The Blizzard

Marilyn sighs as she watches people get out of the cars in front of her and seek shelter in the various stores lining the street. This was supposed to be a quick errand; run to the grocery store, pick up what she needs for dinner, and be back before the kids get home from school. Instead, she’s stuck in traffic in the middle of one of the worst blizzards she’s ever seen. She tries to turn on her wipers in a pointless attempt at clearing her windshield. The sound of them scraping across the glass reaches her ears, and she can’t help but think of the last blizzard she was in.

Headlights shining through the snow; the brightness of a red light up ahead; wheels hitting a patch of ice; the sound of sirens in the distance.

Marilyn shakes her head, trying to get her thoughts out of the past and onto the situation at hand. A glance out the window reveals that almost everyone has abandoned their cars to the blizzard and gathered in various stores to wait out the storm, so Marilyn follows suit. She opens her door and jogs toward the nearest building as the sharp wind stings her face. She opens the nearest door, stumbles in, and then shuts it hurriedly following the command of a chorus of voices wanting to keep out the cold.

Marilyn looks around the small store that she has randomly selected. It appears to be a coffee shop, and judging by the two employees’ anxious expressions, they weren’t expecting this many employees on a Tuesday afternoon. In fact, she corrects herself as she moves away from the door and continues to survey the room, she doubts that they get this many customers in a week. The coffee shop is old and grubby, and their menu is upsettingly short.

There are about thirty people stuffed into the café, none of whom look like they had planned on being there. Marilyn looks for a place to sit and squeezes into a chair at a table full of women her own age. However, they depart after a few minutes of small talk with plans for mani-pedis.

Marilyn has never been a mani-pedi kind of mom, so she hangs back and decides to purchase a coffee. As she waits for the barista to make it, she happens to over hear the conversation taking place at the front counter.

“Listen, man,” pleads the teenage boy standing at the counter. “I’m only a couple dollars short, and I can bring the money tomorrow.”

The employee looks rather grim and unyielding, so Marilyn bustles over to the counter and places a five dollar bill on the counter.

The boy turns to thank her and she almost feels as though she recognizes him; his dark skin and tight curls feel all too familiar. Maybe he goes to the same school as her son?

She realizes that he’s expecting a response. “Oh, it’s no problem, enjoy your drink!” She grabs her coffee and returns to her now-empty table. However the boy isn’t far behind.

“Mind if I sit here?” He asks apologetically.

A glance around tells Marilyn that all of the other tables are full, and besides, she wants to know why she feels like she’s seen him before.

“Oh, for sure,” she says, patting the table. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a bit, huh?”

He nods.

“I’m Marilyn,” she tells him, holding out her hand.

“Noah,” he replies as he shakes her hand in the awkward way that teenagers often do.

“Well, Noah, shouldn’t you be at school? What’s a young man like you doing downtown at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday?” She smiles to show that he shouldn’t take her words to heart.

Noah looks properly chastised, so Marilyn eases off. “Wonder how long this’ll last,” she adds, glancing out the window at the snowy street.

“Yeah, if it doesn’t let up soon I’ll never get my car out,” Noah says. “And I wasn’t skipping skipping, I was just—taking a breather.”

“Right,” Marilyn says conspiratorially, “a breather. I took plenty of those when I was your age.”

“Yeah, right now school is just a lot to handle,” Noah says.

Marilyn frowns sympathetically. She’d missed a third of her senior year by taking ‘breathers’, which was one of the reasons for her lack of post-secondary education and her subsequent lack of a job. That’s why she stayed home and took care of the kids while her husband worked. She knows that many women chose the life of an at-home mom, but it isn’t the life she always dreamed of. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone this young man with so much of his life ahead of him. This… very familiar young man.

           “I’m sorry if this is strange, but do I know you?” She blurts. “You look awfully familiar.”

           Noah looks surprised. “Actually,” he says, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

           “Maybe I know your mom,” Marilyn guesses, but the numb look on his face tells her that she’s said the wrong thing.

           “I don’t have a mom,” he says factually, though it obviously pains him to say it, and without thinking Marilyn reaches out and takes his hand.

           Damn these motherly instincts, she thinks as he startles, obviously not expecting her sudden movement.

           “Oh sweetie,” she says. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a mom. Mine died not long after I was born.”

