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To my mother
CHAPTER ONE
She came out of nowhere.
I was driving back from the faculty Christmas party. I’d had a couple glasses of wine but I wasn’t drunk. Distracted, sure, what with Cressida dropping that bombshell and the scene with Ross, but not drunk.
I didn’t see her. It was dusk, that dangerous hour when day slides into night and deer steal out of the woods. I’ve lived here long enough to know that. I’ve braked a hundred times to watch a doe lead her fawns safely across the road. A lot of people hate the deer. They eat their gardens and carry ticks. But I have always thought they were more beautiful than any garden I could grow and loved them for Emmy’s sake, who thought they were as magical as unicorns.
It was on that blind curve just before Orchard Drive. Everyone takes it too fast. I, of all people, should have known that too, but I was distracted and my vision had gone blurry for a moment. I’d lifted my hand off the wheel to wipe my eyes and something hit the bumper. A horrible thump I felt in my chest. Then something white scrolling upward like a long scarf unraveling, its body weirdly elongated like one of those cave paintings from the South of France, a hunter’s dream of a spirit deer flying across the cosmos—
But when it hit the windshield it was meat and blood and broken glass and I was pulling blind to the shoulder and screaming NO NO NO NO as if I could unscroll time and undo what had happened even as I felt sure that I’d been on a collision course with that deer all day long. Maybe for my whole life.
I don’t know how long I screamed and cried like that, probably only a minute, but when I stopped—Get a grip, Nan!—it was dark. I turned on the headlights and a half-crumbled stone wall reared up like a tombstone. My car was angled into a ditch, the front right tire lower than the left, the stone wall only inches from my bumper. If I’d braked a few seconds later I’d have gone straight into it. If the deer had leapt out a few feet farther—
The deer. Was it dead? It must be after that impact—
I started shaking again. I could still feel that horrible thump.
But what if it wasn’t dead? What if it was lying hurt by the side of the road while I sat here feeling sorry for myself—
Get a grip, Nan!
I was still clutching the steering wheel. I felt a laugh bubbling behind my lips. Typical, Nan, thinking you’re still driving when you’re stuck in a ditch. Before the tears could come again I opened the door. The cold air was bracing. It’s supposed to go down to twenty degrees tonight. Someone said that at the party. Dottie, it had been Dottie, department secretary and earth mother, always watching the weather from her office on the top floor of the Jewett Faculty Tower. Dottie always warned the students to be careful driving home. Her kind, dimpled face rose up in my mind. Sure you’re okay to drive home, Nan? I’m giving Leia a lift and you’re on the way. You could come back tomorrow for your car.
If I’d taken her up on her offer I wouldn’t have hit the deer. Maybe she would have hit it and then at least it wouldn’t have been me.
I cringed at the meanness of the thought. Poor Dottie would be heartbroken if she hit a deer. She had an I brake for leprechauns bumper sticker on her ancient VW and posted notices of stray cats on her Facebook page.
Then again, Dottie would have braked for the deer sooner. And if she had hit it she’d already be out of the car looking for it and calling the animal rescue hotline, which she probably had programmed onto her phone.
I felt for my phone in my pocket. I could call someone—but who? Dottie? She was probably already home in bed in her flannel nightgown watching Downton Abbey reruns and sipping chamomile tea. Ross? His house was only ten minutes up the road. He’d still be up, cleaning up from the party, or perhaps sitting by the fireside with a few straggler students, regaling them with stories of his Harvard days and the famous writers he had known. Still, he’d come. I could imagine his deep, gravelly voice. Of course we think the world of you, Nan. This wasn’t personal.
No, not Ross. Cressida? Cressida’s face swam into view, pity etched on her fine Nordic features, her shield-maiden braids bristling with indignation. I’m so sorry, Nan, I tried everything I could but the committee went against you. If only you’d listened to me—No, not Cressida. Not now.
I got out and wobbled on the uneven ground. I braced myself against the car. Had I hit my head? No, the air bag hadn’t deployed. It hadn’t been that hard an impact. Maybe the deer wasn’t dead. Maybe it had run into the woods.
Wounded. Fragile legs broken. Crawling off to die.
I turned around slowly, looking north to where the road disappeared around the sharp bend and then south where it ran straight under tall sycamore trees between old dry-laid stone walls. Then I stared at the ditch where my car had come to rest, and the broken stone wall above it—and recognized just exactly where I was. There was the gatepost to the old Blackwell estate and the drive that climbed steeply through the orchard where deer came out at dusk to eat windblown apples. I’d watched them a hundred times from my own living room window and seen cars coming around the bend too fast, driving straight into the wall—
I shivered and stared back at the wall. Where it was broken someone had painted a white cross. In the spring there were daffodils here—
This place. How many lives had it taken? I should have been driving slower. But there was nothing I could do now. I should have been watching, but the deer was probably okay. I should just go home. Get in bed in a flannel nightgown with a cup of chamomile tea like Dottie—only I’d add a shot of bourbon. I imagined telling Dottie tomorrow that I’d hit a deer. Her first question would be if I’d gone to look for it.
