Jane Sadusky

Thirty below and the cold always won. Running full out, the heater barely kept our feet thawed or the windshield clear.

Luggage, blankets, and my younger sisters surrounded me. Out of Ashby we played Car Bingo, and once the sun disappeared I scratched holes in the frost, trying for a glimpse of the Northern Lights. I etched an entire landscape on my corner of the window, complete with streets and skyscrapers. The roadside drifts rose above the car. Without traffic, and with farms and towns miles apart, the darkness always felt absolute and endless.

To my father, more than one stop on the twelve-hour drive was defeat. Alone, he let only the need for gas pull him over. Once, when I was about six, he passed town after town, wanting to reach a wayside he found on the map. When he finally gave up at a crossroads gas station it was too late. I spent the rest of the trip soggy and cold, the dark fabric of my snow pants hiding the wetness. The memory is brilliant and uncomfortable, even as the driver who can now stop whenever she wants.

My mother leaned against the car door, saying little. She was the Winter Mother now.

The Summer Mother drove us to Lake Claire every day. She worked alongside us in the sand, carrying buckets of water, crawling around, shaping moats and walls. We’d go all afternoon, until we covered half the beach. By December the laughter leaked out of her face, leaving a shallow smile that stayed on the surface, like it wasn’t really part of her.

We always stopped in Lyall, North Dakota, a town of slumping houses and one café. I hated the greasy, over-cooked smell of the place. The bathroom was outside, past the gas pumps. The floor looked like the toilet had just backed up and the sink was sticky under a scum of soap, hair, and grime. I avoided my eerie Twilight Zone reflection in the mirror.

As the tires squeaked over the frozen parking lot, we scrambled to find boots and coats. I nearly fell stepping out of the car, as though I had been weeks at sea. The first breath left my lungs stiff and icy, suspended for an instant between life and death.

I was the first one into the diner. Three men in heavy jackets and caps sat at the counter. The lone waitress was turning chairs upside down on the tables, getting ready to mop the floor. I could hear someone washing dishes in the kitchen.