I had been devastated when my two previous relationships ended, but Chase’s abandonment almost killed me. I felt as if I were falling into a black, burning crater in my own centre. The pain was unimaginable. I managed to scrape through my duties at work, but my evenings were spent pacing my apartment and howling in agony like a wounded animal.
The crowning humiliation came when I drove to Chase’s apartment and flung myself on my knees in front of him, begging him to stay. I clutched his legs, sobbing, while he pulled himself away with a look of distaste. When I saw his expression, I knew it was over. I struggled to my feet and fled.
I drove home — although I shouldn’t have been driving in my emotional state — and called in sick. Then I lay in bed and sobbed for days. I was so nauseous I couldn’t eat. When I finally dragged myself into the doctor’s office for my three-month checkup, he was appalled by my scrawny frame. My face, normally pale, looked like a death mask. I broke down in his office, crying uncontrollably, and told him of Chase’s defection.
“Miss Bannister, Molly, you have to pull yourself together. I can’t prescribe any medication for you.” I could tell he was embarrassed, struggling for words. “Remember you aren’t alone in this thing, you have another person to consider. Your baby needs proper nutrition and exercise. Please, please think of your child.”
His words were the equivalent of a brisk slap in the face. If I was so determined to have this baby that I would sacrifice the love of my life, then I’d better act accordingly. I went home that afternoon and drank a quart of milk, then slept for twelve hours.
For the next six months I tried to compensate for my neglect. I bought a book on nutrition and exercise for pregnant women called What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and followed it to the letter, stuffing myself with vegetables and vitamins and walking several miles a day. Every time my thoughts turned to Chase, I concentrated on my precious baby instead.
At twenty weeks, the doctor did an ultrasound and informed me that my baby was a girl. My first impulse was to tell Chase, but I didn’t know how to reach him and, besides, I told myself sadly, he wouldn’t care.
I named my baby Bridget. This came from a dim memory, my father’s pet name for me. It was a funny little name, like an Irish washerwoman’s name, but I loved it.
Bridget was born after a long, difficult labour. I only had twelve weeks of leave under Arizona law, but I wrangled another four weeks from my employer. When Bridget was four months old, I hired Gabriella and returned to work.
Much has been written about the juggling act performed by working mothers, but I was totally unprepared for the sensation of being torn down the centre into two ragged halves. I was determined that nobody should accuse me of neglecting my work, but I paid a heavy price. As soon as I left the office, I raced home on the freeway, breaking the law by driving in the multiple-person lane, longing to hold Bridget in my empty, aching arms.
Each morning I tore myself away from her pitiful cries — because she did cry heartbreakingly whenever I left — and then cried equally hard myself all the way to work, arriving with sunglasses over my swollen eyes.
When Bridget was eighteen months old, I was offered a promotion that meant travelling to other cities. With the deepest regret, I turned it down.
Six months later another opportunity arrived to advance within the company. By then Bridget was walking and talking, at least to me. Her little face lit up like the sun when I arrived home from work. I didn’t apply for that job, either.
That was effectively the end of my advancement at Aztec Accounting. Two of my male coworkers who had started working at the same time I had, both now married with babies of their own, moved rapidly up the ladder, and I was soon reporting to one of them.
I was doing the same job and making the same money that I had made three years earlier, and by then I had additional expenses. I was not only paying a full-time nanny, but I had put Bridget into therapy.
March 15, 1925
A few nights ago, George was delayed coming back from town, and my heart almost failed me during that droodsome period between dark and dawn that the French call “between the dog and the wolf.” A storm blew up, and I put a lamp in every window so he could see the house from any direction if he were lost.
I have never hated the wind so much as I did that night. It searched relentlessly for entrance, sending steely tendrils into every window crack, prying up the edges of the shingles on the roof, forcing itself under the doors, even poking an icy finger through the keyhole, all the while raging with frustration.
I could hear a thousand voices, animal and human and supernatural. Children sobbing, women moaning, men shouting, dogs growling, and spirits wailing, as if death itself was howling around the windows and doors.
I was after howling myself when I heard the jingle of his horse’s harness, and then his step at the back door. I sank into the rocking chair, unable to stand upright because my knees were too weak.
Only after he was warmed and fed did I confide in George my obsession with the story of the settler who went hunting for a week and returned to find his wife and four children dead in their beds, frozen to death after the fire went out. Overcome with grief and guilt, the settler shot himself.
George tried to reassure me that freezing is not a painful way to die, but I’m haunted by a ghastly vision of the poor woman, watching the final embers of the fire fade, knowing what was to befall her and the children, taking them into her arms and preparing them for the next world. Perhaps she told them stories, or sang them lullabies while they fell asleep.
The next morning the skies cleared and my morbid fantasies disappeared. Even in the midst of this savage cold, there is an unearthly beauty. When the sun shines, the snowy fields sparkle like my Waterford crystal glasses.
Last night, the northern lights fell like fine sheets of apple-green rain, tinged with pink and mauve, shimmering curtains of silk shaken by giant hands. We could even hear them hissing and humming. The Indians believe that they are the spirits of all the people who have passed away, dancing in the heavens.