I turned away from the orchard and looked to the right into the woods. That’s where the deer—hurt, scared—would have gone. I’d go into the woods a little ways. Just to make sure. If the deer was wounded it wouldn’t have gone far. If I didn’t find it that meant it was all right.
I climbed over the crumbling wall, tearing my stockings and scraping my hands on the rough, cold stones. My thin ballet flats sank into the deep leaf litter and my legs felt wobbly as I walked away from the wall and into the woods. Shock from the accident, I told myself, and from finding myself here.
Not from drinking too much. I’d only had a few. I certainly felt completely sober now. But it had been a long day. I’d given my last finals and held extended office hours for students handing in assignments. I’d had to listen to a dozen excuses for late papers: everything from failed printers and crashed hard drives to dead grandparents and bad breakups—a litany of chaos and drama presented as though no one had ever suffered as they had. If they had used half the creativity in the stories they handed in as they did in their excuses they’d be writing masterpieces, I’d wanted to say, but instead I had patiently repeated my late-paper policy and then granted them their extensions. They really did have chaotic lives, some of them. This semester’s creative writing class in particular was a bit of a ragtag crew. The class almost hadn’t run, but then Dottie had channeled a bunch of transfer students into it and recruited a few older students, like Leia, even though she was really too advanced for it. For which I was grateful—it wouldn’t look great for the tenure committee if the class hadn’t run—but transfer students were often . . . volatile.
There were the working-class kids from Newburgh and Fishkill who’d gone to community college first to save their parents the higher tuition at SUNY Acheron or to pull up
their grades—and some valiant older students like Aleesha Williams, a single mom in her twenties who’d struggled up from the projects in Poughkeepsie and was trying to get a teaching degree. But there were also spoiled rich girls like Kelsey Manning, a media arts major from Long Island who’d asked if she could be excused from the final because she wanted to leave early for a ski trip to Vail (I told her no and saw Cressida, in her office across the hall, roll her eyes), and stoners like Troy Van Donk Jr., whose father ran Van’s Auto over on 9G and who was spending a few semesters at Acheron dealing drugs to the rich kids from Long Island and sleeping with the Westchester girls hungry for some “real life” experience. He’d had the nerve to email for an extension because of “girlfriend trouble.” I’d had half a mind to fail him, but the truth was that even though some of the stories he wrote had a disturbing violent vein running through them, he was the best writer in the class. He’d been working on a satire of The Odyssey set in the dive bars and projects of Poughkeepsie that had been funny and promising. I wanted to see what he’d done with it.
Lady Bountiful, Evan used to call me.
You’re too easy on them, Cressida, whose office across the hall from mine gave her a ringside seat to my student conferences, always said. You let them walk all over you.
And it did take a lot out of me, listening to all those stories of heartache and calamity. Even the happy stories were draining—all those hopes and dreams for the future. All that faith that no matter what, things would work out. The last time a student had said to me that she knew everything would work out I had wanted to ask, “Why? Why do you think that?”
So when Leia Dawson came to see me at the end of the day I just couldn’t take any more, even though she was my favorite student. My prize student. The one who reminded me of myself at her age. I’d had her for Intro to Creative Writing her freshman year and Advanced Fiction Workshop her junior. Leia was the full package—bright, beautiful, talented—and kind to boot. She brought Dottie flowers on her birthday and baked madeleines for workshop when I told them about Proust. She’d taught creative writing in Acheron’s Prison Initiative Program for the last two years. For some real life experience, she’d told me. I’d written her a recommendation for grad school and she’d gotten a full ride to Washington University’s MFA program. She’d already published in a few journals and won the department’s writing prize. Ross had gotten her an internship at his publisher for the summer. I fully expected to see her first novel in a couple of years—and knowing Leia she would remember me in the acknowledgments—but when I saw her hovering in the hallway outside my office I just didn’t think I could take listening to more of her bright, shiny plans for the future.
“I’ve got to run home and change for the party!” I’d called over my shoulder as I passed her in the hallway. “Can we catch up there?”
But the only time I’d seen her at the party was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine for Ross when I’d tracked him down to ask him if it was true that I’d been denied tenure—
I stumbled over a rock and grabbed a pine trunk to steady myself. Denied tenure. The words thudded in my head with the same finality as the thud of the deer against my car. It wasn’t just that I had been denied tenure, it was knowing that I’d have to leave. No one stayed on after being denied tenure. It was pathetic. I might even be fired. And then where would I go?
I looked around me as if I could find the answer to my question in my current surroundings. I’d come farther than I’d meant to and the woods were turning dark—lovely, dark and deep, as Frost was no doubt quoted in half the Intro Lit essays lying on the backseat of my car.
