Winter Story

It was awkward when the music stopped. I had the radio on the entire time, which was playing classic rock, but when I turned off the car, it became dead silent. I only did this because it’s what’s recommended to do: turn the car off to conserve gas; turn it back on every once in a while, to heat up. I sighed, and I could see fog come from my mouth. I inhaled deeply, held my breath, and exhaled, and out came a reasonably large bubble of fog. After this, to divert from the quiet awkwardness, I began to softly whistle a tune. You’re able to hear the sound of any movement, no matter how slight. Any quieter and your own thoughts can possibly be heard.

“Don’t worry. I already texted her.”

“What?”

“Nadia. I texted her already, letting her know that we’re in a blizzard,” she says. “I told her that we’re okay.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, thanks.”

She nods, then returns her gaze to the outside view. I ask what time her flight was, and she says that it’s not until seven o’clock.

“So, what’s the rush then? We could’ve waited this out,” I say, gesturing to the storm. She blows air from her nose and shakes her head.

“Because you don’t want me at your house,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I can tell. I know I get on your nerves.”

I sink into my seat and suddenly begin to sneeze uncontrollably as if it was springtime and pollen was in the air. I typically sneeze when I get uncomfortable or nervous—or both.

You see, my wife and I have been married for almost four years now, and my wife’s friend (according to my wife) “jokingly” says that I “stole” the only true friend she has ever known. This is, I suppose, understandable. Practically every year since she and my wife were in high school, they’ve spent the holidays together. A little unusual I suppose given that my wife is after all married, nonetheless, this has been an extraordinary tradition that has lasted for nearly 20 years.

It all goes back, I should say, to when my wife was a sophomore. She told me that her mother had a long history of depression, and one day, nearly out of the blue, she killed herself. Slit her wrists, my wife said. Understandably, my wife says that she’ll never forget this. She’s 35 now, but clearly, the pain of losing someone will never really go away—it only becomes, I suppose, tolerable. She’ll sometimes walk into my study when I’m reading or working on something, and she’ll sit down and be quiet with tears running down her face. What’s wrong? I’ll ask, and she’ll just show me an old photograph of her and her mother. My wife’s friend, I’ll be honest, handles these situations much better. According to my wife, my wife’s friend was the first person she called after her mother’s death. She’d just gotten out of the shower, her hair was still wet, my wife says, but she still rushed to see me, to make sure I was okay.

My wife’s friend reaches into her handbag. “Here,” she says and hands me a small blue bottle. I read the label: allergy medication.

“Thanks,” I say and swallow two tiny white pills. I clear my throat and try to regain my composure. “But that’s not true,” I add.

“Right,” she says and continues to look outside. She looks on with a kind of wonder and amazement, almost as if she has never seen so much of one thing.

Every car in the front and back of us is covered in snow. I suppose it was something extraordinary, possibly even beautiful, to see. The only time I remember it being this way was when I was about eight or nine. My Dad was driving, and I was in the passenger’s seat. I don’t think we talked or anything. I only remember that it was nice being there, stuck with my Dad. We were likely stuck in a blizzard, I’m sure, but I still felt safe with him there.

A half-hour later, I start to doze off. I close eyes for a second, and before I know it, I’m completely asleep. I wake up frantically, not knowing where I was for a moment. My wife’s friend, who’s now covered in large thick blankets, is still looking outside.

I’m also covered with a blanket. Some tissue is on top of the dashboard.

“That’s to wipe the drool off your face,” my wife’s friend says.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, thanks.”

“Yup,” my wife’s friend says.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. Sleeping’s obviously normal.”

“Okay,” I say.

I sit there in the driver's seat, still feeling a bit awkward. As always, there was a quietness between us, but for some reason, it could’ve been because of the lifeless snow or because nothing anywhere was moving an inch, I feel the urge to become animated and honest: I want to talk, and I want to be sincere.

