What St. Gabriel can do with some water and temperatures below thirty-two degrees is worth spending some time to wonder over. There’s drift ice, feather ice, glazing ice, ice pellets, ice spikes, huge walls of ice, ice pushing up on the shore like piles of broken crystals, and ice covering the rocks, making them look like giant caviar.
We stood on the pier and watched the waves pull apart huge chunks of snow and ice and then slam them back together with their next swell. It was a great day.
Maybe Race hasn’t lost his gift-giving ability after all. Thank goodness!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Muddy Luck
The ferries stopped running two weeks before Christmas that year, and the only way to get on and off the island was by plane until—and if—the ice crossing formed. For Race’s sake, I hoped it would. Another storm blew in, leaving an additional ten inches of snow and Paul and Janie were assured a white Christmas.
Race took advantage of the snowfall and was out every day on his snowmobile. He always returned smiling. I went with him for trips into town, and each time Race was driving faster, and I was squeezing his ribcage harder.
One morning when Race woke up, I was sitting by the bed with two pairs of cross-country skis wrapped with bows.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“An early Christmas present for both of us.”
Sara took us out for our first cross-country ski lesson that day. We put on our skis downtown and took Shoreline Drive to an unmarked trail below the Fort. Race, of course, picked up the sport immediately. I did okay if there was a slight downhill slope, but no slope or a slight uphill incline, and I would shuffle back and forth and not gain any ground. When we skied down a steeper hill, I felt as though I was trying to balance on a couple of very long toothpicks, and I’d lose control.
My worst collision was with Race. I couldn’t steer, stop, or even slow down and crashed into him from behind. I fell back, Race fell on top of me, and my poles stabbed him in the back on his way down. I am happy to report I did improve, and we clipped along quite nicely when something whipped down the hill and slid right over the front of my skis, and then disappeared into the trees on the other side of the trail.
“Did you see that?” I called back to Race, who no longer trusted me to ski behind him.
“Yes.”
Then we heard a whooshing sound from the hill above and could see a brown blur speeding toward Race and then over his skis.
Sara turned around and asked, “See what?” Then another brown shot flashed down the hill but this time not over anyone’s skis; instead, it slammed right into Sara’s ankle and knocked her off balance. Teetering back and forth, she was trying to stay upright when she stepped out with her left ski to catch herself, and she landed on the side of her ankle.
I heard a distinct crack and Sara let out a little yelp. She fell to the ground almost landing on the otter that was staggering around, shaking its head, tail, and legs as if it was being electrocuted.
Race rushed over to Sara and pulled her to her feet and away from the otter. We watched the creature as it slowly recovered from the impact. Then the otter staggered back and forth to the downhill side of the trail where it laid on its stomach and slid out of sight.
“Sara, are you okay?” I asked as I scooted my skis to reach the spot where Race was holding her up.
“I can’t put any weight on my leg. It really hurts.” She was trying not to cry.
“Oh, honey, sit down. We’ll look at it.”
Race took off his coat, laid it on the ground, and we lowered Sara down. We took off her boot and could see her ankle was already swelling. I questioned Race with a look, What are we going to do?
He already had his cell phone out and then he flipped it closed. “No reception,” he said to me. And then to Sara he said, “Okay, let’s leave your sock on for now. We just need to get you to the fire department at the bottom of Bay Drive. There should be a paramedic on duty.”
We all took off our skis—Race and I each carried them under one arm with the poles gripped in our hands and wrapped our other arm around Sara’s waist. She wrapped her arms around our necks and we began the hike down the hill.
We hadn’t gone very far when it was clear the hopping was causing Sara a lot of pain, and it was pretty slow going. So Sara and I waited while Race skied to the fire department for help.
Sara lay on a gurney while Elliot, the paramedic, stabilized her leg so that he could drive her to the Island Medical Center. He was marveling at the odds of the otters sliding down the hill just as we were skiing down the trail. I have since learned of the mischievous nature of otters and think what happened might have been well planned shenanigans gone awry.
Race asked Sara, “So, was that a cazingydink?”
“No,” Sara squeaked with the pain, “It was muddy luck.”
“Define,” Race demanded.
“It was bad luck but good luck too.”
“Good luck?” I questioned Sara.
“How often do you get to see an otter up close like that?”
At the hospital Sara’s ankle was x-rayed and set in a cast that she would wear for the next eight to ten weeks. She refused to go back to the lodge with us and said she would be fine in her studio apartment. We got her settled and went home, but I couldn’t leave her alone, so Race and I packed our bags, went back into town, knocked on Sara’s door and I told her, “Rent us a room.”
For the next three days, we stayed in the Hausterman’s apartment and tried to convince Sara how much fun it would be if she came and stayed with us at the lodge.
“Come on, we’ll play some Nertz and you can even have one of the ghosts for a partner,” Race teased.
“And I’ll wait on you hand and foot. I’ll make whatever you want to eat. If we have it at the lodge or it’s available on the island that is,” I said.
She wouldn’t budge. After we went back to the cottage, we drove into town each day to check on her until the next storm moved in, and then we couldn’t go anywhere.
