Snowdrops

As so many other stories do, this one started with a scene. I'm not going to mention which one. I'll leave that to you. This is not the story I set out to write, but it is the story that it became. Maybe it's not as polished as it could be, and maybe it's more purple than it could be, but I needed it out of my head so that I could continue with other things.

Selva is where I learned to ski, so it and the Dolomites have always held a special place in my heart.

If you speak the languages of Tirol, then I apologise. I do not, bar the simplest of phrases. The internet can give you the words, but it can never give you the idioms or the natural flow of a native. I have done my best, where possible.

- W

--

I stepped down off the bus, and waited patiently until it was my turn to pull my backpack out from the cramped and grimy luggage hold.

The crisp, cold air, the accents, and the smell of diesel brought back many memories of my childhood.

I checked the details of my booking on my phone, and found the map to my apartment. It would be a bit of a walk from the bus station, but it would get the stiffness from the long journey out of my legs, and give me time to catch my bearings. Time to adjust.

Above the town, the mountains loomed golden in the January sunlight. It looked like the snowfall had been heavy over the last few days; the stone had been softened by drifts of white, like icing sugar drizzled over gingerbread.

I lifted my pack onto my shoulders, wincing as the frame dug into my back. I slung my small faded day-bag awkwardly over my shoulder.

Around me milled a small sea of other tourists. Some were still hunting their belongings, others embarking on the same trek to their lodgings as I was. Bright colours surrounded me; Brand-new jackets in this year's style were everywhere, coupled with the incongruous woollen hats which seemed to be the season's touch of panache. Skiers and snowboarders stalked carefully between us with their equipment. Patrons at a cafe watched us new arrivals, their breath steaming in the scarcely-above-zero air.

The sun was bright on the snow; icicles glittered on eaves. I took a breath and squared my shoulders, adjusted my sunglasses on my nose and started walking.

It had been seven years since I was last here. But little seemed to have changed. I couldn't decide if that helped or not.

I worked my way up the hill, carefully negotiated several icy switchbacks in the path, found my way to the apartments and rang the doorbell. A matronly old lady appeared, and welcomed me in from the cold with a smile.

"Lucy?" she asked. "You are Lucy?"

"Si," I answered her.

"Where is... the partner?"

"He could not come. It's just me."

She heard the tone of my voice and dropped that line of questioning; I appreciated the sympathetic tutting and shaking of the head, and the brief mothering she gave me as she herded me up the stairs salved some of the sting.

She opened the apartment door and ushered me into the warm, wood-panelled interior. "Kitchen and table here. Il frigorifero. Through there - la doccia e il wc. Through there is bedroom. Please, a moment, I just take..."

I saw her reaching for the second set of pillows. "No, it's ok - please leave them," I said. "It's fine. I'll use them. Grazie."

"Ok, I leave for you. Do you have map? Of Selva?"

"Yes," I answered with a tired smile. "I've been here often before. I don't think it will have changed much from last time."

"Allora. The shop on the corner you walk past is good for food and drink. Tell Signore Alonso that you are staying with Maria and he look after you. Here is la chiave," she added, handing me a small set of keys. "I lock outside door at dieci... scusi... ten of the evening, yes? This one is key for that door. The light it stay on in hallway, please be quiet if you come in after."

"I will. Thank you."

"Di niente! Enjoy your stay."

She ambled off down the stairs. The doorbell rang. "Un momento!" I heard her call before I shut the door on the world.

I put my backpack down on the bed and took a moment to look around me at my lodgings. They would be just fine for the week that I would need them for. I walked to the window, and perched myself in the sun bay for a while to stare out at the view of the valley and of the Sella-Massif beyond.

I felt a momentary stab of acid bitterness; John should have been here, he was the one who'd badgered and nagged me into coming back here to Selva, to try to put my past to rest.

Then he'd found himself an intern to knock up and shack up with.

Cunt.

I sighed.

"Let it go," I whispered to myself.

I was back in the mountains. I'd come here despite everything. Back to this scene of so much history from my childhood.

And back to her.

Fuck him, I wouldn't let him take this moment from us. I banished him from my mind, casting him aside like a lizard sloughing off old skin.

I had more important things to deal with than the wanderings of my erstwhile partner's cock.

