Melt

Falling. That was the sensation. The girl’s head sank and jolted back into her car seat. It hurt, like something squeezed it, and she felt a pang in her stomach as she looked down at the seatbelt still strapped tight over her puffy purple jacket. Then she looked up, around—fog covered the windows of the sedan on all sides, but she could see the uneven sticking of fresh snow on all of them.

In the front seat, her parents were asleep on pillows over the dashboard. Beside her, her little brother’s head sank too, down to his chest, a little drool on his lips—like always. His head was supported only by the puffy lift of his own oversized blue coat.

At the girl's exhale, and the pressing of the bright red buckle on her waist, smoke filled the back seat. A shiver followed it, climbing from her ankles to her chest, forcing her to rub her hands for warmth. Her pink mittens were bound to her wrists by strings. She put them on.

She reached down and unclicked the latch of her seatbelt as quietly as she could.

It clicked loudly. Everything seemed louder. Even her breathing.

Cautiously, face braced for the worst, she looked up, expecting a stern eyebrow—a look like she was in trouble for getting out of her seat when she was supposed to be asleep—but her parents hadn’t stirred.

She grinned, reaching for her brother and nudging his little arm.

He didn’t move.

She poked his red cheek.

Nothing.

She tickled his nose.

He snarled and pulled away.

‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Get up.’

As a last resort, one she hoped to resort to, she flicked his eyebrow.

His eyes shot open as he winced.

She covered his mouth so he wouldn’t cry.

His brow furrowed, face scrunched—he rubbed the cold and sensitive skin.

‘What was that for?’ he demanded.

The girl didn’t answer—she simply put her finger over her lips. Then she raised her eyebrows and pointed her head toward their parents sleeping up front.

The boy lifted his chin a little higher to see them. Wide-eyed and mischievous, he turned back to his sister, who waited with a smirk. She pointed at the car door.

‘Come on,’ she whispered again.

Her brother saw the glistening specks of snow draped like curtains across the window, as his wide grin caught the blue of the moonlight breaching through. He turned back to her, nodded eagerly, and she unclicked the latch and bright red button of his car seat.

The girl turned back to her own door, lifted the lock, and pulled the handle to open as quietly as she could. But in an instant, the snow fell from the window, the ice that had sealed them in cracked, and wind poured its way inside all at once.

She turned to her brother, nervous. They shared a worried look, glancing cautiously toward the front seat.

Their parents hadn’t moved.

She exhaled, a small relief, and pushed the door open through the ice.

Her boots crunched the snow when she stepped out. They compacted the soft powder as she gave it her weight, sinking down a few inches. There were no buildings nearby, no rest stops or welcome centers, and no colorful, inviting lights of vending machines. But it was so dark, still—something must have been close by. Dad always parked close to rest stops.

She threw her head back to see the night sky. Bright stars and scattered clouds overborne by the weight of a dauntless moon. Then a small shuffle of tiny steps appeared behind her as her brother pushed his way backward out of the car. With too much weight forward and not enough back, he stumbled toward the seat and overcorrected, toppling backward into a mound of fresh snow.

She shook her head. He started to laugh.

‘Quiet!’ she said, shushing him as she dropped to lift him back up. ‘The door, dummy.’

She glanced at her parents, saw it was all clear, and shut the door softly. But she noticed how different the car looked with its frame covered entirely in snow. The hood was higher, smaller, maybe, and the taillights shone red through the white, like a laser blast searing its way outward. She also noticed the red tint was the only light around them. The only light, except the stars and the moon that cast its iridescent blue, a magical blue on twilit snow.

Down the road, or what must have been the road, snow layered such a thick and complete white blanket that she couldn’t see the tar or the shine of the glass or the tracks of the tires. Only the soft glisten of the white powder. The glisten of the flakes that still fell. She looked again to the front of the car as the wind lifted the snow in a strange way—gusted like smoke. But when she made a move to check closer, something hit her suddenly and splashed across her back.

She whipped herself around, and her brother stood there with his arms behind his back, pretending to whistle a soft tune—she knew he couldn’t whistle.

The girl scowled at her brother and sank down to her knees to cup the snow in her hands. The soft powder took some work to form, but she made a ball and sprinted to the other side of the car.

From cover, she peered at her brother with his oversized blue coat, struggling to make another snowball. In his confusion, she launched hers at his head and heard the satisfying thud when it splashed across his neck. He fell forward clumsily, almost comically slow, into the snow.

She rushed from cover to make sure he wasn’t hurt—or worse, crying.

As she came within a step of her brother, he whipped around and sprayed her with a shotgun blast of powder. They both giggled, and the girl ran and piled more as he did the same.

She sprinted in moon-bounding steps down the highway, and he followed her, each throwing snow less formed as they chased and laughed and tumbled in the white waves of an endless sea. Then, trying to gain the upper hand on her brother, the girl ran back toward the car, and dipped down to gather more snowballs from the freshest, iciest snow.

But as she approached, a little too fast, she lost her balance, slid on a small pocket of ice, and rammed full speed into the taillight with a harrowing crack.

Her brother ran to her. ‘You okay?’

‘Oh no, oh no.’ She panicked. Pieces of plastic crunched under her shoulder. Then she pulled away slowly, and they both watched in horror as the red plastic fell away in pieces, leaving only the dim bulb of the yellow taillight to illuminate the snow.

‘Dad’s gonna be so mad,’ her little brother said, a little too triumphantly.

