Because my mother wasn’t usually at home in the ski season, we didn’t have that many nights together in my attic bedroom when it was snowing. In that New England seacoast climate, there were only occasional snowstorms in late October or early November, or in late April—not like up north. It was special for my mom and me—to cuddle together under the falling snow, until the darkness surrounded us. As a young child, alone and far away in that attic bedroom, I had doubts about the darkness.

On the night when my mother met Elliot Barlow, when we first went to bed and were lying under the skylight together, the snow hadn’t been falling for very long; some light still lingered in the night sky, and we could still see the snowflakes fall. The dome of the skylight was not yet completely covered.

“I love it when we can still see the snow falling, but the darkness is closing in,” my mom whispered. There was no need for her to whisper; there was no one who could have overheard us. “I just love it when the darkness comes,” she whispered. It was what she always said—not only under the skylight, or in the falling snow, but whenever we were waiting for the darkness.

“Why are we whispering?” I whispered to her, as usual.

“Because people in bed together should whisper in the dark, sweetie,” my mother always said, but not this time. She was snoring.

“You’re already asleep!” I said, loudly enough to wake her.

“It’s the beer,” she told me, giggling. “I’ll be getting up to pee all night,” she said. “I hope you’ll tell me if I’m farting.” She had thrown one of her legs over me, and her head was in the crook of my arm. I could feel her breathing. I waited until I knew she was almost asleep.

“You were saying—about the kiss,” I whispered. I waited. I knew she was awake. I could tell by her breathing.

“What about it?” my mom whispered.

“You said we’d talk about the kissing later,” I reminded her. The whispering seemed to suit our conversation. The snow kept falling, but we could barely see it.

I could feel my mother withdraw the leg she’d thrown over me; she rolled away from me, on her back. I could only dimly see her staring at the disappearing skylight. “It’s not dark enough to talk about kissing,” Little Ray whispered.

“You said ‘kissing is a judgment call’—where does the judgment come in?” I whispered back.