Same drive, different driver.
Same ole Sonny.
I am gripping the passenger door, touching the seat-belt buckle and air-braking as my mom drives me back to Suttons Bay.
I can barely see the road. The world is white. It is snowing as if snow has just been invented, and Mother Nature wants to test it out on the world for the very first time.
Meteorologist Sonny knows that lake-effect snow is produced during cooler atmospheric conditions when a cold air mass moves across long expanses of warmer lake water. I talk to myself in terms of science to calm myself.
Western Michigan and Northwestern Lower Michigan are known as “snowbelts.” As winds cross over Lake Michigan, they generate snow, and areas north to south from Traverse City to South Haven can experience massive amounts of lake-effect snow, often up to two inches an hour in certain spots. These snowfall events are highly localized and under the right conditions of northerly winds, a single band of lake-effect snow may form down the length of Lake Michigan, producing intense snowfall, while a few miles inland it may be sunny and clear.
My mother’s SUV is buffeted by the wind, and the car shudders.
I do the same.
Human Sonny believes that God is standing over the northern coast of Michigan dumping buckets on top of us, laughing—at me!—the entire time.
This is my punishment.
“Stop it right now, young lady,” my mother says, as if reading my mind. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
I look over at my mom, and my body relaxes just a bit.
She reaches over to shake my leg, to shake me out of my funk.
“Keep your hands on the wheel!”
“My goodness, Amberrose. You’re just like Marge.”
Her out-of-the-blue reference actually makes me laugh.
“She was a smart dog,” I say.
All of our dogs growing up were girls—my mother didn’t like the thought of a boy dog taking aim on her beloved flowers—and they were all named after elderly matriarchs in our family. And our dogs were all as wise as those women, too. Marge, in particular.
Marge both loved and hated the snow. When she was in the snow, the eighty-five-pound auburn-furred mutt acted like the part husky she was. She dashed through the snow, she rolled in the snow, she caught snowballs we tossed in the air for her. Marge even let Joncee ride on her back when Joncee was small, like a tiny equestrian atop a pretty pony. The two were inseparable.
But when Marge got in the car and it was snowing, she was the equivalent of riding with a driving instructor. Her golden eyes were riveted on the road ahead as well as your navigation. If your hands strayed from ten and two on the steering wheel, or if you reached to change the radio station, take a drink of water or eat a snack, she would whine and bark until both hands were firmly planted and full attention was given.
It’s as if she could see the future, I think. She knew she had to protect Joncee.
“Aren’t you excited?” my mom asks. “I am.”
I look at my mom. She is dressed as if she’s a girl going to a holiday party: beautiful blue coat, black gloves, pretty pink scarf, an adorable knit cap and, fittingly, dangly snowflake earrings bouncing happily around her face.
“I can’t say that I’m excited,” I say. “I feel like I’m being set up.”
“Oh, honey, stop that negative thinking,” she says. “You used to be such a little ray of sunshine all the time.”
“There’s no sunshine in my life anymore,” I say. “Literally.”
My mother slows the car, and I can’t tell whether it’s because the snow is coming down even harder or she wants to make a point to me.
“You made a mistake,” she says.
Again, I don’t know if this statement is referring to my career or my childhood.
“Is it so bad being back home? Is it so bad enjoying a real Michigan winter? Is it so bad being with me?”
Her voice cracks, and I look over at her. My heart pings.
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s just not how I expected my life to go.”
“Me, either, sweetheart. I lost half my family. You moved three thousand miles away. I don’t have a husband, I don’t have grandchildren…”
“Mom, that’s not fair.”
“No, honey. That’s just it. Life ain’t fair.” Her voice echoes in the car, over the incessant holiday music and the heat blaring from the defroster. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a little fun?”
My heart pings again. I look at my mom and can finally see her clearly: living all alone in a big house once filled with family, trying to navigate a world without those she loves most in it. I want to say all of this, but I cannot find the words. I turn to humor yet again.
“I thought you were your own party,” I say.
“Ha,” my mom says. “I spend my days trying to make the world feel okay. I spend my days helping the dying and healing their broken families. I try to make the world feel better because I know what it’s like to lose those you love. But that’s life. How we choose to deal with all of that is living. So, if you want to have a pity party, then bring it on, because I get to wear the crown, pick out the china and fill the teacups with my own tears.”
I feel my heart rise in my throat. As if on cue, “Sleigh Ride” begins to play on the radio. I turn it up so I don’t have to say a word—so my emotions won’t be known—and my mom begins to sing.
