Steady as the Snow Falls (7 page)

He made a sound of frustration, swiping fingers through his hair. “They wanted the story of my life to be about something I might eventually die from. What kind of a book is that? That isn’t what I want. I had years and years of life before I was diagnosed. I want to be remembered for what I was, who I was, before.”

Harrison swallowed and shifted his eyes to her. “Can you do that for me? Will you write my story?”

“Do I have a choice?”

He fisted his hands at his sides as he angled his head away from hers. He seemed to fight to speak, his voice rough and graceless when he finally did. “If I tell you that you do, what will be your answer?”

Beth’s breaths came faster. “Are you saying you’ll let me out of the contract?”

“Yes. Today.” He looked at her, and she swore his eyes were painted in sadness. It humanized him, turned him from an arrogant man to one with vulnerabilities. It made her see him clearer, and that made him more dangerous.

Look away, Beth.

“Today is your one chance to rip up the contract without fear of retaliation. Walk away now, if that’s what you want.” Harrison angled his face away, but not before she saw his jaw harden. “I’ll be in the reading room.”

Beth watched him leave the entryway, a seemingly invincible man brought down by an unseen adversary. The reading room. He’d named the welcoming room full of his books the reading room. His sanctuary. The one place in the house that she knew had the care it took to make a room more than walls and space, to make it a haven.

His footsteps were measured, his trek stable. It was a façade. His personality demanded action, not the slowness with which he moved. Did he hide how tired he was? Did the side effects of medicine, if he took it, cause his muscles and joints to ache?
Did
he take medicine? How far had it progressed since he was diagnosed? Was it still in the beginning stages, or much worse?

Beth had endless questions, and she didn’t know how to ask a single one.

The door was right there, a reachable escape. Two steps and she could open it and go. She would be free of any obligation to him. And what would Harrison do? He would sit in a structure full of lost hopes and dreams, alone, his story untold. It wasn’t her problem, and yet empathy kept her where she was. Empathy, yes, but what else?

She lowered her head and covered her face with her hands, her eyes tightly shut. She tried to breathe normally, but her breaths came out shallow, raspy. If she stayed, she was agreeing to submerge herself in a reality she didn’t know, didn’t understand. If she left, she would feel like she’d abandoned him to his undesired fate. He had a story to tell, and he was asking her to tell it. Maybe this was her chance to do something meaningful, no matter how altered she became in the process.

Because Beth didn’t think she could write his story and not be affected by it.

With a sigh of resignation, Beth dropped her hands. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go. Beth lifted her head and pulled back her shoulders, turning new eyes on the situation. Her decision was made, and determination stiffened her spine. Once Beth committed to something, there was no giving up. His story was worth something, and she would write it. Beth would not give up on this, on Harrison. It seemed interlocked with her writing dream, a quest that, if accepted, would change her world. Beth was ready for a change.

THREE

TODAY SHE DIDN’T bring her laptop, knowing there was three-quarters of a book waiting for her to read it. The story of a boy losing his mother at the age of seven took on a different meaning. It became real, formed depth. And Beth knew when she picked up that book again, she would read words different from the ones she’d read yesterday. The story changed because the person reading it altered the way they saw it. Perception was a powerful tool.

Harrison stood with his back to her, looking outside much like she did the previous day upon first entering the room. “It’s snowing again.”

She was surprised by the comment. He didn’t seem the type for idle conversation. Neither was she. She wanted to know about a person’s childhood, what scared them, what is was about the first person they fell in love that made them do so. If they preferred candy to chocolate, or the opposite, and why. Beth wanted to know what made a person the way they were, what gave them their individualism, what scars they carried, what life was to them. What dreams they had.

In Harrison’s case, what was it like to have a countdown to his mortality?

And yet, she replied, “It’s supposed to snow all week.”

He turned then, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “You stayed.”

“I stayed.”

“The disease is not to be discussed.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Unless there is crucial information you should know.”

Beth shifted her feet, her jaw tight. Sighing, she nodded. “Fine.”

Harrison nodded to the stand beside the couch. “You have a book to read.”

She moved to the couch, her eyes not leaving his. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go for a walk.”

“In the snow?”

One pale eyebrow tipped up. “Is that not permissible?”

“Well, yeah, you can do whatever you want, but…” Beth trailed off, not wanting to ask if she could come along to keep an eye on him. What if he got too cold and couldn’t make it back? What if he fainted? She grabbed the book and turned it over and over, needing to keep her hands occupied. What if something happened to him out there in the middle of nowhere and he was all alone?

Harrison’s expression darkened. “Help yourself to refreshments. If you get hungry, there are snacks in the kitchen.”

