Cold Spell fr-4 Read online

  “Back!” Grandma Dalia screeched, startling me by appearing at my side. Her wrinkly hand gripped my bicep like a vice; I squirmed, but she held tight. She yelled again, shouting at the man. People were turning, looking over their cars, craning their necks from the display of begonias by the storefront. I began to turn red.

  The man looked at Grandma Dalia, then back at me. I expected some sort of apology, a claim that he wasn’t hurting anything, palms held up. But instead, the strange flickery thing happened in his eyes again, and he smiled. Smiled so that the skin around his face stretched, like rubber, and he again looked like something in a costume instead of a man.

  “Back!” Grandma Dalia screeched again, shoving me behind her. I peered around her flowery dress and watched the man turn and walk away. Not toward the store, but through the parking lot, to the main road. People returned to their conversations, shrugging, and Grandma Dalia all but shoved me into the car.

  “Who was that man?” Kai asked as we buckled our seat belts. Grandma Dalia whirled around to face us, and I realized that her face was white, her hands shaky.

  “Don’t ever be so stupid,” she hissed at me. “You think they wouldn’t love to eat you up?”

  “Who was he?” Kai whined.

  “Mind them,” Grandma Dalia said, pointing a finger in my face. “Mind the beasts, Ginny.”

  It was one of the few times she used my name instead of calling me “the neighbor child.” It was also one of the few times that she seemed to genuinely care about me. But what I remember most was that I knew she was right. That something dark, darker than a man had been there, and that she had saved me from it.

  Ever since then, underneath my certainty that Grandma Dalia was just a crazy, paranoid old lady was a spinning, hungry fear that she was right about the beasts.

  “You’ve been playing a long time then?” Mora asks as she picks at her casserole, not really eating it. It doesn’t look like something a girl like her would eat—too much cheese, perhaps. I stick my fork back into my serving, struggle to lean forward over the footstool I’m sitting on. Grandma Dalia wasn’t kidding about there not being enough chairs, I guess.

  “Since I was three,” Kai says. “My grandmother was a little obsessive.”

  “No, that’s not obsessive. It’s fantastic,” Mora says. “My family hated the arts. We weren’t allowed to dance, and we listened to this awful droning music. All the money in the world, but it was like being trapped in a place without beauty. I got into singing for a little while, after I moved out, but now… I mostly just appreciate musical talent. Are you any good, then?”

  “He’s brilliant,” I tell her, smiling. “He’s going to study in New York this summer.”

  “New York!” Mora says. “I love New York. Only downside is you can’t drive there.”

  “Not a fan of taxis?” Kai asks.

  “Ha,” Mora says. “Not a chance. I’m antitaxi, anti–factory radio, and anti–automatic transmission. Tell me you know how to drive a stick shift, Kai, or I’ll have to leave right now.”

  “I don’t,” he admits.

  “What! That’s crazy!” Mora exclaims, as if this is deeply offensive.

  “I don’t, either,” I say coolly, shrugging.

  “Well,” Mora says, “I guess I can forgive you this time. But call me when you’re there, Kai—I’ll show you around. There’s this little comedy club that does musical improv every Thursday….” She speaks quickly and her words flow; they have a cadence that makes me stare at her lips forming each syllable. Kai is nodding, grinning, smiling, agreeing to New York, to plans she’s making, plans that change what he and I—

  “I’m going, too,” I interrupt. Mora looks over at me, surprised.

  “You play something as well?”

  “Just cards,” I joke. She doesn’t react. “Er—no. I don’t play anything. I’m going just to go. With Kai.”

  “Oh,” Mora says, looking at Kai. He looks a little awkward, but he nods, then smiles at me; I’m relieved. “I see.” She looks back at Kai. “What’s the plan after the intensive, then?”

  “Well…” Kai pauses. “I promised my grandmother I’d come back here and audition for the Atlanta Philharmonic so I could stay close. But now…” He looks at his hands and shrugs, and I can see him struggling with the realization that he’s free to make other plans—and doesn’t want to be.

  “So, Mora,” I say quickly, drawing her eyes off Kai so he has a moment to recover. “What’re you in town for?”