           “No, I—I had a mom, up until—“ Noah stops, obviously holding back emotion.

           Marilyn grips his hand tighter. What a terrible thing, she thinks, to lose a mother. Her mind threatens to turn to the accident, but she pushes the thought away, unwilling to think about a different boy out there who she has made feel the same grief.

           “You can tell me,” she says gently.

           “She was in an accident,” Noah adds, obviously needing to vent. “A car accident.”

           Marilyn’s heart stops in her chest. It isn’t—it can’t be—she forces herself to breathe. There are plenty of car accidents every day. The odds of it being—she isn’t going to think about it.

           “She was driving in a snow storm just like this,” Noah says softly, “Coming home from a Christmas party, and she had been drinking.”

           Marilyn can’t meet his eyes.

           “Of course, the fact that she was drinking didn‘t cause the accident, but it did mean that the cops said it was partly her fault.”

           Her hands clasp each other under the table, damp and clammy.

           “The other car ran a red light and hit her car, and it was icy so she slid, and by the time they found the wreckage she was already gone.” Noah’s eyes shine and he blinks fiercely.

           Marilyn knows that she should say something, but she can’t form the words. All of the details match up. A blizzard, a red light, a patch of ice. They had told her that they’d both been at fault; she’s run a red light and the other driver had been under the influence of alcohol. However, she only blamed herself. If she had slowed down, if she had been more careful, maybe the other woman would still be alive.

           Noah must see something in her eyes, because he drops her hand as though it’s burned him, recognition flashing over his face.

           “No,” he whispers, shocked. “No, it’s—it was you.”

           The mere fact that Marilyn doesn’t immediately respond seems to be enough proof, and yet she still nods weakly, unable to leave his accusation unanswered.

Noah’s eyes are enormous as he stands and backs away. His chair falls over with a clatter, drawing attention, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You killed her,” he says in the barest of whispers. “That’s why I recognized you; the police reports, the news. You killed my mom.”

Marilyn stands helplessly. “I’m so sorry,” she begins, but Noah holds up his hand and she stops obediently.

“I don’t want your apologies,” he says harshly. “Just tell me why.” He seems to notice the attention that his outburst has drawn and picks his chair back up, sitting down reluctantly.

Marilyn returns to her seat, her hands clasped tightly.

“I didn’t mean to,” she says softly, feeling less like an adult with every word. “I was driving home, and the kids—I have a son and a daughter—had just called to tell me that they didn’t have a key to the house. I was hurrying because I didn’t want them to catch a cold from being stuck outside during a blizzard.

“I didn’t think there were any cars coming, so I—I ran the red and then all of a sudden there was a car and I tried to brake but it was too icy, and the next thing I knew the other car was rolling away and my head was being crushed by the airbag. I called 911 and waited for them to arrive, but while I waited I couldn’t get to the car and try to help because of the snow. I’m so sorry,” she finishes, feeling altogether inadequate. “If I could bring her back I would.”

Noah stares down at his hands, and Marilyn isn’t sure if he’s even heard her.

“I have a son a few years younger than you,” she ventures. “Miles. And I don’t know what he would do if he lost me. But I know that I—I’d want him to go on with his life. To keep going to school, to keep smiling, to learn how to live without his mom by his side. And I might not have known your mom, but I’m almost positive that she would want the same for you.” Marilyn closes her mouth, unsure if she’s gone too far.

Noah looks up at her and meets her eyes. His own are brimming with tears. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“I don’t deserve your thanks,” Marilyn responds softly, “Not after everything I’ve done to your family. But maybe, someday, you’ll find a way to forgive me?”

Noah nods. “I think—I think that I could make that work.”

Marilyn smiles. “Thank you,” she says, “and if there’s anything I can do for your family, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She writes her phone number on a napkin and slides it across the table to him.

He hesitates for a second before taking it and putting in in his pocket.

Suddenly, Marilyn notices that the café is nearly empty. “The snow stopped,” she points out. She stands and Noah follows suit.

After apologizing once more, Marilyn steps out of the small café, inhaling the crisp air. She glances behind her.

Noah looks up to the sky, a small smile forming on his face.

While she knows that it’ll take time, today has led her to believe that one day, she’ll be forgiven; not just by Noah, but also by herself.