Hook, Line & Sinker

by Ev Bishop

  “Oh, come on,” she muttered aloud. “Don’t go there. Go to sleep. Take a nap.”

  Steve grunted from his seat as if in agreement.

  But it was too late. Her brain, as ever, was already “there”—and the dangerous exhaustion that made her nod off on the road had evaporated. She felt wide awake. Great, just great. She’d known she’d have the blues this week. It almost couldn’t be helped as she contemplated the solo road trip and the big family Christmas—but this? No, she hadn’t even considered the possibility that she’d get stuck on a remote piece of road in the middle of nowhere with only herself and her spiraling thoughts for company.

  She sighed and Steve echoed her, which made her smile the tiniest bit. At least she had Steve.

  Yeah, Steve, a three-year-old mutt, your one—and only—true love.

  Bryn’s smile died.

  Why did you even come? Every year you promise yourself you’ll do your big visit in a less poignant season, yet every Christmas here you are…

  It was funny to Bryn—and by “funny” she meant the furthest thing from—that even eight years since their divorce, her inner critic at its meanest still spoke in her ex-husband Brad’s voice.

  You know your family couldn’t care less if you don’t show up, right? Christmas is for people with kids, Bryn, not old maids.

  Okay, so the last insult was something she used on herself, not really Brad’s line, but the rest of the comment was pure him, verbatim. He’d said it one year when he wanted them to go to Mexico for Christmas instead of to the big family gathering Bryn used to love so much.

  Bryn reached into her glovebox and withdrew a package of bacon dog treats. Snoozing Steve was suddenly as awake as she was. She gave him one snack, then another, and put the package away.

  “Of course, my family wants me there. They love me,” she whispered defensively, feeling every bit of how pathetic she was: thirty-five years old, stranded alone in the dark in the boonies a week before Christmas, arguing with her long-gone ex that her mummy and daddy do so love her.

  And they did—just maybe not quite as much as they loved her three sisters with their busy, happy hordes of kids and loyal husbands. Spinster Bryn, with her condo in an adults-only complex and full-time career focus, was out of the loop. It didn’t matter that Bryn was a homebody, who loved to bake and cook and decorate, her mom and sisters acted like she had nothing in common with them, nothing to add or contribute to conversations…

  “Of course, you ‘love’ to cook—because you don’t have to, day in, day out,” her sister Sasha had laughed at Thanksgiving once, when Bryn chimed in on a discussion about recipes and volunteered to head up the bulk of the cooking.

  “It is different when you’re cooking for a family instead of one person,” Bryn’s mom had agreed gently.

  It was just one stupid exchange, but one of so many similar ones over the years that it became symbolic to Bryn of all the ways she was the outsider, the odd woman out—barren and husbandless in her close-knit, progeny-producing family. It wasn’t hard to pick out the instance of unintentional insensitivity that had hurt her most, however. Hands down it was when she’d broken the news to her mom and dad, still shattered and reeling from the unforeseen blow, that Brad was leaving her because she couldn’t have kids and it was important to him to have his own biological children.

  “I know it’s hard, honey—but it’s nature, you know? Men want to leave a legacy.”

  That had been her mother’s idea of sympathy. That. What about Bryn’s nature? What about her disappointment? She had always, always, always wanted kids. Some people weren’t sure or could go either way, especially when they were young, but all Bryn’s fantasies had centered around house and home: one husband to love her for all her days—and a handful of kids. It was embarrassing how traditional and mumsy she was at heart—and she’d tried hard to downplay it at university. Having or not having children was supposed to be a rational, intellectual decision these days, not a craving from some deep, ancient part of your body and blood, not taken as a given conclusion, the way you expect your arms and legs to work, your heart to thump, your blood to automatically pump. But that’s how she’d been when she thought about the children she’d have—that they would just… be. The idea of anything else had never occurred to her.

  Bryn tucked her coat around her more securely and reclined her seat. Although she hadn’t been parked for long, the windshield was completely covered in snow. Bryn sighed again; Steve sighed again.

  Just for kicks, Bryn turned the car on briefly and let the wipers clear her front and back windows—not that there was anything to see. She rechecked the radio—still nothing. Powered her cell phone on—no service, but she hadn’t been expecting any.

  Her head was loud and whiney and sad and she was sick of herself. Outside the car, the silence was a heavy, breathing presence.

  “Your life is lovely,” she whispered. “You’re healthy. You have friends who love you. You have work that matters to you and that supplies all your needs. No one gets everything.”

  Her gratitude wasn’t feigned. It really wasn’t. It was just that Christmas, the season that celebrated new life and family from its very roots, was a raw reminder of things she didn’t have but had always longed for.

  A distant rumbling registered in her consciousness. Something about it put her on alert, though she couldn’t say what exactly. Maybe just that until now the whole world had been devoid of sound, muffled in snow, like she was the sole inhabitant of the isolated road she found herself on.

  The noise grew louder and louder—became the roar of a big diesel engine.

