The Ice Queen

I made my way through the hedge of gardenia and peered into the window. A white sofa. A framed red heart on the wall. Nina opened the door and stood there. I think I’d woken her. Her hair was mussed. Her eyes were foggy. I wasn’t quite certain whether she recognized me. Even when she spoke, she wasn’t connecting in any way. I might have been the paperboy or a door-to-door salesman.

“Your brother’s not here. He’s at the Science Center. There’s some sort of alleged crisis.”

“Yeah, well, a friend of mine tried to cut off his hands. He was in the lightning study.”

“Some people make their own grief.”

Nina eyed me meaningfully. So it was true. She didn’t like me. She was wearing a smock with paint smeared over it. I noticed she didn’t invite me in.

“Are you painting?”

“Yes. Obviously.” The color was yellow. I could see that on her fingers, her blue jeans.

“Do you have any American cheese?” I said.

Nina laughed. A funny, broken sound, but light, like chimes. “You’re here for cheese?”

I took the mole out of my pocket. Nina took a step back, stunned.

“Jeez.” She nearly laughed.

“I’m taking care of it for my friend.”

Nina opened the door, and I followed her inside. We went through the living room, past the heart on the wall, into the kitchen. I could smell paint. I liked the smell: something covering up something, something brand-new.

I sat down while Nina rummaged through the fridge. I put the mole down and stared at it. It didn’t move. I hoped it wasn’t going to die on me.

“Please don’t put that thing on the table,” Nina said when she approached with a packet of orange cheese.

I lifted the mole, set my backpack on the table, then placed the mole atop it.

“Some things aren’t meant to be pets.” Nina sat down at the table. She gazed at the mole. “Fair creature who cannot see or hear or want or need.” She looked at me. “It doesn’t seem to like the cheese.”

She went to the pantry for some of the food my brother left out for bats at their feeder in the yard. Fruit and veggies pureed and stored in a jar. I took a spoon of the mush and placed it in a little plate. The mole took a mouthful of what appeared to be smashed grape. I had the book in my backpack. A Hundred Ways to Die. The mole was probably sitting on it right now. I saw the pulse at Nina’s throat, delicate, pale pink.

“What is it like to love someone?” I asked.

Nina laughed. At any rate, she made a noise. “Ridiculous question. There are countless answers to that one.”

“Then to you. What does it mean to you?”

I could see into the yard from where I was sitting. The sky was salmon, then gray, then dark and deep, a bluish color, one I hadn’t seen before. Nothing like New Jersey. Something infinite, hot, faraway.

Nina was gazing out at the yard.

“I thought you loved him,” I said.

Nina turned back to me, surprised.

“Ned,” I said. “I thought you truly loved him.”

Nina glared and went to the sink. She just stood there. Didn’t bother to turn on the water. Oh, she said. I think that’s what she said.

“Look, I was there in the library,” I told her. “That’s why I’m saying this to you. You think I want to get involved? I didn’t want to see you, but I did. I know you withdrew A Hundred Ways to Die. If Ned knew what you were planning, it would destroy him.”

Nina laughed, but the sound was dry. Nothing funny here.

“I’m the one destroyed,” she said.

“You’re planning to kill yourself.”

“Oh, far worse.”

Nina turned and left the room, so I followed her. I went down the dark hall. Nina was standing in the study, now cleared of furniture. She had painted one wall yellow. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light, but the room was glowing. Yellow did that. This yellow.

“Nice color,” I said.

Nina sat down on the floor, legs crossed. She’d covered the carpet with a drop cloth. I sat across from her and watched her cry. When she was done she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands.

“You want to know what love is? It’s the thing that ruins you.”

Nina looked straight at me. She reached out and for a second I thought she meant to hit me. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. I was rude, asking too many questions, insinuating myself where I wasn’t wanted, spying on her. Instead, she took my hand and put it on her stomach. She was farther along than anyone would have guessed. She’d kept her secret well. I could feel the baby moving.