Snowbound

  I wondered, too.

  And I began to worry.

  I think that if I’d been much younger I would have spent Wednesday night saying to my mother, “Now what time is it? … Now what time is it?” However, I was wearing a watch, so I just kept looking at it. I bet I checked it every two minutes. Nine thirty-three, nine thirty-five, nine thirty-seven, nine thirty-nine.

  “Honey,” said Mom after awhile, “looking at your watch isn’t going to make the time pass any more quickly.”

  I sighed. “I know. It’s like drivers who think they can clear up traffic jams by blasting their horns. The two things are not connected.”

  Mom smiled at me. “Can’t you concentrate on your book?”

  “Not really. And the book is good. I just keep thinking about Jeff. I wonder if he knows why we aren’t calling him.”

  “He probably does,” my mother replied. “When nobody in Washington can reach anyone here, they’ll figure it out. Also, maybe Jeff has spoken to Richard. I’m sure Jeff tried to call the house.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, brightening. “Sure.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Yup.”

  “Ready to sleep?”

  “Nope. But maybe I can read now.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’m sure the airport is safe, but don’t, you know, go wandering around during the night without me. Let me know if you want to go to the restroom or the snack bar. I’ll come with you.”

  Ordinarily, I might have thought Mom was being unreasonably overprotective, but not that night. I glanced at the empty corridors, at the frustrated and tired people around me, and I shivered.

  “No problem,” I said to Mom. “Um, are you going to sleep now?”

  “I might take a little nap,” she answered.

  “Let’s go to the bathroom first.”

  So we did. When we returned to our seats, Mom didn’t just nap, she fell into this deep sleep.

  I sat up with my book. I tried different positions. I flung my legs over the armrest. The armrest hurt the backs of my knees. I curled them into a ball, but couldn’t find a good place for my head. I tried Mom’s position, sitting up straight. She looked like she was at a fancy restaurant, waiting to be served dinner. But her eyes were closed. Also, she was snoring.

  I hoped no one would hear. Or if they did hear, that they wouldn’t realize the sounds were coming from my mother. Then I hoped they wouldn’t think I was snoring. I made a big show of looking awake.

  At midnight I asked the woman behind the desk when she thought Jeff’s plane would arrive.

  “Around seven, maybe,” she replied.

  At two o’clock, she went off duty. A man took her place. I asked him when Jeff’s plane would arrive.

  “Probably before noon,” he answered. (Some help.)

  I returned to my seat. I snuggled against my coat. I closed my eyes. Then I opened them. I looked at the other people trying to sleep. Across from me was an older couple. In another row was an entire family — a mom, a dad, and three little boys. A bunch of people seemed to be traveling by themselves.

  My eyes started to droop. In all honesty, I do not think I fell asleep, though. Maybe I did, but I doubt it. Anyway, a while later I was lolling in the chair, my eyes closed, remembering what Mom had said earlier about the airport and whether it was safe, when I became certain that someone was standing silently behind me, staring. I was trying to decide whether turning around and opening my eyes would be foolish, when I felt a hand on mine.

  I nearly shrieked.

  I knew it wasn’t Mom’s hand. She hadn’t stirred.

  “Ah-ma-mah!” crowed a little voice. A baby’s?

  Sure enough, when I did find the courage to turn around, I was looking into a pair of deep black eyes, which gazed seriously at me from a brown face. After a moment, the cheeks dimpled into a smile.

  “Hello, there,” I whispered. “Where did you come from?” Then I recognized the boy as one of the kids in the family I’d noticed earlier. I sat up and looked for them. There were his brothers and his mother, sound asleep. But where was his father?

  “Carter!” called a panicky voice.

  There was the father. He was running through the corridor, carrying a diaper bag. I got to my feet and picked up the baby. “Is this who you’re looking for?” I asked the man.

  “Carter! Thank heavens!” he said, reaching for the baby. “Where did you find him?” he asked me.

  “Right here. I just opened my eyes and here he was.”