That morning there was a knock on our door before daylight. Race got up to see who it was. When he slid back under the covers he told me, “It was George. He asked if we could take care of the animals for a few days. He said he’d let us know when he was back.”
“Back from where?”
“He didn’t say.”
Of course he didn’t. “You didn’t ask?”
“No.”
Wind rattled the cottage windows, and snow began to fall about eight that morning. When I couldn’t even get a call through to talk to Sara, I was worried, but Race tried to assure me, “She’s going to be fine. There’s plenty of people downtown if she needs anything. And you have her stocked with enough food to get her through until summer.”
The snow was so thick we couldn’t see past the porch railing. By noon it let up a little and Race and I went out to take care of the animals. When we left the barn, it was coming down again as heavy as before, and we couldn’t be sure we were even walking in the right direction to get back to the cottage.
We pushed against the wind and slogged through the snow with our heads down to keep from having our eyeballs frozen. I didn’t want to know what Race was thinking, but I had a sick feeling. Maybe I should have taken Loretta and Mamie Montgomery a little more seriously. It was “serious weather” and maybe I really was going to “freeze my titties off.”
Four days before Christmas the island airport closed and the weather kept coming. Paul and Janie would not be coming home for Christmas.
On Christmas morning we looked out the window and could see down to the front gate for the first time in almost a week. Some of the trees had been felled by the weight of the snow and ice, the iron fencing at the front of the property was leaning from the weight of the drift, and a few shutters were missing on the second floor of the lodge. But the skies were blue and there was three feet of freshly fallen snow. It was breathtaking.
The plan had been to cut a Christmas
tree on the property once Paul and Janie were home. We had planned on doing a lot of things when they came to the island, but none of it happened. So we put the presents in the corner of the living room and decided to drive into town to check on Sara.
We had a path dug to the barn and had kept the snow cleared away from one of the barn doors so that we could feed the animals, but we hadn’t been in the shed since the last storm came in.
To get the snowmobile out to drive into town, we had to dig our way to the shed and clear the snow away from the doors. Once the doors were open, we dug a ramp in the snow to drive up and onto the mound of accumulation and then down the hill to the road. As we rode across the gleaming, white surface, I was imagining us falling into the heaps of snow and being buried alive.
Sara wasn’t at her apartment when we got to town and I was trying not to panic. We finally found her down at Chums. Elliot, the paramedic, had been checking in on her. He managed to get her down the stairs and onto his snowmobile to join in on the least traditional Christmas celebration I have ever been a part of.
Sara saw us walk in the door and she pulled herself to her feet with one of her crutches and said, “Noodles, am I glad to see you two. I was worried you might have been blown off the island.”
We sat down with Sara and Elliot, ate fish tacos, and listened to really bad karaoke. Then the tables were cleared from the center of the room, and the partygoers danced to the music on the juke box. I had to talk Race into dancing with me and when he did, he felt heavy in my arms.
Later, I was coming back from the restroom when James walked in the front door of the restaurant.
“Hi, James.”
“Hi, Cammy. How’s it going?”
“Well, the last week was kind of rough.”
“Yeah, it was intense.”
“I thought you lived in Chicago in the winter.”
“I do. I flew up to get my mom and take her back to Chicago for Christmas at Diana’s and got snowed in.”
“Are you here for the party?”
“No, I’m just picking up a take-out order. We didn’t plan on being here today.”
“I’m sorry you’re missing Christmas with your family.”
“My kids weren’t even going to be there. They had plans with their mom and then they were all taking off to travel with friends for the rest of their vacation.”
“Our son and daughter were supposed to be here but they didn’t make it in, of course.”
“Sorry that didn’t work out.”
“Thanks. When do you go back to Chicago?”
“I think I might stay on the island for a while. Keep an eye on Celia Alexander.”
“There’s a job, I bet.”
James laughed and then a woman walked out of the kitchen with a take-out bag and handed it to him.
“Well, take care, Cammy, Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, James.”
I sat back down at the table with Race and said, “I just talked to James. He was picking up some food.”
“I saw,” was all Race said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Crescendo
I was trying to remember the reason for the season, but I am human, and I was disappointed. Race was too. After we went back to the lodge Christmas day, he parked his snowmobile in the shed and he didn’t get back on it for the next three days.
Then we got what would be one of Old Man Winter’s many one-two punches that year. But this time it was worse. This time it was ice.
Ice was falling from the sky, coating everything with a glass-like sheen. The tree branches drooped with icy fringe and the view out the window was blurred by a sheet of ice crystals. During the storm it sounded as if rocks were being thrown at the windows and walls of the cottage.
Race firmly refused to let me go outside to help him close up the shutters or take care of the animals. He came in soaking wet and actually had bruises where he had been pelted by chunks of ice. For twenty-four hours we listened to the side of the cottage being battered, and then the winds came. And then more snow.
Race got a cold that worsened by the day until he felt so bad he let me feed the animals. Only bits of ice and snow were whirling in the air, but the wind was blowing so hard I had to use my whole body to get the barn door open and then close it behind me.
