by Karen Welch
Eager to enjoy the festive atmosphere, before the storm deprived her of the colored lights and holiday music, she gave in to the temptation to curl on the couch and relax for the next few hours. Wrapped in a quilt, the sound of English carolers filling the room, she thumbed through an old seed catalog she'd discovered under Pop's chair. It was like looking through a picture album of old friends. Luscious red tomatoes, golden crook-necked squash and deep purple eggplant, all so familiar she could almost feel them in her hands. Her father had tried his hand at several areas of farming, he said, but his only talent seemed to lie in growing vegetables. During her childhood and adolescence, his garden had provided produce to the market in town, as well as several others around the county. She’d spent many summer mornings and evenings following him down the rows, first planting, then weeding, tying up trailing vines, turning fruit as it grew, and finally picking each tomato, cucumber or bean at just the moment of ripeness. Several afternoons a week were spent loading and transporting the carefully packed harvest, borne into town in the bed of Pop's rattling blue pickup truck with the name of Valley Rise Farm proudly displayed on the side.
Emily had enjoyed the sense of importance as they drew up to each storefront and the proprietor came out to choose from the baskets lining the truck bed. She had worked hard and been rewarded for her labor at the end of each month during the season with an envelope of cash, her percentage of the profits. Maybe, she thought, drowsily leafing through the catalog, she might try to bring the garden back to life someday.
She must have drifted off in the warmth, before a sudden sound entered her vivid dream. She had been standing outside the barn door, her father beside her. They had just put Stubby the mule back in his stall after the first spring plowing. He had accepted his rubdown and box of fresh feed with docile gratitude. Now they waited, eyes twinkling, for the inevitable clatter of his hooves on the stall door, his one-two salute, as if he wished to remind them that he had not been totally reduced to such menial servitude. He still had his mulish pride. Laughing together, she and Pop had started walking back to the house, arm in arm.
Sitting up slowly, she realized it had been the thump of the seed catalog falling to the floor that had startled her awake. She was stiff and chilled, and a glance around the room told her she was without the light from the lamps. The Christmas bulbs on the mantel were dark. The storm had finally taken down the power lines.
Stirring the fire, then lighting the oil lamp on the table, she saw the room begin to cheer, but she shrugged on an extra sweater against the chill. Her watch told her it was only a little past one. She must have dozed just long enough to dream. Poor Stubby, short for Stubborn, had gone to live on a farm across the valley after Pop's stroke. She wondered how he had fared with his new family, which she recalled included several young children. Did they ride on his broad back, swaying behind his bobbing head as he pulled the plow through the hard ground each spring? She hoped they loved him as she had. Despite the mildly disgruntled air he assumed, she believed he had enjoyed her attentions, as well as the service he provided for them. Would he remember her if she went to visit him? She was considering such a visit when spring came, as she went to the porch for more wood.
Through the frost-rimmed window, she saw that the snowfall had slowed, though the wind still whipped the tree limbs and spun little white cyclones across the yard. Beyond the barn, just where the land dropped away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught her eye. A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed and lost in the storm? Stepping to the door for a closer look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow. The shadow moved steadily upward over the rise, until she saw what could only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the general direction of the house. Head down, swaying slightly, as if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at least she thought it must be a man—was dressed all in black, the windward side of his long overcoat etched with white, and his bared head capped with snow. There seemed to be something odd about his stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as if bracing the other to his side. In what must have been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very tall; his possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have come from. He had to be coming from the road below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a blistering storm?
As she watched, scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised his head and gazed for a moment toward the house. Then in a slow, graceful spiral, he sank to the ground, disappearing into the snow. If she had not been watching his progress across the yard, she realized she would never have seen him from the house, once he’d fallen. Blinking, she wondered for an instant if she might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in the featureless white of the landscape. But the pounding of her pulse told her otherwise.
Propelled by some force outside herself, Emily bolted out the door. Instantly, her loafers filled with snow, and she struggled to make any speed to where he had fallen. When she finally stood over him, blinking snowflakes from her lashes, she faltered. With a gasp that seemed to expel any remaining air from her lungs, she froze, gazing down in horror. He was dead. His skin was colorless, his lips blue. Blood smeared his left cheek and matted his hair. A dark, shiny stain streaked the front of his overcoat.
For what seemed an eternity, she hovered over the sprawled body, watching for any sign of life, a hint of breath, any movement at all. She was afraid to touch him, to confirm that he had indeed died right before her eyes. Then, just as suddenly as she had launched from the house, she dropped to her knees in the snow. Her fingers searched just under his jaw for a pulse, finally detecting the surprisingly strong throb. Scooping snow in her bare hand, she gently touched it to his face.
“Can you hear me? Oh, please hear me! You're going to be okay. Just let me know you can hear me!” She stopped herself. She was babbling. Trying again, she said firmly, “Open your eyes!”
