It Happened One Christmas, page 12
“I’m not sure whether to be offended or impressed.”
“I know your type.”
“I’m not a type.” What would that type be, anyway? Ambitious, single women with no plans for Christmas?
“Why not?” I challenged him. “If you’re going there anyway…”
“Because you’re driving me crazy,” he grumbled.
A loud crack echoed around us. Startled, I dropped the phone. I reached down to pick it up, and as I was sitting back in my seat, a thick branch whipped into view, landing on the windshield and getting trapped by the wipers. I grabbed Ben’s arm. He didn’t slam on the brakes, but rather pumped them, which slowed the truck, even on the ice-covered road. The branch flew off, and he let out a low whistle, then patted my hand with his free hand. I exhaled.
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I lied. “I can’t believe that didn’t break the windshield.” My heart felt like it was taking up my entire chest.
“Seriously,” he agreed, craning his neck forward. There was no way to avoid more branches, if that’s what he was thinking. Trees lined both sides of the road, their branches swaying.
Another gust of wind rocked the truck. Ben gripped the wheel tighter, struggling to keep control as the tires seemed to slip every few seconds. I could feel tension emanating from him.
“This doesn’t seem good,” I said, my voice tight with fear. “Should you slow down?” I said, even though I knew we were only going about ten miles an hour. I also knew that no one likes a back seat driver, but I didn’t care. I was worried.
In the actual back seat, Simon was alert. He was sitting in the middle, his nose resting on the center console between us again. I rubbed his long snout, mostly to comfort myself.
“That’s why I said we should turn back,” Ben replied, his face grim. He seemed to be ping-ponging back and forth, trying to decide what to do. “I’ve got to be home for Réveillon. I can’t miss it, not this year of all years…”
“The Réve-what? What is that?”
He furrowed his brow. “Réveillon. The ultimate Christmas tradition. Surely you have that in your film?”
I shook my head. Not yet, anyway. But there was no time like the present to pump him for authentic Quebecois traditions for my film.
“Thank god I didn’t give you that permit then,” he said.
“God, you’re awful—” I blurted out, but got cut off by a loud crack as the truck veered off to the right. I gasped and reached for Ben’s arm again. I wanted to hold tight to him, with both arms, but it was also probably a terrible idea to be holding on to him at all. I released my grip, instead grasping the sides of my seat, my fingernails digging into the soft leather.
A large tree loomed in front of us. Beyond that, the headlights from the truck illuminated the dark expanse of a pond, its surface partially frozen and treacherous.
“Watch out!” I pointed. Simon barked, clearly sensing danger.
Ben steered back onto the road, narrowly avoiding the tree.
“I thought you had studs,” I said tightly.
“I do, but it’s no match—the roads are icing over as soon as the freezing rain hits the ground. It’s the tempête. It’s getting worse by the minute—and a lot earlier than it was supposed to, that’s for sure.” Despite this, it felt as though the truck had its grip on the road—at least for a moment.
“How far are we from…the main road or…anything?”
“I’m not sure,” Ben said, which didn’t quell my anxiety.
“Shouldn’t you know where we are?” It sounded more critical than I meant. “Didn’t you grow up here?”
“I never take this route,” he said tersely, then glared at me. “We’re only on this road for you. To get you to the mayor’s house. I’m the one who wanted to turn back, remember?”
We went silent. Ben kept his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, slowly inching the truck forward. I focused on rubbing Simon’s nose and scratching his ears. The wipers continued their superspeed dance across the windshield. Every so often, the truck would jerk to one side or the other and I’d grab at my seat in panic until Ben righted us. I wavered between keeping my eyes wide, not to miss anything, and shutting them tight, bracing myself for the worst. Each second felt like an hour, like we were moving in slo-mo.
Up ahead, an abandoned farmhouse, close to the road, came into view, its roof partially collapsed, its windows smashed in. It had given up. I couldn’t give up. At this point I couldn’t think past the mayor’s house. We had to get there.
