Venturing outside for the first time in months, Jack and I walked from our apartment to the park. It was springtime once again, and the weight of winter was starting to lift. People were emerging from hibernation to face the grey and foggy months they knew were ahead; all of us on the island were accustomed to this pattern. The earth was coming alive, smelling of dampness and rebirth, and it filled me with a sense of hope. It reminded me of a beautiful bruise oxidizing: green, yellow, blue, and then purple.
“We should take a trip this summer,” Jack suggested.
I felt a flutter in my chest. I couldn’t help but smile. “Where should we go?”
“You always talk about New York. Why don’t we go there?”
As I considered the possibilities, I heard a youthful, sing-song voice. I glanced toward the precipice of the park where I saw, sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, a little girl in a summer dress with short brown pigtails. She was singing. Encircled by yellow dandelions, she snatched one from the earth and placed her thumb beneath the flower’s head. With an effortless flick, the top popped clean off and landed on the grass nearby. She continued her ritual. I listened, closely, straining to hear her tiny voice.
Mama had a baby and her head popped off.
Mama had a baby and her head popped off.
Mama had a baby and her head popped oooooooofffffffffff.
I felt liquid climbing up my throat. Just as I turned away, vomit spewed from my mouth. Jack grabbed my hair, holding it away from my face with one hand and stroking my back with the other. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jack had this look in his eye.
When I was eight, my grandfather insisted I accompany him on his annual trip to snare rabbits. My father used to go with him when he was a boy, so when I told my parents I didn’t want to, they said it would be good for me to experience new things. Things that they had already experienced.
“Will you come too?” I asked my father, as he sat in the living room. I was dressed in my one-piece purple snowsuit, hat, mittens, scarf, and boots. I could barely bend my arms.
Glancing up from his novel, he studied my face. “No, your grandfather and I don’t get along so well anymore.” He shifted his gaze to the window, his fingers clutching the edges of his book. “You should go wait for him outside.”
I hesitated, watching my father as he continued to stare out at the trees, wondering if he would say anything else.
He remained silent.
“Okay.” I turned, heading for the door.
Snowflakes were whipping and whirling in a tornado-like pattern as my grandfather’s black pickup truck floated into sight. He pulled into the driveway, killing the engine before climbing out.
“Hello, doll,” he called.
I walked toward him slowly. I hardly knew this man. He was tall and thin, with a carefully trimmed white beard and hair that was slicked back, resting just beneath his ears. He wore a red-and-black flannel jacket, jeans, and darkly tinted aviators. He walked around the truck and as he crouched to hug me, I saw my reflection in his sunglasses.
“Hello, Grandfather.”
He opened the door and helped me onto the passenger seat. My legs dangled, unable to reach the floor.
My grandfather climbed into the driver’s seat, and as he shut the door, he passed me a contraption. “Hold onto this for Grandpa.”
Reluctantly, I reached for it, placing it between my knees. It resembled the noose I’d seen once in a movie my parents said I wasn’t allowed to watch but had watched anyway. “What is it?”
“It’s a snare.” He looked over his shoulder as he backed out of the driveway. “To catch rabbits.”
I examined the snare. It was just a stick with an attached wire. Tugging its end, I watched as the silvery loop tightened and loosened.
We drove in silence to my grandparents’ cabin, the wipers flicking at full speed as snow flew at us, my grandfather hunched forward, clutching the steering wheel. I stared out the windshield. The dash was covered in a layer of dust that lifted off as soon as the heaters kicked in. It felt like we were hurtling through outer space.
When we arrived at the threshold, my grandfather put the truck in park before climbing out to open the wooden gate. I examined the cabin, which was built from misshapen logs that had been painted light blue. The driveway was completely untouched and white. It looked like something from a fairy tale; a witch’s dwelling in the woods that a group of kids had happened upon in misfortune.
My grandfather returned, climbing into the driver’s seat once again, leaving his seat belt unbuckled as we drove through. The truck beeped repeatedly in warning as I glanced in the rear-view mirror, noting the disturbance we were causing to the peaceful, resting snow. An ugly wreckage of tire marks and dripping oil.
My grandfather led me down a path into the woods. I didn’t know what to do with the snare, so I carried it as we walked, clutching it tightly. I wanted to drop it and pretend it was an accident. I didn’t want any part of this.