I made myself a black instant coffee, made a mental note to buy some beans for the grinder from Signore Alonso's corner store, dug out my walking gloves and a fleece scarf, and set off down into town to rent my skis and buy a lift pass for the week.

.:.

I leaned my skis into their rack, and placed my boots on the shelf below them. An older English couple stumbled in from outside and mistook me for a local; they tried to engage me in halting Italian. I smiled, somewhat flattered, introduced myself in English (to their visible relief), and made idle small-talk for as long as my stamina held. Then I excused myself and carried my groceries upstairs to my apartment.

I made myself some proper coffee and phoned my parents to check in and let them know I was safe. I deflected Mamma's probing questions with canned platitudes and long-honed guile.

Outside, the sun had set and the lights were coming on. Fairy lights flickered in some of the snow-covered trees and bushes, and I watched them, thinking about how much my sister would have loved this fairytale view.

I cooked myself a simple supper and poured a glass of wine for myself and one for her. I ate, and as I ate I watched the mountains fade to from pink to umber to sienna to black.

I cleaned up, put my plates and the small pots back in their places, and retrieved my old, stained map of the valley.

I would need to be early if I wanted to avoid the rush.

.:.

I caught the first cable car up to the top of the slope, and took my time getting the feel for skis again. It had been years, but the sensations and reflexes were merely dormant rather than wholly lost as I'd been so scared they might be.

A long gentle piste led down to the next chair lift, first of the chain of several that I needed to catch.

It was a beautiful morning. High white clouds against cobalt sky, bright white snow painted onto the dark almost-black of the pines. I felt an almost unreal sense of calm, my only real concern being getting there before too many others did. I did not want an audience.

A sense of detachment had taken me. I felt dispassionate, disconnected, separate from the world but for the bit of me that responded to the slope, and the other bit of me that quietly repeated the mantra "It's ok. It's ok Lucy. You can do this."

My therapist would be screaming right about now. The thought almost amused me.

A lift. A piste. Another lift. Another piste. A pause for a rest, to drink a sip of water, to try to catch the breath that just didn't seem to want to come.

My stomach felt hollow. I gritted my teeth for the final part of this act of pilgrimage.

The button lift, the short blue run downslope.

The big snow park where she had fallen on the ridiculous apology for a half-pipe.

We'd laughed and laughed.

But she hadn't got up.

She'd never got up again.

I had to stop for a moment to lean on my ski poles and cough up the bile.

My memories of the day were hazy and hard to summon. But the hateful place looked like it had not changed much. And that somehow made it immeasurably worse.

I could still see the gaggle of people frantically milling around my sister.

I could remember the way the wind had frozen my tears as the helicopter took off and rushed her away.

I could still hear the animalistic noise Mamma had made when they told us that my sister was gone forever.

Somehow I stayed on my feet. Somehow I managed to reach the gate. Somehow, I removed my skis.

A simple metal plaque was set into a stone pillar by the portal. In front it lay a worn blue teddy bear, half-covered in ice.

I touched the pillar, and the act of touching it brought me back to the present. I took a sobbing breath, and then another. I crouched down to try to ease the agony in my chest, and squinted at the words.

Susanna Ella Fitzroy 1999.08.01 - 2013.01.14 - Ella Bella, our light, our life -

"Oh Jesus, oh fuck, Sue, I miss you so much," I whispered to the uncaring wind.

I brushed some ice crystals out of the lines of her name.

"I came back. I'm sorry it's taken me so long. It still hurts too much. But I'm here now. I've got something of yours, Sue. I found it after... after you left us. I've been keeping it safe so I still had part of you for myself. But... I think... I think it's time for me to let it go. So... so here you are."

I placed the small silver clover charm in a patch of clean white snow next to the bear, and gently curled the fine silver chain around it.

It would be safe there for long enough. And if not, so be it.

I somehow stood up and stared up at the mountains around us.

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better big sister to you. I should never have gone into this fucking place. You always wanted to keep up with me. I should never have done it. And I'm sorry. And I miss you. I miss you every single fucking hour of every shitty miserable fucking day that I have to go on without you. I wish I could have told you once more how much I love you. All I can do is say it here. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

A small gust of wind blew through, teasing my fringe free of my fleece cap. I tried to fight back the tears that were never far from the surface when I thought of her.

