I watch out the window as the snow continues to bury us alive.
And by us, I really mean me.
Because most likely, Miranda will survive. She’s metal, plastic, or aluminum—whatever cheap cars are made of these days. She will drive again.
But me.
I’m flesh and bones and blood.
And no one knows where I am.
Except the young girl with the fabulous eyebrows that I’d frightened at the rental car counter.
I’m not sure she’ll send any rescue team after me, but hopefully she will at least remember to never pick up a pair of tweezers and possibly change her name from Genovia to something less…pear-like.
Chapter Two
I’d drifted off into a frozen slumber, or at least I must have. I remember listening to my heartbeat grow louder but slower before the pulsing within my veins lulled me to sleep.
But then, there’s a jolt stronger than espresso that makes my heart hum as if it’s just been shocked by a defibrillator. A jolt that comes with the sound of crunching metal and a momentum that flings me forward toward the steering wheel, my head hitting the horn, making Miranda let out a squeak.
My eyes flicker open, and my brain begins to power up, trying to process what is happening. Did someone crash into me?
There’s a slam of a car door, no, a truck door. It sounds big and powerful, unlike the vehicle I am in that would be paraded in by clowns to a circus.
I want to yell. Try to open my door. But my limbs and vocal cords have been entranced by the cold; they're under its chilling spell, which makes them useless in a dire situation like I’m currently in. You know, the kind of situation that is life or death.
I turn my head that is resting on the wheel to look out the driver’s window, the view completely obscured by snow until blackgloves start clearing it.
“What in the world?!” I hear the echo of a man’s voice. It sounds miles away even though it’s just on the other side of the glass. “Ma’am! Ma’am! Are you okay?!”
What does he want me to do? I can’t shake my head, let alone try to open the car door. So, instead, I blink. In Morse code. Like a nerd thinking everyone else should know Morse code in case of emergencies. I learned it as a sophomore in high school. My boyfriend was fluent in it. He loved the ham radio. More than he loved me.
Long blink. Short blink. Pause. Long blink. Long blink. Long blink.
“I’m going to try to get to you!” he shouts.
I start to blink outthank you, but somewhere between the long dashes and short ones, I get distracted by a darkness that seems intriguing behind my eyelids. It feels warm and welcoming, and both of those things sound like a real Christmas, so I let myself fall into it.
Chapter Three
I’m not in my own clothes. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know that. They are thick and bulky, swallowing me whole like a pig in a blanket. Not an actual pig in a blanket, but the appetizer kind that somehow makes hot dogs a delicacy accepted by most at holiday gatherings. They also smell. The clothes, not pigs in a blanket. Not bad. Just different. Like they’ve been washed by a man that has never met a fabric softener.
There’s a snapping sound of logs burning in a fire, and I can feel the heat from it warming my face. But then the warmth increases as I hear a man on the phone. A man I don’t know. A man that dressed me in his clothes. A man that rescued me and brought me to his house. And I can’t determine whether this is more of a Hallmark situation or one that will be featured on 60 Minutes in a few years.
“Mom,” he sighs deeply. “All I know is she was unconscious in her car that was buried under the snow in the ditch.” Pause. “No, I didn’t see her tracks. I just happened to slide on ice in the exact same spot, crashing into her.” Pause. “I know. I’m okay. I promise.” Deep sigh. “If I wouldn’t have found her, sheprobably would have died.” Another pause. “I love you too, Mom.”
Okay, well he loves his mom, so maybe serial killer isn’t in his resume. Although, I’m not sure what the statistics are when it comes to serial killers and the love they have for their mothers, but at least this kind of love doesn’t seem like the killer-worthy kind.
Then there’s the fact that I had apparently already been almost dead, or at least on my way toward it. If he is a serial killer, why would he save me only to kill me?
It’s better to believe the best in these situations. After all,Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence. That’s what Helen Keller had said and what I’d written in Sharpie on my binder in high school. Although, tonight also proved that hope and confidence can create ignorance that leads to your potential death. So, there’s that.
The icicles that had formed around my voice box seem to have thawed. My throat feels somewhat normal again.
I open my eyes, taking in my surroundings and try not to shriek when I see daggers for teeth hanging on the wall above me that are secured inside the mouth of a bear. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to relieve myself from the thought that this man could be a serial killer. He’d obviously killed a bear.
The rest of the place looked as was to be expected when there was a bear head displayed on the wall. Log walls, tribal-inspired rugs, that rustic appeal that people yearn for when their homes of skyscrapers and cloudless views begin to suffocate them in their smallness. I’m lying on a brown couch with those metal studs that follow along with the seams on the arms. A worn recliner is across from me, andI startle slightly when I see a scraggly-looking feline sleeping in it. A rugged mountain man with a cat?
