The Christmas Incident on Mount Major Highway

There are bluffs along Mount Major Highway where you can pull over and admire the Ossipee Mountains and the deep blue waters of Lake Winnipesaukee, a vast freshwater lake formed at the end of the last ice age. There are other places where the road twists and narrows, and your eyes dare not leave the road, not even for a second, no matter how thrilling the view.  

The week before Christmas I was driving along this highway toward my sister Julie’s house. I was thinking about the holiday itinerary we had planned, much of it involving old movies, cookie baking and alcohol. The falling snow didn’t concern me much, except that I was ahead of the municipal trucks and the snow had begun to accumulate on the frozen asphalt.

As I rounded the curve at the top of the hill, I could feel my tires lose their grip on the road. While most New Englanders don’t worry about snow, they are rightfully fearful of untreated ice. No amount of gentle braking or smooth steering will stop a collision if the vehicle is going too fast and your tires have left the ground. I watched the red Ford ahead of me, brake lights on, slide downhill into the oncoming lane and helplessly I followed. There was nothing I could do; I slid into the oncoming lane right behind the red Ford and braced for impact.

I’d squeezed my eyes shut, certain that the front of my Acura was going to smash into the rear of the other vehicle. All I felt, though, was the gentle bump of the car as it came to a stop, inches from the red Ford’s bumper. Both of our cars were tilted from landing in a depression on the side of the road. Looking around, I could see that we were not out of trouble. For one thing, we were on the side of the road facing oncoming traffic. For another, there were more cars sliding down the hill behind us. Unless I moved my car quickly to the other side of the road, I would become sandwich filling between two slices of wrecked cars.

Putting the Acura in reverse, I tried to drive backwards out of the ditch. The tires were partially submerged in icy mud, and I couldn’t gain any traction. I thought I could go forward, if only the Ford in front of me would move. I beeped my horn and the Ford’s driver lowered his window and turned to face me. His face was very pale and his eyes were dramatically rimmed in black, like a zombie character in The Lords of Salem. He said nothing to me and just stared, white faced and wide-eyed.

“Hey, buddy, put it in Drive and try to go forward!” I yelled.

Zombie Man nodded and the red Ford’s tires bit into the asphalt on his first try. Without any further communication, he stomped on his accelerator and drove away.

Still fearful of getting whacked by the cars behind me, I didn’t waste any time putting my car in Drive. It didn’t matter whether I tried to move forwards or backwards, though; my tires only sent plumes of icy mud into the air and wouldn’t budge. I began to think that I would not be able to get out of this situation without some help.

Someone – Zombie Man? – must have called the cops, because one suddenly popped up next to my window.

“MA’AM!” he yelled.

The first thing I thought was, why is this cop standing in the road? If I’m worried about getting hit, shouldn’t he be worried about getting hit, too? And why is he screaming?

I rolled my window down and stated the obvious. “Officer, I’m stuck.”

I thought I was going to hear, “Ma’am please exit the vehicle, before you get us both killed,” or “Ma’am, please exit your vehicle so we can tow it out of the ditch.”

Instead, with more urgency, he yelled again, “MA’AM!”

Assuming he wanted me out of the car, I quickly opened the driver-side door, but now the Acura was at a pretty good tilt. There was no way I was going to jump into that icy ditch. I scrambled over the center console and opened the passenger-side door. I looked for oncoming traffic before getting out and scampered to the other side of the road.

The cop who had been yelling at me was now talking into his two-way radio as he strode towards an ambulance that had arrived at the top of the hill, lights flashing. I guessed there were some injuries, which meant that my car would not be anyone’s priority, at least not for a while. It occurred to me that I should call my sister.

I dug my cell phone out of my purse and pressed her number with shaking fingers. I couldn’t make it work; my fingers were really cold. I was probably also in a little bit of shock. Then I realized I had no SHOES on; how in the world had both my shoes come off? My socks were soaked through and water squished icily between my toes.

I thought about trying to retrieve my shoes from the car, but getting a warm blanket from one of the EMTs seemed like a better idea, so I started to walk up the hill, feeling colder and slower with every step. I started to shake, so I focused on the ambulance lights and forced myself forward, putting one foot laboriously in front of the other.

When I finally reached the top of the hill, it was a chaotic scene. The cops had closed the road in both directions, emergency workers were running around, and random people – other drivers? – were looking dazed. One poor soul was on the roadway, surrounded by three EMT’s and the cop who had been yelling at me.

“Was she conscious when you found her?” I heard one of the medics ask. The cop shook his head.

Unwilling to interrupt the rescue team, I went up to a couple who were standing on the side of the road.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “But do you live around here? My car’s in a ditch down the hill and I can’t get my cell phone to work.”

Mesmerized by the grisly scene, the woman didn’t turn her head, but her husband faced me squarely.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Maybe some footwear?” I answered, pointing to my feet. “And I need to get in touch with my sister.”

“What do you need to tell her?” he asked.

None of your damn business, I wanted to say, but on the other hand, he’d stumped me. The cold was numbing my brain, and I couldn’t quite remember why I had been going to my sister’s house in the first place.

“I want Julie to know that I’m sorry about getting stuck,” I said.

“I can tell her,” acknowledged the man. “But I think you have a choice.”

“Not following,” I said, my teeth chattering so hard I wondered how I hadn’t bitten my tongue.

“You can choose to stay,” said the man, “or you can go.”

“I can’t go,” I said, feeling something was off. I’d just said that my car was in a ditch. Then the reason for going to Julie’s came back to me. “I have a lot of things to do for Christmas.”

“Well,” nodded the man, smiling. “Then, obviously, you have to stay.” He gestured towards the woman on the road.

I followed his gesture and finally recognized the poor soul. Bloody, bruised and possibly dead, she was - quite horrifically - me. The EMTs frantic actions had slowed, and they were shaking their heads, looking defeated and sad.

Oh, hell no. I’m not ruining Christmas this year. With the last of my strength, I ran towards my body and dove right on top of it. I melted into the battered flesh, firm in my intention to live another day. It felt a little weird, like stepping into a pair of beat-up shoes that were badly in need of repair.

It was a tiny bit comical to watch the medics jump when my body shuddered violently and gasped for air. I would’ve laughed, except that now instead of feeling frozen, I was in an obnoxious amount of pain.

“Christ on a crack-ah!” swore one of the medics, his Boston accent thick as pudding. “She’s fucking baaack!”