Page 1 of A Not So Merry Rescue
1
willa
The flurriesof the last hour swirl into bigger flakes, and the sky darkens as the setting sun creeps toward the horizon. Throughout the drive, the temperature’s been steadily dropping, hovering at a crisp thirty-one degrees. The wipers work overtime as I twist the knob to give them more power, attempting to combat the steadily falling snow.
A peek at the GPS reveals I still have over an hour left to drive. At this speed, it will be more like two or three. Which puts me at the cabin closer to midnight than I’d like. Had I not hit all the traffic along Route 89, I could have made it before the snow began. But that’s on me for leaving the packing to the last minute.
Then forgetting the car needed gas.
And of course, having to stop for road trip snacks.
The last one brings a stupid smile to my face. “You can’t go on a road trip without snacks,” his faraway voice echoes in my ear. A voice of another time.
Before.
Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. No more headspace for him tonight. Besides, it’s hard enough to see where I am without my eyes leaking.
Like a beacon, a Christmas tree farm sign catches my eye. A red truck with a fir tree in its bed emblazons the left corner. It reminds me of my cousins’ tree farm in Oregon. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken with them, even longer since I visited Murrtham’s Tree Farm.
Christmas trees. Another memory I immediately banish.
The road is devoid of people, the smart humans who listened to the weathermen and stayed at home, not braving the elements.
I didn’t think to check the weather where I was passing through. Only my starting point and my destination. I was too eager to get on the road, to get to the cabin, to worry about such trivial things as snow.
Chalk it up to growing up in a place where snow isn’t a thing. An adjustment I’m still making to snowy winters in Vermont. Which begin before December. Who knew?
A thump reverberates through the car, and the wheel jerks to the right. My heart thunders and waves of unease wash over me, the unfamiliar conditions winning a battle I didn’t realize I was fighting.
Panic tightens my chest in a viselike grip, my eyes widening as the car veers to the right. White-knuckling it, I spin the wheel to the left to overcorrect, but it’s too much.
It’s too late.
The tires don’t have traction on the snow-covered road, and the SUV swerves out of control. I close my eyes, speaking to a higher being to at least let me land safely. No matter the damage to the car, let me stay unharmed. The car is replaceable. I’m not.
The earlier tears spring to my eyes, my emotions all over the map. Praying I make it safely, as safe as can be, my car skids to the side of the road. As I brace for impact, there’s a heavy thud when the front passenger side hits a tree, the car lurching forward, the seat belt keeping me from slamming into the steering wheel. If I was traveling at twenty, it was fast, but running something over or blowing a tire—much as I cansurmise the issue is—coupled with the snowy conditions, lends itself to a host of problems.
I don’t breathe until the car’s stopped. Tears track down my cheeks, twin lines of heightened fear making the situation more dire. My brain works double time at what to do first.
Do I get out and assess the damage?
Do I call for help?
Do I hope my guardian angel caught the incident and is sending help as I ponder what to do?
Of the three, calling for help seems to be the wisest. I don’t want to stand in the snow any longer than I have to. Let an expert assess the damage.
A chill runs through me. I blast the heat, but it’s not the frigid temperatures causing the iciness.
Flipping on the overhead light, I dig into the glove box, frantically searching for the roadside assistance card I’m certain is in there. I haven’t taken it out since the service guy put it in there when I bought the car a little over two years ago. I haven’t needed it, but man am I glad for it now.
A few minutes of digging through the papers later, the card’s been acquired. With fumbling fingers, I dial the number, holding my breath until a gruff, “Roadside assistance,” answers.
“Oh, uh, hi. I’m stuck.” I slap my head at the absurdity of my message. “I mean, I need some help. Please,” I tack on. The utterance is watery to my ears, my meltdown rising to the surface.
“City or town?”
“Um . . .” I scroll back to the map, pinching the screen to zoom out from the route, hoping to provide a clue about my whereabouts. “I’m not exactly sure. I’m on my way to Lake Champlain, but I think I hit an animal or a tire blew, and I lost control of the car and skidded into the side.” The more I ramble, the higher my voice pitches, anxiety having a field day on my nerves. “Is there any way I can send my location? Drop a pin or something?”
