My mother preferred when it was cold. The windows of our home were always open, a hardcover book by Tolstoy or one of the Brontë sisters jammed in place to keep them ajar, even in the winter months. The lace curtains, crisp from the ice that clung to the material’s negative space, swayed in the wind. Small piles of snow would collect on the sills and floor, causing me great distress. I would gather it, balling it up and holding it in my hands until it melted. I would warm my fingers, red and throbbing from the cold, by the wood stove.
I was four years old when my mother’s belly started to grow. She insisted, more than ever before, on keeping the house cold. As she grew bigger and bigger, the house grew colder and colder. I felt obligated to endure it, to contain my own desire for warmth.
My mother and father sat down with me and explained there was a baby growing in my mother’s belly. I was going to have a little sister.
I was terrified she was going to be made of snow and ice like in the fairy tale my father had read me. The woman swallowed a snowflake and became pregnant and, in the end, the infant melted in the heat. I didn’t want my sister’s life to be filled with coldness, so I did my best to keep the snow away from my mother.
Then, one day, my mother went away. Days passed without any indication as to where she had gone. I kept the windows sealed, watching the snow through the glass. I had no memory of a time before the endless white, and wondered if it would always be this way.
The day my mother finally returned, I heard the car pull in the driveway. I was playing in my room, dressing my dolls in their winter regalia, ensuring everyone in the house was prepared for the arrival of the ice baby.
Downstairs, the door slammed. My parents’ hushed voices were barely audible. I jumped up from the floor, barrelling down the stairs.
There Mother stood, a bundle in her arms. Her giant, round belly had disappeared. Her blue eyes appeared flat, with dark circles beneath them. Her dark hair was messy like a bird’s nest, as if she hadn’t brushed it in days. She was surrounded by bags and strange contraptions. I stepped over a chair with no legs as I moved toward her.
“There’s my girl.” My father leaned down and grabbed me in his arms. “You hungry, doll?”
I wiggled, shaking my head. He returned me to the floor, and I stood on my tippy-toes to try and see what she was holding. Sunlight reflected off the snow, sending sparkles through the window and onto my mother. The wind howled and the house responded with creaks and moans.
My father made his way to the kitchen. Pots began clanging as he prepared lunch.
“Grace, this is your sister.” My mother knelt so I could look at the creature swaddled in a white blanket with pink rabbits. “Her name’s Annabelle.”
Her eyes were closed, her face squished as if she were already filled with disdain for the world. A quiet gurgle escaped her mouth as it curled into an O. Her brown eyes opened for a second and she looked at me. I reached out to touch her tiny hand, but upon impact withdrew in surprise. It was warm.