Blanketed

Blanketed

Beep! Beep! Beep! The alarm blared rudely, startling Georgia awake. Her mobile device  danced to life, darting recklessly between the chips of paint on the chestnut colored nightstand that stood just inches from her face. The nightstand that she’d found at a yardsale was one of her defining features of independence - it was one of the first pieces of furniture that she’d purchased on her own. The drawer stuck more often than not and it needed a coat of paint, but for less than a twenty, Georgia had felt empowered with her find.  Fumbling with one hand, she felt the groove of a paint chip with her fingertips before gripping the smartphone.

Suddenly her eyes widened and her belly rumbled with excitement as the phone screen illuminated, the light harsh in the darkness of her cool bedroom. The screen was filled with message alerts - a couple of texts from friends, an email notification and her twitter feed alerts - more activity than normal at this early in the day. She rolled onto her back and swept up her thumb upwards on the device to confirm what the abnormal activity suggested.  Most of the messages carried the exact same two words. Snow day!  

Eager to sleep in but too curious to stay still, she bounded out of bed and padded her way to her fifth story main window in the living room. The pane was glazed over by sporadic patches of snow clinging to the glass. and it was difficult to see across the street.  Frustrated at her lack of visibility, she scanned the top window frame, the dual paned glass stretching high above her head. There, several feet above her head was a small clearing between the snow splatters. She dragged a chair from her kitchen table and set it down in front of the spotted window. The table set was a gift from her parents when she’d first moved into the city, free from peeling paint and fully functional, but with about half the character and none of the independence of her chipped nightstand.  Slowly she planted her red toenails on the chair’s too hard cushion and rose slowly to a standing position, pressing her palms to the glass to steady herself. Peering through the small opening, just wide enough for her petite face, she could see the layers of snow drifts swallowing the surroundings below her. The usual busy streets were virtually deserted. The traffic lights, although snow covered, went on changing, oblivious to the fact that they were directing no one.  

The flakes were slipping down peacefully, slyly assaulting the roads below. The occasional wind gust shifted the steady stream of flakes, causing some drifts to pile up in front of doorways below. Day’s Mini Mart on the corner had a persistent drift blocking the entrance.  The barber pole across the street had snow jammed in each crevice, the blue, red, and white twirls at a standstill. 

Lowering herself from her makeshift ladder, mesmerized by the white wonderland outside her cozy apartment, she lazily stretched her arms above her head and yawned, loudly, momentarily losing her footing as the weariness released from her body.  She clambored back to her fluffy mattress, propping up her pillows and building a haphazard nest of blankets around her body. Feeling blissfully comfortable nestled in her bed, delighted that she was safe and sound inside, she stretched out her legs searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Satisfied, she nuzzled her cheek into her pillow and drifted back to sleep. 

o o o o

Lance Day wasn’t exactly the owner of Days’ Mini Mart. The scrawny millenial with the prematurely receding hairline and endless supply of hooded sweatshirts was -by his own description - their most dependable employee.  According to the latest ultimatum from his old man, it was his only choice. He either pulled up his socks or he would need to find a new home for his multitude of sweatshirts, and would need a new source of income. Lance had no other plans or prospects, or much in the way of professional skills if he was being honest. That was largely why he found himself perched by the entrance of the store, resting his head on an old smelly mop, with a frayed head and a handle that stubbornly and periodically loosened mid stride. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the place so quiet. The 24 hour business was one of the only places for miles that hadn’t closed when the storm intensified. It was around 2am that he’d figured that the first flakes started falling, but the initially pristine sight had certainly amped up by what should have been dawn, shooting down much faster, and then the wind started.  It was still very dark outside, the sun hiding away like all of the usual patrons. The wind was odd. Seemingly non existent, then gusting suddenly, deliberately and fiercely. Carrying mounds of snow straight across the doorway. Lance had spent the last couple of hours alternating between the mop and a shovel that was in almost as bad of a condition as the mop. It was a vain attempt to keep the walkway clear. With each unpredictable gust, more of the white stuff pressed against the glass doors and had left Lance with towering snow banks outside and sopping puddles inside. Since the storm had started, they had seen exactly two customers, a young couple picking up a six pack and some snacks - chocolate covered almonds, kettle cooked chips, gummy bears, around 3:30am - and it was clear the beer that he had rung up hadn’t been their first beverage of the evening. Lance had been working in the store since he was a young kid, officially since he was 15. He’d never seen such little business in that amount of time. This snow seemed to have a life stronger than anything he’d known before. 

