We took The Child skiing: she attended group lessons, and was so enthusiastic that she preferred to march back up the bunny slope – wearing her skis – rather than wait for a tow. I did okay in my own group lesson, though not as well as that day in Vermont; the years had taken their toll. Still, the day was enough of a success that The Departed decided that it would be better if we all went skiing – his kids too – so the following year, we went as a group. Everyone started in group lessons, but it turned out the Stepson was A Natural, and graduated quickly, while The Child, the Stepdaughter, and I shared an instructor and practiced our meager skills up and down the bunny slopes.  We have fun, though, so nobody minds, and eventually, we work out way up to the next level – the easiest of the blue slopes – and manage to find our way down, slowly and uncertainly.

When the lesson ends, The Departed wants to see our progress, announcing, It’s time to start skiing as a family. We head back to the high-speed lift and since each chair only seats four, he assembles with the three children, while I watch with the next group, waiting our turn.

The Child is on the end of their line, next to the Stepdaughter, who is next to the Departed. Their order makes no sense to me: The Child is smallest of the group, but furthest from the adult on the bench, who is not helping her. No one is, and there’s not enough room – she can’t quite figure out how to make enough room to wriggle in. The stepchildren are almost seated, and there’s not enough room for The Departed, either, so he hip-checks his children to make room, bumping his own daughter slightly to the side, while The Child is thrown to the ground.

The gate comes down and the chair takes off.

I try to get out to get, help her, but I’m in the middle of a group of strangers, trapped among their skis, as the bench sweeps us up from behind. The employees don’t help her; they are too busy loading the lift, which doesn’t stop moving, loading, moving, loading – certainly not for a crying child.

The gate comes down and we lift off and finally, the lift operator hears me shouting, that’s my daughter, that’s my daughter, and he finally notices her and shouts back to me, Don’t worry, I’ll get her up there.

At the top of the lift, I watch the arriving chairs, searching each group of arrivals for The Child, wondering if I should somehow go back for her. The Departed is elsewhere, milling about the trail map with his children.

Finally, she appears, tiny and alone on a bench for four, clinging to the side rail with both arms. Then she is with me, and my helpless terror is gone, replaced by focused rage: At the lift operator, at the ski resort, but mostly at The Departed.

He skis over, wanting to know when we think we’ll be ready to go down the hill.

I demand an apology; he offers none, instead shouts at me: It’s not his fault, she should have gone with me in the first place. Accidents happen. I’m ruining everyone’s fun.

I don’t feel like skiing down, I say. I’m done. We’re going home.

He retorts: There’s no other way down, except to ski it.

We argue for a bit, but eventually The Child decides that she wants to ski, it will be fun, so I relent.

It is fun, for her, and The Departed and the Stepson zoom off down the hill, but the Stepdaughter struggles and so do I, and receive no help; I’m slow, so I end up tending her, as well as The Child, and I’m so busy trying to manage the group that I cannot remember what I’m supposed to do and when my ski finally pops off and slides far away from me down the hill, I decide it’s just easier to take the other one off.

The Departed tells me to come down the hill, he’s got my ski.

Here’s the other one, I say. I hurl it down the slope and start walking.

This will take forever that way, he says.

I keep walking.

You’re walking where people need to ski, he says.

I keep walking.

He says, you’re leaving your skis.

I keep walking, all the way to the bottom.

I’m done, I tell him.

Okay, he says, but the Stepson and I wanted to try one of the black diamonds. He’s really good. Can you wait a while before we leave?

The Foreigner and I never skied again together, so my used-once ski gear sat unused – first in our garage in Portland, then in a storage locker after our divorce. Still, I kept it, and nursed hopes of using it again someday.  A year or so after the divorce, The Departed came along. He asked me out a couple of times, and I went, but something was off, disconnected, and so after a couple of evenings of stilted conversation, I decided it wasn’t worth the cost of a babysitter and simply ignored his phone calls and emails.