“I appreciate you coming over and visiting. I know it means the world to my wife. It wouldn’t be Christmas without you.” I don’t know why, but I place my hands on the bottom half of the steering wheel, maybe to make sure that this present moment was real and happening. “Sure, I’m here, I try to do what I can, right? But it’s not the same. You’re her best friend, and she needs you—and I need my wife. So, therefore, in a strange way, I kind of need you too.”

She didn’t say anything.

After a few minutes, she looks down, and I start to hear her cry. She cries for what seems like a millennium. When she stops, she finally looks at me, her eyes red and vulnerable.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, of course,” I say.

“Honestly. I haven’t told anyone. Not even—”

“Nadia?”

“No, not even her.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Well, this was ages ago,” she began, “back when her mom committed suicide.”

I nod as if I’m a small child.

“That day she called and told me what happened, I was—well, I was in the bathtub. I’d been there practically the whole day. I didn’t move or think or anything. Not far from the tub was a hairdryer,” she said, “that was plugged in. And I just kept looking at it. I remember being mesmerized by its color and shape. And by its power. I was ready—I’d been ready.” My hands were back on the steering wheel. “Now, if you think I’m a bitch, you should’ve met my mother. She was the absolute worse. She did things to me that I don’t think I could ever forget.” She takes a deep breath. “My father wasn’t any better. But at least he kept his hands to himself. That’s the only credit I’ll give to that asshole. . . With the two of them in the picture, it was awful—god awful.”

A tear then ran down the corner of her eye.

“I remember the phone ringing. The sound of it. I didn’t hear it the first time because I was only thinking about that hairdryer and the possibilities,” she said. “Then all I heard was crying and crying. Nadia’s face that day—there are no words that could describe it. It was heartbreaking. Sad. I suppose it snapped me out of whatever it was that I was feeling at the time.” She sinks her head even lower as she begins to choke up again. “Never did I feel so wanted my whole life. Sometimes I think about, ‘What if’, you know?”

I nod.

“Sometimes I think: What would’ve happened if Nadia never called? Would I had still been in the tub? If I was, I wonder what I would’ve done?”

She reaches into her bag to find tissues but couldn’t find any. I open the glove compartment and hand her a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she says.

I thought she was going to continue, but she didn’t. Instead, she held the handkerchief for a minute and, once again, returned her gaze to the outside view.

“I’m so sorry, Avyanna,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” she says. “Nadia doesn’t even know.”

“Why not?” I ask. “She would understand.”

“I know she would,” she says, “but I don’t know. I don’t know.”

I nod.

“It’s hard to explain,” she says and raises the handkerchief to her eyes. “She saved me—she saved me without even realizing it.”

She starts crying again. She’s not a loud or messy crier. Rather, she’s silent and composed—just like me. Weirdly, this is exactly how I cry.

“You saved her too. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think any of us would be here, you know?” I say. “I don’t think you’d spend every Christmas with Nadia—who knows? Nadia probably wouldn’t be here either. I wouldn’t be here—and we surely wouldn’t be here, stuck in this snowstorm.”

She laughs and smiles, which was a first.

My body’s cold, but my soul feels warm.

The sky is low and dark when I get home. Nadia’s on the couch, comfortably curled in her blankets, drinking a small cup of hot chocolate. She asks if everything turned out okay and I said it did.

“It was actually kind of great,” I say.

She smiles but doesn’t ask why.

Later, as my wife and I are in bed, I think. I couldn’t sleep. I turn over to Nadia, whose eyes are closed and breathing quietly; I analyze the lines to her face. I come to understand that despite the soft and delicate features, she’s scarred and has already lived a long life. I think about these scars—the ones she has told me and the ones she has yet to bring up. Then I think about Avyanna. I keep playing back our conversation over and over again. I’m not sure why, but I do. I try to imagine how she must’ve felt the moment Nadia gave her that heavy, life-shattering news. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve reacted if I was her. . . I keep thinking about other things. For most of the night, I couldn’t get the image of a hairdryer out of my mind. A hairdryer and a bathtub.