Clutching the diary like a precious talisman, I rocked back and forth. As usual, I drew comfort from my great-aunt’s words. They shone like a beacon in the window, guiding my own footsteps through the darkness. She was the bravest woman I had ever known. How I longed for her courage.
Sighing heavily, I began to close the book. Then I noticed with a feeling close to panic that there weren’t many pages left. I was nearly at the end of the book. How could I possibly go on without her wisdom, her sense of humour, her bracing influence?
Then I collected myself. Surely she wouldn’t have stopped writing after the first year. There must be other diaries somewhere. I vowed to find them if I had to search every inch of this house from attic to basement.
Days remaining: 144.
21
April
I had expected winter to last a long time, but this was ridiculous. I couldn’t help imagining the weather in Arizona, the desert flowers in bloom, children splashing in outdoor paddling pools. We were still surrounded by a frozen white wasteland.
The cold air mass hadn’t moved on the first of April. Around noon I set out to check the road conditions, accompanied by my faithful dog. When I rounded the windbreak, I found a miracle in progress. Frank Cardinal from the reserve was ploughing my driveway! He gave a cheery wave before lifting his blade and heading for home.
I ran back to the house, calling for Bridget to get ready. Grabbing the battery from the back kitchen, I lugged it out to the barn and with the help of the propane torch started Silver. We were off to a late start, but this opportunity was too good to pass up.
The roads were clear all the way to town although it was bitterly cold and a brisk breeze gusted across the surface of the frozen fields. I exchanged only a few words with Lisette as she handed me my precious envelope, and then we fairly raced through the grocery store. Since it had been two months since our last visit, I had $800 to spen
d and a long shopping list. It took an hour to pile everything into two shopping carts and load my groceries into the truck.
Before we left town, we spent fifteen minutes in the local Tim Hortons drive-through lane. I hadn’t had a cup of coffee for two weeks, and I simply couldn’t wait any longer. There was a lineup, and the young man in the truck ahead of us was flirting with the girl behind the window.
Finally it was our turn. I ordered an extra large double-double for myself and a maple-glazed doughnut and a container of chocolate milk for Bridget. I was in such a hurry to take that first big gulp of coffee that I burned my tongue.
When we were a few miles from town, the wind really started to blow. It was still a cloudless, sunny day but the loose snow went spinning across the frozen fields until it looked like white water running over a huge plate. Several times we passed transport trucks in the opposite lane that threw up a cloud of whirling snow, and I hung onto the steering wheel like grim death until the snow blew off the windshield and I could see the highway again.
The snow was starting to drift across the road. Wherever there was a loose clump of weeds on the right side of the highway, the blowing snow formed an elongated tendril that stretched all the way to the centre line.
By the time we left the highway and turned onto the secondary road, the snow was drifting more heavily. The white tentacles stretched right across the pavement to the opposite side, and they were growing before our very eyes. I was driving about forty miles an hour, and each time my tires hit the drifts they made a chunking sound.
It still didn’t occur to me that we were in trouble because it was such a beautiful day. It was warm and cozy inside the cab. I had finished my coffee, and the caffeine made me feel energized and confident. I was thinking about how I would sauté chicken breasts for supper, with fresh red peppers and fresh broccoli. And for dessert, fresh strawberries.
We were nearly at the turnoff to the gravel road when a long row of drifts loomed ahead, two feet deep, and so close together that I couldn’t see the pavement between them. I stepped on the gas pedal. We hit the first few frozen mounds hard and the tires cleaved through them. Then the momentum of the truck slowed a little and the front wheels swerved slightly to the left.
I cranked the steering wheel to the right and overcompensated, just as we hit the biggest drift, one that backed up against a clump of shrubs on the side of the road. The truck bucked a couple of times and then stopped dead as if we had hit a brick wall, jolting us forward so violently that our seat belts locked with an audible snap.
“Darn, I’ll have to back up and hit it again.” I spoke in my best calm voice.
I put the truck in reverse and stepped on the gas. The truck went backwards for a few feet, hit the drifts behind us and stopped. I gunned the truck and felt the rear tires lose their grip and start to spin.
I threw the gearshift into first again, and stepped on the gas pedal with all my weight. The engine roared and the truck moved a few inches, and then the front tires made that high-pitched whining sound that meant they were spinning.
We were stuck.
“Bridget, I’m going to get out and take a look.”
I opened the door. The wind cut into my face like a stiletto and my hair lifted straight off my head. When I stepped onto the pavement I couldn’t even see my own feet for the swirling white cloud that covered them. I bent over and looked at the rear tires. They had rammed into the drift, which wasn’t the soft fluffy kind, but the frozen-hard-as-rock kind. The tires were hung up about a foot off the surface of the road, unable to find any traction.
I would have to dig.
I got back into the cab and took our emergency clothes from behind the seat. I pulled on my balaclava, wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck, and drew my elbow-length waterproof mitts over my leather gloves. Telling Bridget to stay put, I jumped out and grabbed the snow shovel from the truck box.
