got—snacks, Children’s Tylenol, Vaseline, cash bribery, anything.
I smile, thumbing the Twix bar I grabbed from the minibar at the hotel, a must for my snow days, always.
Some habits never do die. On reflex, I’m almost always ready to throw some candy at the problem in a state of emergency.
You don’t have any kids here, Sutton.
You don’t have any kids, anywhere.
I try not to stare at the outburst. I’d guess the boy is five, maybe six.
He’s the familiar waddling puff of a child in a much-too-big ski jumper.
Maybe an ill-fitting hand-me-down, maybe a last-minute purchase.
Either way, I lived through it all, the Snow Mom Wars.
I had the emotional strength and garage graveyard of youth-sized snow gear to prove it.
A girl, presumably the boy’s older sister, stands next to him, arms crossed and ski boot jutting in Regina George sass. She is so far past way too cool for this. I can practically hear her dying inside: You’re embarrassing me.
She and Max would be the greatest of friends.
There’s no dad to be seen, and the mom looks severely frazzled. Wild black curls, goggles askew on her head, white jumpsuit splattered with ketchup, of course. Complete with the terror-filled eyes.
“It’s the only way down, bub,” she says with applause-worthy patience. “You’ve got to ski down with us.”
The boy plops down on his lounge chair, insolent. “No.”
She stoops to his level. “You got all the way here. You can do this. I know you’re tired, but—”
“I’m not skiing anymore!”
People are staring.
Unkindly.
This kid is ruining their bucket-list day, for which they paid thousands of dollars. And his volume might even spawn an avalanche, risking their lives.
I swell with defensiveness for the woman, though.
I just want to tell her I’ve been there, so many times.
But at the very same time, these are the memories she’ll laugh about later, the very ones that make it the dream, believe it or gosh-darn not.
It doesn’t make sense, but it’s the cruel truth about parenthood.
The good is so great because the bad is so wildly hard. Refining. Transforming everything.
But I don’t tell her any of that because she’d probably smack me.
I’d smack me in this moment, too.
The woman reaches for his arm, a gentle touch.
“Don’t hurt me!” he cries. “She’s hurting me!”
Oh, boy.
Did I mention it’s also a nightmare?
But only some of the time!
I smother my mouth to hide my laughter.
What can I do?
Do something, I implore myself.
Before overthinking it, I walk over to their commotion. The woman immediately looks to me, terrified.
“I didn’t really hurt him!” she says, hands up. “I promise you!”
I release the laugh I’ve been holding. “I know you didn’t. Can I—do you mind if I . . .?” Try something?
“Brave one. Ha! Be my guest.”
“Does he have any food allergies or sensitivities?”
She looks at me funny. That’s right. We’re in Europe. Well over a decade ago. Gluten and dairy are still normal food groups. What a time and place to exist.
“Can I—” I pivot and flash the Twix bar at her like a drug dealer. “I have a son. I remember this age.”
“You? You look seventeen!”
I wave a hand. “Ha! Yeah, you know. I wear sunscreen!”
I kneel in front of the boy and instantly freeze like the snow.
The sight hurts.
In his brown eyes, I see Max. So clearly I suddenly don’t know if I can get through this moment, but I forge on, keeping the word I gave to a fellow mom. “Hey, little buddy!”
He glares at me. “You talk funny.”
I laugh. “I know, right? I’m American.”
He slits his eyes. Yellow hair pokes around the edge of his beanie like hay.
“American. Like . . . Disneyland?” He points at the Matterhorn.
I bug my eyes, big as they’ll go. “Yes, exactly like Disneyland! Can I tell you a secret, though?”
He nods skeptically.
“This Matterhorn is way, way cooler than Disneyland’s,” I inform him. “You know what that means?” I point to his mom. “That you must have the coolest mom in the world. She brought you to the real thing!” I toss her a look. She catches it, smiling. “Also, how old are you? Let me guess. Five.”
He perks slightly. “Five and a half.”
