“I see a snow angel.”
“That’s nice,” said dad.
And that was probably all I was getting. He concentrated when he was driving – he’d never get annoyed, but he would sink into a soft, cloudy sort of voice that told you he wasn’t home.
I tried anyway. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“How high can snow angels fly?”
“I don’t know, honey,” he said. “Go ask one and find out.”
“Okay.”
I figured it was worth a try. It had been very low – just skimming the roof of our neighbour’s garage – and maybe it needed help.
First I had to have lunch though. And because I begged a little hard I got hot chocolate before I went out, instead of after, and I didn’t quite finish my mug, which meant when I snuck over to the neighbour’s backyard I had something to give the snow angel.
It was bigger than I thought it’d be. All eyes and wheels and steaming, rippling. The air around it smelled sharp and made my nose tingle.
“I brought you a drink,” I told it.
“Thank you.” Its voice came from somewhere inside it, not from one of its mouths. It sounded soft and light, like powder. “Put it down here and I’ll have it later.”
“Are you hurt? You looked like you were hurt. Did you hit the garage? We’re not allowed to go up there. It’s too high.”
Then I remembered.
“How high can you fly?”
“I’m hurt, but only a little. If you can help me, I should be fine very soon. I didn’t hit the garage roof, don’t worry. And I can fly very high, very high.”
“All the way to the moon?”
The snow angel laughed. It was polite, but I could tell it was still laughing at me. Just like grandpa.
“Even higher.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Where do we keep the amunya?”
“The what?”
“The amunya.”
“Ammonia? Like bleach?”
“Yeah, that’s what it is.”
That got me a lecture on why I should never touch the cleaning supplies. But when he was done I knew where they were and so I went and got some and was very careful not to open the cap.
“Ahhh.”
“Dad said not to drink it. It’s bad for you.”
“It’s good for snow angels. Thank you very much. I feel better already.”
And it looked better, too. There was a glow inside it, like a nightlight but stronger. And its breath smelled like a swimming pool.
“Now, there is something else I could use, if you’re clever enough to get it for me.”
“What?”
“Honey?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s four glasses of water in ten minutes. Did you eat something weird?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
“Pinky swear?”
“Yeah.”
“Good enough. Remember to go to the bathroom soon.”
The snow angel was bigger now. Bits of it had grown and woven themselves; it looked like it was a lacy napkin the size of a house. When its wings moved, they tinkled like windchimes.
“Better,” it sighed. Its voice was the same soft powder as before, and it seemed funny now. “So much better now. And all thanks to you, small person.”
“You’re welcome.”
“There is one last thing. One very last, very little thing. I think you can help me with it, and then it will all be fine again and I can go home and see my friends.”
“Okay.”
“Give this to your family. It’s a gift.”
“A present?”
The angel laughed again. Very, very politely. “Yes. A present. It’s a surprise present. Put it under where your family sleeps.”
“Hey honey?”
“Yeah?”
“You look a little worried. Is it the water?”
“No.”
“I told you not to drink too much. You feel okay?”
“No. Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“Daaaaaaad.”
“Do you need something?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
The window was blowing when I went back outdoors in the twilight. White flakes in purple light, streaming.
The snow angel was taller than the trees now. It was eating the snowflakes like a whale eating fish.
“Oh, thank you,” it told me. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I can go home now, and I’ve got a surprise for you there too.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too. Want it?”
Laugh, laugh, laugh. This one was real. It was big, it was loud, it sounded like ice cracking, and the air smelled like a broken battery. It wasn’t polite at all.
“Yes, please. I’d love your surprise.”
“Hot chocolate,” I said. And I threw it at the snow angel’s middle.
The splash was small, but the scream was much, much, much bigger.
“Dad?”
“Yeah honey?”
“Do you know how to make snow angels?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t make any more. They’re creepy.”
“Uh-“
“Pinky swear. Please.”
And he did.
I never saw one again all winter, so I guess it worked.