Maybe that’s why I was here tonight. I’d been led here by that deer to this place to watch these woods fill up with snow—yes, Dottie had been right, it was snowing—on the darkest night of the year. It was the solstice, I remembered with a chill that had only a little to do with the dropping temperature. Dottie had mentioned it at the party. John Abbot, who taught the gothic novel and twentieth-century horror fiction, had made a woo-woo noise and reminded us all that the Victorian tradition of reading ghost stories on Christmas Eve came from the belief that the solstice was when the dead were supposed to walk. Joan Denning, an adjunct who taught ghost stories to her ESL students, said that one of her students had just handed in a paper on our own local ghost, Charlotte Blackwell, who always appeared on the winter solstice seeking a blood sacrifice for her daughter who had drowned in the Hudson. Dottie, who hated ghost stories, had covered her ears and Cressida had given Joan a nudge and a meaningful look at me to shut her up and Joan had blushed scarlet. I shivered now, but not with cold or fear. I’d already made my sacrifices. What more could this place take from me? If the dead were walking in this snowy wood I’d wait for them here. I sank down onto the ground, leaned against the tree, the bark rough against my back, and looked up at the snow sifting through pine needles, a half-moon caught in tangled branches, so bright I closed my eyes against it . . .
. . . and drifted off for a few moments. Long enough to have the dream. Someone shouting Come back!
Me. I was the one shouting Come back! to Emmy as she ran down the hill, the lights of her sneakers flashing red through the grass, her childish laughter cut short by a screech of tires . . . a shrill, heartbreaking cry.
I startled awake, my face wet as it always was when I awoke from the nightmare. The nightmare of Emmy run over on River Road. The worst ones were when I saw her running from the house and I looked up from my desk in time to call her back—
Come back!
—and save her.
But I hadn’t saved her in this dream. I’d heard the screech of tires and her startled, surprised cry just as I had on that day. I wiped my face. My tears were ice water. My lap was full of snow. It must have been in the teens. The alcohol in my blood—not that I’d had that much to drink—had probably lowered my core temperature. How long had I been asleep? If I stayed here much longer I would freeze to death.
It was supposed to be a gentle way to die. You felt warm at the end, like in that story by Jack London. . . .
I shook myself and looked around at the woods. What a pathetic way to go—half drunk (maybe I really had had a little too much to drink), freezing to death . . . because I didn’t get tenure? That’s what people would say. That I was so upset at not getting tenure that I drove off the road, stumbled into the woods, and froze to death.
Well, screw that. So I hadn’t gotten tenure. After all that had happened to me—
Emmy running down the hill, sneaker lights flashing, a voice crying Come back!
—I wasn’t going to let a tenure decision be the thing to undo me. I could ask to stay on while I appealed the decision. I was a good teacher. I had great evaluations. And if I didn’t get the decision appealed I could apply to other colleges. I still had a chance—maybe that’s why I had dreamed about Emmy. The time to save her was gone but there was still time enough to save myself. To get myself back on my feet.
So that’s what I did. I got to my feet, shook the snow off my coat, and walked out of the dark woods and back to the road.
* * *
It was snowing so hard I might not have found my way back without my headlights shining dimly through the snow. My shoes were soaked and my feet numb by the time I scrambled back over the stone wall. I paused for a moment there to clear the snow from the stone and found the painted cross. Someone had painted it after Emmy died. For a while people had left flowers and candles here but I never had. I didn’t want Emmy to be remembered as the little girl who had died at the side of a road in a ditch.
Eventually they had stopped leaving flowers.
I was careful to step over the snow-covered ditch getting into my car, but when I pulled out the left tire got stuck and I had a bad moment thinking I’d have to call Van’s and explain to Troy Van Donk Sr. what I was doing out on the river road in a snowstorm, soaking wet, breath smelling of wine, but then with a lurch and a sickening grinding against my poor old ca
r’s underbelly I cleared the snow-filled ditch and fishtailed out onto the road.
The snow was coming down heavy now and there was no sign that the plows had been out. I crept down River Road with my high beams on and my hazard lights blinking, white-knuckling the steering wheel and leaning forward to peer through my cracked windshield—crap, what was that going to cost?—into dizzying snow eddies. I barely got up Orchard Drive. I knew I’d never make it up my impractically steep driveway. A little farther up the road was a turnaround that the trucks from the old orchard used to use and where Acheron students parked to make out or hike into the woods to explore the old abandoned buildings on the Blackwell estate. No one was there tonight. I pulled in far enough so my car wouldn’t get hit by a plow and hiked up my driveway to my house, my feet so numb I couldn’t feel them by the time I got to my front door.
Oolong, my ancient Siamese, screamed indignantly and threw her bony body at my feet as soon as I walked in. I apologized profusely as I dumped a can of Fancy Feast into her bowl. I got the bourbon out of the cabinet but then I remembered my resolution in the woods. Maybe I had been drinking too much. Not that that had anything to do with hitting the deer—no one could have helped that—but yelling at Ross hadn’t been the smartest move.
I made myself a cup of tea instead and added milk and sugar—for shock, as people were always saying in British novels. I’d certainly had my share of shocks today. I sat down on the living room couch to collect myself a little before tackling the rotting farmhouse stairs up to my bedroom. It really had been an awful day.
Is it true? I’d demanded of Ross when I’d burst into the kitchen (startling Leia, who had been pouring wine, so that she spilled it on Ross’s wrist and then scurried out). I’m sorry, Nan. He’d turned away to unbutton his shirt cuff and run cold water over the wine stain so he wouldn’t have to look me in the eye. I didn’t want you to find out like this. Cressida shouldn’t have said anything.