Then, suddenly, everything shifted into time-lapse mode. As we drove over a bump, the truck’s back end swung out. Ben eased his foot off the gas and twisted the steering wheel to correct it, but the truck kept sliding to the right, impossible to stop.
“Dammit,” Ben said, and I screamed as we sailed toward a cluster of trees, just to the right of the farmhouse. I could see a lake right beyond the farmhouse, mere feet away, and I froze in horror, praying that we weren’t headed for it. With a sickening thunk the truck smashed into the thick trunk of an old maple, the force of the collision pushing me against my seat belt, knocking the breath out of me. I tried to scream again but nothing came out. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday, December 23, 1:00 p.m.
Everything was blurry. I blinked a few times, and the world in front of me came into focus. The sleet was still pounding on the windows, relentless. That’s what was making everything blurry—the windshield was covered in a thick layer of snow and rain. I rubbed my neck. It was sore. I twisted it to the left and let out a wail. Amid the curtains of deflated airbags, Ben was slumped forward on the steering wheel, lifeless.
“Ben?”
He didn’t stir.
“Ben?!” My stomach clenched. I reached over to touch his shoulder, then pulled him back from the steering wheel. His head rolled back against the headrest. Simon suddenly jumped up from the back seat and began licking Ben’s face as though it were coated in gravy.
A frightened, stilted scream escaped my lips and I clamped my mouth shut. Breathe. What did I learn in first-aid training? My hand shook as I reached over to put two fingers on his neck. It was warm. His skin was soft, with just a bit of stubble where his beard was trimmed short. I quickly found his pulse. It felt normal, steady. Okay, he’s alive. He’s alive. I examined his face and his body. He didn’t look like he had any injuries.
Okay, so he was unconscious. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and flipped it over. Who could I call? Who was going to come and rescue us? The picture of Stella and me as kids, in matching striped pajamas, sitting in front of a Christmas tree, stared back at me. So did the words in the top right corner that read: No Service.
I groaned in frustration. I’d probably have better luck with Ben’s phone—maybe he was on a different, local provider and still had service? I could call Paul. Or Ben’s mother. Or Mireille or Lise or Renee. Surely he had their numbers in his phone. Surely he had the whole town’s numbers in his phone. I rummaged around for the phone in the console between us, but couldn’t find it. I leaned over to look down at Ben’s feet and spotted it on the floor next to the brake pedal. I unbuckled my seat belt, pressing my right hand to the dashboard to prevent myself from sliding forward. The truck was at a steep angle and I was worried that too much movement could send us straight for the pond. I leaned across the console and over his legs, picking up the phone. The plastic case felt cold in my hand. I tapped the screen to bring it to life. The phone was locked, but it didn’t matter: Ben didn’t have service anyway.
We shouldn’t even be out here, Ben had said. We should turn back. This was what he’d been worried about. And I’d forced us to keep going.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to slow my heart, which felt like it was running away, trying to escape my body, to get out of this situation. Could I blame it? Simon nuzzled against my face and I gave him a hug. I was glad he was safe, and grateful for the company.
I looked outside. The tree we had crashed into was a foot away from the windshield. The truck was angled precipitously toward the icy pond, less than ten feet from the farmhouse, and I was suddenly grateful for the giant maple tree that had stopped us in our tracks. The tree was preventing us from sliding farther toward the ice. But what if the weight of the truck pushing against the tree was too much for the tree to bear? Would the pond’s ice support a truck? Somewhere, something hissed. I squinted through the freezing rain. Was that smoke coming out of the hood of the truck? We had to get out of here. I had to get us out of here.
Simon looked to me, his eyes wide as if to say What now?
“I know, boy, I’m trying to figure that out.” Even though the farmhouse was close, Ben probably weighed at least 80 pounds more than me. How would I get him to the farmhouse, let alone out of the truck?
But what other option did I have?