  “How do you know I’m visiting?” Mora asks, amused.

  “You drove through the snow yesterday like it was nothing,” I say. “No way you could live here. Plus, you don’t have freckles.”

  “Freckles?”

  “Everyone from the South has at least a few freckles,” I say, shrugging. Mora’s face is perfectly smooth, a single, solid color—she looks like a photograph.

  “Noted,” Mora says, nodding. “You’re very observant.”

  “No kidding,” Kai jokes. “Don’t play poker with Ginny. She’ll figure out your hand based on your eyebrows. We used to bet on games of Go Fish in elementary school.”

  “Not eyebrows,” I say. “I just remember when the good cards are coming up.”

  “Ah. Clever,” Mora says, then pauses before answering my question. “I’m from everywhere. I lived on Cape Cod, a long time ago, then in South Carolina by the beach, and now I live up north.”

  “How long will you be here?” Kai asks.

  “Not long,” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “But I’ll swing by your grandmother’s funeral tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Yes,” Kai says. “That’d be great.”

  “It’s really nice of you,” I say, “but don’t feel like you have to. You’ve already done so much.”

  “No, no.” Mora waves me off. “Besides,” she says, eyes flickering to Kai, “I should go pay my respect. After all, she’s the reason I got to meet you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Not everyone can make it to the funeral.

  The snow has stopped falling, mostly, but the roads are still thick with ice; the news keeps playing a clip of a man ice-skating down Juniper Street. Still, the funeral home has a decent-sized crowd—Mora and her two young “work friends” included. When Kai plays his violin tears fall among the guests, if not for Grandma Dalia then for the eerie, haunting notes coming from the instrument.

  The somber melodies make my heart beat slower, my breath catch in my throat—if I didn’t know Kai at all, didn’t know Grandma Dalia, I would understand him right now. And despite knowing him like I do, I learn something new about him through the melody: The thing I want, the family, the love, the happiness, those are things he’s already had. Things that he’s lost. I reach down and touch the cover of the cookbook in my purse while he plays—I brought it just in case Kai couldn’t get through the song. The cover is uneven under my nails, the material soft and ragged, yet it makes me feel better—as if I’m telling Grandma Dalia not to worry. Kai will be happy again; we’ll be happy together. We’ll make it.

  They start a photo montage on the projector; I see Kai tense, the tears building up in his eyes as piano music punctuates black-and-white photos of Grandma Dalia as a little girl. I have to look away, or I’ll cry, too; my eyes land on one of Mora’s companions. He has red hair and doesn’t look much older than me, and his eyes are locked on the screen, which is flashing a photo of Grandma Dalia on her wedding day. He reaches up and touches his temple as if he has a headache. Mora takes his hand and smiles at him, and I’m ashamed to feel something akin to relief wash over me. She’s holding his hand—the strange, jealous feeling that’s been brewing in me over the way she looks at Kai must be for nothing.

  I hate myself for thinking like this at a funeral. I swallow, close my eyes, and leave them that way until the service is over.

  The coffin is white, and when they remove it from the hearse after a short drive to the cemetery, it blends i
n with the ground. If it weren’t for the pink roses on top, I think it’d be invisible. It feels wrong, hiding her under the snow, under the very thing that scared her the most.

  Mom stands over my shoulder, a few other neighbors beyond that with a handful of our classmates. For all her eccentricities, Grandma Dalia wasn’t disliked—she let people slide a few days on the rent occasionally, and she sent Kai to school with cupcakes every holiday during elementary and middle school. The dry cleaner is here, as is the guy who owns the pizza place that delivers to us. Kai’s aunt isn’t here—she called ahead to say she couldn’t make it through the ice.

  Kai climbs out of the car following the hearse alone. He’s freshly shaven, and his skin looks pale. He keeps his eyes downward, only lifting them to meet mine as we follow the hearse across the cemetery toward the grave. The headstone is heart-shaped, in a pinkish hue that matches the wallpaper in Grandma Dalia’s bedroom.

