Alice Hoffman: The Ice Queen

version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> prose_contemporary Alice Hoffman The Ice Queen

A woman who leads a quiet life, keeping other people at a cool distance, one day utters an idle wish to be struck by lightning — and her wish is granted. Instead of killing her, this cataclysmic event marks a strange and powerful new beginning. As the woman soon finds herself drawn into a passionate relationship with another survivor of a lightning strike, a mysterious stranger who harbors dark secrets. Their affair becomes the center of a riveting story of loss, love, and redemption. Here is a novel that reveals Alice Hoffman at the very height of her powers.

Be careful what you wish for. I know that for a fact. Wishes are brutal, unforgiving things. They burn your tongue the moment they’re spoken and you can never take them back. They bruise and bake and come back to haunt you. I’ve made far too many wishes in my lifetime, the first when I was eight years old. Not the sort of wish for ice cream or a party dress or long blond hair; no. The other sort, the kind that rattles your bones, then sits in the back of your throat, a greedy red toad that chokes you until you say it aloud. The kind that could change your life in an in­stant, before you have time to wish you could take it back.

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but don’t all stories begin this way? The stranger who comes to town and wreaks havoc. The man who stumbles off a cliff on his wed­ding day. The woman who goes to look out the window when a bullet, or a piece of glass, or a blue-white icicle pierces her breast. I was the child who stomped her feet and made a single wish and in so doing ended the whole world — my world, at any rate. The only thing that mat­tered. Of course I was self-centered, but don’t most eight-year-old girls think they’re the queen of the universe? Don’t they command the stars and seas? Don’t they control the weather? When I closed my eyes to sleep at night, I imag­ined the rest of the world stopped as well. What I wanted, I thought I should get. What I wished for, I deserved.

I made my wish in January, the season of ice, when our house was cold and the oil bill went unpaid. It happened on the sixteenth, my mother’s birthday. We had no father, my brother and I. Our father had run off, leaving Ned and me our dark eyes and nothing more. We depended on our mother. I especially didn’t expect her to have a life of her own. I pouted when anything took her away: the bills that needed paying, the jobs that came and went, the dishes that needed washing, the piles of laundry. Endless, endless. Never ever done. That night my mother was going out with her two best friends to celebrate her birthday. I didn’t like it one bit. It sounded like fun. She was off to the Bluebird Diner, a run-down place famous for its roast beef sand­wiches and French fries with gravy. It was only a few hours on her own. It was just a tiny celebration.

I didn’t care.

Maybe my father had been self-centered; maybe I’d inher­ited that from him along with the color of my eyes. I wanted my mother to stay home and braid my hair, which I wore long, to my waist. Loose, my hair knotted when I slept, and I worried; my brother had told me that bats lived in our roof. I was afraid they would fly into my room at night and make a nest in my head. I didn’t want to stay home with my brother, who paid no attention to me and was interested more in science than in human beings. We argued over everything, including the last cookie in the jar, which we often grabbed at the same time.

Let go! You first! Whatever we held often broke in our grasp. Ned had no time for a little sister’s whims; he had to be bribed into reading to me.

I’ll do your chores. I’ll give you my lunch money. Just read.

My mother didn’t listen to my complaints. She was preoc­cupied. She was in a rush. She put on her raincoat and a blue scarf. Her hair was pale. She’d cut it herself, straining to see the back of her head in the mirror. She couldn’t afford a real haircut at a salon; still she was pretty. We didn’t talk about being poor; we never discussed what we didn’t have. We ate macaroni three times a week and wore heavy sweaters to bed; we made do. Did I realize that night was my mother’s thirtieth birthday, that she was young and beautiful and happy for once? To me, she was my mother. Nothing less or more. Nothing that didn’t include me.

When she went to leave, I ran after her. I was barefoot on the porch and my feet stung. The rain had frozen and was hitting against the corrugated green fiberglass roof. It sounded like a gun. Ice had slipped onto the floorboards and turned the wood to glass. I begged my mother not to go. Queen of the universe. The girl who thought of no one but herself. Now I know the most desperate arguments are al­ways over foolish things. The moment that changes the path of a life is the one that’s invisible, that dissolves like sugar in water. But tell that to an eight-year-old girl. Tell it to any­one; see who believes you.

When my mother said that Betsy and Amanda were wait­ing for her and that she was already late, I made my wish. Right away, I could feel it burning. I could taste the bitter­ness of it; still I went ahead. I wished I would never see her again. I told her straight to her face. I wished she would dis­appear right there, right then.

My mother laughed and kissed me good-bye. Her kiss was clear and cold. Her complexion was pale, like snow. She whispered something to me, but I didn’t listen. I wanted what I wanted. I didn’t think beyond my own needs.

My mother had to start the car several times before the en­gine caught. There was smoke in the air. The roof of the patio vibrated along with the sputtering engine of the car. I could feel the sourness inside me. And here was the odd thing about making that wish, the one that made her disappear: it hurt.

“Come inside, idiot,” my brother called to me. “The only thing you’ll accomplish out there is freezing your ass off.”

Ned was logical; he was four years older, an expert on constellations, red ants, bats, invertebrates. He had often told me that feelings were a waste of time. I didn’t like to lis­ten to Ned, even when he was right, so on that night I didn’t answer. He shouted out a promise to read to me, even if it had to be fairy tales, stories he held in contempt. Irrational, impossible, illogical things. Even that wasn’t enough for me to end my vigil. I couldn’t stop looking at the empty street. Soon enough my brother gave up on me. Didn’t everyone? My feet had turned blue and they ached, but I stood out there on the porch for quite a while. Until my tongue stopped burning. When I finally went inside, I looked out the window, and even Ned came to see, but there was noth­ing out there. Only the snow.

My mother had her accident on the service road leading to the Interstate. The police report blamed icy road conditions and bald tires that should have been replaced. But we were poor, did I tell you that? We couldn’t afford new tires. My mother was half an hour late for her birthday dinner, then an hour; then her friend Betsy called the police. The next morning when our grandmother came to tell us the news, I braided my own hair for the first time, then cut it off with a pair of gardening shears. I left it behind for the bats. I didn’t care. I’d started to wonder if my brother had been right all along. Don’t feel anything. Don’t even try.