"Well. I've got to go, munchkin," I managed. I kissed my fingers and touched them to her name. "It's some distance back to Selva. If I don't see you before I go I'll... I'll see you later, alligator," I managed as my throat closed up on me.

I turned away. I put my skis on in autopilot and managed to fumble my way onto the lift that would take me back up the slope.

It was empty but for me, thank God, because the pain and hurt and loss simply wouldn't stay locked away any more.

.:.

I slid off the chair lift, finding my way half-blind through the small gaggle of people lurking at the exit. I needed to get away from everything, needed to get back to my room so that I could rebuild my walls and repaint my facade and try to find some reservoir of inner strength that would let me pretend that I could function in this cruel and hateful world.

I set off down the slope, steering slow, ugly, ungainly novice turns on the near-virgin piste. My nose was streaming, my chest felt like a steel bar was locked over it, and the cold and my tears were affecting my vision even behind the protection of my goggles.

I came to a steeper technical section, where I stopped to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Faster skiers blew past me, and I waited for an extended gaggle to clear before setting off once more.

I was not paying the mountain any of the attention it deserved.

And the mountain paid my wanton lack of respect back in spades.

.:.

I took a moment or two to filter through the bad news that my body was telling me. My left shoulder burned like fire, and hard-packed gritty ice was packed into the gap between my face, googles and helmet. Bitterly-cold water was trickling down the front of my ski jacket, chilling my stomach and breasts as it did so.

I screamed in frustration, got my right arm under me, and levered myself out of the mess of icy gravel I'd ended up in at the piste's edge. I wiped my nose, and my hand came away bloody. I spat grit out of my mouth, and cursed like a fishwife as I saw the little scarlet blood blossoms on the white snow.

"Fuck," I swore. "Jesus Harold tap-dancing Christ, haven't you taken enough from me you fucking cunt! Fuck you! Fuck you, you fucking cunt! Leave me the fuck alone!"

I balled up my fist and punched the slope twice, then kicked it for good measure, some mad part of me hoping that the mountain got the fucking message this time.

Pain lanced through me as I took a breath.

"Ow," I whimpered. "Ow, Jesus, fuck, that hurts."

I levered myself up so that I was at least sitting. I probed my teeth with my tongue, and swore as the inside of my lip throbbed. I could taste the blood in my mouth.

"You fucking idiot," I said to myself. "You stupid dumb cunting fucking idiot."

I stared downslope, trying to catch my breath and my bearings. My skis were of course nowhere to be seen.

"Fuck," I whispered once more.

I heard the hiss of skis on snow, and a tall man in red and white high-visibility clothing slid to an abrupt stop beside me, sending a picture-perfect puff of powder billowing downslope.

"Hallo! Alles gut? Bist du Ok?"

"Sorry," I said, staring up at him. "Ich... I..."

"Are you OK?" he repeated. "You fell hard. I saw it. You are bleeding?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I'm bleeding from somewhere. My nose and mouth, I think.."

He clicked out of his skis and crouched down beside me. "Hello. I am Anton. Open your eyes and look at me, please," he said; something about the way he did it suppressed all the normal argumentative bits of me. I squinted at him as he stared intently at my face. "Is your vision blurry? Are you dizzy?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. It's hard to tell with the cold air. I don't feel dizzy..."

"Do you feel tired? Sleepy?"

"No."

"Any pain in the back or the neck?"

"No. Just this shoulder."

"Ok. Super. Do you know what happened?"

"I was skiing down the long red run from... I think this is Piz Sella? I wasn't concentrating and... I guess I must have crossed my skis or caught my edge when I turned."

"Ok. Good. What is your name?"

"Lucy."

"Do you know where you are, Lucy?"

"In Selva, in Val Gardena."

"And when did you get to Val Gardena, Lucy?"

"Yesterday."

"And can you tell me where are your friends, Lucy?"

"I am here by myself."

"Ach. That was not wise," he admonished me as he pulled his backpack off and opened it. "You should not ski alone. It is dangerous."

"I know," I sighed. "But... I... didn't really have much of a choice."

"Here. Take this, please." He pushed a wad of gauze into my hand. He gently lifted it to my face and showed me where to hold it. "For the blood. I think it is just a nosebleed. Push gently to stop the flow. I am going to call the ski patrol, ok?"

"Thank you for stopping."

