There’s a man—well, at least I think it’s a man based on the timbre of his voice—perched on a stool in the middle of the shanty. All I can see through his knit balaclava are two brown eyes and a mouth with chapped lips. He pulls off his full winter face mask. A distinguished looking man with hair as silver as the dimes my grampa used to collect is standing before me. He has a kind face with cheeks as rosy as Santa’s.

“Amberrose Murphy? How long has it been?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, struggling to place this man in my old life.

“Art Vanderberg. I worked with your father at the bank. Boy, oh, boy, talk about salt of the earth. That man was Traverse City before there was a Traverse City. He was on every committee and council in the county. He built that bank. He didn’t just loan people money, he loaned people his heart and faith. How’s your mom? I know it’s been tough for her after his passing, you being so far away and, well…” He looks at me and lets his sentence trail off.

I don’t know what to say. I have been gone so long, away from people who knew me, my family and our history, that I could pretend my former life was fiction.

I can hear the ice creak, the lake moan, the wind whistling across the shanty.

“I thought Lisa would have told you that Art was joining us,” Mason jumps in. “She thought it would be a good idea for you to talk to a local about the beauty of ice fishing. And there’s no one more local than Art.”

“Is that a compliment?” Art says.

I laugh.

“Sorry,” I finally say. “I think I’m still drunk. My mother put a lot of liquor in my hot chocolate this morning. Said I’d need it to stay warm.”

“Smart woman!” Art says. “Good woman. I think Patty Rose’s helped half the county pass on to our Creator peacefully.”

I nod.

“Ready to hit the hard water?” Art asks.

“What?”

“The ice,” he says. “That’s what we call it.”

He gestures to a group of folding stools he has placed in front of two perfectly round holes in the ice. The shanty is one of the new-fangled ones, shockingly big and rather roomy, not like the ones I grew up with that were claustrophobically tiny. I take a seat. Not without effort, mind you, considering how inflexible my body is in so many layers.

“What are you catching?” I ask.

“A cold,” Art says.

Icicle starts to giggle, almost like a kid. He’s been so quiet I forgot he was here. He mics me up, and then holds up the camera. “I’m going to start filming to get all this, okay?”

“Good man, Icicle,” I say.

“You can catch brown trout, rainbow trout, perch and walleye during ice fishing season,” Art says.

“What do you use for bait?”

Art pulls a flask from his jacket. “This.”

Icicle giggles again.

“You’re a regular Johnny Carson, Art,” I say. “You and my mom would get along swimmingly.”

“Good one,” Mason says, taking a seat beside me.

“I still prefer to use live bait in the winter,” Art says. “Minnows, or worms with a lead sinker. Let me do the honors.”

He pulls a live minnow from a bait bucket and puts it on a hook. He hands me the pole.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

“Drop it in the hole and wait,” he says. “And drink.”

I drop the minnow into the hole, and it disappears beneath the ice. Art and Mason follow suit.

“Tell me about your life, Amberrose,” Art says. “I mean, Sonny. Sorry. I’ll never get used to that.”

It’s still hard for me to see people I knew growing up. When they see me, I believe they can still only see the pain our family suffered. I think they see the story of my life in caps, just like we use on the news: TRAGEDY! So many childhood friends, like Icicle’s mom, have tried to reach out to me, but I’ve yet to return their calls, just like the ones I’ve yet to return to Cliff and Eva asking how I’m doing. I hide when I see people around town that I used to know. I act like I don’t hear their voices when they call my name. I’m still hiding in plain daylight.

“TV,” I finally say, trying to sound chipper. “They change everything.”

I glance at Mason. He gives me a slight smile as if he knows I am lying.

TV didn’t change you. You changed you, his look seems to say.

I revert to journalist mode to cover my emotions—the beauty of journalism, all facts, no emotion—by asking Art about the “art” of ice fishing and why he loves it so much.

He talks a bit more about what bait he uses, how to know when a fish is biting and the beauty of patience.

“Your father and I used to solve the world’s problems out here without ever saying a word,” Art says with a big smile. “It was good for him. Companionship with a good dose of silence. He just needed a little peace after all he went through. He just wanted the world to stop spinning for a little while.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I wasn’t expecting Art to get so real. I know I am going to cry.

“Here,” I say, standing abruptly, handing my pole to Mason. “I need some air.”

I race out of the shanty and into the frozen tundra. Icicle follows. “Want to tape your forecast now?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Are you okay?”

Mason pops out of the shanty.

I shake my head again.

He looks at me and gives the sweetest, saddest smile. His eyes stand out in all the white, like blue sky amid all the clouds.

