The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Text copyright © 2023 by Ann Jacobus 
 
 All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review. 
 
 Carolrhoda Lab® 
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 241 First Avenue North 
 Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA 
 
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 Image credits: Westend61/Getty Images; Naatali/Shutterstock; getgg/Shutterstock. 
 
 Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std. 
 Typeface provided by Adobe Systems. 
 
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 
 Names: Jacobus, Ann, author. 
 Title: The coldest winter I ever spent / by Ann Jacobus. 
 Description: Minneapolis, MN : Carolrhoda Lab, [2023] | Audience: Ages 13–18. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: Eighteen-year-old Del is in a healthier place more than a year after a suicide attempt, but her aunt’s terminal cancer diagnosis forces her to confront the demons she has been keeping at bay. 
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022008816 (print) | LCCN 2022008817 (ebook) | ISBN 9781728423951 | ISBN 9781728479156 (ebook) 
 Subjects: CYAC: Emotional problems—Fiction. | Terminally ill—Fiction. | Right to die—Fiction. | LCGFT: Fiction. | Novels. 
 Classification: LCC PZ7.1.J38 Co 2023 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.J38 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23 
 
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022008816 
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022008817 
 
 Manufactured in the United States of America 
 1-49218-49345-8/8/2022 
 
 
 For my parents. 
 
 
 A Note to Readers 
 This book involves discussions of suicidal ideation and references to suicide. If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, have any questions about suicide, are worried about a loved one and seeking guidance, or simply need a listening ear, you can call or text 988 or call 1-800-273-8255 (TALK). Both of these numbers connect to the confidential, anonymous Lifeline network of crisis lines in all fifty US states. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 Sunday, June 21, 2015 
 “Bay Area Crisis Line. This is Del, how can I help you?” 
 Silence. Breathing. 
 Not unusual. 
 The phone number on the caller ID is blocked. Also not unusual. We answer calls that feed in from the national suicide hotline. Three of us are in the stuffy call room tonight. Two more should be in any minute. 
 I doodle a lighthouse on my notepad. “If you’d like to talk to me, I’m here.” My midnight-blue nail polish is already chipped. 
 “This is, uh, Jane,” a girl murmurs. 
 “Hi, Jane. How are you this evening?” That’s probably not her real name. It doesn’t matter. 
 “Not good.” She sounds my age—eighteen—or a little older, but her voice is alarmingly flat. 
 “Are you feeling suicidal?” We ask everyone as soon as possible. Hearing this question would’ve been a huge relief for me a couple of years ago. 
 “Yes.” 
 “Do you have a plan? How you would attempt suicide?” Standard assessment. I steal a sip of my decaf latte. Twilight from the barred bay window illuminates our eight computer-and-phone stations along opposite walls. 
 “Yeah.” 
 “Will you share with me what it is?” 
 “I’m at the Golden Gate Bridge.” 
 I bolt upright. “Now?” 
 “Yeah.” 
 She not only has a plan that’s lethal. It’s imminent. 
 Ohmigod. I’ve never had a Level Five. Two months of intense training just bolted from my brain. 
 “I, um.” What to do first? 
 Locate her. 
 I wave frantically at my shift partner, Isabel, who’s engrossed in her own conversation. 
 “Are you on the San Francisco side?” I ask Jane, sort of calmly. You might not be able to handle this. 
 I hold up my fingers at Isabel: A FIVE. She jerks a nod and asks her caller to call back. 
 “Yeah.” 
 “You’re on the bridge now?” I fumble, click, close, and finally open the internal messaging function on my computer screen to communicate with Isabel and the volunteer coordinator, Quentin. Was supposed to do it first thing. 
 Jane responds in slo-mo. “In the parking lot. In my car.” 
 “Okay thank you for letting me know that will you tell me what’s going on Jane? Why you’re there?” I’m in hyper-drive. 
 Deep breath. Slow down. Get in sync with her. 
 Isabel has alerted Quentin, and now she’s listening in on her phone. She’ll gather info in case we need to call 911. My job is to concentrate on Jane and to deescalate the situation. 
 “I’ve been thinking about it. A long time,” Jane says. 
 “I’m really glad you called us. Has anything happened recently that made up your mind?” 
 “My mother died.” 
 “When was this?” 
 “A month ago.” 
 “I’m so sorry. That must be incredibly hard.” 
 She doesn’t answer, probably going, Duh. 
 I know exactly how hard it is. My mom died when I was thirteen. Dr. Vernon says I still need to come to “better terms” with her death. 
 A recent big loss for Jane. Not good. 
 An IM from Quentin pops on my screen: Identifying info? physical description, make/model of car? 
 “Are you still in your car?” 
 “Yeah.” 
 “What kind is it?” 
 “A rental.” So she must be at least twenty-five to be able to rent. She may have come to San Francisco just for the Golden Gate Bridge. They’re putting up a safety net soon and we cannot wait. 
 Isabel’s typing stuff to Quentin and filling out questions for the dispatcher. 
 “Is there anyone in the parking lot with you?” My hands shake