  The man shook his head, smiling. “Carter is our little night owl,” he said. “He just won’t sleep. He wants to stay up and play. I decided to walk him to the restroom so I could change him, and … I don’t know. How can such short legs move so quickly? I wish he would drop off for awhile.”

  Carter’s dad and I chatted until Carter actually did drop off. By then, even I was feeling drowsy, and finally I managed to doze, my head resting on Mom’s shoulder. The doze turned into a sleep.

  The next thing I knew, it was nearly seven-thirty. I opened my eyes to a bustling airport (bustling compared to the middle of the night) and a glaringly white world.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” teased my mother.

  “Sleepyhead! I didn’t fall asleep until, like, four o’clock. I feel as if I’ve been to a sleepover — on a school night. When’s Jeff going to be here? Is he already on his way? Hey, I’m hungry!”

  “Let’s eat breakfast, then,” said Mom, “and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.” She stood up, closing her book.

  “I must look awful,” I said, yawning. “Just what I always wanted. To wake up with fifty other people.”

  “Well, nobody here is a raving beauty,” said Mom. “Not at this hour after a night in a waiting room.”

  Mom and I went to the snack bar for breakfast. I told her about Carter, and she gave me a blizzard/airport update: The storm was over. Twenty-five inches of snow had fallen at the airport. The airport was in the process of reopening. Jeff was due to arrive around 11:15. The phones worked. Mom had spoken to Richard. Richard had not spoken to Jeff, since both the electricity and the phones had been out in Stoneybrook the night before. Mom had tried to call Jeff in Washington that morning, had not been able to reach him (he was traveling, with his personal flight attendant, from the hotel to the airport), but she had spoken to another flight attendant, who said that Jeff was upset, but at least he was all in one piece.

  After breakfast, Mom and I waited. I went to the restroom and tried to wash up and make myself look presentable. I watched snowplows clear the runways. I played with Carter and his brothers.

  At 11:15, Mom and I were among a crowd of people pressed against the windows, watching the arrival of the plane that should have arrived about fifteen hours earlier. Everyone cheered as the plane touched down. Then we moved to the gate, to greet the passengers as they left the plane. Jeff (with his flight attendant) was one of the first people to enter the terminal. When he and Mom and I spotted each other, all three of us burst into tears.

  Jeff hugged Mom and wouldn’t let go of her. “I thought I would never get here,” he said. “I thought I would never see you.”

  “We were worried,” Mom replied, sniffling. “We tried to call, but we couldn’t reach you. Everyone kept saying you were all right, though. The phones stopped working. We couldn’t call you or Richard or anyone.”

  “Mom and I spent the night in the airport,” I announced.

  “Really?” said Jeff. “You waited for me all this time?”

  “Of course!” exclaimed Mom. Then she added, “What an adventure you’ve had. Was the hotel nice?”

  Jeff perked up. “I got to order room service!” he exclaimed, as Mom and I put on our coats and the three of us headed for the baggage claim. “They said I could order whatever I wanted for breakfast. So I had toast and hash browns and French fries.”

  “Very well-balanced,” I commented.

  The more Jeff talked, the happier he sounded. He even
sounded proud. After we had found his suitcase and were walking toward the car, he said, “You know, I wasn’t the only kid traveling alone. There was this little girl. She was only eight.” (Jeff is only ten.) “And she just kept crying. She thought we’d been hijacked! And while we were circling around and around she got airsick. You know what was in my hotel room?” Jeff went on.

  “What?” said Mom and I. We had found our car and were unlocking it and loading in Jeff’s suitcase.

  “A shoehorn. And I was allowed to keep it. It’s in my suitcase. I’m going to give it to Richard for Christmas. In his stocking.”

  Jeff chattered all the way to Stoneybrook. As we turned onto our street, he exclaimed, “You know, last night wasn’t so bad after all!”

  A few minutes later, we had a happy reunion with Richard. Then he said, “Dawn, Mary Anne wants you to call her. She’s at the Pikes’.”

  I dialed Mal’s number, and Mary Anne answered the phone. “Dawn! I’m so glad you’re back!” she cried. “But guess what. Stacey and her mother are missing!”