He snorted, amused. "It is what I do."

He pulled a radio out of his jacket pocket and had a brief exchange in Italian that was too fast for me to parse. "They will be here soon," he said. "I will stay with you, yes?"

"Thank you. You're very kind," I murmured. "Um. You sound German but speak Italian so well. That's must be nice. To be able to be fluent like that. My Italian is terrible. Mamma is so disappointed in me."

"I'm Austrian and this is Tirol. Almost everyone here speaks both languages," he said, as he ran his fingers around the rim of my helmet, gently brushing away the compacted snow. "So you are Italian then? You sound English. So proper," he said, with a smile.

"On Mamma's side I am, yes... English on the other." I swallowed, strangely shy. "Your English is really good too," I said softly.

He grinned. "My school teacher would not agree, but thank you."

I winced as he probed my right temple. "Ow. That hurts."

"Lucy, do you have any pain anywhere else? You said your shoulder, yes?"

"My left shoulder is really sore, and my knees hurt a bit but I think they're ok..."

"Ok. How sore is your shoulder?"

"It feels like I pulled a muscle." I lifted my arm, then cried out. "Ow, fuck and shit, that hurts like bollocks."

Anton took my arm and gently helped me lower it. "How sore is that, Lucy? Can you say between one and ten?"

"Seven. No," I added, as I gasped for breath. "Eight. Yes. Definitely a fucking eight."

"Ok. Hold you arm like this for a moment, please, while I get what I need. Here. I will strap it down to your chest so it will not move. Lucy, when did you get to Val Gardena?"

"Yesterday, and you already asked me that."

"I am making sure you are not concussed," he said as he gently positioned my arm and fastened it. "I am checking for short term memory loss. So, I will be asking you these things every five minutes for now, ok?"

"Oh. Ok. I don't mind..."

"Do you remember my name, Lucy?"

"You are Anton."

"Good. That is good. Can you tell me why you are here?"

"To visit my little sister," I whispered, unthinking.

I started to cry.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I..." I took a deep, agonised breath as I fought for control. "I... it... it has been a hard day. I'm sorry."

"Where is your little sister? You said you were here alone. Lucy, is your sister somewhere here on the mountain?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." I swallowed some blood, coughed, continued. "She... her name is... on the memorial by the snow park..."

"Scheisse," he sighed as he sat back on his haunches. "Now I understand. Scheisse, I am sorry. All the people here know of her. My father... cared for her. You were here to visit her... her Gedenkstein. Oh, das ist schwer." He crouched down and looked up at me. "Lucy, I will stay with you. Do not worry," he added gently.

"I'm sorry," I gulped.

"No, Lucy, not at all. It is ok."

He glanced upslope. "Good, it is Paolo. He is super. Lucy, listen to me now. We will get you down to Selva and have you checked by the paramedic, ok? We will take you down in the sled."

I fumbled for his hand. "Please don't leave me," I whispered.

He squeezed my hand gently with his. "I will not, Lucy. Just be patient for a little while."

He stood. "Ciao, Paolo. Si è ferita alla spalla. Dobbiamo fare in fretta..."

He switched into high speed, technical Italian and I was too strung out to even try to follow.

.:.

My waking dream continued with a terrifying downhill giant slalom run in the constricting claustrophobia of a rescue stretcher, my arms strapped inside and my body insulated by a sleeping bag. Paolo was a truly gifted skier, and he chose an almost perfectly smooth line as he carved down the remainder of the piste to the big cable car station at the bottom of the run. Anton followed him down. Somewhere along the line he had even managed to find my skis.

The two men and a gorgeous blonde named Giselle unpacked me, checked me again and loaded me into the gondola for the trip down into town. Anton and Giselle accompanied me down. My shoulder ached and throbbed with every breath, and I leaned against the perspex side of the cabin, answering Giselle's regularly-spaced questions with what good grace I could muster as I tried not to break down into tears again.

A grey-haired man in a weathered jacket labelled "Rettungssanitäter" checked me over; his heavily-accented English curt but his touch deft and gentle, and he decided that my shoulder was strained rather than broken. He also admonished me for skiing alone and launched into a brief grumpy rant about irresponsible children and how lucky I was that it was morning and not the last run down of the day.

I accepted his care meekly, thanked him profusely when he was done, and tried to ignore his amused snort.