A Year of Winter

eighteen

January 26th, 2013

“So, Winter, how is your ankle feeling?”

 My mother had bombarded yet another one of our book club sessions on a chilly Saturday afternoon, promptly from returning from her errands. We sat on my bed, papers scattered around us, a small throw pillow propping Winter’s injured ankle up. She said that they were doctor’s orders, and I’d never known Winter to take anybody’s orders, so it seemed like a rather significant request.

“It’s feeling a little bit better, thank you, Mrs. Carson,” Winter told her, smiling in that way that was to expected of your child’s best friend.

“I’m glad,” She told her, leaning against the doorframe intrusively. “That seemed like a pretty nasty fall.”

“I don’t remember much of it,” Winter said quietly, her voice having trailed off. Even the unwise person could sense that Winter was uncomfortable, but my mother didn’t have that keen, intrinsic ability of distinguishing an appropriate topic from an inappropriate one.

“Did you hit your head at all? Your head looks fine. At least, I think, I mean, I’m no doctor. But if you’re hurting, maybe you’d like some ice—?”

“No thanks, mom, she’s fine. For the hundredth time,” I interrupted, frustrated beyond belief.

My mom frowned at me, sighing, as what seemed to be sense crawled back into her head. She nodded, leaving the security of the doorway, taking only one step out just to put one in after she saw Winter’s copy of The Decampment lying on my bed, a sizeable chunk of it already highlighted and annotated. She beamed, walking over to pick it up, “Oh, my goodness, is this was your little book clubs are for?”

“Yes, mother,” I said firmly. I only ever said mother when something was wrong, but it didn’t seem that it mattered to her.

She ignored me, pointing to the hardcover of the book, glancing at Winter, “This is a great story. Chapter twenty-five’ll kill you, though—”

“—Alright, mom, enough,” I snapped, full of ire as I got up to usher her forcibly out of my room, taking her far enough until she could walk the rest of the way on her own accord.

“All right, all right,” she muttered, grumpy, setting the book down on my shelf. At the doorway, she stopped and looked back at us. “If you need anything, though, Winter, just call—”

“—Just call you, trust me, we know,” I sighed, hurrying to the door to shut it tightly closed. The door shut, I set my back against it, as if she might try to slam it open again. I took in a deep breath, exhaling long and hard as Winter eyed me with tacit amusement.

“She’s sweet,” Winter said, grinning as she leaned against my headboard, setting her book down on my comforter. I backed away from the door, grabbing the book, and sitting down at the foot of the bed as I glanced to her.

“She’s my mother, of course she’s sweet,” I muttered. "But it doesn't mean I want her parading around my room every time I have someone over." I reopened the book to the page we’d been at before my mother interrupted us, my eyes darting about the page as I could feel Winter’s eyes on me.

I could see her frown from the corner of my eye, and I tilted my head up to meet her gaze. “What?” I asked pensively.

Still frowning, she slumped her shoulders, as if she’d lost a battle. She adjusted herself, her ankle looking uncomfortable, “I just…” she sighed, shaking her head, “…well, are you okay?"