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Another gust of wind has me clutching Josh’s hand tighter.
“They’re saying it’s going to be an early blizzard,” Luke says.
“I hope not.” The first bell rings. “We’d better get inside.”
The morning passes as usual, and although I’d normally spend my lunch hour with Josh, today, I put on my coat and hat and head out to the parking lot.
They’re predicting a foot of snow already, and a glance up at the darkening sky confirms it. Josh and I have lived here for a little over three years, and although I love the snow, I hate driving in it and hope it won’t be as bad as they’re forecasting.
Getting into the Jeep, I glance at the space in the woods that had caught my attention earlier, but nothing’s there now. And it doesn’t look as dark and foreboding as it had early this morning.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I head to the florist in town to pick up the bouquet. It’s ready for me, and I’m grateful for that. I won’t have much time before I have to get back to the school even though the lead teacher in my room knows I may be a few minutes late.
I set the flowers on the passenger’s seat and drive out of town. The elegant, long white callas look out of place on the worn upholstery of the Jeep.
Light flurries have already begun to fall as I navigate the curving road up to Daniel’s Point. I found the overlook by accident. It’s not easy to get to, which means I don’t often run into anyone out there, but today, I’m anxious as the road rises in elevation and visibility becomes an issue.
Switching on the radio for company, I listen absently to songs periodically broken by static until, twenty minutes later, I reach the turnoff for the overlook.
Tires grate on loose stones as I park the Jeep as close to the point as I can. I pull my knit cap on, pick up the flowers, and climb out, my boots crunching on those same stones. I walk around the barrier and onto the barely recognizable trail, and for a moment, the only sound is that of my boots on a random branch or dried up leaf.
There’s a stillness here. Where Josh and I live is quiet too, but here, it’s different than Philadelphia. It’s like the mountains eat sound, and when I stop to listen to it, to hear it, it has a way of reassuring me and filling me with peace. It’s the strangest thing, but when I get to the overlook, and it’s like the world opens up to me, I just stand there and listen to that sound. A part of me wishes it could stay here forever and never go back.
My mom died when I was three in a car accident on a road much like this one in that it was remote and mostly deserted. We were stranded for two days before they found us. It had been fall, too. Fall is an unlucky time for me.
I shouldn’t have survived that accident, but somehow, I did.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m grateful for the interruption. I dig it out and switch off the alarm I’d set for myself. I have about ten minutes before I have to head back, and I set a second alarm just in case. I walk as far as I can on the overhanging stone and crouch to lay the flowers down.
Nina loved calla lilies. They were her favorite flowers. She’d always complain that no guys ever sent her flowers.
I spend a few minutes arranging the four long stems. One for each year since she’s been gone.
“I miss you,” I tell the wind. “I should have made you come with me that night.” I dig into my pockets for a tissue but don’t find any, so I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. I’m going to need mittens too because my fingers are frozen.
But at that moment, I feel it again.
The back of my neck prickles, the hair stands on end, and that feeling is back. Like someone’s watching.
I freeze, unable or unwilling to turn around. To see.
Something crunches behind me, a twig, and I gasp, straighten, and spin, reaching into my pocket and digging out the pocketknife. I keep one in every pocket and in every bag. I have since I left Philly.
I step backward, trip, and just catch myself as a deer springs across the path and into the dense cover of trees. I exhale a loud breath and clutch my stomach, my body relaxing in relief.
A deer. It’s just a deer.
I laugh out loud, but it sounds a little crazy, and the second alarm on my phone goes off, warning me I’ll be late if I don’t leave. I walk quickly back to the Jeep, almost running by the time I get to it.
