Wonderland Page 9

  In the city, quiet time had been at a premium. Orla realized now she’d craved it more than she’d been consciously aware. Those Saturday or Sunday mornings when she’d snuck out early on no discernible mission other than to see the streets with no traffic, the sidewalks with no people. Sometimes it was a very narrow window of opportunity, and the cars and people would creep into her solitude. But before they ruined it, Orla marveled at how different it all felt, how peaceful, with the city that never slept subdued in its hour of slumber.

  And here, beyond the boundaries of a cluster of small towns, they were, technically, nowhere in particular. While she was no longer lacking in quietude, the morning jaunt to the mailbox was often her only chance to be by herself. Or to walk anywhere. Eventually she’d have to summon more courage and start taking little walks around the property, maybe even venture deeper into the woods. She wouldn’t survive long term without being able to stretch her legs—beyond her body’s need for it, it was imperative she not feel trapped.

  She walked in one of the rutted impressions made by their SUV. It had been a few days since they’d driven anywhere—their last venture out was to the nearest pizza place, thirty minutes away—but it hadn’t snowed since then and the tire tracks still looked fresh in the parallel ruts. It was so quiet she could hear wind rustling branches in trees far away and, closer, the muffled splat as snow lost its grip on a limb and tumbled onto a drift below. Orla smiled seeing her cheery friend the resident cardinal looking down on her from a branch above her head. The air smelled only of cold and the foreign aroma of cardamom wafting on the air from her tea.

  Part of her morning ritual included being very aware; she made a point of noticing things she hadn’t seen before. Shaw had picked up the practice in an acting class he’d taken years earlier, and it was something they both incorporated into their lives—when they remembered. It had been harder to do in the city, where slowing down on a sidewalk was likely to result in impatient pedestrians bristling past. But here…she let her gaze wander, paused whenever she saw something that required more of her attention. Such as…tiny footprints?

  At first she thought they were bird tracks in the snow—perhaps left by her feathery red friend? But on closer inspection…she was starting to regret the details she noticed every time she leaned in to get a better look at something.

  She recognized the pattern. It couldn’t have been more obvious; she had a print of it hanging across from her bed. But it was impossible. We boiled the water.

  Some contemporary choreographers used a system called Benesh Movement Notation, though most of the ones she’d worked with preferred to use video. The choreography was recorded on what looked like a five-lined music staff, but it documented sections of the body, not musical notes. Early in her career she’d become fascinated by older systems to record choreography, and she’d discovered Feuillet and the French dances he’d documented in the 1700s. The notations were drawn with swirling lines, as if you were looking down and seeing the patterns on the floor made as the dancers moved around. Her favorite, the one Shaw had framed as a print for her, was called simply Balet. It showed in mirror image two double-lined S-like shapes with matching curls and swoops. On their bedroom wall, it looked graceful, if abstract. On the snow, it looked…

  Wrong.

  She blinked hard, clearing her vision. Maybe it wasn’t really there. Maybe she thought of dance so often, even if subconsciously, that now she saw it materialize in the landscape of her new world.

  She peered at the markings again. And laughed at herself. “You’re losing it.”

  She’d been right the first time: little bird footprints etched in the snow.

  With a bit more haste, she continued on until she reached the road. The shriek of the mailbox’s rusty hinges was a violation; it left a bloody color in her mind.

  They paid all of their bills online and never got much mail, but she was never disappointed when the box was empty. In fact, it was something of an accomplishment; they didn’t need to waste trees to communicate. But today there was personalized junk mail from their new satellite company and their new bank. She stuffed them in her coat pocket and turned around to follow her footprints back to the house. Although she’d been bothered the day they moved in that the house sat so far from the road, now she liked it. She liked walking a deserted path without having a single structure in sight, at least for a short way. And although once that had made the location seem dangerous, that no one knew they were there, now it felt safer. No one could spot them from the road, unless their chimney was smoking.