Eventually they stopped, but then he resurfaced with a lengthy email, that was sent to me and a number of names I did not know. He had broken his arm skiing, and as a result could not drive, and wanted to share some of the insights that he’d had during his enforced solitude. What followed was a rambling stream of consciousness that was worded to sound philosophical and profound, but was so incoherent I assumed it must be the pain medication talking. I didn’t read past the first few sentences, and continued my policy of not replying.

He disappeared again, then resurfaced – again – with a healed arm and renewed attentions. This time, he seemed changed to the point where I agreed to go out with him again and even commented on the change. The enforced isolation after his ski accident had resulted in some profound insights, he said, and the realization he needed to change some things. I saw this as positive – a sign of self-awareness and maturity – and eventually the conversation turned to other things, as we got to know each other.

The Departed loved to ski, so much so that his family’s annual gag gift was ski-themed holiday decor – the tackier, the better. After we married, the holidays revolved around decorating the tree with ornaments, and the house with his amassed collection of skiing Santa Clauses and teddy bears.

Once the holidays ended, what followed was a season of short, dark days and endless rain, and each year, I would raise the question of why he didn’t ski. At first, he didn’t have skis – he had broken one in his accident, and could not afford to replace it. After a year or two, there was enough money for skis, but he didn’t have anyone to ski with. He no longer trusted his old skiing friends, who had been unsympathetic after his injury, refusing to leave the mountain right away, forcing him to wait and suffer until they were ready to leave. Skiing with me was out: I wasn’t a good enough skier to do the kind of skiing he wanted to do.

I suggested that he join a club, but he’d already researched them: they were too expensive. Eventually, money was not a problem, and I was informed that he couldn’t go because I wouldn’t let him – I never let him do things he wanted to do, unless they included me.

I pointed to my once-used ski gear that I’d been waiting to use, for eight years at this point, and he had no answer. I needed to learn, but was ready – eager, even – to try.  Other families at The Child’s school went skiing often, and talked about it much of the winter. I wanted to join the crowd; I wanted The Child to always be part of the crowd.

It would take a while for him to find new skis, he protested; he was a serious skier, and expensive purchases take time to get right, and though I didn’t know much about skiing and gear, I knew who to ask, and told him where he could rent any kind of skis he wanted for a day, just to try out.

He said we were both too out of shape to ski, and I replied, it will be a great way to get back in shape.

He insisted, You don’t ski to get in shape, you get in shape to ski.

I’d like to find out for sure, I said, and told him where The Child’s friends skied on the weekends with their families. But The Departed preferred to go to another ski area – the one he always went to – so that’s where we went.

Not long after I married The Foreigner, we bought a car for his commute to work; the car he chose was a special K2 edition, and came with heated seats and a certificate for a pair of K2 skis. He already had skis, so the K2’s were for me, and when we went to get them, bought all the other gear I would need – boots, jacket, wool socks – because we were going to ski, and often. I was excited; skiing was something other people did, in groups, without me. I didn’t know how, but wanted to learn.

We drove to Vermont where I spent a morning taking lessons, and in the afternoon, we headed to a slope he claimed was easy, and I skied down with him.

Skied may not be the right word for it. We went down the hill and there were skis involved.

Although it was not the smoothest descent down a mountain, I actually had fun. The Foreigner helped me re-attach my skis, repeatedly, and when we were done and back at our lodge, praised my efforts to everyone who came into contact with us. Unfortunately, the next time we got a chance to go skiing – in the French Alps, on a trip with his family – I was pregnant with The Child, and falling down a mountain struck me as a singularly bad idea.

The Foreigner did not agree with this assessment, and his family – experienced skiers, all – didn’t see my point, either. But I spoke to my doctor before the trip and cited her opinion and that was the end of it, for both sides. But since his family was there to ski, they did. I spent much of the trip alone, repeatedly exploring the tiny alpine village where we stayed, buying things for the child I was expecting, and when the stores ran out of stuffed puppies and bibs, I bought treats for the resident dog at the inn, much to the amusement of the innkeepers.