My brother, Pete, slides open the glass door of our cabin and steps out onto the porch to scoop snow into a plastic bag. Bag full, he twists the top to secure the snow, and knocks his boots against the metal sill, returning to the warmth of a fire he built when he brought Amy back from the emergency medical clinic. Snow drops in clumps on the doormat, melting on contact. 

I am standing beside Sam, my husband. He and I own a Southwestern restaurant in Tribeca in lower Manhattan. Our training for choking diners isn’t much help. Pete brings the bag of snow to Amy, who is lying on the couch, high on painkillers, her left leg in a splint and propped on a pile of improvised pillows.

"I said 'On your left,'" he says. "I know it. I remember."

Amy bites her lip, angry.

“No, you didn’t,” she says, breathing deeply, as if trying not to cry. She pushes herself into a sitting position, wincing, and unfastens the splint’s Velcro ties, her hands visibly shaking.

Since Sam and I opened the restaurant three years earlier, we've fine-tuned a vocabulary of discreet glances that allow us to communicate what we can’t possibly say in front of our customers. I shoot him a look. We've heard this back-and-forth before between Pete and his previous girlfriends.

But Sam is watching TV.

Pete places the bag of snow on Amy’s swollen, temporarily useless knee and molds it around with sturdy hands. He’s a meteorologist for New Haven’s Channel 8 News. He’s also an expert skier, muscular, his legs about as thick as Amy’s waist. Every March, he and whoever he’s dating take a week-long ski vacation in Wyoming with Sam and me. Our cabin sits at the foot of Rendezvous Bowl, about a mile from the nearest town.

Amy is a nurse at Yale-New Haven hospital. She and Pete met in a body building class at a local YMCA about a month ago. It’s their first trip together—and Amy’s first ski adventure—which makes her game, but also extremely unlucky since, earlier that day, on the very first run of her life, she skied off a catwalk and took a spill so painful she needed to be transported by ski patrol sled to the nearest emergency clinic. Under her direction, Pete re-attaches the Velcro, Amy starting at the top, Pete coming up from the bottom.

He was skiing up behind her, he insists, rounding a turn at what he believes was a controlled, but high, speed. He says he said, 'On your left,' to protect Amy from snowplowing off a precipice. She says he said, 'On your right,' so that, turning out of his way, she caught her edge in a rut and skidded over the side, straddling a tree. All I know is that, of the four of us, it’s very unfair that it’s Amy who’s now lying on the couch with a torn ACL.

Pete gets up to leave. Amy reaches for a magazine.

That night, Sam and I are in our bathroom.  The door is closed and I am leaning over the sink in my nightgown, my mouth full of toothpaste. I spit.

“Pete says he said 'On your left,'” I whisper, “so he doesn't have to say that he's sorry.”

Sam is drunk; he kisses my shoulder. "Maybe you're right," he says, and slips my nightgown off.

The next morning, Sam and I are alone in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew. I bring it up again. I’ve been thinking about the situation, and now I feel differently.

I pull Sam close, “Amy says he said, ‘on your right,’” I tell him quietly, in his ear, “So she can blame someone else for her fall.”

Sam pulls two mugs from the dishrack. "Could be," he says, pouring us coffee.

“Pete," Amy calls from the couch. He, Sam and I have been skiing all morning, and have just returned for lunch. “Bring me my cigarettes. They're over on the table.”

Pete hates smoking. Without moving to get the cigarettes, he tells Amy, “Nurses should know better.” Then he adds, “No smoking in the house.”

Amy stares at her leg, dumfounded. "What exactly would you have me do?" she asks, her voice probably a note too shrill for Pete, who is leery of need in just about anyone. “I’m not supposed to move from the couch, remember? Doctor's orders.”

“Well, when you’re ready,” he says, “you can go outside.”

Sam stacks our lunch plates. Before bringing them into the kitchen, he asks Amy, “More water?”

"Thanks,” she says, “I’m fine.” She pops her third painkiller of the day and slouches disgruntled in the pillows.

Pete turns on the TV, switches to the local news station. A storm system is blowing in from the west, says the weatherman. Pete leans forward in his chair, whistling long and low. He always loves a good storm. Then he turns to me. “We could ski the backside,” he says. “What do you say, Sara?” The backside of Rendezvous Bowl is a fierce treeless face. It also has some of our favorite trails. It is early afternoon. The weatherman says the storm should reach us by nightfall. Studying his map, Pete agrees.