The evergreens were blanketed with snow, their limbs drooping from the weight. We walked, and I counted the trees.
I’d gotten to sixty-six by the time my grandfather stopped. “This is a good spot. Give me that.” He motioned to the snare, and I handed it to him. He scanned the distance before bending, raising the snare, and driving it into the snow with a sharp blow.
I dropped to my bum then flopped back, windshield-wiping my arms and legs.
“Look at me,” I announced. “I’m an angel.”
“Grace, this isn’t playtime. Get up.”
I stood, embarrassed for having been reprimanded. Staring at the ground, I thought of the rabbit, wondering if it would be a mother or a father.
“Let’s go back and wait.” Grandfather began walking, and I hurried to catch up without saying anything.
I counted the trees again, wondering if the rabbit’s babies would die because of us.
Sixty-eight.
When we arrived at the cabin, my grandfather pushed the door open and I followed, scanning the small interior quickly. I had never been inside before. It consisted of one open room. There was a sagging periwinkle sofa in the middle, upholstered in a fabric that resembled corduroy, a small table with two chairs against the only window, and an unmade cot against the wall. A stove, a sink, and an ancient-looking refrigerator were bunched in the opposite corner.
My grandfather grabbed the kettle from the stovetop and filled it from the sink’s tap. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”
“Okay.” I nodded before adding, “Please.”
He turned the burner on and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. Hesitantly, I sat on the sofa and waited.
It was freezing in the cabin, and my breath took shape as it left my mouth. I rubbed my hands together before lifting them to my mouth and blowing on them.
The kettle began whistling louder and louder until my grandfather grabbed it and flicked the burner off. He filled two mugs, stirring the mixture before pulling a silver flask from his breast pocket. Adding a generous amount of the amber liquid to his own cup, he walked over and passed me the other. “Do you like marshmallows?”
I looked inside the cup, the white marshmallows bobbing on the brown surface, the steam warming my face.
“That’s a stupid question,” my grandfather snickered. “Of course you do. All kids like marshmallows.”
I didn’t.
Sitting next to me, he took large gulps from his mug. His smell was unfamiliar to me, mixing with the scent of chocolate. I peered down into my cup and, using my thumb, pushed the marshmallows into the liquid, pretending they were little creatures I was drowning. “Help me, help me,” I said quietly from the side of my mouth, in a cartoon-like way.
My grandfather took my hand as we walked the trail, retracing our path through the snow. I tried to distract myself by stepping only in my grandfather’s footprints. He was a big man, with big feet, and my footprint didn’t even fill half of his. I struggled to keep up and fumbled. My grandfather caught me and hauled me upright by the arm. “Pay attention to where you’re going,” he scolded. “You need to be vigilant.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
As we walked, I prayed the snare would be empty.
“We got one,” my grandfather whispered.
I could hear the creature struggling, scurrying and thumping. I swallowed the lump in my throat as he picked up his pace, dragging me along.
We arrived, and there it was, a white rabbit, grunting and squeaking like a tiny piglet, the wire noose wrapped tightly around its neck. It was about the size of our family cat. I remembered learning in science class that rabbits changed colour in the winter so they could hide. This was supposed to protect them from predators.
The rabbit was in shock. Petrified, it stared at me, and I stared back. Its nose twitched and I shrieked.
My grandfather snatched the rabbit by the ears, peering into its face for a moment. Then he dug in his pocket, pulling his knife from its sheath.
“Grandfather, don’t.”
“This is how the world works, Grace.” He lowered his knife and cut the rabbit’s throat. Blood poured out, the snow reddening and melting in a lopsided circle at my grandfather’s feet. As the bleeding slowed, it beaded on the rabbit’s fur before slowly trickling onto the ground, drop by drop. “Kill or be killed.”
When we returned home, my grandfather presented his kill to my mother. She dissected the rabbit on the kitchen counter. I remember the blood, the bits of pink flesh, and the chunks of fur.
Mother boiled its parts in a stockpot on the stove, which caused the entire house to smell of death. She filled jars with liquid and placed the remains inside, like some sick science experiment. The bottles sat on the shelf in our kitchen for weeks. Every time I saw them, I visualized the rabbit’s shiny black eyes, remembering the way it had looked at me.
It was the exact look Jack gave me that day.