  Slowly, Orla was acclimating to the new concept of invisibility. She was inconspicuous now, a person without a stage, a platform. After so many years of being a performer, she’d anticipated an itchier adjustment. Maybe Shaw had been right that it would be easier for her away from the city, with fewer distractions. Fewer reminders. (Bird tracks in the snow notwithstanding.) Fewer bright lights to linger beneath.

  As she brought the mug to her lips, it suddenly blew out of her hands. A gust of wind that caught her by surprise.

  She bent down to pick it up. The splatter of tea on the snow reminded her of dog pee—from a slightly ill dog. That made her chortle until a blast of wind knocked her off her feet. The snow came next, descending on her like a wall of wasps. The frozen particles whipped her cheeks, tiny razors that felt sharp enough to draw blood.

  Gale-force gusts assaulted her from every direction, and she struggled to stand. The mug forgotten, buried, she shut her eyes against the frenzied snow, uncertain if she should hunker down and wait it out or plow homeward. Last time, the whiteout had ended before she’d even gotten the children into the house; maybe this one would dissipate just as quickly. She kept her body folded over at the waist and made a battering ram of her head, determined to get to the safety of home.

  The wind rushed toward her face, forcing itself down her throat. It stole her breath and she gulped like a fish on land, momentarily panicked by the sensation of suffocation. She tucked her mouth in under her coat and struggled onward, glad the kids weren’t with her.

  There was an excitement to it, to the danger, the randomness. After they’d spent so many years keeping track of schedules—the never-ending who-where-when, the jigsaw-puzzle picture constantly changing depending on what was going on in the busy family’s life—it was oddly fascinating to be kidnapped by the unexpected. Part of her even appreciated the weather’s show of power. It reminded her to be more humble, especially after an adulthood spent working for applause. There were things about the world she didn’t understand, and this—now, as she struggled to breathe, to stay upright—didn’t have to be something adverse. She was open to the possibility of being put in her place, a minuscule creature awakening to the vastness, the unknown, spinning in tandem with the perpetual outward force of the big bang.

  She pushed forward, unaware of anything but the wind and snow. Even that struck her as appropriately philosophical; she was wholly in the moment. Her new life, she decided, required mindfulness, appreciation, and, yes, becoming more philosophical. In a place devoid of the endless entertainment she’d once taken for granted, she’d go crazy if she couldn’t find meaning and satisfaction in the things around her. She’d replace the fine art of ballet with the fine art of contemplative gratitude.

  The ground around her started to brighten, not unlike the first moments on a stage, and she turned toward the light. But she didn’t recognize what it was until too late.

  12

  Parallel beams of light emerged through the swirling snow. She realized they were headlights just as the car was nearly on top of her.

  The bumper struck her hip; it was like being smacked with a two-by-four, and down she went again, certain the vehicle was about to run her over.

  But it skidded to a stop.

  And the wind died.

  And the snow.

  It settled into stillness as it had before. A shaken snow globe set back on its shelf.

  And she
saw now: it was their car. Shaw scrambled out of the driver’s side.

  “Orla!” His voice sounded so loud against the now quiet backdrop, the roar of wind silenced by the shutting of a giant door.

  “Did you see it?” Orla asked as she lay in the snow.

  “I didn’t see you! The snow—”

  “You saw it, then?”

  “Yes, a total whiteout.” He fell to his knees beside her. She rubbed her leg. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. The snow…” She was about to say it had cushioned her fall. But it had also caused the accident, which could have been much more serious. “What are you doing out here?”

  She hadn’t even noticed the SUV missing from the garage; she’d assumed Shaw was behind the closed door of his studio.

  “I ducked out to that little bakery we found. Wanted to get everybody some bagels. Are the kids up?”

  “Yes, watching TV. I didn’t know you weren’t in the house.”

  “Sorry, I thought it would be a nice surprise. Can you get up?” He helped her to her feet. Helped her limp around to the passenger side of the car. “I didn’t see you until the last second, I’m so sorry.”

