The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent – Book Excerpt

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Excerpt from The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent

by Ann Jacobus

Chapter 4

At the Lone Star Art Gallery, SF, CA

Monday, June 22

Aunt Fran had breast cancer when I was nine. But she beat it. She goes in once a year for checkups. Or for lab tests and discussions, I guess. She’s still leaning against the gallery banister, her arms loaded.

“Guess what?” she says. “Speaking of jets, I had a flying dream last night.”

“Cool!” We’re total dream nerds. “Where did you fly?” I lean on my dust mop.

“Over my—and your dad’s—old neighborhood. Jerry was with me. I woke up so happy.”

“Oh, yeah, from high school, right? Wait. Isn’t he dead?”

“Yes.” Her free hand flutters, flashing a ring with a fire-red garnet the size of a ping-pong ball. “Motorcycle accident.”

“A long time ago, right? What was he like?” I ask quickly. “He must’ve been amazing if you loved him.”

She almost never talks about her past. Her eyes get a little glassy. “He was. I used to call him Doll Boy, he was so cute. Isn’t that silly?”

“Ha. Mom used to call Dad Baby Cakes.”

She runs a free finger absently along the top of her thermos. “Jerry followed me out here. He wanted to get married. I was a fool. I never met anyone else like him.”

This is news. “I’m sorry. He was from Dallas, right?” A black-and-white yearbook photo of the two of them is on her bedroom bookshelf. “Why didn’t you marry him?” Or anyone?

She doesn’t answer, is staring unfocused out the front window. If she had her own family she might not have taken me in, so I’m secretly, selfishly thankful she didn’t.

“I’ve had flying dreams,” I say, trying to win back her attention, “but I think it’s when I’m feeling in control. So, um, not very often.” I smile at my self-dig.

Aunt Fran says, “I think it’s a yearning for . . . how we were . . . before we were born into our bodies.”

“Hmm.”

We both contemplate that for a few beats. Eventually, she asks, “How was the hotline last night?”

“Ohmigod! I had a Level Five! That I deescalated! A woman on the Golden Gate Bridge.” My face warms with pride as I wait for her burst of enthusiasm.

“Good heavens.”

I tell her the whole story, watching her face droop into deep seriousness. She sets the thermos, the paper, and her bag on the step.

“How did all that make you feel, though, Pumpkin?” she asks, arms crossed. She’s never liked that I’m “around all that suicide.”

“Great, of course! She’s not fish food!”

Aunt Fran flinches. I nudge the mop across imaginary grit on the floor between us. So much for your clever plan to impress her.

“Of course I was worried,” I say. “Petrified that she would hang up. That they wouldn’t get to her in time. But I kept her calm and on the line.” I add, “I’m good at this.”

“You are indeed, darlin’. But was it a trigger for you?” The H-shaped wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens. She’s staring down at me over her glasses, and her chin’s bunched against her neck.

“No way.” I ignore the image of that girl’s scarred wrist and the memory of hurtling out of the packed bus like a cannonball. “Helping someone like that helps me, more than I can explain. It’s like a lifeline.” Yes, the day was long and intense, and I had a slight meltdown, but this is The Truth.

She picks up her stuff and gives me a one-armed hug. “Well, I know Dr. Vernon agrees. I’m really proud of you.” I breathe in her sweet waxy-flower-with-a-hint-of-orange perfume.

“Oh, what’s the latest from handsome Nick?” she asks. Aunt Fran’s childhood friend Nancy is Nick’s mom.

“Still settling in at Cal. He says hi.”

“Isn’t that sweet!” She regards me over her pearly frames. “Plans to get together yet?”

“No, and if you bug me, I’m not going to tell you when there are.” She adores Nick and would love to play matchmaker. On the one hand, I’m glad she approves. On the other hand, her meddling will almost for sure backfire.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says. “Speaking of plans, don’t forget the show tonight.”

“How could I?” I’ve been dreading it for weeks. We have benefit tickets to a sold-out bawdy cabaret about Icelandic librarians for our birthdays. It’s also an “exercise” for me in handling large public gatherings. Fran’s heading upstairs to her office now. The talk about my freshman housing has to wait. Just as well—it’s almost time for my AA meeting.

Ann Jacobus is the author of YA novels The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent and Romancing the Dark in the City of Light. She earned an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and has published articles, essays, short fiction, and poems. She teaches writing and presents at workshops and conferences. A former suicide crisis line counselor, she’s a mental health advocate and speaks to teens about writing and suicide prevention both. Born in Texas and a life-long Tex-Mex addict, she and her family divide their time between California and Massachusetts.

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