In Winter's Grip by Brenda Chapman

a long swallow.
    I raised mine towards Jonas. “A toast to our father and all he accomplished.”
    â€œYou mean he accomplished something besides looking out for number one?”
    â€œIt’s a long shot, I know, but people in town seem to have adored him. That must count for something. You know, Jonas, sometimes I think I dreamed all the bad stuff. You know, like we just misunderstood him, and the times he was nice to us were the real Dad...that maybe, we’re the ones with the problem.” It was the first time I’d voiced the uncertainty that had grown stronger as I’d aged and distanced myself from that time. I’d judged my father through child’s eyes. Could we have been wrong or exaggerated his faults? I knew he’d been flawed, but perhaps we’d been too harsh, building up hurts beyond what they were.
    Jonas blinked rapidly and lowered himself onto my bed. He ran a trembling hand through his hair in the nervous gesture I knew too well. I immediately regretted upsetting him.
    â€œLet’s not think of it now,” I said quickly and sat down beside him, reaching up and resting my arm on his shoulders. “I love you, little brother,” I said. “We’ll get through this. I won’t leave until things are sorted out.” I could feel him shaking under my arm, and I hugged him tighter.
    â€œI feel like I’m just hanging on, Maja. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it.”
    My mother’s gentle voice came back to me in sudden clarity. Is it worth it, Maja? Sometimes, I’m just so tired. Her hands fluttering like white birds. Her blue eyes wet with tears that had slid like pearls down her cheeks. I had known she was ill and I had left her.
    â€œI’ll see you through, Jonas. This time, I’m not going anywhere. You have to hang in for Claire and Gunnar...and me.”
    Jonas turned his face toward mine until we were almost touching. His eyes were bruised by dark circles. He was having difficulty focusing, the irises of his eyes vibrating like tuning forks. These signs that a depression was imminent cut into my heart.
    â€œYou are wrong, you know, Maj,” he said. “None of it was a dream. The monster we saw was the real Dad. All the rest was just smoke and mirrors. The man everybody knew and loved was one big lie.”

TEN
    A fter the third trip to my room to refill my wineglass, I began to almost enjoy myself. The afternoon light had given way to the dusk of evening before I stopped greeting neighbours and reminiscing about my childhood. It was a reminder that not all memories were bad.
    I found Sonja Mattsen sitting on the green couch in the living room and sat down beside her. She’d lived up the road and had been good friends with my mother. She was seventy now and had lived a harder life than most. Two of her children had died— Danny drowned playing in the lake at age five and Tommy was killed in the Gulf War. I wondered where she’d found the strength to carry on.
    She patted my arm as she spoke. “You were the prettiest child, Maja Larson, with your long white hair and blue eyes the colour of cornflowers. I worried that the boys wouldn’t leave you alone, you were that pretty. But you never seemed to have any interest. You were a smart one, that’s for sure, and not a speck of vanity.”
    I thought I’d outgrown blushing, but I could feel the heat rise up my cheeks. “I never thought of myself that way. When the boys came around, it was to tease me or to hang out with Jonas.”
    Sonja’s eyes were kind. “Your dear mother was so proud of you. She’d be bursting her seams to know you were a doctor up in Canada.” She leaned forward, opened her arms and drew me into a hug.
    â€œThanks, Sonja. It warms me to hear you say that.”
    Would my mother be proud of me? I imagined that if she hadn’t died, she’d have visited me in Ottawa in my upper middle class