by K Larsen
“I want to go home,” she suddenly declared like a petulant child. Tears sprang from her eyes as if summoned from some inner font reserve to help her get her way in a bind.
“I’d take you there if I could. But I can’t, so I’m gonna read to you instead and after I finish a whole chapter, you can have a sip of this warm water.” He lifted a hardcover book with a navy binding and gold embossed letters on the spine. Her vision was blurry from the tears and the wind. “Do you like Emerson? Cause I’ve got some Whitman if you don’t care for him.”
She nodded, figuring a yes was her best and only option for an answer. Tristan gave a shy half-smile and began reading.
Meghan dozed on and off listening to the lull of his steady reading voice. She’d never had a man read to her before, in fact, no one had read aloud to her since childhood and the effect it had on her was astounding. It conveyed great comfort and tranquility in a situation that should have been panic-inducing, bringing back emotional memories of her parents and the stories they’d read to her before bed during childhood. She slipped in and out of dream-like states or perhaps she was losing consciousness. But the man, Tristan’s, voice remained constant. He was always nearby when she opened her eyes and he first lifted and then tipped her head back gently to give her sips of woodstove-warmed water. The reading put to rest the voice in her head that insisted she extricate herself from the predicament immediately by any means necessary, which she ultimately knew was a fruitless endeavor. She couldn’t stand, let alone run away, on her feet and toes which still burned ceaseless fires under the covers.
Her memory slowly presented broken pieces of a narrative, which seemed in retrospect; so ignorant, so hair-brained, that it pained her to admit she’d made such amateur decisions. Winter hiking up a mountainside in a snowstorm? She wasn’t a naturalist, survivalist, or even an extreme sports enthusiast. She was an idiotic housewife in a midlife crisis trying to mend her broken heart. Maybe she wasn’t brokenhearted, her adventures were more a desperate attempt to fill up an empty heart. She’d been abandoned for a younger woman, a better version, and it made her feel inadequate in all the ways a person can fall short. If she hadn’t been enough for boring old Bruce, maybe confronting her fears was an attempt at proving her own value to herself. It wasn’t just a hike, it was a reckoning.
She interrupted Tristan who seemed to read tirelessly.
“How bad is it? Am I going to die or lose my limbs?”
He paused and put the book down, spine facing the ceiling to keep his place. He changed the position of his legs and cradled his chin thoughtfully through his beard. Meghan couldn’t help noticing how nicely structured his face was. Without saying anything, he removed a thermometer from a cup that sat on the floor. Meghan opened her mouth in anticipation, but he smiled and pulled the blankets back from her neck sliding the thermometer into her armpit. She wondered how many times he’d checked since he found her and tried to ignore the voice in her head that reminded her of how profoundly vulnerable she was like this—completely at his mercy. She had to surrender even her own instincts to survive this disaster. Soon she’d have to go to the bathroom, but she couldn’t even let her mind venture down that road at this point.
Tristan removed the thermometer, shook it hard a few times and reached for her other shoulder.
“Not bad,” he said quietly. “Still a ways to go.”
Their family thermometer had been digital, and Bruce had never taken the time to take her temperature even when she was feverish.
“Frostbite,” Tristan furrowed his brow as he seemed to consider his words carefully. “Frostbite can be latent for a while and doesn’t necessarily show up right away. The good news is that you’re almost out of the hypothermia. But, yeah, frostbite is a whole other beast.”
She felt her heart ricochet around her chest like a pinball machine. Her brain immediately offered up images of chainsaw and hatchet amputations, bloody stumps, and whiskey shots and leather strap biting as the only anesthesia.
“We should probably go to the hospital. Or at least call them and they can come and pick us up. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you and I’m guessing around here hospitals should be equipped to fix me right up.”
“Wow.” Tristan said. It was under his breath, but she still caught it.
Even in her confused state, Meghan suspected that the plan was fallible, but it sounded nice to say it—to imagine getting rescued and having all of modern medicine at her disposal.
“When the pass snows over, they close the roads for the season. Not like we could even get to a road considering the accumulation. When the road is open the nearest hospital is an hour and half hour drive from the Moosewood. Even if you wanted to try, Meghan, you’re not in any condition to walk. You wouldn’t make it.”
She realized then, what a burden it had been on him to carry her through the drift all the way to this shelter. He could have left her out there and she might have lost another opportunity to hug her kids. She suddenly felt ashamed and ridiculous. Like some kind of suburban Avon lady who’d barged into this man’s cabin and tried to sell him mascara and cheap air freshener when in fact, mere survival was the bottom line of this game.
He didn’t have to help her. Her mind could dream up every horror movie and paperback thriller-induced scenario about his motives, but the simple truth was that he put his life on the line to save her own and he didn’t have to.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. He shook his head and lifted the ceramic mug to her lips. She took little sips but could feel the hot tears stream down her face. “You’re really doing a great job taking care of me and I’m sorry I was—I am so ill-prepared and . . . I shouldn’t even have been out there in the first place.”