Beth held her breath until he walked away, releasing it when he was in the doorway. He paused there, and she stared at the book in her hands, feeling his eyes on her. They were inescapable, prying into her head, accurately reading her. She knew he had some idea as to her thoughts, and he was irritated with her.

“Beth.”

She looked up and turned her head to meet his eyes, an electric shock zipping along her skin as their eyes connected. A muscle throbbed in his jaw, his body taut as his eyes trailed over her face, ended on her chin, and swept back up to her eyes. The look made her breaths uneven and her hands clammy. When Harrison looked at her a certain way, he stripped away everything until all that was left was her truth, hidden deep inside, not meant for anyone but her to know. The truth of her heart, and how it chose to feel, without her consent.

“Don’t act like I’m dying and you’re not. I just have a better idea of when it’s happening to me.”

Beth exhaled noisily when he turned the corner and disappeared, stunned by his words, even if they were true. Her mother always said people began dying the moment they were born, as soon as they took their first breath. She’d found it a morbid observation and tried not to ponder the validity of her words. Her mom might be right, but that didn’t mean Beth wanted to think about how quickly her life could be gone. But Harrison—he thought about it. How could he not?

She poured herself a cup of coffee with hands that shook, pausing as she watched the black brew move from side to side in the cup. Harrison hadn’t touched it yesterday or today. Did he make it specifically for her? And if so, how had he known she liked coffee?
Stop it. You’re glamorizing things you should not. It’s coffee. Even if he did make it specifically for you, it means nothing. Except that maybe he isn’t quite as rude as you first thought him to be.

Beth took a sip of her coffee made sweeter and milder with cream and sugar before setting the cup on the window sill near the bench. She was more eager to continue the tale of the motherless boy than she would have guessed. With the accumulating snow to watch, and a book in hand, Beth enjoyed the peaceful scene as she read about a boy who didn’t know how to give up, even when every aspect of his life told him it would be easier to.

Motion outside the window drew her attention to the white hills. Sitting up, Beth moved to her knees and set her elbows on the window ledge, her eyes locked on Harrison’s lean form as he journeyed through the snowy waves, heading toward the hills farther back. He wore a bright orange jacket, and a black stocking cap on his head. The sight of the clashing colors brought a small smile to Beth’s lips. His progress was slow, and he stopped every few feet, but she had to admire the way he kept going.

Chin in hand, Beth observed a sick man wordlessly dare the elements to tell him he was anything but healthy. What lies he must tell himself, his truth clear in the discoloration of his skin, the lines of strain and exhaustion evident in his face. The austerity of his eyes. It was sad, and beautiful, and inspiring, and before she knew it, Beth was on her feet, searching the room for paper and something to write with. She found a napkin near the coffee, and a pen in a drawer of them, and plopped back down on the settee to write.

She wrote about the snow being on all sides of him, and how small he looked against it, even as he fiercely faced it with a challenge clear in his rigid stance. She mentioned the conflicting colors of his coat and hair, as if he was defying fashion as well as anything else that told him the way things were supposed to be. Harrison disagreed with his destiny—that she could tell. And he wasn’t giving up. She’d been wrong about that.

Beth tapped the pen against her chin as she thought.

What are you doing?
He was higher up on the hill, moving slower than he was moments ago. Clearly, his body was tired, and that disgusted him. Harrison pushed himself, relentlessly, determinedly.
You’re fighting, any way you can.
That’s what he was doing. Beth dropped her gaze, an eerie chill sweeping across her skin. Emotions swirled around her, building and building, and Beth found that she desperately needed to know Harrison, every detail of his life, his thoughts, his feelings.

She wanted to know
him
, the seemingly broken man who refused to shatter.

He fell.

Beth made a sound of dismay, her arms stretched out as though to catch him as she watched him tumble down the hill. She was to the front door before she stopped, her hand tightly squeezing the doorknob. She stared at where her flesh met the metal, her heart pounding like she’d fallen with him, and she let it go. Closing her eyes, Beth took deep breaths, shaking off the fear, steadying the trembling in her hands. He was okay. He wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t an invalid. He was okay, she repeated to herself.

She went back to the reading room, and she watched through the window as he picked himself back up. He stood unmoving, not wiping away the snow, his sharp face angled toward the hill that tried to defeat him. She couldn’t see, but she imagined his features would be carved with determination, and anger, and they would be fearless.

If it were her, she would stop trying. She would go back inside and change her clothes, warm up. Possibly cry about things out of her control as she wallowed in self-pity. But it was Harrison, and however foolish it might be, whatever consequences he was bringing to fruition with his actions, he started up the hill again. Beth cursed, her blunt fingernails digging in her palms, and then she grudgingly smiled.

It wasn’t long before a frown claimed her face. With his weakened immune system, it might not take much for him to become ill, and it could become serious. Beth snorted. She could tell how much he cared about that. She chewed on her lower lip, wondering what medications he was on, wondering how often he went to the doctor. Wondering all kinds of things Harrison refused to talk about.

