Thaw

Marion squinted at the colorful blob near the center of the fishing pond. She could just make out Ruby’s bright purple scarf, lying on the ice like a discarded snakeskin, and the blue and yellow blocks of her parka. She knew better than to call out to her when Ruby was in one of her moods, but Marion hoped she'd at least kept her mittens on.

At least she didn’t have to worry about her on the ice. Dan had been taking her out fishing since she was a babe in a sling, casting the line over her head on early summer mornings, and showing her how to handle herself on ice since she was old enough to walk. Ruby had drilled her first ice fishing hole when she was just seven, working an auger taller than she was. She had a keen sense of the ice, almost wolflike, and had twice warned Marion and Dan from ice they thought was safe but had turned out to be too thin to support them.

Marion knew the first winter without Dan was going to be a rough one. He’d prepared them well to survive on their own in the cabin. He’d known that they’d be cut off from the roads for days sometimes after an ice storm, and built a deep cellar that could hold a month of food, if they were careful about it. Marion had a woodstove she could cook on once the gas ran out and heated the place to sauna levels. There was a well and a backup well, a satellite phone for emergencies, and a DVD collection that Marion credited with having saved her and Ruby’s relationship more than once.

They were warm, fed, and comfortable - everything Dan had hoped for.

But food was nothing without hunger, and even the heartiest fires did nothing to thaw the persistent numbness they’d both succumbed to. Marion tried not to show she was forcing herself to choke down their dinners of rice and canned beaver meat, and Ruby wouldn’t eat more than a few bites at a time. Marion had lost the will to argue with her about it. Most of their nights ended in the sharp and bitter silence left after a fight.

She knew Ruby blamed her for the accident. Hell, she blamed herself.

The pond had frozen hard that week, the ice thickening by the day. Marion had seen the test holes Ruby drilled off their dock, measuring the ice in inches, waiting until it was thick enough to hold them. Today was the first time she’d gone out to fish, and she hadn’t taken the little gas heater Dan always used on long days. She’d been out there almost four hours.

The grief counselor had said that giving Ruby her space was paramount, especially since she didn’t have a room of her own in the cabin, and Marion had tried her hardest. She did her best not to make any demands of Ruby, quietly picking up wet mittens and towels and setting them to dry by the stove, not asking too many questions, and letting her go out for however long she needed. She needed the space too, even if that just meant a chance to sob wildly in the shower for five minutes before going on with the day.

Marion looked out again at the miserable little lump on the ice, seeing now more clearly the way Ruby sat hunched over, curled into herself, and found herself putting her boots on before she realized what she was doing. She slipped on her thin wool gloves, and a thicker pair of mittens on top, stuck a pair of stove-warmed socks into the back pockets of her snow pants (an insulation trick from Dan for which she’d be eternally grateful) and pulled on her heaviest jacket. After a moment, she grabbed a second pair of warm socks and stuffed them into her pocket.

Getting down to the pond was more treacherous than she remembered - the function of an older, less sure-footed body, and the frozen rain that had preceded the snowfall and left a thick sheet of ice on the steps. Marion wished she’d strapped the metal-clawed crampons to her boots as she came down hard on her (thankfully padded) rear.

By the time she reached the dock, she could see Ruby clearly. She’d propped the fishing pole so she didn’t have to hold it, and sat with her arms crossed, hand buried in her armpits. Marion eased herself off the dock and began treading lightly across the ice, not sure if Ruby noticed her there. She moved to the side, hoping she wouldn’t startle Ruby by coming up at her from directly behind, watching her as she made her way to the fishing spot.

She was almost halfway there when Ruby suddenly sat bolt upright, whirled around and yelled, “Stop! Back up!”

Marion froze and held her hands in the air. “I didn’t mean to startle you -” she began.

“Back UP!” Ruby repeated, her voice tight and intense. “Back UP. Step left. NOW!”

Marion’s heart flew into her throat. She froze. It took every ounce of will to gingerly take a step back and to the left, pulse pounding in her ears. That was Dan’s voice. His tone, his cadence, his every-fiber-alert-to-protect posture. Ruby’s voice was clear, but insistent, just like his. Marion took another shaky step to the left, and watched Ruby sag back onto the upturned bucket she’d been perched on.

“Too thin?” Marion asked, moving further in the direction Ruby had directed her to. Ruby nodded and turned around, confident that Marion would make it across safely.

When she arrived, Marion thrust the now-lukewarm pair of heated socks at Ruby without looking at her - another trick the therapist had taught her. She felt Ruby take them and stand up, handing Marion the fishing pole as she stuffed them into her own back pockets, swapping them out for a colder pair, before taking the rod back.

Marion turned around to pick up the discarded purple scarf and looked at it fondly. It had been one of her first real projects with the wool Dan had carded and spun himself. Imperfect, a little warped, and starting to fade, she’d made it just for Ruby. She gently draped it around Ruby’s neck and scooted her way around the fishing hole to the other side, carefully maneuvering herself down to a seat, staring into the hole in the ice.

“Thank you for the warning,” she said. “That makes three.” For a long moment, there was silence. Marion forced herself not to look up. Then, she heard a faint sniffle and couldn’t help looking.

Tears ran down Ruby’s face as she stared into the ice, collecting into a growing icicle at her chin. Marion nearly reached out to wipe them away before she gave herself frostbite, but held herself back. She waited. She’d been waiting so long.