Tristan seemed like a taciturn man who thought carefully before he spoke. But his words weren’t even needed as Meghan’s comments were answered by the wrath of the storm. The wind blew so fiercely that it screamed through the trees. It shook the cabin walls and slithered through the cracks in the old wood until they could both feel the cold gust caress their exposed skin. Meghan’s eyes were wide as she looked to Tristan for reassurance.
“We’ve got plenty of wood,” he told her. “I tied a line from the back steps to the shed where I must have at least twenty pounds of potatoes, beans and rice, a whole carton of powdered milk. These trees have been standing for hundreds of years and have been shaken to the core but remain tall. I’ve got more than enough plastic and a staple gun should any gust or branch break one of the windows. There are three fifty-gallon rain barrels full and ready for de-thawing once I can roll them inside. Right now, for drinking water, we can melt snow until June in here if we have to. All I need to make pasta is flour and water . . .”
Meghan drifted off to the sound of his voice. He wasn’t boasting, just singing her a lullaby of all the ways he had up his sleeve to keep them safe. Keep her safe, a complete stranger and one he probably hadn’t counted on having to look out for. Who was this noble woodsman, who had stumbled across her nearly doomed venture into an icy world? He’d already rescued her heroically and now he was promising to care for her better than Bruce did, or better than anyone ever had before in her lifetime.
Nine
Tristan
That last bit had been a lie. He didn’t know how to make pasta but he did have three boxes of macaroni in the kitchen that he could make if needed. It was a stupid thing to say he realized too late. She—Meghan, could be stuck here with him for a solid month given the severity of the storm raging outside. And he didn’t need her thinking he was a liar once she was more alert. Something in him had wanted to comfort her—impress her.
Taking a mental tally, he recalculated the food situation. If he worked outside his normal meal framework, he could probably make his meager supplies stretch until the weather cleared and he could get her strapped to a sled and ski her back to town. It’d be tight, but he’d been through worse.
He was thankful she’d dozed off again. It had saved hi
m from back peddling to boxes of pasta versus homemade. Her lashes nearly brushed the apples of her cheeks. Her face was sleep flushed and peaceful. He was concerned about her toes but he didn’t have the heart to wake her again to inspect and he was exhausted. He’d not slept longer than a couple hours at a whack, making sure to check on her regularly through the early morning into the afternoon. She needed to be woken, hydrated, blankets rewarmed. He needed to do everything right. He wasn’t prepared to make a mistake—especially not with his first and only—woman visitor in over five years.
There was a spark for him when she’d come to and spoken to him. She was feisty yet humble. Her expression kind, though laced with uncertainty and fear had drawn him in, hooked him thoroughly. Despite all the things she must have been thinking—kindness superseded. That said a lot about a person’s core—who they truly were.
“Pull it together, man,” he muttered to himself as he filled a pot with water. He opted to heat it on the woodstove to conserve propane. The wind gusted, rattling the kitchen window, standing on his tiptoes he rubbed the fog from the glass and peered outside. The storm raged at a furious pace. Snow drifted and piled up against the greenhouse to the spot where it arched—at least five and a half feet.
His stomach growled. Tristan blew out a breath and pulled out what he needed to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He glanced at the blanket burrito on the modest living room floor—still out. She looked comfortable and angelic—her petite facial features peeking out from the blankets. He smiled to himself, plated his sandwich and perched on the edge of the chair at the cafe style table.
Ten
Meghan
When she came-to again, he wasn’t beside her. This was the first time she’d awoken without his comforting presence. She listened to the steady drip of either a faucet or perhaps an icicle melting onto the floor. Maybe it was a rain barrel de-thawing, she couldn’t see the source and was wrapped too tight to move more than her head and her eager eyes around the room. The light held that diurnal tint of bright possibility that signaled dawn and not dusk. It wasn’t just the time she was unfamiliar with, but also the day. Maybe twenty-four hours had passed since she’d first opened her eyes in that room. But one thing she knew for certain was that she had to pee. She only remembered taking tiny sips of water, yet they added up to one unbearably full bladder. She considered wetting herself and surrendering to the consequences no matter how unpleasant. Upon further consideration she realized it wouldn’t do. Ruin this kind stranger’s bedding and make a fool of herself. One way or the other, she’d have to relinquish her modesty so she conjured memories of birthing the twins and how childbirth required her to let go of inhibition in favor of function—survival even.
She heard a door and felt the icy blast that rushed in behind it. Heard the stomping of snow boots and felt the vibration of the impact through the floor. She listened for a few minutes as he worked, the sound of metal pots and pans, the squeaky hinge on the woodstove door as he opened it to presumably stoke the fire some more. Ideally, she would have loved to feign sleep until it carried her off, but her bladder called and wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“Tristan?” She cleared her throat.
He immediately stepped across the floor and appeared looming above her, larger than life, concern shaping the corners of his eyes.
“I have to pee,” she said. It was funny how relief flooded her body upon seeing his familiar face again. A face that was completely foreign to her before the storm, had become the one she looked to for safety and reassurance. “I don’t suppose you have a bed pan or could carry me to the toilet?” Meghan knew her face was probably wind-chapped but felt it redden even more, this was a wholly new level of humility for her.