The urge to research the disease more grabbed her, and she knew how her evening would be spent. Beth picked up the book, tried to read, and immediately set it back down, only a word or two registering in her brain. Harrison was the only book she wanted to read, and write, and then reread.

IT SEEMED TO take hours, but was closer to one when he finally made it to the top. Beth pumped a fist in the air when he peaked the incline, grinning. Harrison tossed both arms up, his head thrown back, and declared himself the champion of the hill without uttering a word. She would love to know if he was smiling, and if he was, she wanted to see it.

What would a full, genuine smile from Harrison look like? Would there be teeth, or not? Would it touch his eyes? Would it creep up on one side more than the other? Would it brush aside the shadows from his face for a moment?

Harrison dropped his arms, and his whole body seemed to crumple inward, though he didn’t move. His shoulders slumped, and his hands dangled at his sides. Beth’s smile faded, along with her joy. Whatever he was trying to prove to himself, reality could only be ignored for so long. Proving that he could do that had cost him something, and she wouldn’t know what until he came back.

She scowled. Beth was not going to wait around to see when that time came.

Knowing she was going to get reprimanded for bothering him, checking up on him, whatever he would call it, Beth flung on her coat, boots, and hat, and stomped through the snow in the direction of the hills behind the house. Before she even reached the hill, she was spent, her breaths coming fast and ragged, sweat lining her body beneath her clothes. Her leg muscles burned from tramping through the thick snow and her lungs ached from sucking in frigid air.

Harrison seemed miles away, a pinpoint on a map high and far in the distance. She squinted her eyes against the bright whitish-blue sky, and the falling snow, pausing to catch her breath at the base of the hill. Beth put out a hand and let it collect snowflakes, the speed of them languid as if to be better enjoyed. They were dainty, and frail, unique. Beautiful bits of impermanence. She told herself to stop procrastinating, and with a sigh, she took the first step to reach her employer.

The path was treacherous, uneven, and unnecessary. Exercise was great, and she enjoyed walking, but not through difficult snow. Beth cursed Harrison as she journeyed the hillside, some of the names quite colorful. Butt-monkey quickly became a favorite, because only a butt-monkey would venture up an undisturbed hill of snow. She lost her boot once, fell three times, and twisted her ankle when she stepped down hard and met ground before she was ready for it. By the time Beth reached Harrison, she was out of words, and air, and she wanted to fall to the cold ground.

“I’m not paying you to take long walks,” he said without turning.

“You aren’t…paying me…to do…anything, really,” she gasped.

Harrison glanced over his shoulder at her, his dark expression turning to amusement when he took in her snow-caked form. His gaze swept up and down the length of her, one corner of his mouth lifting. The humor she caught a glimpse of was refreshing. Dizzying. “Or to frolic in the snow.”

“I fell,” she admitted sullenly. “Three times. And I lost one of my boots. I now have a foot, frozen by a layer of snow, inside my boot. I can’t feel it anymore.”

“Are you thinking amputation?” he asked, his head tilted thoughtfully.

“Did you just make a joke?” Beth quietly mocked.

He faced forward without comment, his arms rigid at his sides, and took in the view. Beth sighed, deciding they weren’t quite to the teasing stage yet, if they ever would get there. She wanted to ask him if he was feeling okay. Even as he stood straight, the air around him crackling with life, it was clear he was fatigued, shadows under his eyes and all the color drained from his lips. She knew better than to ask it, biting her tongue when it became hard to keep the questions unspoken.

He was standing. She focused on that.

When the quiet got to be too much, Beth followed Harrison’s gaze, going still as awe washed over her in tones of pink and blue and yellow, reminiscent of the scene before her. Down the hill was a forest of trees surrounded by water. The trees were silhouettes, dark and spindly against the snow, mirrored back from the dark waters below. A thin layer of ice covered parts of it, adding character. It was like looking at an image that couldn’t be real but was, nature twisted in blackness and beauty. She glanced at Harrison, thinking of what life and death had decided for him, and seeing similarities between him and earthen artwork they studied.

“I didn’t realize there was a lake back here.”

“It’s the main reason I bought the house, and the land. You should see it in the spring, when the ice and snow are melting.” Harrison’s voice went soft, turned lyrical. “It is life and loss, meshed together in green and brown. Like a goodbye, and a hello. And the smell—everything is fresh and new.” He inhaled as if he was experiencing it. “It reminds me that I am nothing, and I like that.”

He looked at her, a slash of emotion before blankness, and then he stared ahead. “I don’t matter. I’ll live, and I’ll die, and the world around me will continue. Knowing my place, my irrelevance—it frees me.”