The Thawing

Christy Hartman

The chill started in her stomach.

Placing the next sample in front of Isabelle, the baker grinned. “This is my signature cake, vanilla sponge with Chantilly cream and berries. I made the same for your mother and aunts.”

“Neither Andy nor I like berries.” Isabelle eyed the pink and white confection on the plate. She laid a small forkful on her tongue, grimacing as the vanilla sponge slid down her throat. Frost climbed up her esophagus, trapping her voice behind ice-cube tonsils.

She gestured frantically to her fiancé, hoping he’d relay her distaste for the cake, but his rich chocolate eyes had become slate-grey. Andy sat, still as stone, fork raised halfway to his mouth. Isabelle’s mother, Hilda, happily removed his fork and confirmed with the baker that Chantilly cake would, of course, be the perfect choice.

This cake tasting afternoon had been arranged by Hilda, along with every other detail of the wedding: guest list, linens, menu, dress fitting, makeup and hair.

Over the next month, Isabelle, with her frozen voice box, dutifully listened to all the plans and attended her bridal shower. She smiled silent thankyous for the gifts and well wishes lavished on her by her mother’s friends. The older women laughed and reminisced about being young brides, assuring Isabelle that her voice would return after the wedding. Isabelle wished she could ask her mother if things had been different before she married her father. Had Hilda always saved all her fire and strength for her children, tucking it inside when her husband came home?

The night before the joyous event, Isabelle lay in the dark, mouthing the vows Hilda had written for her. Worse. Poorer. Sickness. Obey. Isabelle’s grandmothers, aunts and cousins had all made these pledges, and now it was her turn.

Isabelle’s chest constricted, and her heart turned to ice, right there in her twin canopy bed. She pulled the quilt to her chin, but the slush in her veins chilled her to the bone.

Perched on a stool in the bridal suite the next morning, Isabelle’s eyelids froze as the sable eyeshadow brush slid over her smooth skin, bristles catching on freshly applied winged liner. The makeup artist clicked her tongue. Isabelle nodded, minuscule snowflakes falling from her lashes. She examined herself in the mirror, cheeks sparkling with the same translucent glow as the diamond on her finger.

Hilda arrived with a dozen updo pictures for the stylist to reference, including one from her own wedding. Isabelle shook her head at the photos, each one more elaborate than the last.

“Darling, you must look perfect—a girl’s wedding is the most important day of her life.” Hilda sighed, staring at her own sepia-toned bridal photograph, absentmindedly running fingers through her grey curls. “I wore my hair in a French Twist, with a spray of fresh Baby’s Breath.”

Isabelle’s long chestnut hair had never been cut. Her mother had insisted, though the thick strands clogged the shower drain and snaked around Isabelle’s throat while she slept.

“Isn’t it magnificent? This is the most popular bridal look I do.” The stylist held up a mirror to show Isabelle’s intricate hair, plaited with satin ribbon into a frozen chignon. Twisted tendrils hung like icicles, framing her face. She could not deny its beauty, but she would have chosen a soft pixie cut for herself.

Isabelle shivered as her arms, torso and legs turned slick as an ice rink when the blinding-white petticoat slid over her skin. The dress fit as if she were poured into a ball-gown mould. “Spin for me, darling—stunning.” Hilda had been exactly the same size when she’d worn it twenty-five years earlier. She embraced her daughter but recoiled when the bitter chill seeped through the dress.

The voluminous gown was lovely but nothing like the smart, pink, tea-length frock Isabelle had cut from a bridal magazine after Andy slipped the tear-drop diamond onto her finger. She’d burned with happiness—a moment of complete bliss before they were swept away in an avalanche of opinions and plans.

“You would be breathtaking in a paper bag, and I would joyfully marry you in the middle of the grocery store if that’s what you wanted,” Andy had teased when Isabelle asked his opinion on venues and themes. He’d promised she could have whatever she wanted for the wedding.

Hilda coaxed a sapphire hoop through Isabelle’s earlobe, pushing hard to break through the hoarfrost.

“I wore these at my wedding, and so did your grandmother.” Hilda stared at their reflections in the mirror. “Something old, something borrowed and something blue.” She paused as Isabelle’s glacial skin glowed eerie aquamarine, pale and smooth next to her own feathery wrinkles. “You don’t need something new. It’s just an old wives’ tale.”

Isabelle nodded, sending delicate snow flurries cascading to the floor.

Mitzy, Isabelle’s best friend from school, walked carefully down the aisle, trying not to trip over her poof of lemon-yellow chiffon.

“The colour gives her olive skin a green tinge, but we can’t possibly have the bridesmaid outshine the bride.” Hilda waved her hand.

“You look lovely.” Isabelle’s father shivered as he linked her frozen arm with his.

The dress grew heavier with each step. Isabelle was immobile by the time her father gave her to Andy, statue-still next to the altar. In front of the congregation, the beautiful ice sculpture and handsome stone carving faced each other. The photographer’s flash bounced off her, sending rainbow prisms through the church.

The fascinator-clad ladies dabbed at their eyes with monogrammed handkerchiefs. On the other side of the church the men fidgeted in too-tight suits, admiring the tongue-in-groove wood paneling on the walls. Isabelle pictured herself in a pew, next to her mother, wiping her own tears for Mitzy, or whichever local girl was next. She tried to imagine her sweet Andy sitting with those grim- faced men. She felt a spark ignite deep in her belly.

The minister’s voice reached through her frosty ear canals. “Isabelle, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She summoned all her strength to lift a hand to Andy’s face. A shattering creak echoed through the silent church.

Drip

Water pooled around Isabelle’s pearl-studded heels; fat drops fell from her French manicure tips.

Splash

Frigid water rushed down her back as the chignon uncoiled.

Woosh

Her lips parted, and a glacial river streamed from her mouth, releasing her voice.

“I do!” Isabelle shouted over the blizzard enveloping them. She gripped Andy’s hands. His calcified fingers softened. The layer of stone covering his mouth crumbled, joining the landslide of debris cascading to the floor. Grey-cast lips revived to a peony-pink.

Isabelle shook a snowstorm from her head, and icicles shattered on the ground, revealing short brown hair curling around her ears. A pale pink dress swirled like cotton candy just above her knees. She wiped dust from Andy’s face.

“I do.” His voice rang out above the falling rock clatter, and she kissed him with fiery passion. As they pulled apart her mother’s face appeared through the cloud of dust and snow. A quick smile exposed deep dimples Isabelle had not seen before. Her mother’s pursed lips returned to a disappointed grimace, but the smile remained in her eyes.

Laughing, Isabelle pulled her husband through the slushy snow drift, and rubble pile. They ran down the aisle, hand in hand, leaving the devastation behind.

AUTHOR BIO