“Lucky for you, I’ve been thinking ahead.” He grabbed a pan. A real pot—for cooking, roasting vegetables or baking a cake. Meghan was mortified. “I don’t use it anymore. In fact, it was just rusting away catching a drip under the sink. I’ll lift you up. I don’t want you moving your arms and legs at all if you can help it.”
He pulled back the covers and her gooseflesh rose in protest of the cold air. Her arms were at her sides, hands carefully wrapped in gauze or muslin, breasts bare, but pink silky underwear still in place. Her nipples tightened at the nip of the breeze. He was averting his eyes, but his hands slipped easily down her sides and began to slip her panties down her thighs. Her stomach quivered at the contact.
Meghan hadn’t been intimate with a man in ages and his rough fingers gliding along her soft flesh made her think about other intimate acts besides peeing.
“When I was in high school, my mother was diagnosed with cancer.” He was still gazing toward the stove to give her privacy in a transaction that made room for none.
“I’m sorry,” Meghan said. She arched her back as Tristan slid the pot expertly underneath her. She was distracted and wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at.
“That was my early induction into caretaking and realizing all the little things we take for granted, you know? One day we can tie our shoes and think absolutely nothing of it, it’s only when we no longer can that we realize what a privilege it was, what a delight it can be, the independence of tying your own shoes.”
She couldn’t stop picturing her urine steaming in the cabin air, smelling foul, or the poor man dumping it out. She was entirely humiliated although she managed to focus by listening to his words. He’d placed the pan perfectly after sliding her underwear all the way down. When she’d imagined allowing a man to finally take her clothing off again, this wasn’t what had come to mind. Now she had stage-fright and despite the pressure on her bladder, the pee would not come out.
“So there was nearly a year of bedpans. It was her desire to stay at home and my father wanted to be true to what little she asked for. My sister was too young and we wanted to spare her the traumatic memories. So at sixteen, the last thing you want to do is see your mom naked or wipe her, give her a bath . . . but after a dozen times or so, it’s like anything else. Manageable.”
He spoke this way to comfort her and her appreciation for his manner swelled inside her like a giant balloon. The urine began to flow and she sighed as both the tension and pressure released her. Her heart also broke for this man’s sixteen-year-old self. How devastating it must have been and what a mature and selfless child he had been. She wondered and greatly doubted that the twins would have been capable of care remotely similar at that tumultuous age; self-obsessed, lazy, spoiled by every adult in their world. She loved her boys but also recognized their limitations.
“While we’re here, I’m going to change this dressing as well. Get your feet and hands rewrapped and then cover you back up.” He slid the pan along the floor without lifting it up. Meghan expected to drip and be uncomfortable, but suddenly Tristan had a terry cloth hand towel and blotted her gently between the legs before he pulled her underwear back up. The gesture was so tender that it nearly made her cry. He was someone she might be terrified to come across alone in the woods, but underneath the rugged exterior, Tristan was a truly gentle soul.
He unwound the gauze from her hands first and she stared at the ceiling. The fear of losing her fingers was so great that she couldn’t bring herself to look, let alone ask about the condition they appeared to be in. If they were discolored or still frozen she knew the panic it would evoke would send her into a tailspin. So, she opted to stare at the ceiling as he worked. She could still feel the awful burning sensation, albeit distant, as if it were happening to someone else. She remembered her hands when her husband had slipped an engagement ring onto her finger, when she’d chewed down her cuticles until they’d bled during finals in college, when her boys were teething and the digits had become drool-covered appendages that always ended up in their gummy mouths.
“Did you build this place yourself?” she asked him.
“Sure did. A labor of love.”
“Do you live here year-round?”
“It certainly isn’t my
summer home,” he responded good-naturedly.
“Do you ever come across anyone out in the woods?”
“Just hikers sometimes, but even those sightings are rare and the exception. Occasionally, Sleeping Beauty lying in the deep snow.” He stood carefully, grabbing the pot so that the pee wouldn’t slosh.
“This probably isn’t how you wanted to spend your weekend,” she said to cover her embarrassment.
“I could use the company. A storm’s no good when you’re all alone. Wish you could’ve seen the drift when I first opened the back door. A good wheelbarrow-full of snow fell right into the kitchen. It’s ten feet out back, but drifted a good fifteen up against the front of the house. Northern exposure at least doubled.”
She could hear the strange noise the piss made as it landed out in the snow. Maybe it partially froze mid-air, a slush of her urine staining that pristine white. Her skin felt highly sensitive, like one brush of his hand against her arm would cause enough friction to start a small fire. Maybe they could use smoke signals to pull in a rescue operation.
“How long before we know if I get to keep all of my toes?” she asked him, summoning all of her bravery. In her past, with Bruce, she’d amassed an impressive shoe collection. Perhaps she could donate the expensive and rare ones to charity. Saying goodbye to heels, theoretically, pained her more than saying goodbye to Bruce and his ever-evolving bald spot.
“Meghan, this is our mission: save all the digits and piggies. But honestly, we won’t know for a few days, and if there is any chance of getting you to help, I’m going to take it. Barring getting both of us lost and stuck on the mountain.”