I smack my forehead. “Of course!” Moms know how much that half matters. “And you’re telling me you skied all the way here? By yourself?”
He nods.
“And you don’t want to ski back.”
He doubles down, crossing his ankles, whipping his head back and forth like he’s carving moguls into the sky.
“But you can ski back down,” I clarify. “You’re good enough.”
He straightens again.
“Well, little buddy. I have a secret weapon. Every time I have lunch on a ski trip, I have a Twix for dessert. Do you know what a Twix is?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s a famous candy.” I drop my tone conspiratorially. “The best one there is. It actually started in your country—fun fact. But it’s very, very popular in America.”
His brow furrows.
“Anyway, the trouble is, a Twix comes with two candy bars in one. And my little boy?”
My voice catches unexpectedly amid a montage of memories.
Max mid-mountain at Mammoth ski resort.
Refusing to go back down.
Giving him the other half of my Twix.
Like magic, then, he beats me down the slope, exploding with confidence.
Hot chocolate together afterward, making a snowman.
“He’s not here today,” I explain.
See, he first started to isolate when he turned ten, if I had to pinpoint it.
He wanted so much to be cool and to fully understand what that means.
He made a secret YouTube channel, and I went ballistic.
But why is he seeking approval from strangers on the Internet?
Wait. Did he learn that from me? When did I stop being the only one whose opinion mattered to him? It hurts! Motherhood hurts.
“And I miss him so much.”
Max, you’re the coolest person I know.
And do you even know how you shine?
Even when you are mean?
Where are you now, my son?
Boys, how they need their moms.
“Are you . . . okay?” wonders the boy, that accent again. “You look sad.”
I swipe at my eyes. “Yes!” Shoot. Not really. I pull out one Twix and keep talking. “It’s just—like I said, my little boy isn’t here right now. And I’m just wondering if you could do me a huge favor—”
“And eat that for him?” he says helpfully. “For him . . . and for you?”
I nod back. “Yes! I mean, you’d be doing me a huge favor. And then, I know it’s going to be hard, but then you need to ski back down with your mom. Because that’s what my boy would do too. And you just”—I poke the air in front of his belly—“you remind me so much of him.”
Like a tiny businessman, he considers my offer. Eyes the candy before him. Decides it’s a fair-enough deal. He takes one of the two chocolate sticks from me, and we clink them as if they’re swords.
I rise, and the terrace is quiet again.
Judgy tourists return to their cheese boards.
The boy is happy, chomping away on his treat like it’s his Turkish delight here in Narnia.
He stands up, finally, looking to his mom, like, Let’s go! Aren’t you ready yet?
The tween sister’s mouth hangs open. I know I’ve impressed her.
Child’s play, little girl.
“How did you do that?” the mom cries. “And how can I ever thank you?”
I flap a hand and look into her grateful eyes.
How?
Years of motherhood. Teens. Twins. Breaking down and rising back up, through every tough moment and mom season into infinity.
“Just enjoy them,” I say, my voice thick. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but . . . it really does go fast. One day they’re little . . .”
The next, they’re gone.
“And also?” I add with a smile. “We’ve all been there.”
It was a simple adage, but one of the most comforting things a stranger ever said to me in a tough public moment, when the kids were little, thrashing in Target, and I wanted to die. Whenever possible, I paid it forward, planting the words like magic beans.
Mom to mom, we nod to each other. Sometimes it just takes candy from a stranger, okay?
When I spin around toward our seats, I see that my mom has been watching the lively exchange. For how long, I have no idea.
But she eyes me, arms crossed. “Did you just . . . help comfort that little boy?” she asks.
I nod.
“Looked like a pretty miraculous turnaround.”
I clap my hands like a nerd. “Takes a village!”
Takes a village?
Dead giveaway.
I sense her eyes probing me, studying—but whatever she’s wondering, she lets it go.
“Well, my teacher heart and my mom heart are both so thrilled that you got to work in a preschool,” she says. “You must’ve learned so much in Nicaragua.”
“Oh, yes,” I agree. “Totally.”
Something like that, I guess.