“‘Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you.’”
“Although,” my mom says, as we pull into the park where the Cardboard Sled Race is being held, “I think you’re going on this sleigh ride all by yourself.” She stops and begins to laugh before she’s even finished. “In a cardboard sled.”
The parking lot is packed. Even in this snowstorm. Nothing, I remember, stops Michiganders from a day of fun, not even a lake-effect blizzard.
My initial thought was that this would be an event mostly for children, but this is more akin to an adult Pinewood Derby, except, it seems, with cardboard and loads of duct tape.
I turn to my mom once we’re out of the car. “How do I look?”
She squints in the snow. “Very pretty, honey. Albeit not very practical for this type of thing.”
“It’s my first show,” I say.
“But you still have to sled, right?”
Her words hit me hard.
I actually thought I might just be seated in one of the sleds for a shot, or talking to the participants in front of their sleds, but now it’s dawning on me that Lisa—of course—would want me to get maimed for ratings. I dressed more ski bunny than Michigan sledder, opting not for puffy coat and thermal suit but rather a skintight black skiing ensemble with belt and embroidered vintage-inspired sunbursts in orange and yellow on the shoulders. When my friends and I would escape the desert to ski at Big Bear—a stunning snow-covered mountain and ski resort close to Palm Springs—we would dress to the nines. Instead, I should have dressed for the viewers—and survival.
“Hi, Mrs. Murphy! Don’t you look pretty!” Lisa approaches. “Hi, Sonny!”
When Lisa sees me, she nearly stumbles in the snow. “Ope! Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine in all of that.”
I know that’s her Michigan way of saying, “I hate what you’re wearing,” much like Southern women will say, “I just love your hat!” when they absolutely despise it.
Lisa is wearing essentially what she was wearing yesterday.
“Hi, Lisa. Aren’t you freezing?”
“This is downright balmy for Michigan. Snow seems to make it warmer, doesn’t it?”
No, I want to say. It makes it colder.
“We’ve got you set up at the starting line for the first broadcast,” Lisa says. “I want you fully integrated into the entire newscast, start to finish. The anchors are going to welcome you and throw it to you here. You will interview participants about their homemade sleds, talk to Mason about where the money from the race goes, then we’ll tease you racing downhill in your sled the entire show.”
I knew it!
“I knew it!”
I say that out loud, and my mother laughs.
“What did you expect, Sonny? You’re our star.”
Every word of that sentence drips with sarcasm, and I inhale to steel myself, but begin coughing when the cold air plummets down my throat.
“Get her some water, Icicle.”
He races off.
Lisa walks over and slips her arm around me. Management always attempts to keep the talent calm before a big show. She walks me toward the starting line, where hundreds are gathered.
“Now, as I said, you’re going to race downhill. Icicle will be in with you, filming the whole thing. That will be the end of the show. So, you’ll open, throw it back to the news desk, then you’ll do a live forecast here, which will be beautiful—it’s snowing for your first segment!—and your ride will end the show. I was thinking you would say something like, ‘I look forward to the ride ahead with all of you and TRVC,’ or something like that.” Lisa stops. “Although I really like what I just said. Got it?”
I nod. I’m already frozen. There is an inch of snow on my perfectly coiffed hair. In a half hour, I’ll look like a poodle that just got a bath.
“Oh, Mason! Hi! Over here!”
Lisa’s enthusiasm is like water torture. I now remember why I avoided her in college. I can turn it on for a broadcast, but I can’t muster faux happiness.
“It’s snowing! You must be so excited!” Mason says to me with mock enthusiasm. He spans his arms wide and laughs. “Just teasing you!”
“You’re a real hoot,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Why didn’t you change out of your yeti costume?”
“You’re a real hoot,” Mason laughs. “Let me show you around.”
The hill at the park is storybook Michigan. It is lined with pine trees, thick with snow, a beautiful border to the hill, whose snow has been smoothed and polished, like a rock you’d find on the lakeshore. Above the park lies another hillside, rising toward the howling heavens, lined with eerily majestic winter vineyards.
“There’s a warming hut up there if you get cold,” Mason says, pointing at a little log cabin off to the side.
“I forgot about warming huts,” I say.
“You can never forget about warming huts, but I guess there’s not a need for many in California, right?” he asks.
“About or a-boat it?” I tease. “You sound like my mom.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” he says with a wink.
Beyond the bottom of the hill sits the bay. I immediately imagine seeing myself taking flight on one of the knolls and flying into the bay.