  Kai slides into the row of chairs lined up in the front—I step toward him, prepared to take the spot on his right. Now that the business of keeping the violin in tune is gone, I can see the need to occupy his mind swooping in, the want for someone to be near—

  “Stop,” my mother whispers in my ear right before I take a second step. “Those seats are for family.”

  “But he’s alone,” I answer, astounded. And besides, I want to add, Kai and I are family.

  My mother puts her hand on my shoulder, instructing me to stay put. I try to soften my glare, try to relax, but I want so badly to walk forward, sit down next to him, and link my arm through his. He looks back at me as if he wants the same, but seeing my mother’s grip he smiles grimly, then turns to face the coffin. It’ll be over soon, I think toward him. It’ll be over, and then we can run away to New York and forget all this. Just you and me.

  Kai asked me to ride home with him after the funeral, so my mother leaves to go to work. Alone, I wait for him to greet all the mourners, meandering around the back of the cemetery, looking at headstones absently. There’s a dime rattling around in my shoe, my own quiet tribute to Grandma Dalia. I run my fingers over the slick marble base of an angel statue, then turn back to see how many people are still here.

  I frown when my eyes find her—Mora, talking with Kai and wearing a thick fur coat, mostly white with a few gray streaks down the back. I can tell it’s real because it isn’t glossy and fluffy like the ones they sell at the cheap end of the mall. Her friends are lingering by her Lexus, looking bored. I exhale and walk toward them, my nose red and runny from the cold.

  When I’m a dozen or so yards away, Kai and Mora suddenly turn and begin to walk off together—without me—down the hill, back toward the waiting car. Mora’s voice is bright and loud, almost wrongly so given the setting, but I can’t quite make out the words. I hurry to catch up, running around headstones, drawing in breath that freezes in my lungs. Suddenly I slide on the wet surface of a plaque in the ground. I hinge forward and tumble down into the snow and dirt.

  “Ginny—are you okay?” Kai is at my side quickly, looping his arms under me to help me up. He’s warm, hot, even, and I relax against him when I stand. My knee is throbbing—I’m sure it’s swelling beneath my dress.

  “I’m fine,” I say, brushing off my hands and ignoring the pain. “Really.”

  “That looked like it hurt,” Mora says to me. Her eyes are even paler blue out here in the daylight.

  “I’ll live,” I answer, sharper than I intended.

  “Of course,” Mora says, laughing a little. She looks back to Kai. “Hey, give me a call or something—I’m in town for a while longer.”

  “Great,” Kai says, grinning too widely for his grandmother’s funeral. The snow begins to intensify; icy, pelting drops cling to my eyelashes. Kai looks up at the smoke-colored sky.

  “See you later then,” I say brightly, and usher Kai away from her.

  “Of course,” Mora answers, then turns around and walks away. Kai tugs me closer and supports some of my weight as I hobble to the waiting town car. It’s so warm inside that it burns; I peel off my coat as Kai shuts the door.

  “That was weird,” I say as the driver eases the car forward.

  “What?” Kai asks.

  “Mora. I don’t know. She’s just… weird. I mean, she gave us a ride to the hospital, but… you don’t think she’s weird?”

  “I think she’s nice,” Kai says, voice hard—so hard my eyes widen in surprise. “She was telling me about her sister. It was her twin sister, she said. I feel bad for her. She says she’s lost everything more than once.”

  “I don’t think she feels bad for herself,” I mutter, though I’m instantly ashamed—why would I fight with him on a day like this? Kai shrugs off my comment. “You sounded great,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says, looking out the window. When I don’t respond, he turns to me, eyes softening a little. “Sorry. I just… I think I’m finally crashing from all the emotion.” He reaches across the seat and takes my hand. “Is your knee okay?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “It’ll be fine. How are you doing?”

  “Surprisingly fine, right now,” he says, and it’s true—there’s little of the sadness I saw on his face during the service, as if it’s been washed away by the warmth of the car. “If I have a meltdown tonight, though, I’ll signal you.”