George had blanketed the horses and they looked like pampered contenders for the Kentucky Derby. I talked to Tasha while she ate and kept my eye out for Cat. I had fully intended on convincing her to come back to the cottage with me, but I couldn’t find her anywhere and her food dish was full. I thought maybe she was up to no good in the henhouse, so I went there next. But no Cat.
“Did George say he was taking Cat with him?” I asked Race when I went back to the cottage.
“No, he asked if we would take care of the animals. I assumed he meant all of them.”
“She’s not in the barn.”
“Oh, I bet she is. Where would she go in this weather?”
“I didn’t see her. Maybe she’s in George’s place.”
“George wouldn’t have left her in there.”
“I’m going back out to look for her.”
“Cam, don’t go snooping at George’s, okay?”
“Snooping?”
“You know what I mean. And don’t stay out too long.”
“I won’t.”
I checked the tool shed, the barn, and the henhouse again, and lastly went to Rhubarb Cottage and the lodge. We had both places pretty well sealed up, and I couldn’t imagine how she could be in either. I wandered through the rooms calling her name, which was really futile—she had never come to me before.
I decided I would take a quick look around George’s cottage. The curtains were pulled closed on all the windows, so I went up on the porch and called for Cat at the front door. I’d just see if the door was unlocked and take a quick look inside. I was about to turn the knob when I heard a cry from the barn that sent chills down my spine.
As I got closer to the barn, I could hear deep moans and more crying. I followed the cries to the hayloft and climbed the ladder, which I had done before to look for Cat and had seen nothing. The sounds were coming from the far end of the space, and I crawled on my hands and knees to the corner.
Cat was wedged in between two bales of hay. A low purring groan rumbled from her gut and when she saw me, she jerked, and I thought she might attack. She looked so frightened. Then, slowly, she wiggled out of the space and came to me and climbed into my lap. She pressed her spine against my stomach and rubbed it back and forth and moaned.
“What’s wrong, Cat?”
I carried her down the ladder, wrapped her in a horse blanket, and took her back to the cottage.
Race took one look at her and said, “She’s in labor.”
“George said she was old.”
“How old?”
“Just old.”
I sat on the sofa with Cat in my lap. Race reached out to touch her belly, and she went all stiff and screeched at him.
“Does her stomach feel hard?” he asked.
Cat was one big ball of fluff. Okay, she was a big, fat cat. But even through her heavy mass and thick fur I could feel her hard, distended abdomen. When I touched her belly, she rubbed her back against my stomach again.
Race got a box from the closet, cut half of one side out, left a four-inch lip, and lined it with The St. Gabriel News. He set it by the fireplace. I laid Cat inside and we went upstairs to Race’s study to give her some privacy. Cat cried and moaned. It was horrible to sit there and listen to it, but the farm boy in Race felt we should let nature take its course.
After about thirty minutes, it got quiet. When we checked on her, Cat wasn’t in the box and we found her at the side of the woodbin on the corner of the rug. Still wrapped in membranes, two kittens lay on the floor and one that Cat hadn’t delivered yet was only halfway out. Cat’s mouth was open and she was panting.
Race said, “Go get some clean towels
, scissors, and some dental floss. Clean the scissors with some alcohol.”
With a towel draped over his hand, Race took hold of the half-born kitten and pulled down gently until the tiny body came out the rest of the way. Then he held the kitten in the towel on his hand, peeled the membrane off its face and its body and cleaned the nose and mouth. The little thing just lay there. Race rubbed his hands on the towel back and forth against the kitten’s sides. Eventually, it let out a cry and made some jerking movements.
Race had me hand him a piece of dental floss that he tied around the umbilical cord and then he pointed to where he wanted me to cut it. He laid the kitten next to Cat and repeated the process with the kittens that were on the floor. Soon, two kittens were lying at Cat’s side but the third still wasn’t breathing well, and we could hear a gurgling sound in its air passages.
“We need to get the mucus out,” Race said as he set the kitten in his palm with its neck resting between his thumb and forefinger. He cupped his other palm over the top of his hand that held the kitten, raised his hands above his head, and back down to his side. He swung up and down like that a few times and then rubbed its little body again. Finally, the kitten twitched and let out a faint cry, and Race laid it with the other two.
Cat’s mouth was still open but she seemed to be losing strength to even pant, and we could see another head crowning.
“Come on girl, you can do it.” I stroked her belly.
Cat looked at me with a vacant stare and then she let out a howl. Her whole body stiffened while she pushed her fourth kitten out far enough for Race to help it the rest of the way. He did everything he had done with the other three but with more repetitions and for a much longer time, but it never took a breath.
After the last kitten was born, Cat’s body went limp and she closed her eyes. I set my hand on her side and could feel only the slightest movement.
Cat didn’t do well for the next two days, and I was expecting the worst. Then she slowly began to eat on her own and move around, and she became highly interested in her little family—three girls according to Race, and they looked nothing like Collard Greens. We named them Dolly, Patsy, and June because they all had beautiful voices.
My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) Page 24