I say, “Sure.”  Sam nods.

Amy glares at Pete. “That's right,” she snaps. “Just leave me here.” She tells Pete the only reason she came on this trip was to be with him, and that she would have gladly suffered the bunny slopes alone—or even taken lessons—her first day, so she could share his love of skiing and the Rockies in the future. She says she knew she was off her head when she agreed to let him give her her first lesson—he’s so impatient! But she was so touched by his offer, and thought he was excited to spend time with her. “After all,” she says, “This is supposed to be our vacation.”

“After all," mutters Pete, grimly.

Sam and I have heard this type of sparring before, too. In fact, we discussed it at length that morning, on a ride up the double chairlift. We both love to ski, but if one of us didn't, we agreed that one of us shouldn't go on a ski trip. Sam and I have nothing against separate vacations. We even like the idea. At least, Sam does. I guess I’m still not sure. But when I told Sam that earlier, he was leaning over the chair's metal safety bar, intent on the pine forest below.

“I think I saw a fox,” he said. And we let the other thing go.

Sam enters the living room with a plate of Oreo cookies. “So,” he says, popping one into his mouth, “what's the plan?”

“Looks like we're in for a good storm,” I tell him.

"Time to ski," says Pete, getting his jacket. Sam feigns ski bum. “Righteous, dudes,” he says, quoting some movie as he drums excitedly on my back. He grabs another Oreo, and places the plate closer to Amy.

The three of us fasten our ski boots.

We are standing outside the cabin when Pete sticks his head back through the front door. “No smoking,” he calls to Amy, “unless you go outside.”

As the door shuts, I hear Amy say, “Right, Pete.”

When Pete and Sam lift their skis over their shoulders, I act like I've forgotten something, my hat or my goggles, and run back inside the cabin to find an ashtray. I bring it to Amy, with her cigarettes and a lighter.

“Who cares if he gets mad?” I whisper.

“Yeah, fuck him,” says Amy, and I hear her sigh stick in her throat, like one of the clouds on Rendezvous mountain.

At the jagged rocky peak of Rendezvous Bowl, the light is so white, the sunshine so harsh it’s hard for me to imagine a storm. But Pete points to the dark purple clouds moving in from the Southwest. The valley below is quiet. All we can hear is the hitching sound of the poma lift as we ski pass and the call of an occasional hawk or crow.

"Here comes the blizzard," hoots Pete, giddy. As to prove his excitement, he pushes off down another slope and into a bowl of soft moguls, making a succession of quick, agile turns.

“He's a beautiful skier.” Sam looks reverent.

“So am I,” I tease, grinning and planting my pole. I follow my brother down to the point where the bowl breaks off and the trail to the backside begins. One by one, the three of us cut hard and stop, in a spray of light powder.

"Whooeeee," says Sam, who arrives last.

"Powdered sugar," says Pete, tilting his face upward to take in the last rays of weak sun.

On the backside of the mountain, boulders at the trail's edge look as if they've been hurled by mighty cave men, tossed off the mountain peak, one after the other, in an ancient ritual. Pete points to the remnants of a recent avalanche. "These mountains are still growing," he marvels.

A few turns in, where the trail becomes extremely steep, the snow deep and unpacked, Pete calls, “Watch out for hidden boulders--and cliffs!” Sam looks for tracks left by moose and grizzly bears. At the bottom, we disappear into a grove of Aspens and traverse around the catwalk where Amy fell, that leads back to the double chairlift.

"One more run?" suggests Sam.

“I should head in,” says Pete.

“Oh, no,” I say, “So soon?” For my brother, one run down the backside is usually just the beginning. He kicks snow up with his ski. “Yeah.”

On the chairlift, Sam and I talk about the pitfalls of duty.

"He should do what he wants," Sam says.

I say I agree.

And on the one hand, I do.

The clouds are closing in around Rendezvous peak when Sam and I finally ski back to the cabin. The light has gotten flat, the sky looks purple and bruised, the storm bearing down in finger-like tendrils. I take off my skis and set them in the outside locker. The storm is approaching so fast I can see it moving.

“Look!” I say to Sam. “It's already snowing at the top!” I clapped my mittened hands together. The muffled thump is further muffled by a stillness in the air.