  Bryn cracked her door and poked her head out, peering into the dizzying white. She saw high beams and caught the glare of a chrome grill. Then a Dodge truck, black as the night, hurtled past, pushing snow and sending huge plumes of exhaust into the frigid air. The driver noticed the sharp curve looming ahead, too late. The angry red glow of brake lights split the darkness. Bryn had time for only the briefest thought. That truck’s going too fast. It’s going to—

  A spinning carnival ride of lights lit up the night before her shocked eyes. The truck spun donut after donut, totally out of control. There was no screech of metal or rubber on cement, just a heavy whirring shush as the vehicle whooshed through the snow. Then it disappeared off the side of the road in a cloud of powder.

  Into a ditch? Into the river that ran parallel to this stretch of highway in places? Bryn hated that she didn’t know exactly where she was on the road. She had an idea, but any truly familiar landmarks were obliterated by the night and the white.

  A flood of adrenalin made her nauseous. She thought she could see lights level with the highway, glowing almost yellow, from beneath a layer of snow. So not in the river then—please God not, she prayed.

  Bryn sat back in her car and shut her door, fretting. She should check on the person or persons in the truck. What if someone was hurt? She knew first aid. But what if the vehicle’s occupants were as crazy and potentially dangerous as the way they drove? Still, she couldn’t just leave them. She’d bring her phone and as she approached, she’d speak into it, like she’d been able to reach 9-1-1 and there was someone on the way. Even the biggest psycho, upon crashing his truck in a storm, would probably have bigger things on his mind than attacking a would-be helper.

  Not completely happy with her decision, but knowing she’d never be able to live with herself if someone was hurt, then worsened or died when she could’ve helped, Bryn climbed out of her car. She bundled herself up in her long down jacket and fastened its hood securely under her chin. Then she wrapped a scarf around her face, leaving only her eyes peeking out. She put her key fob in her pocket and zipped it up, then, for added precaution, took her extra key out of a hidden change drawer in the car and put it in the ignition.

  “Hold tight,” she told Steve. “I’ll be right back.”

  She closed her door, careful not to lock it, and waded through the deep snow toward the buried t
ruck.

  Chapter 2

  “You idiot,” Sean seethed, banging his palms against his steering wheel in frustrated fury. He’d been speeding, he admitted it. Worse, he’d been totally distracted—and by stupid woe-is-me stuff. He hadn’t even clued in to the fact he was in trouble until it was too late and he’d lost control and couldn’t get it back. “Story of my life,” he grumbled.

  He pressed the gas pedal. The engine revved, but there was no forward movement. His tires didn’t even spin.

  He cut the engine, stretched his neck and rubbed his head, then felt along each of his arms and pushed at his ribs. He didn’t seem injured. That was good at least.

  Outside his truck’s cab, the wind shrieked and whistled. There was nothing to see for miles that he could tell—just a blinding, dizzying flurry of white and swirling darkness. He contemplated what to do next. He figured he was forty or fifty kilometers from Greenridge, way too far to walk. He rested his forearms on his steering wheel, then dropped his head. This was great, just great. A Christmas holiday to top all the rotten ones of the past five years, and that was saying something, considering how low he’d felt during some of them. Here he’d been congratulating himself on facing the storm strongly and head-on, the way he should be facing the rest of his life, and this was the good it did him.

  Oh, come on. Was he seriously trying to say his stupid driving wasn’t his own fault?

  No, he wasn’t. Being all angst-ridden and depressed by the Christmas spirit tinkling here, there and everywhere, reminding him of his loneliness, was no reason to drive irresponsibly.

  He straightened abruptly, undid his seatbelt, and rummaged for his coat. A jumble of stuff had hit the floor when the truck made impact with whatever had stopped it. He supposed he should consider himself lucky—he could’ve gone off into the river and that would’ve been the end of him—but he couldn’t scrounge up gratitude, only relief. It kind of reminded him of his relationship with Gemma, actually—or his ex-relationship with Gemma, that is. He should be thankful that they weren’t still together, that she’d “cut him loose” to quote her compassionate break up speech—but he couldn’t quite muster it.

  It wasn’t that he was still hung up on Gemma. Yes, she’d only ended it officially six months ago, but he had finally learned his lesson. She didn’t love him. In fact, she had never loved him, at least not according to his “old-fashioned ideals” about love anyway. Leave it to Gemma to think having ideals was old-fashioned, an insult, not something good or worth striving for.

  The end of their ten-year relationship had shocked him by not being a lot more difficult—or any less lonely—than being with her. Often it was even a relief. He was no longer yanked back and forth, caught in a cycle of being dumped because he “wasn’t working for her”—always quickly followed by some variation of, “I’m so sorry. Please come back. This time I mean it. I can’t live without you.”

  Other times, like now, he was sad about what might have been, about losing what he’d always wanted and hoped they were working toward, however inconsistently. Her confession that she’d had another guy on the side for “a while”—some douchebag named Marcus—was the last straw, though. Even Sean wasn’t a big enough sucker to keep fooling himself then.

  It hurt that Gemma had cheated on him, but more than that, it made Sean angry. At himself. Why on earth was he so arrogant and naive to think he’d change her? That she’d suddenly genuinely want the things he did? Why had he been so dumb and unable to see through her? He’d been a fool, for not being happy alone, for wishing there was something more for him, for being the kind of sap who always just wanted a family and kids.

