Cold
“After that, Noel said little since they’d left her father’s house. She stared out her side window mostly, and occasionally she turned to check on the girl.
“You had a moment back there in your father’s driveway,” he said when they reached downtown. “You made a decision.”
She didn’t say anything.
“You want I can still let both of you off right here.”
Her head was turned so she was gazing out at the new high snowbanks in front of the stores. “I’ve been trying to make that decision for a long t...ime, Norman. My mother made it once too and left my father. Years ago. She was from downstate outside Grand Rapids. Everyone over there seemed to be Dutch. Towns like Zeeland and Holland. Daddy’s from up here, and his parents came over from Quebec. When I was eleven I knew there was something different about my mother, but didn’t understand until I came home from school one day and found her suitcases opened on their bed. I asked her where they were going—somehow I understood that I wasn’t going on this trip. It was maybe three in the afternoon and she was having a drink. Before that day I’d never seen her drink anything more than a glass of wine with dinner. She sat on the bed and started crying. Then she told me that I should go over to Ellen’s, my friend who lived down the street, and stay there until dinnertime. She said she was going to visit a friend who was very ill. I believed her but somehow I knew I wasn’t getting the whole story.”MoreLess
“You had a moment back there in your father’s driveway,” he said when they reached downtown. “You made a decision.”
She didn’t say anything.
“You want I can still let both of you off right here.”
Her head was turned so she was gazing out at the new high snowbanks in front of the stores. “I’ve been trying to make that decision for a long t...ime, Norman. My mother made it once too and left my father. Years ago. She was from downstate outside Grand Rapids. Everyone over there seemed to be Dutch. Towns like Zeeland and Holland. Daddy’s from up here, and his parents came over from Quebec. When I was eleven I knew there was something different about my mother, but didn’t understand until I came home from school one day and found her suitcases opened on their bed. I asked her where they were going—somehow I understood that I wasn’t going on this trip. It was maybe three in the afternoon and she was having a drink. Before that day I’d never seen her drink anything more than a glass of wine with dinner. She sat on the bed and started crying. Then she told me that I should go over to Ellen’s, my friend who lived down the street, and stay there until dinnertime. She said she was going to visit a friend who was very ill. I believed her but somehow I knew I wasn’t getting the whole story.”MoreLess
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