  The flashlight signal is as old as my friendship with Kai. We always leave the bottom few inches of our blinds drawn up. One flash means Are you there? Two means Good night—which happens nightly, without fail. Three is Come over. Four is Meet you on the roof. I’m surprised the neighbors have never complained about it, really, since there are some nights where we argue via flashing over who should come over to whose house.

  Our building looks almost pretty in the snow—probably because the white covers all its flaws. The car lets us out a few yards away so the driver can avoid going over an ice patch, and we balance and slide our way to the front stoop. The memory of Grandma Dalia being hauled out of the building is fresh in my mind as we trudge through the snow to avoid the slippery sidewalk. I hug Kai tightly before we split to go to our separate apartments.

  Night comes early; by six o’clock it’s dark. The roads have frozen over again, and thus are nearly desolate—no one is crazy enough to drive on them. At ten, my mom calls—she’s not coming home after work. It’s not worth risking the car, especially when she technically doesn’t have car insurance. I microwave a cup of noodles and fill time flipping through the cookbook—I forgot to give it back to Kai after the service. The pages of beasts feel more jarring and threatening than usual, making me keenly aware of how alone I am in the apartment. I shiver and close the book. You’re not alone. Kai is just across the courtyard.

  There’s a strange feeling in my gut as I go to my bedroom—as if what I just thought isn’t true, as if Kai isn’t really there. I peer across the courtyard toward Kai’s window, lifting the flashlight from the nightstand. I flick the light four times in his direction, then grab my coat and make my way into the hall and up the stairs toward the roof. It’s relatively easy to convince myself that I just want to see the city in the darkness and ice, to check on the roses, but I can feel the need to see Kai rising within me, the need to feel his hand in mine. I reach the step by the roof access door and sit down, shivering in the cold—there’s no heat in the hallways. The door frame is so cold it burns my back when I lean against it, even through the layers of fabric.

  A few moments pass. I could go check on the roses without Kai, but it seems wrong, a violation of an unspoken trust. I let my hair down, hoping it’ll offer some warmth against the weather. Another minute; I think the wind is picking up. We probably shouldn’t go out there. I should just go to Kai’s house when he gets here.

  Another minute.

  Another.

  I look at my phone and realize fifteen minutes have gone by. I send Kai a text, folding my hands into my sleeves while I wait for a reply. Nothing comes. Irritation rises in me, nearly overpowerin
g my sympathy. Were it any other day, I’d stomp downstairs and give him an earful for not answering—he’d do the same to me if the situation were reversed. But today was the funeral, so instead, I go back to my apartment, fuming, alone, and, for some reason that I can’t entirely pinpoint, afraid. I want to be with him, next to him, and not being able to makes me feel wildly off balance. I inhale, trying to steady the frustration I feel rising like a thick ball in my throat. I lock the door of my apartment, kick off my shoes, and go to my bedroom.

  Maybe he’s already asleep.

  I’m lying to myself, and I know it. Kai doesn’t sleep when he’s upset. He stays awake, he worries, he paces. I angle the flashlight out the window and flash the light twice. Good night. Wait.

  No answer.

  I flash the light twice again. Nothing. I groan, lean over, and look out the window.

  The blinds are shut.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, my heart still stings a little from the sight of Kai’s closed blinds. It feels silly and stupid and as if I’m the sort of girl who doodles hearts with Kai’s name in them on my notebook. It’s embarrassing. I nag myself to get over it, that some closed blinds are no big deal, to stop moping, but the voice in my head saying all that sounds like Kai, which leaves me doubly embarrassed to have those thoughts in the first place.

  Movement outside the window catches my eye—snow, more snow. Will it ever end? I wonder how the roses are doing in all this. Surely they’ve pulled through, even if they’re losing their petals. They’ve made it through hurricanes and ice storms, after all. I firm my jaw, feeling as if it’ll be some personal victory if I can go to the roof and check on the roses without Kai.

  I rise, pull on my warmest clothes, and head for the roof. I hear people milling around inside their apartments, cursing at the new snow falling and shouting at one another as several days’ worth of cabin fever sets in. As I grow closer to the roof, the temperature drops. I hug my coat tight and shiver as I grab hold of the freezing metal door handle, slide the key into the lock—