Mesmerized, she watched as his lids fluttered, the faintest sweep of his lashes, and then his lips parted. In what was little more than a breath, she heard the word “Light.” Then once again his features relaxed into what could have been a death mask. She waited for more, trying to pray but too stunned to form any coherent phrasing. Snowflakes stung her bare skin, and at last she grasped the fact that she was kneeling in the snow watching for some sign of life while in truth his life might be slipping away.
Struggling to her feet, she told him breathlessly, “You're going to be okay. I'll be right back,” and turned toward the house. Her progress up the hill was painfully slow, yet she felt as if she were flying. Rapid thoughts formed a plan of action, thoughts that seemed to come from a knowledge she hadn't known she possessed. She could see clearly in her mind just what she needed to do. Without hesitation, she raced through the house, straight to the guest room, where she pulled the white coverlet from the bed. It was light, but strong. It could work. Dashing back to the porch, she stopped long enough to hunch into her coat. Her knitted muffler fell to the floor, and she grabbed it up as she ran out the door.
By now her feet were numb with cold, and she stumbled in her rush down the hill. She would have to take care not to hurt herself, she warned. She had to be fit to care for him. He was her responsibility now. She had to do everything in her power to keep him alive until help came, however long that might be.
Trying to calm herself as she came closer, she braced for the possibility that he had died during the minutes she'd been gone. Kneeling again, she touched his face with her icy fingers, and was rewarded with the faintest grimace.
“I'm going to move you now. I'll try my best not to hurt you. Just let me do all the work.” She continued to talk to him as she spread the coverlet on the snow next to him, explaining every move.
She had learned from the nurses who came to care for her mother the method of changing the bedding without the patient ever leaving the bed. Roll to one side; put the folded sheet under the body. Turn to the other side; pull out the sheet. She bega
n to push him onto his side and felt his left arm twist limply in his sleeve. He groaned softly as she ran her hand into his coat, gently probing his shoulder. Something felt very wrong, out of place. Broken collarbone, separated shoulder? She drew back her hand, trying to think. Would she do more harm by moving him? What would it matter, if he froze to death here in the snow? With greater care, she reached under him, straining to lift him onto his side. She pushed the coverlet as far as possible beneath him, trying to avoid scooping in too much snow, then rolled him toward her. Side to side, she repeated the process, until he was finally stretched full length on the quilt. Going to his feet, she lifted the bottom edge over his boots, then proceeded up each side pulling the coverlet across him, until he was tightly wrapped within its folds. All the while, she talked to him, reassuring him, and herself, that she knew what she was doing.
Turning the corners at right angles so that his head was all that could be seen in the cocoon of white quilt against the snow, she took off her muffler and secured the bundle, tying it just above his knees. Standing over him, she waited for her breathing to return to nearer normal. Her lungs were scorched by the frigid air, her legs ached from kneeling in the snow, and her fingers were painfully numb. Rummaging in her pockets, she pulled out her forgotten gloves and worked them onto her hands, more for traction now than warmth. With one last resolute gasp, she went to the head of her burden. Grasping the edge of the coverlet, she began the journey across the lawn. Walking backwards, pulling gently, she managed a few feet at a time. The conveyance held together better than she might have expected, had she taken time to give it any thought. Every ounce of energy was geared toward forcing her legs to move steadily, her arms to keep pulling and her fingers to maintain their grip on the thick twists of fabric.
From what little she could see of his face, he had not reacted to being moved. He must be deep in unconsciousness, which was fortunate, she reasoned. She no longer allowed the thought that he might die. His dying would be an unjust end to all her efforts. He was hers now, to keep alive. He would live if she could just manage to get him inside. As she struggled and strained toward the house, she doggedly focused on the image of him stretched by the fire.
Reaching the back porch, she allowed herself to sit for a few minutes on the snow-covered stoop, gasping for air, close to tears from the burning pain in every limb. It would take all her strength to pull him up the two shallow steps and over the threshold. Resting her head against the door frame, she closed her eyes, trying to visualize the move. So close now, where was the adrenaline she needed to go the next few feet to warmth and safety? She considered all she could see of him, wet curling hair spread on the white of the quilt. If he had somehow walked all the way up the hill, injured and dazed, surely she could muster the strength to go the last short distance.
Still seated, she began to pull. Up the first step, his head rolled to one side. Then the next step and he slumped forward as his body angled upward. She leaned over him and pulled the quilt more tightly around his shoulders. A trickle of fresh blood had begun to flow from his hairline, streaking dark red along his cheekbone. The sight was all she needed to make her forget her weariness. Crouched on her heels, she pulled with all her remaining strength and fell backwards, her burden sliding across the floor toward her. With a sob of relief, she was on her feet, pulling him through the kitchen and dining room, passing with relative ease over the smooth floor.
In the doorway, she released the quilt and ran to stir the fire. Again, some force outside her exhausted brain seemed to take control. She shoved aside furniture and turned back the rug, clearing a path to the hearth. Reversing the earlier process, she unwrapped him, freeing him of the sodden coverlet. His overcoat was heavy with melting snow and she took great care to ease it from his shoulders, cringing at the unnatural twist of his left arm. Finally, she grasped his ankles and slid him close to the hearth.