I started shovelling. The best I could do was chop out a chunk of frozen snow with each attempt. The metal shovel was heavy, and the weight of the snow made it even heavier. I tossed the chunks to one side and the blowing snow filled in the depression almost as fast as I was digging. I cleared the area in front of the rear wheels first, trying to give them room to move forward.
After a few minutes my limbs were stiff with cold. I got back into the warm cab and threw the truck into forward gear. We moved another six inches and the rear tires started to spin. I got out into the cold again.
Bridget was whimpering, but I couldn’t stop to comfort her. The truck was still running and we were burning fuel. I now understood the real meaning of the term “wind chill.” The wind blew the chill straight into my bone marrow. A temperature of minus twenty on a calm, clear day was bearable. Today the wind chill lowered the perceived temperature to minus thirty, maybe even minus forty. I felt fear trickle down my spine like an icicle as I bent to my task once again.
This time I tried digging a depression behind the left front tire, then went around to the other side and dug out an opening behind the right front tire. I was still hoping I could reverse out of the drift. My inner clothing was damp and clammy with sweat.
I jumped back into the truck and threw it into reverse. We moved a few inches and the front tires spun out. I racked my brains, trying to remember all the advice I had heard at that long-ago Thanksgiving dinner, when I had never imagined I would find myself in this position.
Colin had mentioned that if I got stuck, to try rocking the vehicle. I threw the truck into forward, then reverse, then forward, then reverse. The truck did rock back and forth slightly, but the tires couldn’t find enough momentum to overcome the frozen snowdrift.
I had to put something under the tires so they could get some traction. There was a new bag of kitty litter on the floor of the cab. I opened the glove compartment door and found a screwdriver and worked open a hole in the bag.
“This will work, Bridge!” I was still trying to be cheerful, although I knew she had an uncanny ability to read my mind. She didn’t answer, but her eyes were wide and fearful.
I took a deep grateful breath of warm air, threw open the truck door against the blast, and poured a generous layer of kitty litter in front of all four wheels. I emptied the whole bag. Then I jumped back into the truck and tried to drive it forward again.
I felt the rear wheels catch on the roughened surface and for one glorious moment I thought we were free. The truck began to inch forward, but I had forgotten to straighten the wheels, which were still angled to the right.
The two front wheels suddenly lurched to the right and the cab plunged off the edge of the road and downward into the ditch at a crazy angle.
We were well and truly stuck.
I felt a surge of panic. I had been so sure that I could get the truck out by myself. For the first time I thought about where help might come from. The answer: nowhere. We were twenty miles off the main highway. The likelihood that anybody would come along this secondary road was close to nil. The only vehicle that I knew for sure used this road was the school bus, and we had passed it returning to town.
We had seen other vehicles on this road only twice: once in September, when I drove past two guys from the reserve leaning over a rusty car with the hood up. I slowed down to see if they needed a hand, but they waved me on; and once in November, when my truck was overtaken by two teenagers with black baseball caps worn backwards, tearing down the gravel road in their jacked-up four-by-four.
I sat behind the wheel for a minute, trying to think. I was already cold and tired from shovelling. Conventional wisdom was to stay with the vehicle and wait for help. This was the same advice given to people lost in the wilderness. Don’t wander, but find a good spot to hunker down and wait until the searchers find you.
But there would be no searchers.
I had filled the tank in town, but I wasn’t sure how long my fuel would last. Once the fuel ran out, the truck would turn into a metal freezer.
Roy Henderson had told the
tale of a young RCMP officer posted to the north for the first time. His patrol car broke down one night and rather than stay with his vehicle, he decided to walk for help. The investigation concluded that he had walked some distance before realizing that he wouldn’t make it.
He returned to his vehicle. When he got back, already half-frozen, he found that he had lost his keys. He smashed the passenger window with a rock, then climbed inside and tried to plug the window with a blanket. The next morning his frozen corpse was discovered, still sitting behind the wheel.
It was a horrifying image. I didn’t want us to freeze to death in this truck. Our best shot was to head for the nearest farmhouse. I could see it from here, a dark blot on the eastern horizon, blurry in the veil of blowing snow.
We were between crossroads, so the house was one mile away by road if we followed the road for one-half mile to the next crossroad and then turned right for another half-mile. But if we angled across the field, we would cut the distance in half. I pictured an equilateral triangle. Just one half-mile to safety.
The sky was blue and the sun was still streaming brightly through the side window, but it was closer to the ground now. It was twenty minutes to six, and the sun would sink behind the horizon at six. If we were going to take advantage of the remaining daylight, we would have to move now.
I allowed myself another five minutes to get warm. I took a chocolate bar out of the emergency box and fed it to Bridget. It was so snug in here with the heater running and the smell of chocolate in the air, so tempting to stay inside and wait for help. Then I pictured our frozen bodies, Bridget locked in my arms in rigor mortis.
I snatched up every article of clothing in the truck and started to dress her. The empty Tim Hortons cup was rolling around under my feet. I felt bitter remorse when I thought that if I hadn’t stopped for coffee, we would have beaten the snowdrift by fifteen minutes, would have made it through. We would be at home by now.
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