The Day’s were stubborn and had a strong sense of community - the perfect combination to keep them open in a perfect storm. His dad had strongly said that unless they had a black out, “No day without Days’ ” and had left Lance to fulfill this now seemingly foolish promise.  He lived in the apartment above the store, still with his folks, and could live and work untouched by the storm. Lance supposed that he should be grateful for that. He just wished he could be like the rest of the city, in a sea of cozy blankets, snug under the covers. 

Lost in his thoughts, he was shaken back by a beep from the front door, signalling that someone had entered the store.  A young woman, frail, her long dark hair plastered to the sides of her face, matted under her hood stood before him. Her expression was one lost somewhere between panic and relief.  He met her eyes, standing suddenly straighter on the unsteady mop handle, feeling himself being drawn into her need. She smiled thinly and said one word. “Formula.”

o o o o

Chelsea woke up slowly and blinked several times only to be greeted by not one thing that she recognized. Slowly, her other senses came to life and in the darkness she felt the roughness of the futon beneath her, the smell of stale pizza and kitty litter hovering in the air, and the sound of slight snoring beside her. Jake. 

The red numerals of the digital clock perched on the stack of hardcovers acting as a makeshift night table revealed that it had been just a couple of hours since they had trudged their way through the growing snow drifts on the sidewalks on their way home in the wee hours of the morning. She was in love. Foolishly, unashamedly, crazy in love. On this first visit to his unfamiliar apartment, they’d ordered pizza around midnight, just before the storm started. They had cuddled up beneath his fleecy chocolate brown duvet and watched movies - they both loved Jim Carey. The funny movies anyway, and they argued about exactly what that meant. After an abundance of the smoothest Merlot that fifteen bucks could buy, they had perched in front of his 4th floor story window  and watched the snow come down. It looked soft and fluffy, begging to be played in. Unexpectedly, Jake had suddenly drained his wine glass and grabbed her hand. He’d led her to the door and began to throw on his boots and coat, signalling for her to do the same. Daringly they had ventured out into the streets. Drunk and in love, and hand in hand they wound up at the corner mini mart. He’d gotten her the chocolate covered almonds that she’d loved and he’d even compromised for the beer that she preferred. Going out when most people were coming home had felt reckless and foolish and wonderful all at the same time.  

Chelsea rolled over and watched the stillness of his face, listened to his breath, and felt like pinching herself to stave off her giddiness. A perfect night in a perfect storm. 

o o o o

Lucy hauled the front door open, straining to drag the cold steel through the nearly two foot snow drift that had boldly taken up residence on her front stoop.  Shaking the snow from her woolen scarf and pressing the door closed with her right hip, she slipped out of her boots and carefully picked her steps across the sopping mat.  She called out to Rosa, her neighbor who had so selflessly agreed to watch over baby Freya, fussy and restless and refusing to latch. Lucy had naively thought that she could continue to pump enough to satisfy her six month old’s fierce appetite and in a moment of panic she realized that her supply for that morning had come up short.  She had reset and massaged and showered and done whatever she could imagine to try to squeeze out more. Sweating, breathless and desperate, she had called Rosa. The older lady one day she was certain would slam the door in her face or merely stop answering. Lucy couldn’t afford childcare, and couldn’t really afford formula either. So she had spent the duration of her daughter’s short life slaving to squeeze out every precious drop of breast milk. Freya didn’t like to be nursed, couldn’t latch, so Lucy pumped. And fed through a bottle. And pumped some more. But as Freya’s little body grew, so did her hunger and Lucy simply could not keep up. 

The morning that her milk dried up just happened to be on the dawn of the largest snowfall to date. Day’s Mini Mart wasn’t that far, but too far to trek with an infant in these conditions. The risk of falling in the snow with the baby strapped to her, visions of her falling forward and squashing Freya’s delicate body was too much for Lucy to dare allow to enter her mind. That, along with the cold and the worry was enough to lead once again to Rosa. The elderly lady’s soft and warm grip was firm enough to soothe Lucy’s worries and she was sitting with a quiet baby when Lucy returned, sodden but successful, with the powdered formula. Rosa passed her the child and wordlessly got to work prepping the bottle. The baby fussed from the transition but eagerly gobbled up the milk once it had warmed.  She nuzzled her mother’s chest, satisfied with her full belly when Rosa appeared with her favorite blanket, a soft fabric that was solid yellow on one side and filled with an array of farm animals on the other. Swaddling her infant, Lucy laid her gently in her crib and then she too cozied up to wait out the storm.