‘Shut up.’

‘You can’t say that.’

She looked toward the front of the car, through the dark window. Even with the loud crash, it didn’t seem like her parents were awake yet. A little longer, she thought. They don’t have to know yet. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I wanna keep playing. I’m not getting in trouble yet.’

‘You always break stuff.’

‘Want your nose to be next?’ she spat.

He only smiled. A big, stupid smile crowded by his oversized blue coat.

She grinned too, then turned back to the masses of white. The wind carried the snow in cyclone-like gusts over the road and through the trees. She dropped to her knees, scooped up a small pile, then packed it tightly and started rolling it across the ground in circles.

Her brother frowned. ‘I don’t want to make a snowman. They’re dumb.’

‘They’re not dumb,’ she corrected, as she continued to roll.

‘But we made one last year. Remember? I don’t want to.’

‘It was fun. Don’t be a baby.’

‘I’m not a baby!’

‘Sure sounds like it.’

‘It took so long. And when all the snow was gone, it was gone. All that work for nothing.’

‘Well, how about this? You make one, and I’ll make one. We’ll see whose is better.’

‘No, I don’t want to!’

‘Baby.’

‘Stop it! I’m gonna tell, Mom!’

‘Come on. You’re just afraid mine’ll win.’

The challenge worked. Her little brother furrowed his sharp brows and dropped to his knees beside her. He packed snow and rolled it around just like she did—with a tad less dexterity.

The yellow taillight of the car guided their path through the highway as they made tracks through the perfect powder and moved from rolling with one finger, to one hand, to two, and their whole body pushing the weight. After half an hour of relentless work, they were cold and wet down to their boots, but proud of what they had made.

Her brother’s snowman was shorter because he couldn’t reach as high, with spheres full of odd dents and ridges. But it still stood strong in the wind next to hers. Hers, on the other hand, was perfectly shaped, but still, to her, missing something—a face.

They had looked around, but they didn’t have anything to use for eyes, a nose, or a mouth.

‘I like them like that,’ her brother said.

‘They don’t have faces. They’re just piles of snow like that.’

‘No, they’re like those cut-out things at the fair. You can just put your face on them.’

She tilted her head and didn’t let him see, but smiled at the thought.

‘Told you snowmen were fun,’ she declared.

‘I guess,’ he shrugged, ‘but look how long it took. They’re still gonna melt.’

She stared at them. By the yellow light of the car and the blue of the moon. Through the stars and the wind, their two faceless snowpeople, standing there. Taller than the roadside barrier, and the half-buried car, and even her. Monuments. Ensnared and engulfed by what made them.

‘But they’ll take longer to melt,’ she said. ‘Even when all the snow’s gone, and it’s just the road again. They’re still gonna be here.’

Her brother wiped his red nose, then rubbed his eyes and the cold sweat from his forehead.

‘They’re still gonna melt,’ he repeated, sniffling.

She put her hand on the shoulder of his puffy blue coat.

‘Well, maybe these ones will stay,’ she said.

Her brother only shrugged again. Then he sniffed, blinked, and yawned.

‘Maybe they will need some faces, then,’ he said quietly.

She nudged him. ‘Mom has her red scarf. And Daddy has his glasses.’

‘Are we gonna wake them up?’

‘I bet they’ll like it,’ she said. ‘Dad’ll be up soon anyway to turn on the heat.’

Her little brother scrunched his nose to agree, and she grabbed his hand to guide him to the front seat. But at the door, he stopped suddenly, frowned—and squeezed his sister’s hand.

‘You’ll be in trouble,’ he whispered.

She only smiled, let go of her brother’s hand, and faced the door bravely.

The ice cracked when she pulled it open, and the girl saw her mother there, and her father, propped up by pillows, slightly deflated, shining with a dark stain she hadn’t noticed before.

She pressed her mother’s arm and greeted her softly, gently, so as not to wake her too quickly. But her mother didn’t move. She squeezed a little tighter on her arm, shook it a bit, and touched her cheek. Nothing. Then, a phrase repeated in her head, and to the night.

Mom. Mommy, wake up. She said them over and over, and felt the words start to lose meaning. Sound. Her brother couldn’t see over her shoulders—he didn’t know why his sister started to cry. He just heard the words again and again. Mom. Mommy, wake up.

The girl’s head hurt suddenly, and she remembered something she thought was a bad dream. Falling. She remembered falling. She looked at the car's hood. It was scrunched under snow like her brother’s nose. And seeing it made her legs heavy. She collapsed by the seat and the metal, and her mother and father. In the snow, her brother caught her. He held her shoulders and caught a glance of his mother through his sister’s hair as a warm tear rolled over his exposed wrist.

In the distance behind them, a light started to grow.

There was only one at first, shining brightly through the falling snow, until it split into two. Headlights illuminated the road and cast shadows over the depressions where tires had veered. Then, more lights appeared above those, flashing over top, accompanied by the loud rev of an engine and siren that echoed through their bones. They stared at the machine as it made its way to them, confused by the shape of its curved hood and the sounds it made.

The snow pushed away from the truck like a rip curl, crashing white waves by the side of the road, and they could see the shimmer of ice over black asphalt. The truck honked its loud horn as it approached, and the girl’s eyes glinted in its frantic emergency lights as she held her brother’s hands. Then, her eyes swayed, as suddenly, before them, from the front seat, a gasp of breath—life.

Into her mother’s arms, once more, the girl felt herself falling.