I turn to face her and try to maintain my calm. “A good friend. And you know her too. She’s also known as your teacher, Miss Ivy.” I hold my breath after the admission.
Emmy shrieks. “Miss Ivy! My dance teacher, Miss Ivy?” She’s bouncing in my arms. I set her down, and she proceeds to hop and flail her arms about, her ponytail lifting and falling with a second’s delay behind her movements.
Finally, I exhale a laugh. “Yes, it’s Miss Ivy. She’s going to join us sledding.”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Emmy punches her fists into the air like she’s boxing the ceiling, if she could reach it.
As much as I want her to be fond of the unforgettable woman, I still have to rub a hand over my sternum to press against the anxiety. My hopes are used to being crushed, but Emmy is still young. Already, she’s missed out on so much. While I don’t think Ivy would ever act unfeelingly with Emmy, I’m not yet sure that our story is a future Ivy would want. Besides, getting to know each other was only supposed to be for Christmas, right?
Emmy runs to peek out the window at the grey sky above that’s quickly becoming darker with an impending snowstorm. It’s afternoon, and we’re going to the pavilion, but even if it gets dark, the paths for sledding are illuminated by the lights overhead. Birch Borough sponsors a makeshift sledding station every year. It begins at the top of the hill, and you slide down until you reach the edge of the ice rink at the bottom.
“Okay, miss, let’s get you ready for sledding.” I kneel to her level—at least closer to her level—and help her put on her mittens, a hat, and a new pale-blue snowsuit that I ordered for her as soon as I felt the fall weather in the air. Even before we moved to the small New England town, I hoped for moments of adventure outside with her this winter. I’m committed to giving her memories to hold on to for the rest of her life. I decided to provide Emmy with the best childhood possible. That means sledding is essential.
“Ready!” Emmy yells, bouncing to the door and onto the front walk. She looks like an adorable version of a man walking on the moon in her new suit. She waddles into the snow, but at least it will keep her warm.
“Yes, but am I ready?” I ask myself before locking the door behind us and heading toward Ivy.
∞∞∞
I’m pacing in the snow at the base of the sledding hill, the shouts of overzealous sledders as they fly down the slope hitting my ears from across the way, when I spot Ivy walking toward us. Her dark-golden braid is wrapped over the side of her shoulder, a smile wide enough to power the lights around us on her face. Emmy has been making snow angels for the last ten minutes, since we got here a bit too early. Call it excitement or nerves, but when I see Ivy arrive looking like an actual angel, I know I made the right choice in asking her to join us.
Suddenly, I’m hit with a wave of shyness, my feet planted in the snow and my hands in my pockets. I’m trying to remember all the ways that I’ve proven to possess even an ounce of charm in the past. Have I ever been suave? What is game? Will I be able to wrestle it from the depths of my younger self? So many questions and life choices unexpectedly swirl through my mind as Ivy reaches us. Without a word, she plops down beside Emmy in the snow and begins making snow angels herself.
My daughter’s contagious laughter is enough to snap me back into the present. Instantly, I’m not worried about whether I have swag. Rather, I’m far more concerned with how to make this feeling of pure joy stretch beyond this experience. Because the image of Ivy and my daughter making snow angels will be one that I’ll remember when I drift into sleep tonight.
“Are you gonna join us, Bear?” There’s a hint of amusement in Ivy’s tone. She alluded to me being like a bear in the dance shop. Now, she’s apparently turned it into a nickname.
“C’mon, Daddy!” Emmy yells. At her prompting, I plop myself beside my daughter and move my arms and legs like a jumping jack in frozen powder. When Emmy is satisfied thatwe’ve made angels pretty enough to satisfy her, she hops up and points to the top of the hill.
“Now, can we go sledding?”
I push myself up to sit on the snow, my back cold but my insides warming as Ivy lifts herself from the snow as well. I finally gather the courage to take a good look at her. Her bright-red lipstick stands out like a cardinal surrounded by winter white. I clear my throat.
“Yeah—yes,” I stutter. What is wrong with me? “It’s time, Emmy Bear.” I wink and watch Ivy’s mouth drop open.
“I didn’t know you called her that. How long has that been her nickname?” Her slight frown as she analyzes how she managed such a coincidence is . . . adorable.
“Forever,” Emmy answers. “He calls me other things too. Wait . . . Miss Ivy, you called Daddy “Bear” when you got here,” she adds then dismisses it with a shrug of her tiny shoulders. “I guess he is my daddy, so he’d have to be a bear too.”
Ivy laughs. “Yes, he’d have to be.” The slight tint to her cheeks, visible even in the soft glow of the afternoon, tells me that she’s pleased to have given me a nickname that suits me so well. Rising, Ivy waits for me to do the same before she turns toward the hill.
Emmy’s hand reaches for hers. Watching closely, I register the surprise on Ivy’s face when she looks down at their now-joined fingers. Emmy is watching a group of sledders who have just taken off from the top of the hill. Of course, she doesn’t understand the monumental action of reaching for her dance teacher instead of me. But the sight aligns something in me that I didn’t know was out of place.
And when Ivy looks at me over her shoulder, a disbelieving smile on her face as tears brim in her eyes, I give her an encouraging nod. Those are my girls. My girls. The thought hits me out of nowhere. Could that be possible? When we first met,I could give her only myself, but now I have a daughter. Could Emmy’s presence actually be a welcome bonus to our package deal and not less than what Ivy hoped her life would contain?
As we climb to the top of the hill, we arrive at a tiny makeshift shack with a couple of teenagers handing out sleds near a glass mason jar stuffed with cash, Tips written in big letters across the front, along with the high school’s logo.
“Whoa!” one of the young men exclaims, looking up at me. “Are you in sports or something?”
“He’s a boxer,” Ivy interjects, her eyes shining. “He’s huge, right?”
“Hey, now,” I protest.
Ivy purses her lips together, no doubt to keep from laughing.
“You could play in the NFL or something,” a boy with the same haircut I had in high school says. It must show my age if the style is cool again. “Ryan! Get over here. You’ve gotta see this guy!”
A third teenage boy—I’m assuming Ryan—appears with rosy cheeks and ears, his coat hanging open as only an audacious youngster could pull off while standing on a snowy mountain slope.“Whoa,” is all he says.