  His hands finally landed on his jacket. It was soaking wet for some reason. Sean held it up to his face in the truck’s dark cab and sniffed. No odor that he could detect, but the wetness felt kind of sticky. A light went on—but only in his head, of course. The case of soda he’d brought with him must’ve burst. Awesome.

  The wind died down and, for the time being at least, all was still. Sean decided he’d better brave the elements in his long sleeve T-shirt and sweater before the storm kicked up again. He needed to see if digging his truck out himself was even a remote possibility, or if he was going to be stuck until morning.

  Just as he was about to open his door, he froze. Something—someone?—was moving in the thick darkness. The muffled shuffling sound came closer to the truck—and closer. What would be out in this weather? Nothing good. He would’ve seen or heard if a cop car or some other vehicle had driven up.

  Thump, thump. Sean jumped. Someone was banging the side of the truck, near the hood. He wasn’t imagining it. Thump, thump. Were they trying to feel along the body of the vehicle? Had someone witnessed him go off the road? There was another thump—at his door now. Sean stared out the window and his eyes locked on a faceless, hooded specter—a slightly darker shadow in a night of shadows. It’s a person, just a person in a big coat. Despite knowing that was true, his heart still hammered extra fast.

  The faceless entity leaned closer and its shadowy outline grew more pronounced. The handle clicked, but the door didn’t open. Sean hadn’t hit unlock yet.

  “Hello?” a tentative, feminine voice called. “Are you okay? Is anybody hurt?”

  Sean’s anger was instantaneous and irrational—maybe he had bashed his head, after all. “I’m fine,” he roared, throwing open the door. “I just put myself off the road like a big jerk.”

  His rescuer made a startled sound and rushed sideways, barely avoiding being hit by the door. His truck must’ve landed in a drift because the snow was literally up past the woman’s waist. She was wading, not walking. “Oh, well… good then—that you’re fine, not that you, uh, went off the road.”

  Sean scanned the darkness, but there was nothing to see but the black silhouette of the forest’s tree line and mounds and mounds of heavy—and still accumulating—snow. He strained his ears, but there was nothing to hear but silence and the slightly husky breathing of the woman.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Bryn. Bryn Hale. I was parked in what I thought was a rest area when you—”

  Sean held up his hand. He didn’t want to hear her interpretation of his carelessness. “You have a car?”

  “Yes, but it’s not handling the snow very well.”

  “I could drive it out.”

  “No, you couldn’t, Mr.—?” This Bryn Hale woman’s voice was firm, and Sean was unsure whether she meant he would be unable to drive the vehicle because of the weather conditions, or if she was saying he wasn’t allowed to drive it because, well, look at him—not exactly an ode to driving ability.

  “Carson,” Sean supplied. “Sean Carson.”

  The woman turned away. “I’ll let you be then, Mr. Carson. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Sean hesitated, then called, “Wait. What are you going to do?”

  “Car camp until morning. I recommend you do the same.” She was making decent time now that she could retrace the rough path she’d forged through the snow during her approach. Her breath made little white puffs in the darkness.

  Sean turned back to his truck, grabbed his backpack, then locked the door and shoved his keys into his jeans’ pocket. “Do you know where we are?” he called after her.

  “About half an hour east of Greenridge.”

  “And you’re traveling this highway alone at night in this weather?”

  The woman stopped and half turned back. “Um, yes.” Her face was still invisible, but her tone suggested she thought him a bit unstable. “And so are you. What’s your point?”

  Sean hadn’t intended to be sexist, but realized it was probably how he sounded. There was no point, however, in lecturing the stranger about how he’d been raised by a strong single mom and a sister tough enough to take on anyone.

  “And correction, I’m not actually alone. I left my good boy Steve in my vehicle.” The wind screeched in renewed fury, muffling her next line. It sou
nded like she said, “He’s, ah, terrific.”

  Her “good boy Steve”—who’s ah, terrific? And this Bryn woman was acting like he was the unhinged person in this situation? Poor Steve, whoever he was. He didn’t think he was a child—she didn’t seem overly concerned about getting back to him—but if he was her partner? Yikes, he felt bad for the guy.

  As if sensing Sean’s unspoken critique, Bryn’s head bobbed in what appeared to be a solid up and down glance. “Correction two, you’re traveling this highway, alone at night—and you don’t even have a decent jacket?”

  Sean had a perfectly good winter coat, thank you very much. It just was inconveniently drenched in soda at the moment. He didn’t figure either point bore mentioning, however. He slung his pack over his shoulder as he recalled something she’d said earlier, something curious.

  “You said you’d parked in what you thought was a rest area. If it’s not one, what is it?”

  *

  Want to know what happens to Bryn and Sean next? Find out today!

  About the Author

  Ev Bishop lives and writes in wildly beautiful British Columbia, Canada. She is a long-time columnist with the Terrace Standard, and her articles and essays have been published in a variety of magazines and journals. Storytelling is her true love, however, and she writes fiction in variety of lengths and genres.

  To see her growing list of published short stories, novels, and poems, please visit her website: www.evbishop.com.

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