  The man was looming in the window of our car. (Actually, he seemed quite concerned, but I didn’t think about that until later.) And Mom was looking at me, waiting for me to say, “Why, I think climbing into a car with a strange man is a wonderful idea!”

  We were in a pretty tight spot, though. I mean, without the man. We really didn’t know where we were, we were stuck in a car without heat in the middle of a raging blizzard, and I was famished. I guess you have to take a chance and trust people sometimes. Anyway, I was with Mom.

  I nodded my head. “Okay,” I whispered.

  Mom turned to the man. “Thank you,” she said. “We’d love to go home with you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. You must be a miracle.”

  The man grinned. “I’m Ken Schiavone,” he said as Mom and I climbed out of our car. (We locked the doors and just left the car sitting by the side of the road, half buried in snow.)

  “I’m Maureen McGill,” said Mom, “and this is my daughter, Stacey. We live in Stoneybrook. We were on our way home from the Washington Mall.”

  Mr. Schiavone held the doors to his car open for Mom and me and we slid in, Mom in front, me in back.

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to get home myself,” said Mr. Schiavone, as he urged his car forward. “I haven’t seen weather like this in years.”

  “Where did you say you live?” I asked. “At the end of the road?”

  “Not quite the end,” Mr. Schiavone replied. “But further down the road. My wife and I moved in last year. We bought a Victorian monstrosity. Six months ago we had our first baby,” he added proudly. “Mason. He’s something of a monstrosity himself.”

  “You have a baby?” I repeated.

  Mom turned around and smiled at me. Then she said to Mr. Schiavone, “Stacey loves children. She’s a wonderful baby-sitter.”

  “That’s terrific. I’m sure Mason will be glad to see a new face.” Mr. Schiavone nosed the car into a dark turnoff. I couldn’t see anything. No house, no lights. I could barely make out the drive we were traveling on.

  This is it, I thought. He’s taking us deep into the woods, and Mom and I will never be seen alive again. We’ll wind up as a story in one of those books about missing people and strange disappearances.

  I was working myself into a pretty good panic when suddenly a beautiful house appeared through the snow, as if by magic. It looked like a house from a fairy tale, lit inside and out, a green wreath with a plaid ribbon hanging on the door, the gold lights on a Christmas tree twinkling through a window.

  “Ooh,” I said, as Mr. Schiavone pulled into the garage. “This is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I must confess, my wife and I are Christmas nuts. We put up the decorations about a week ago. We like to enjoy a long Christmas.”

  “That’s nice,” said Mom. “Stace, maybe you and I should have an old-fashioned Christmas this year.”

  “Maybe,” I replied. That Christmas would be my first as a divorced kid, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the holiday.

  Mom and I followed Mr. Schiavone into his house, through the kitchen, and to the living room, another fairy-tale sight. There was the tree I had seen from outside. Stacks of presents were already piled under it. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, and on the chimney above had been hung another wreath, similar to the one on the door, but twice its size. And sitting in an armchair was Mrs. Schiavone, who was reading a story to Mason. What was she reading? The Night Before Christmas, of course.

  Mrs. Schiavone looked up in surprise when Mom and I trailed into the living room after Mr. Schiavone.

  “Hi, honey. I brought us a couple of visitors for the night. They were stuck a little ways down the road,” said Mr. Schiavone.

  “Our car died,” Mom added apologetically. “We were stranded.”

  Mrs. Schiavone stood up, shifting Mason to her hip. “My goodness,” she said. “Here. Take off your wet things. Dry out by the fireplace. I’ll add two plates to the table … Where do you live?”

  The adults introduced themselves again, and Mom told Mrs. Schiavone our story. “I guess there’s no point in calling Triple A,” she said. “Not at this hour, in this weather.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Mrs. Schiavone. “Please. Spend the night here. You can call Triple A first thing in the morning. Is there anyone you need to call now? Your husband?”