“It’s just a small hill,” Mason says, as if reading my mind.
“Easy for you to say.”
“From here, it does look like a miniature ski run you would see in the Olympics, but it’s a bit of an optical illusion,” he says. “It’s not that big of a descent. And there are hay bales to stop the sleds along with a team of volunteers and EMTs.”
“Hay bales? Gee, thanks. That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Mason walks over, puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “I promise you’ll be okay.”
He removes his arm, but the heat from his body remains, like his arm was a hot poker and my skin was bare.
I look up, and my mother’s eyebrow is soaring above her face, like a sarcastic eagle. I narrow my eyes, and she gives me a cheesy thumbs-up.
“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to ignore both my mother and my emotions.
“You can trust me. I started the annual Cardboard Sled Race,” he says.
“What? You?”
“I’m the Cardboard King,” Mason says.
“Why?”
Mason’s light blue eyes span the hillside, and for a moment, they perfectly match the color of the cold bay in the distance. “For my wife,” he says. “For my kids.” He turns. “For me.” He tugs his stocking cap farther over his ears just like a boy. “Andi loved winter. She loved skiing with the kids. It turned her into a little girl again, if only for a moment.” He stops. “I started this event to shine a light on depression and suicide, and to bring awareness through something she loved.” He kicks the snow. “Suicide is the tenth leading cause of death in the US, and the fourth leading cause between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-four. There were nearly 1.5 million suicide attempts last year. Depression plays a role in more than half of all suicide attempts. People’s minds are changed and their hearts are moved when you’re engaging them in a cause rather than preaching at them. Every dollar we raise goes to our local hospital to talk to kids and adults about depression and suicide, and how to seek help.”
How can he talk so openly about tragedy? How can he be so transparent with his emotions? He is a window. I am a wall.
“Ready?”
Lisa appears out of nowhere.
“We’re just a few minutes from broadcast. We need to mic you up and test sound and the feed.” She motions me toward the starting line. Lisa cannot hide how absolutely giddy she is with this entire debacle.
The majority of the participants are adults.
Who just want to act like kids.
The homemade sleds run the gamut: some are just large cardboard boxes that have been reinforced with additional cardboard, edges covered in duct tape. But most are insanely creative, not only works of art but also feats of engineering. There’s one shaped like a pizza slice—complete with realistic-looking pepperoni and mushrooms covering it—a shark that looks like Jaws, Michigan cherries on a giant stem, boats, mail trucks with wheels, Michigan Wolverines helmets—in maize and blue—adults holding on to the face mask as if they were on a roller coaster. My favorite is the sled that looks exactly like the Mystery Machine from Scooby-Doo.
“Let me introduce you to your sled,” Mason says.
“My sled?”
Icicle appears from the side of the hill pushing what I can only describe as the antithesis of Michigan right now: a bright, yellow sun.
“A sun for Sonny!” Icicle yells. He stops, his breath coming out in big puffs of smoke. “Get it?”
“Oh, I get it,” I say. I walk over and look at the sled. A giant cutout of a cartoon sun—yellow as a daffodil, rays splaying into the snowy sky—sits atop a cardboard sled with the station’s name, TRVC-8, painted on one side, and Northern Michigan Welcomes Sonny Dunes! on the other.
“You’re going to stick your head through the cutout as you go downhill,” Lisa says, “so your actual face will be the face of the sun. The face of weather in northern Michigan.”
“Who did all of this?” I ask.
“It was Lisa’s idea,” Icicle says. “Mason and I made the sled for you.”
I can’t help but smile.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘Testing 1-2-3’?” Lisa asks, as Icicle mics me up.
Lisa gives me the once-over, and we test the feed. “Ready?” she asks.
I nod.
“Good, because our careers are riding on this.” She looks at the sled, as if her joke was intentional and laughs. “Riding? Ha! I’m funny.”
“How do I look?” I ask Lisa.
Mason smiles. “Perfect.”
My heart begins to pump, and I’m unsure if it’s because this is my first broadcast or because of Mason’s unexpected compliment, but my first segment is a blur of excitement. I interview participants about their sleds, and when I talk to Mason about why he started the sled race, my voice breaks, and my eyes mist.
“Holy moly!” Lisa says as soon as we’re clear. “You can really turn it on for TV. The emotion… I mean, I nearly teared up.”
I smile and nod, and then I do my first forecast.
“Okay,” Lisa says as we near the end of the broadcast. “Here we go.” She stops. “I mean, here you go.”