I put my poles in the locker and Sam waits for me to finish before doing the same. We unbuckle our boots and leave them side-by-side in front of the outdoor radiator.

Back in the cabin, Sam gets a clean towel from the linen closet, and heads off to the bathroom. “Time for a shower,” he says.

It's too early for dinner, but I smell something cooking. I find Amy in the kitchen, balanced between crutches, as she vigorously chops onions. Several slices are already frying, golden-brown in a copper skillet.

“What are you doing?” I say. “Go lie down.”

“He slapped my face,” Amy says, in a low voice. "And he threw that plate." Amy points her crutch at the garbage can. A broken plate and black Oreo crumbs are scattered across an empty box of Wheaties. Cigarette stubs swim at the bottom of a near-empty milk carton.

The only thing I can think of saying is, “Why?” I wonder who cleaned up.

“He saw the butts,” Amy says, staring down at the wooden cutting board. She chops faster, reducing the onions into tinier and tinier slivers. Then, leaning her crutches against the kitchen counter, she hops on one foot over to the stove. She flings the handful of tiny onion slivers into the skillet. The onions hiss as they land. Tears appear in the corners of her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. “It's the onions.”

She arranges the crutches under her arms and hops back to the counter where she picks up a tomato, begins to slice and dice it.

“Give me that,” I say, taking the knife. “Go lie down." I bring her a glass of wine.

Later that evening, Pete is outside the plate glass door howling gleefully at the storm. When he comes back inside, carrying wood for the fire, both his shoulders and the wood are covered with a quarter-inch of fresh powder. He shakes himself off by the door and drops the wood with a thud by the fireplace. Crouching, he crinkles newspapers into balls to place between logs and lights a match. Soon the fire is blazing.

The four of us eat in the living room so Amy can keep her leg elevated, and we can all enjoy the storm. Pete sets his place methodically at the coffee table, so his body is square with the wide sliding glass door which he watches like a screen, like a kid in a movie theater.

“How's the plot,” I tease.

“Thickening,” Pete answers, dreamily. He and Sam compare this storm to the one that hit last week, just before we arrived. That one, they have heard, dropped four feet of snow overnight. Amy hasn't said a word all through dinner. No one pushes her. I close my eyes and lean back against the bottom of the chimney. The heat from the stones feels nice. When I open my eyes again, Amy is twirling spaghetti around her fork. Then she stops.

I reach for my wine glass. Pete doesn't look at Amy, but he seems aware of her movements. “Go on,” he says. “Say it.”

Amy puts down her fork. “Okay, Pete,” she says. “If I were paralyzed from the waist down, would you go off and ski with your sister and Sam? Or would you stay here with me?” The question seems to have been snowballing inside her all day, it is huge with emotion. Amy gazes at Pete, her eyes sparkling with the light of the fire.

Pete doesn't say yes, but he also doesn't say no.

I look at Sam, who is staring at his wine glass. “Well,” my husband says, finally breaking the silence, “if it were me and Sara, I know I’d ski. And I’d expect her to, also. After all, we’re only here for the one week.”

I take a swallow of wine. “The waist down!?” I agree, laughing. I’m a little drunk but even so, something in my voice sounds false, as if I’m holding back—or maybe just playing along. “And Sam wouldn't be able to get it up? I guess I'd have to find another husband."

As soon as I've spoken, I regret it. Of course, I'd stay with Sam, I am thinking, unconditionally. But whenever we go down this road, when we're adding up the evening's checks—or even in bed—he has made it very clear: We may be married, but we’re independent. Each of us stands on our own.

“Yeah," says Sam, his enthusiasm mounting, “I'd send her a postcard. Maybe.” Sam's eyes meet mine and he stops grinning. We both look down.

“Well,” says Amy to no one in particular. “So much for better or worse.”

She pauses, and says to Pete, "What about you?”

My brother stares out the sliding glass door. A snow drift has built up against the pane.

I ask Amy if she'd like more wine.

She says, “Dewars would be fine.”

“I'll get it,” says Pete. He looks around the room, and asks, “Anyone else?” Sam and I shake our heads.

Pete comes back with two glasses of ice and the bottle. He fills both glasses, gives one to Amy, who washes another painkiller down with Scotch.