I put my soggy UGGs back on, then looked around the truck, then climbed between the seats into the back beside Simon. I rummaged around for essentials: my coat, and hats and gloves for both of us. Then I tentatively maneuvered myself back into the front, praying again that the shift of my weight wouldn’t make a difference to the precarious teetering of the truck. I pushed Ben’s hat and gloves into my pocket, slung my bag across my body, and braced myself. The freezing rain was coming down in ribbons. I pulled on the metal handle to push open the door. It didn’t budge. I tried again. Nope, it wasn’t opening. My throat felt tight, like I was about to start bawling. I tried one more time, pushing my entire body weight hard against the door. This time it opened just enough to let me squeeze out. I cautiously set the toe of my UGG on the frozen ground and immediately slipped. Thankfully, my foot caught on a raised branch poking through the cloudy surface. Simon whimpered and I turned back to look at him. “It’s okay, Simon. Zoey’s gonna get you out the other side. Don’t you worry.”
The wind whipped the pom-pom on the top of my hat. I wrapped my thin wool coat tighter, doing up the measly two buttons and pulling the collar up, but it wasn’t going to do anything against the heavy rain and snow. Holding on to the slick surface of the truck, I stepped gingerly around the back of the cab to Ben’s side of the truck. Ben’s door handle was frozen in place, and I couldn’t move it. And because of the way the truck had wedged itself against the tree, the handle was at shoulder height, making it hard for me to get any leverage. I needed something to pry it open. There was probably something in the emergency kit, but I was worried about shifting any major weight around. My fingers dug into my bag until they finally wrapped around my house keys. I flipped one key forward and dug it into the door handle to chisel away at the ice. Freezing rain beat against the side of my face and I tilted my head to try to deflect the stinging pellets. My hair was slick on my face and I swiped at it, but I didn’t stop hacking away at the door handle. I had to get Ben out.
Slowly, the ice started to chip off, and then the metal door handle lifted. The door swung open and Simon leaped out onto the ice. Holding on tightly to the side of the door, I leaned over Ben. “Ben,” I said. He didn’t move. “Ben,” I said again, louder, and shaking his arm. “Ben!” This time I shouted. Simon barked at my feet. I removed my glove and touched Ben’s cheek with the flat of my palm. It was warm, soft, alive. I pressed the button on his seat belt buckle to release the belt, gently pulling it across his body with one hand and holding him in place with the other. How was I going to get him out of here?
One step at a time, Zoey.
I just had to make a decision and act on it. I was Ben’s only hope. I had to put everything I had into getting Ben and me out of this situation and to safety.
For years, in my late teens and early twenties, I’d been a lifeguard. That training was ten years ago now, but once you learn how to move a body that’s much bigger than yours, you never forget. That, combined with three HIIT workouts a week this past year, paid off.
I maneuvered Ben to the left, his back toward me, so I could slip my arms under his armpits. I clasped my gloved hands together over his broad, firm chest, and slowly leaned him back, letting his head fall to the crook between my neck and shoulder. I took one step back, preparing myself for the weight of his body. Breathing deeply, my nose filling with his scent of cedar and soap, I took another step back. Ben’s upper body fell onto my chest and I braced my legs, contracting my quad muscles.
Step, pull. Step, pull. Slowly, inch by inch, Ben slid out of the truck as I put one foot behind the next. I was already breathing heavily, and we were only a few feet from the truck. I buried my face beside his to protect us both from the sleet and wind, which was whipping, swirling, coming at us from all directions. One step, then the next. I had to just keep moving.
Simon raced toward the farmhouse as though knowing that’s where we were headed.
My hands were numb through my soaked, impractical gloves. My feet were frozen. But my body was on fire, the back of my neck drenched in sweat.
I didn’t let myself think about what would happen if the farmhouse was filled with snow, if the roof was completely collapsed. If it was infested by rats. Or worse, by other people who wouldn’t let us in.
The wind whipped my hat away, but I couldn’t let go of Ben to go after it. I tried to convince myself that his pine smell was wafting from a warm bath. Maybe the farmhouse wouldn’t be so terrible on the inside. Maybe there’d be an old claw-foot tub. I imagined myself soaking in it—that’s why I was wet, not because we were stranded in the middle of an ice storm.