“Here’s a helmet,” Mason says, handing me a yellow one.
“My hair,” I say.
“Your head,” he says, putting it on me and giving it a thwack with his hand. “I think that’s a bit more important.”
“You don’t know TV,” I say.
My ski suit is so tight I can barely maneuver through the opening and into the sled. Icicle basically shoves me inside and then follows suit, Lisa handing him the camera.
“Pray for me,” I say to Mason, who laughs.
“Sometimes, losing control is a good thing,” he says. “I mean you lost it before, and didn’t it feel good for just a split second?” Mason looks at me. “This always made Andi feel so free and happy. Just be a kid for a moment. Remember what that was like? Happy, joyful, in the moment, life’s troubles don’t matter as you’re flying down a hill.”
I nod.
“You’re going to be racing against four other sleds,” Lisa says. “Best time wins.”
I look to my right and left. I’m racing against a giant beer can, Jaws, the pizza slice and the Batmobile.
“Oh, and your sled has to stay intact,” Mason adds. “Don’t worry. It will.”
“What about me?”
Mason doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves behind me.
I teeter at the tippy top of the snow-drenched dune, gripping my sled like a modern Mr. Grinch.
When an air horn shatters the silence, Mason pushes our sled with all his might.
“You’ll pay for this!” I yell.
My final words.
I scream, and the sled begins shaking the faster we go. I feel like an astronaut in a space shuttle.
Made of cardboard. And held together by masking tape.
We pick up speed, and it feels like we are flying at the speed of light now. One of my false eyelashes loosens in the icy wind and flies away. I look at Icicle, who has the camera positioned inches from my face. I scream and pull the other lash free, tossing it out the sun.
As my death-defying descent continues, I have two revelations: one, I might not survive. And two, how did I—quite literally—get here?
I shut my eyes, and I can feel Joncee with me in this sled. She would love this. Just the two of us on a wild ride together, sisters screaming and laughing and holding on to one another on a perfect winter day.
After she died, I blamed myself. What more could I have done? What more should I have done?
Mason’s voice shatters my thoughts.
I open my eyes. I can feel my sister right beside me.
Just hold on, Amberrose! Just hold on! she would always say when we were sledding.
Her words are prophetic in so many ways.
I grip the front of the sun, stick my head out and yell, “Wheeeeee!”
The crowd screams and applauds.
At least, I think they are people. We are going so fast that they could be blenders or dancing raccoons.
I look out, the bay blurred from the snow but the little town twinkling and glowing brightly, drenched in lights. The bay is frozen, geese flocking to a hole in the ice, and boats sit in an open shelter like ghost ships.
I look to the hillside. A cardinal, the brightest red I have ever seen, sits silhouetted on a branch. It flies as I whiz by, snow from the pine falling with a big thud.
In the distance, beyond the shroud of clouds and lake-effect snow, the horizon has broken, the snow band temporarily halted, and I can see the moon illuminating the unfrozen waters of the churning bay, the winter cold and shards of light turning it alternating colors of brilliant blue, deep green and steel gray.
It’s mysteriously majestic, and I realize my mouth is open, but I am no longer screaming: instead, I am staring in awe at a coast I have never embraced, one draped in a peaceful, otherworldly, icy costume.
Isn’t is beautiful? I can hear Joncee say.
I hear a loud shudder. In front of me, the shark is falling apart, in sections, from the middle out. A fin flies in front of my face, and then we sideswipe a man who looks like Grizzly Adams, and I laugh harder than I have in ages. The pizza slice flips and out fly human pepperonis.
Suddenly, Icicle screams, “Aim for the hay bales!”, so I lean my body as far left as I can and the sled moves just enough for us to ram a stack of hay bales.
“I’m alive!” I yell.
My mother appears, a huge smile on her face.
“You won, Amberrose! You won!”
I stick my arms out the front and yell, “Sonny’s here to win!”
“How do you feel?” my mom asks as I clamber out of the sled.
I look at her. “Like a kid, Mom,” I say, my voice suddenly shaky. “Like a kid.”
She holds open her arms and gives me a big hug.
I see Mason racing down the hill. “You won!” he says, bending over to catch his breath.
“I think you deserve a glass of wine,” my mom says to me.
“I think I do, too,” I say. “But first—” I look at Mason “—I think I want a repeat.”
He shakes his head and beams. “I’ll go with you this time,” he says.
And then we grab the sled and begin the long climb back up the hill to do it all over again.