Accumulation

Accumulation

The snow started in Sylvia’s living room on Christmas morning. The first flake landed on the arm of her overstuffed recliner, balancing for a breath before melting into the brown polyester. She snatched the handset from the rotary phone nearby and dialed. Sylvia waited four rings, hung up, and dialed again.

“Can I call you back?” Larry answered, out of breath. “We’re trying to get on the road.”  

“Merry Christmas to you, too, son.” Sylvia’s icy tone cut through the phone line. 

“Sorry.” Larry slowed his words. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“It’s snowing here,” Sylvia said, blinking away a flake dangling from her eyelashes.

“Make sure you stay warm and dry,” Larry grunted. “Everything’s closed today anyway.” “What are you doing?” Sylvia asked.

“Putting the babies in the car. We’re late.” 

The click of a seatbelt, and the mumbled voice of Larry’s wife made Sylvia bristle. “Sorry for being a bother. I just wanted to wish you and my grandbabies a Merry Christmas. And tell you about the snow.” 

“You’re not a bother, Mom. But right now…” The boys’ wailing dwarfed Larry’s apology.

“Ok. Have fun with her family today. I’ll just be here, alone.” Sylvia pushed aside the little pile of snow gathered on the phone base and hung up.

Last month, during that awkward time between second helpings of Thanksgiving stuffing and slices of store-bought pumpkin pie, Larry’s wife had proclaimed they’d be spending Christmas Day with her family—two hours away. 

“I guess that could work, although I’ve never spent Christmas away from home.” Sylvia scanned her little dining table, settling on the Butterprint Pyrex. “Do your wife’s folks even know how to make a proper green bean casserole?” 

Sylvia had only been to Larry’s in-laws house once, for the twins’ gender reveal party. She hadn’t meant to make Larry’s mother-in-law cry. Sylvia had been discreet with her feedback on the menu and decor, taking the woman aside to avoid embarrassing her in front of the other guests, but Larry’s wife’s mother had burst into tears and locked herself in the washroom. 

Larry’s wife had excused herself from the Thanksgiving table.

“Mom, it’s just going to be us and the kids going.” Larry had laid his hand over Sylvia’s. “We’ll celebrate Christmas with you on the 26th.”

Sylvia had put on a brave face, only dripping a few hot tears into her whipped cream. When Larry paused for their usual goodbye hug, her arms had hung loose at her sides in silent protest.  

Now, here she was—alone on Christmas morning, a dusting of snow covering her lap. She made tiny angels with her index and pointer finger, a large one for Larry’s dad, a medium one for herself, and a small one for little Larry. She reached for her cup of tea, took a stone-cold sip, and watched the angels disappear under the lightly falling snow. 

Sylvia picked up the phone again and dialed. Larry picked up on the fourth ring.

“Mom, we’re just sitting down to eat,” Larry whispered, Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree and babies laughing tinkled through the phone line. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“To me, or them?” Sylvia sputtered, snow blowing into her mouth as she spoke. Large flakes were falling fast, piling onto her chest and tight grey perm. A drift covered the presents she’d bought for Larry and his twins, carefully arranged under the u-cut Christmas tree he’d helped her decorate with her collection of precious family ornaments. 

Larry sighed. “You raised me to be a good guest. I’ll call you after dinner.”

“I didn’t raise you to ignore your mother on Christmas Day!” Sylvia couldn’t see through the swirling blizzard. “I could use your help with all this snow. Of course, only once you’re done with your family festivities and have time for me.” She groped for the phone base. Instead of a satisfying slam, the receiver landed with a soft thud on the snow-covered table. 

Red and green lights from the tree splashed across her body like the Christmas painting Larry had made for her in kindergarten. It was tucked in her memory box with Mother’s Day cards, letters from summer camp, and ticket stubs from years of Sunday movie matinees. Their tradition had been to leave Larry’s dad at home with his beloved Yankees, mother and son escaping to watch horror movies—making popcorn bets on who would scream first. They’d been admiring Kathy Bates’ portrayal of Annie Wilkes on the big screen when Larry’s dad’s heart had stopped beating in the brown recliner. 

The blizzard’s fury dwindled to a few dancing flakes. Sylvia snaked the tip of her tongue to taste the frost that covered her lips and tickled the underside of her nose. She was so tired. Sylvia’s eyes flicked closed, a thin sheet of ice spread over the lids. Larry would find her here tomorrow, suffocated under the weight of accumulation. Would his wife help him dig her out? Sylvia smiled at the thought of that wisp of a girl clawing through the snow. Hopefully, they wouldn’t bring the babies to witness the results of their parents’ neglect.

The boys—Sylvia’s beautiful grandsons. Already mirror images of her little Larry, would they have his height? His freckled nose? His sparkly laugh? 

The phone trilled. Sylvia, unable to lift her buried arms, listened to it ring—over and over and over. Was that Larry? She should make his favourite gingerbread cake.

Minutes, hours, or maybe days later, Larry slammed his shoulder into the door, compacting the snow enough to squeeze into Sylvia’s house. Everything was buried—the presents, the rug, the recliner. Larry began to dig. He pushed aside another handful of snow and touched the thin skin of his mother’s slender fingers. Claw marks streaked the icy walls of the tunnel opening before him. When it was clear that Sylvia had succumbed before escaping her frozen tomb, Larry picked his way back to the front door, whispering to his mother that he’d return for her in the spring.