I was less than five steps from the farmhouse, but it felt like five miles.
The ground was thick with slush, and my feet sank through, straight up to my knee, far past the tops of my UGGs and soaking my pants. I stopped to look at Ben. The lower half of his body was soaked from me dragging him through the snow and sludge, and his upper half was wet, too, but from the freezing rain pounding on us.
A flash of something moving caught my eye. My heart thudded. I craned my neck to see past the trio of trees to my right. Was it just a branch? And then I saw two beady eyes looking at me. A deer. Neither of us broke gaze.
The deer looked like the one I saw when I first got into Chelsea, but, of course, it couldn’t be the same one. We were so far from there, and this place was probably full of deer.
A moment later, it finally blinked, then seemingly nodded at me before turning and disappearing from sight.
I exhaled and took another breath. I could do this.
I readjusted my arms under Ben’s arms and gave him one final pull toward the farmhouse. The steps were covered in ice, and I laid him down, then gripped the railing to pull myself up, praying it wouldn’t give way. I twisted the rusty door handle, clicking it back and forth, but it wouldn’t budge. Simon inspected the open window to the right of the door, looking from me back to Ben, as though deciding what to do next.
I moved to stand next to him and peered inside. It was mostly empty, but seemed safe. I carefully, gently, began climbing through the window, making sure not to catch my clothes on the broken glass. A moment later I was standing in a square room. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Tears pooled in my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. I’d made it. I swiped at my eyes with the backs of my hands and the farmhouse came into clearer view.
The floor was damp, puddles in places. Sleet streamed into one corner where the roof had caved in, a pile of snow and slush accumulating on the floor. The place smelled dank and musty. I looked around. The room was empty save for a lone rocking chair, missing its seat, in another corner. I walked into the middle of the room, the floorboards creaking. The kitchen to the right had old wooden countertops that were sagging and cracked. A broken table—only two legs still intact—was overturned. In the sink, a few pots and pans were caked with dirt. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the room, and the cream-colored walls were stained and peeling.
Despite the neglect, little details of the home remained—the far wall featured a crooked photo, a clock. On the open shelves, an old board game, a lamp, a stack of records. It was clear the place had once been loved and cared for, though whoever had called this place home had long ago abandoned it.
Satisfied it was safe, I turned around and hurried back to the door, opening it.
Ben was still on the steps where I’d left him, but Simon was now at his side, nuzzling him. The husky looked up at me and then made a noise, like a door creaking open, as though he was trying to talk. “We’re going to get him inside, aren’t we?” I said to Simon. “I’ll need your help.”
I knew nothing about what it meant to be unconscious, only that Ben would need time to recover. And he definitely needed to be warm. He must be freezing in his wet clothes.
I reached down to get Ben into the now-familiar position, looping my arms under his armpits once again, then maneuvered him toward the door, over the threshold, and inside. My arms shook. My fingers had lost all feeling, but I gave everything I had to pull Ben as far away from any windows and the cold wind as I could, to the middle of the room. Should he be on his back, on his side? Should I curl him into the fetal position so he could keep himself warm? I looked around, searching for something, anything, to bundle him up in, but then felt silly. Don’t be ridiculous, Zoey. It’s not as though there would be a blanket lying around in this place, just neatly folded on a shelf, waiting for you.
I turned my attention back to Ben, and began working his wet coat off. Underneath, I found that his thin navy sweater was also wet. My heart felt heavy with worry. I had created this situation—I had insisted we keep driving into the storm to the mayor’s cottage. If Ben had had his way he’d be home by now. Instead he was here, in this dilapidated place in the middle of nowhere, unconscious. I looked at his face. He was still, his breathing shallow and labored. Getting to this farmhouse had been the goal, but now that we were here, it wasn’t enough. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen: it was black. I pulled out his: still no service. In a panic I spun around, searching the walls for a landline. No such luck.
