She was not afraid of the dark.
But now, beyond the ominous red flash of the Saturn’s hazard lights, her flashlight beam seemed to feebly poke and prod at the shroud of night enveloping Route 112.
It was very dark.
Unnaturally dark.
Uh, hello, Deirdre. This near total absence of light was as natural as it got.
Primordial. That was the word.
Really, it wasn’t the color of night. It was the woods spooking her. The forbidding black line of sentinel trees that seemed to swallow every sound—her boots crunching on the snow, her brisk, steady inhalations, the crisp rustle of her parka.
She felt like she was being watched.
And that would be because the woods were full of things watching her: deer, rabbits, squirrels. Things that were much more afraid of her than she was of them.
Bear. Occasionally. But there hadn’t been a fatal bear attack in New Hampshire since the 1700s. She knew because her family used to summer about forty miles from here.
Technically within walking—or running—distance. At least, for a girl who ran marathons.
But not at night. Not in February. Not in the snow. Not alone. She was not crazy. She was not drunk.
That was not to say she could necessarily pass a breathalyzer test. The way things were going, better not to risk it.
Still. She knew this was not a great idea.
Her dad would have a fit if he knew. Is this the advice you’d give one of your students? That’s what he’d say. And no, this was not the advice she’d give one of her students. Especially since her students were kindergarteners. Kindergarteners rarely got nailed for DUIs.
She huffed a shaky laugh. What did it say that she’d rather brave the unknowns of a winter’s night in the White Mountain National Forest than face what lay behind her?
And just that…the memory of her compounding troubles made her heart flinch and recoil.
How? How did I get myself into this?
How do I get myself out?
Her father would say, The O’Donnells don’t run from their troubles.
She was not running. She was choosing a strategic withdrawal. A tactical retreat.
You’ve the blood of Irish kings and queens in your veins, girls.
Probably not. But they were named for Irish princesses. All four of the O’Donnell sisters: Grania, Grace, Eva and Deirdre.
She was no princess, but she was strong. She was smart. She would figure this out.
One day it might even be funny.
Fingers crossed.
Gosh, it was quiet out here.
In a dark, dark wood…
She’d been reading that to the kids last Friday, and she smiled faintly, remembering their shrieking delight at the ending. It never failed.
It’s not like she was in the middle of nowhere. Not really. She could see a few scattered window lights, porch lights through the trees. She could ask for help at any of those homes. Better though, to put some distance between herself and the crash site. Just in case the sheriff’s deputy returned.
She needed somewhere warm and quiet to spend the night. It had been a few years since she traveled this road, but she was pretty sure there would be lodges, motels down the highway a bit.
Tomorrow she’d retrieve her car and deal with whatever there was to deal with. Everything always looked brighter in the morning. She just needed a good night’s sleep—something she hadn’t had in…weeks?
Impossible to make important decisions, life-changing decisions when you were this exhausted.
Now that the initial heart-pounding surge of adrenaline was past, she was starting to feel the aches and pains of the crash. And the cold… The cold really sucked the energy out of you.
Well, the best remedy for that was to keep moving. The white circle of her flashlight beam bounced playfully ahead of her.
She’d kill for a cup of hot coffee. The stop for lunch at that diner felt like a week ago.
The quiet was getting to her. The crack of every tree branch under snow sounded like a gunshot.
How far had she gone? It felt like miles but her Saturn was only just out of sight. Maybe she’d flag down the next car that came by. If she could get to a phone, that would simplify things.
After all, she’d been camping a million times. She loved the outdoors.
She began to sing one of those goofy old songs her dad loved, raising her voice in defiance of the ringing silence around her.
“When Irish eyes are smiling…” The air tasted of snow and pine. “Sure, it’s like a morn in spring…”
Overhead, the tufted stratocumulus layer of clouds drifted, pulled apart, and for a few encouraging seconds, the waning moon glowed warmly, brightly off the snow banks, gilded the tree tops.
“…You can hear the angels sing…”
All too soon, the light faded and shadows fell once more. The trailing threads of clouds rewove themselves into a tapestry of darkness and silence.