“Okay, here goes,” Pete says, as if he's about to make a toast. He kneels down next to Amy. “I did say 'On your right,” he tells her.

Amy gazes over the rim of her glass, as she continues to sip. “I'm sorry,” he says, gently touching Amy's leg. “It's my fault. And I love you. And about today, I clearly need help. But it’ll never happen again. I promise.”

Amy sets her glass down on the table. She pulls apart the Velcro bands on her splint, her fingers taut, and takes the most recent plastic bag of melted snow off her knee. Then she re-attaches the Velcro starting at the top. Pete helps her, his fingers coming up from the bottom. When their hands meet halfway, their fingers intertwine. Amy looks up at Pete. They smile.

"I'll get some fresh snow," I say, lacing up my sneakers, and making a mad dash to the door, plastic bag in hand. Sliding open the glass door, and stepping out into the storm, I can see my breath. I continue down the steps until it is white all around me. My sneakers sink to the bottom of the snow. I hold the bag upside down, and as the slushy water pours out, it carves a dark hole.

I’m thinking of a time ten years before, when I was sixteen, and my parents still had a house here. Pete and I were skiing across a catwalk on the backside of Rendezvous Bowl and the snow was driving hard, with high winds. When we came around to the open slope we hit a white out.

I was suddenly alone, surrounded by white. The only way to tell which way was up or down by how fast my skis were moving. I was afraid to move at all, lest I fall off a cliff.

A distant voice over a loud speaker announced that, due to impaired vision caused by white outs, the mountain was now officially closed. "We advise you all to ski safely home," said the voice. Sound advice, I remember thinking, assuming your home is actually safe.

I could barely breathe. I was so panicked. “Pete!” I called into the white emptiness.

"Sara," he called back. "I'm here." I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything. I was lost in space, drifting into a void without limits, except instead of total darkness—everywhere around me was white. Pete’s voice sounded below me. I turned my skis toward the sound. Then I began to breathe. Turn by slow turn, I skied toward the sound of my brother’s calling, “I’m here! I’m here.” And little by little he guided me down the mountain. When we were both safe at its base, I hugged him, crying.

I scoop snow into the plastic bag and as I trudged back to the cabin through the driving snow I wonder, if I were to ask Sam later—when I'm brushing my teeth—if he was kidding about the postcard, if I were to ask him, in all honesty, if he would stay with me if I were paralyzed—or ski off without me—would he smile and come up behind me in the bathroom? Would he wrap his arms around my waist and kiss my neck while murmuring into my hair, “Of course, wouldn’t you?”

And if he were to say that, would I—should I—believe him? Because wouldn’t it seem—if it were to happen like that—that he's not really listening?

At the sliding glass door, I kick the snow from my sneakers.

I think about how Pete hit Amy, and how wrong that was, and how she would be right never to speak to him again. But he also told her the truth. And even if it’s a truth that came too late, and with too much baggage—Pete being a man, and Amy being clearly much smaller, physically—in spite of their body building—and on crutches—even if it’s a  truth that ultimately breaks them apart, isn’t it also true that what happened between them, may be no more demoralizing than the slow erosion that has occurred over the years from the half-truths Sam and I tell each other every day?

I remember how sorry Pete was. I know it’s no excuse that our home growing up was never safe. But I also know that I trust Pete with my life, and that he deserves to be trusted. And I believe—I want to believe—that he’ll live up to his promise and never hit Amy—or anyone else—again.

I slide open the glass door, and as the cold steam of my person enters the cabin, I realize that for the longest time my uncertainty about Sam has felt like its own kind of whiteout. But now I know—in my heart—which way is up, and which is down. I also know, that unlike Pete and Amy, whose future is still unknowable, that Sam and I together will never add up to more than the sum of our two parts. I feel my heart crack apart like a broken egg in my ribs, and as all the emotion pulses out of me I remember my husband who I’ve loved since college. But this time I can feel it—maybe I’ve always felt it—he’s with me and not with me. He’s in and out. In his mind, in both our minds, he has always kept himself separate. Protected. Sam’s childhood home was far less safe than Pete’s and mine. But unlike me, he refuses to talk about it. “I’m dealing with it in my own way,” he says. And now the place where his silent life beats wildest is both as bright and as black—as frightening and as free—as a whiteout. It’s a place we will never go together; a place he has already made clear: he can only go alone.