She covered him with the quilts from her pallet, and tucked her pillow beneath his head. Sitting on the floor beside him, she laid a hand on his chest. Through the lightweight sweater, his body felt cold. How long had he been out in the storm? It would have taken thirty minutes for a strong, healthy walker to climb from the road below the woods. But he must have been out there for much longer.
Catching sight of the red smear on the pillow, she ran her fingers gently under his hair—long auburn hair, now wet with melting snow and clotted blood. Her fingertips found the stickiness of an open wound, just above his left ear. Drawing her hand back gingerly, she looked for other injuries. An ugly bruise was darkening over his right eye and another marked his cheekbone. She had noticed that his trousers were torn at the knees, the skin beneath bloodied. He must have fallen in the tangle of underbrush as he made his way up the hill. She felt for a pulse again, listened to his shallow breathing. Head trauma, separated shoulder, exposure, shock, maybe internal injuries as well. She fought back tears of panic. He needed a hospital, and all she had to offer him was the meager warmth of the fire and the few first aid skills she could recall from school.
“What happened to you? How did you get here? And what am I going to do with you?” She wiped at her tears, disgusted by her own cowardice. “I'm going to do the best I can. Just promise me you won't die on me, not here in my house. Please.” She studied the expressionless face a moment longer, then got to her feet and went to the window. Turning up the flame on the lamp, she pushed it closer to the glass. Going systematically through the house, she lit candles, carefully lining several along the back porch windows. Surely someone was searching the area if there had been an accident on the road below. Lights in the windows would signal that someone was here, even though everyone knew the house was empty. Jack would be heading any search party, she reasoned. He would certainly come to investigate when he heard there were lights here. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before someone came.
Satisfied that she had put out a sufficient distress signal, she went back to check on her patient, trying to think what she could do for him, other than pray for help to come. The answer was immediate. The bright stain spreading on the pillow was a call to action. Pressure, she thought, he needed some sort of pressure bandage. Starting to the bathroom, she remembered that there was little left in the way of first aid supplies. She went to the wardrobe instead, pulling out a sheet, and snapping it open on the bed. Reaching into the drawer of the bedside table, her hand came in contact with the cold metal of the sewing scissors her mother had always kept there. She made several precise cuts along the edge of the sheet, tore off strips, and wrapped them into squares around her hand. In the bathroom, she caught up several bath towels, dampened a cloth with water from the tub, and then headed back to the fireside.
It was then that she first realized she must have lost her shoes somewhere in the struggle across the yard. Her socks were soaked and her toes tingled painfully. Frostbite! Immediately, she knelt on the floor, pulling off his boots and sodden socks. His feet were icy cold, but she seemed to remember that heat was not the proper treatment for frostbite. Wrapping each foot gently in a towel, she tucked them back under the covers.
She slid across the floor until she was sitting cross-legged near his head. Clenching her teeth, she again ran her fingers under his hair, lifting it to expose a jagged gash. An involuntary groan escaped her, as she laid a thick square of cloth over the wound. “Be glad you can't see this,” she told him. “Good thing for you, I'm not the fainting kind.” Carefully, she wound another strip over the square and around his head several times, making sure not to blindfold him in the process. “There, that's not so bad.” She eyed her handiwork, gently rearranging the curls around the bandage. With the dampened cloth, she cleaned away the smear of blood from his cheek, more for her own comfort than for his, she knew.
Really looking at him now for the first time, she decided that he was young, maybe only a little older than herself. The long hair, curling softly as it dried, and a scattering of fading freckles across the high cheekbones
only added to his boyishness. His features were classically handsome, straight nose, generously sculpted mouth. Even in his current battered state, there was a beauty and gentleness about the finely lined brows and strong chin. He was no poor college boy; that was for sure. His clothes were the best quality, stylish and expensive, and the overcoat, now soaked with snow and blood, appeared to be tailor made. His hands were manicured and soft, no sign of hard labor there. Everything about him seemed refined, almost elegant. How on earth had he ended up in the middle of nowhere, walking alone in the storm?
He was still deathly pale, but his lips were showing more natural color now. She consoled herself with the thought that as long as he remained unconscious, he would not suffer the pain from his shoulder. There was nothing she could do for that except to see that his arm rested in a more or less natural position at his side. And as long as he wasn't aware of his surroundings, he would not be afraid, she told herself. If he knew he was trapped in an isolated farmhouse, with a girl who had little to offer in the way of aid, for what might be hours before help came, he might understandably fear for his life.
Laying a hand on his chest, she said softly, “Just rest now. Everything will be fine, you'll see.”
She had done the best she could for him, and now she turned her attention to her own condition. Soaked from head to toe, her clothes cold and stiff, she was beginning to shiver uncontrollably. With no concern for modesty, she stripped off her wet things and dug in her duffel bag for jeans and a sweatshirt. Standing close to the fire, she rubbed her arms and legs to rid them of dampness. When she was dressed again, she sat down near him and dried her hair with a towel, combing out the tangled length with her fingers.