  “No, no,” said Mom quickly. “We’re divorced. It’s just Stacey and me. I don’t think we need to make any calls. But …”

  “Yes?” prompted Mrs. Schiavone.

  “Stacey’s diabetic.”

  “No sugar for me,” I interrupted, “and I need to give myself some insulin.”

  Mrs. Schiavone was great. She showed me to the bathroom. As soon as I came out, she handed Mason to me and hurried into the kitchen, followed by Mom, saying, “Just tell me what Stacey can eat. We have plenty of food here.”

  I sat by the fire, holding Mason and becoming very aware of the smell of my new perm. Mason noticed it, too, I think. He kept wrinkling his nose. But when I picked up The Night Before Christmas and began to read to him again, he settled down. “You like stories, Mason?” I asked.

  “He loves to be read to,” said Mr. Schiavone from across the room. “We’ve been reading to him since the day he came home from the hospital.”

  Hmm. Good information. I stored it away, planning to mention it at the next BSC meeting. Even little babies like to be read to.

  Considering that the evening had started out to be so frightening, it sure ended nicely. The Schiavones and Mom and I had a great time together. Mr. and Mrs. Schiavone were … wonderful. Funny, warm, matter-of-fact (my diabetes didn’t faze them a bit; they just asked what I could eat and then fixed it for me), understanding (no more questions about Dad or the divorce), interesting, outgoing, involved, creative, you name it. And Mason was charming. The Schiavones let me put him to bed. I wished they lived closer to Stoneybrook so we could be friends and I could sit for Mason.

  By the next day, Mom and I almost didn’t want to leave, and the Schiavones seemed reluctant to say good-bye. So we hung around together, postponing calling Triple A, using the snow as an excuse. And it was a pretty good excuse. Mr. Schiavone leaned out the front door on Thursday morning and stuck a yardstick in the snow. All but six inches were covered. Two and a half feet had fallen.

  “Treasure this,” Mom told me. “You may not see the likes of it again.”

  The morning passed, the sun came out, and finally the snowplows cleared even the back country roads. Mom had no more reasons for not calling Triple A. By one o’clock, we were on our way home.

  We took the highway.

  I insisted.

  “The snow’s awfully pretty, isn’t it?” said Mom.

  “Now that the sun is shining, the road’s been plowed, the car works, and we know where we’re going,” I answered.

  Mom laughed. She drove home slowly. It was
nearly two o’clock when we finally reached our street. To my surprise, I saw Claudia standing on the front porch of our house. When we pulled up in the street (our driveway wasn’t shoveled, of course), she bolted across the snowy yard and threw her arms around me as I climbed out of the car.

  “Oh, my lord!” she cried. “You’re safe! You’re alive!”

  Now, how did Claud know that a stranger had picked us up and given us a ride to his house deep in the woods?

  “Where were you guys?” exclaimed Claudia. “Have you really been gone since yesterday? You scared us to death!”

  I looked at Mom, then back at Claud. “I didn’t think anyone would even realize we weren’t at home,” I said.

  “We weren’t sure until this morning,” Claud told me. “Yesterday Mal and Mary Anne didn’t see any lights at your house, and they couldn’t get you on the phone. But then the power went out and the phones went out so we couldn’t tell whether you’d come home later or not. But when we couldn’t reach you today we panicked.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as Claud walked Mom and me to the front door. “But what’s wrong? Why were you trying to get hold of us?”

  “We just wanted to know if you were all right. You wouldn’t believe what happened to everyone last night. Jessi got stuck in Stamford and spent the night at her dance school; the Perkinses couldn’t come home, so I spent the night with Myriah and Gabbie and Laura; Dawn and her mom spent the night at the airport …”

  Claudia went on and on. She listened to my story. Then she said, “I better call Kristy. She’ll want to know this.” So she called her, and a few moments later she was saying, “What? You’re kidding?! I’ll spread the word!” When she hung up she said to me, “School will be open tomorrow, and the dance is still on. Kristy just talked to that kid she knows — the one whose mother is on the school board. We were afraid the dance would be called off because of the snow.”