“Why don’t you go talk to Art?” Mason says to Icicle. “Interview him about some of his most memorable catches.”

“Good idea,” Icicle says, popping back into the shanty.

“Here’s the deal about ice fishing,” Mason says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not really about the fishing, as Art said. It’s about the companionship. It’s about the solitude. It’s about idling for a while in the middle of winter in the middle of a frozen lake.” He stops. “It’s about not thinking for once. Just being.”

Mason scans the lake. “You sit, in the freezing cold atop a frozen lake, dangling bait into a hole in the ice. The endgame is to catch something you can’t see. Crazy, right? But we all try to control life. Bend it to suit us. Try to reimagine the past, or alter the future. We’re rarely in the moment.”

I shut my eyes. And then I open them.

It is otherworldly on the lake. A frozen ghost town. I miss the sun and the warmth.

Or do I miss being out of the glare of people I knew? The anonymity?

I scan the lake again, and there is a surreal beauty to this frozen wonderland. Smoke puffs from shanty chimneys and the little cottages surrounding the lake. The sun peeks out briefly amid the thick cloud cover, and everything sparkles. I am in a real-life snow globe.

“Wanna give it another shot?” he asks.

I nod. “It’s probably easier than trying to go to the bathroom in all this gear,” I say. “My mother didn’t think about that.”

He laughs and leads me back inside.

I grab my pole and angle it into the ice. Oh, how Joncee used to love to fish in the summer with our father. They would head out before dawn the two of them—thick as thieves—whispering and giggling, a real-life Opie and Andy Taylor with poles slung over their shoulders. They would take the johnboat out onto the lake, or sit on the dock, all morning long, eating egg sandwiches. I had no interest in fishing. I was a bit too girly and a bit too old, but Joncee and my dad? It was their thing. They’d show me and mom their catch for the day and then set off to clean it. My mom would fry fish all weekend long. Half of our stairwell is filled with pictures of the two of them holding fish in midair, some of them longer than Joncee’s tiny body.

I look over at Art and imagine my father sitting here with him.

Did he talk about Joncee? Did he tell Art about how much he hurt? Or what I did? Did he discuss his marriage? Or did he just sit here and be at peace for once in his life?

Yes, as Mason said, this a strange sport, ice fishing. Here you sit, in the freezing cold atop a frozen lake, dangling bait into a hole in the ice. The endgame is to catch something you have to trust is there.

Is it pure luck? Is it fate? Is it out of our control?

Or does it just force us to stop? Stop thinking. Stop controlling. Stop everything. Just stop.

What would it be like if we were just able to cut a little hole in our frozen, damaged exteriors and let life—and all those memories—hook us once again?

The tip of my pole bobs and then grows taut.

“You got one!” Art says in a stage whisper. “Stand up!”

I stand, and Art moves behind me. “Mind if I help?”

“Please.”

He places his hands around mine on the pole, tilts it closer to the ice and then pulls up on it. I can feel the weight of the fish.

“He’s a fighter!” Art says. “Give him a little slack.” He releases a little line, and I can feel the fish try to dart away. “Pull!”

We pull the pole into the air. “Start reeling, hard!” Art says.

I reel until I’m out of breath, until I’m sweating. I pull off my fur cap and toss it aside.

A fish about the size of Moby Dick appears in the hole.

I keep reeling, and Art grabs a net.

Pa-loop!

The fish flies through the hole and begins flopping around on the ice.

“It’s a winter walleye!” Art yelps.

He nets it quickly and removes the hook.

The walleye is golden, the color of sunshine in Joncee’s flaxen hair.

“Wow!” I say, completely out of breath.

“You did it!” Mason cheers.

I look at him, and his face is emblazoned with pride. I smile.

“Got it all!” Icicle says, peering through the camera.

I’d forgotten he was here again.

“That’s great,” I say.

I look at my fish, its eyes as wide as mine.

The wind whistles across the shanty, but I swear it sounds like Joncee’s infectious giggles.

Ya did it, Amberrose! Ya did it! I can hear her say. I knew ya could! I just knew it!

“Are you okay?” Mason asks.

I shrug because I don’t know, and it’s the truth, something I am wholly unfamiliar with.

“Can you take a picture?” I ask, reaching for the fish.

Mason grabs his cell, and Icicle refocuses the camera.

I hold up the walleye and smile.

“That’s a framer,” Art says.

“I think you’re right, sir,” I say.

All of a sudden, I lean down and drop the fish back through the hole. It stops for a split second, shocked, and looks at me with what I swear is a look of gratitude before swimming away.

“Why’d you do that?” Art cries.

I stare into the hole for what seems like forever.

“It needed a second chance, too,” I say.