  She sank into the seat, wincing a little as a tender bruise pressed against the cushion. Shaw went around and clambered in the driver’s side. After he closed the door, they sat there in safety, dazed.

  “No matter what the water test reveals—” she said.

  “No, these weather bursts are real.”

  Was he implying that other things might not be?

  “I don’t get it,” he said. For a moment he remained deep in thought, his hands on the wheel, looking around at the peaceful land. “Maybe I should call someone. See if this is some new thing. These wind bursts.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure there’s someone local who reports snowfall and wind and what have you to the weather bureau.”

  Orla nodded, but her thoughts were jumbled. Only moments earlier she’d been ready to believe in the capricious weather’s rightful place in the universe, willing to kneel before its omnipotence. She’d been willing to adapt for the sake of holy and important. But Shaw almost killing her with their car…that wasn’t holy. “Maybe you were driving too fast.”

  “What?” He turned to her.

  “Snow on the ground…the potential for more snow any second—isn’t that what this region is famous for?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I just think…you shouldn’t make assumptions, because a blizzard could happen at any time—”

  “Whoa! Are you kidding me? You think the problem is my driving?”

  Even though on some level she knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, some of it was—the fact that they were even there. “Whatever the water test says…look, it’s winter, it’s going to keep snowing. We should take whatever precautions we can.”

  Beside her, Shaw clenched his jaw. She could read him well enough to know he was grumbling inside, trying to decide whether to fuel the fire or snuff it out. He sighed and his shoulders drooped. “Maybe you were right, what you said the other night. Global warming is disrupting weather patterns all over the world. Maybe this area has become prone to unusual changes. Gonna Google it; maybe someone’s been blogging about it or something.”

  “Okay.” That sounded reasonable. “But…we need to find a way to manage this, and with the kids—”

  “I know,” Shaw said, sounding irritated as well as impatient.

  “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry if I implied—”

  “I did just almost run you over.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have been walking in the middle of the driveway.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not you. Once again, I leave you all and…a snow burst.”

  “No, Shaw—that’s just a coincidence.”

  “Am I supposed to never leave? Was I supposed to not bring you here?”

  So he was doing it too, trying to rationalize whatever was happening. He was internalizing it differently, almost egocentrically. Was guilt coloring his perspective? Still, she saw him grasping for reason, if not reassurance.

  “We’ll figure something out.” She squeezed his wrist, clueless as to what they might conjure as a solution, but she tried to sound confident. “We should get back.”

  He turned the key in the ignition and the car lurched forward, but he drove the last thirty yards to the garage at a snail’s pace and Orla knew she’d gotten through to him. It could happen again at any time. And one of the children might be playing in the yard.

  They’d agreed not to mention the most recent weather burst to the kids, who were on the sofa when they blustered in, blissfully absorbed by The Iron Giant, a movie they’d seen a thousand times, as it was one of the few they could always agree on.

  “Who wants a real New York breakfast? Fresh bagels!”

  “Me! Me!” the kids replied.

  Orla saw it in Shaw’s actions and the way he spoke—he was overcompensating. She felt it too, a sense of owing the children something. Something safer—less ominous—than the new life they’d been given, though neither had openly complained. She limped after them into the kitchen. Her injury likely required ice, but she opted to stick her aromatherapy pack in the microwave instead. She liked the way it smelled, like chamomile and lavender, and she kept its warm comfort against her hip as they ate.

  Shaw smeared thick wedges of cream cheese on the kids’ apple-cinnamon bagels, and Orla made them hot chocolate. So far, their Adirondack diet was appalling, but Orla was conscious to never crack jokes about how fat they were all going to get lest Eleanor Queen become another girl-victim of unrealistic body expectations. Orla had never liked it when people—friends, relatives, near strangers—made comments about her thinness (or giraffe limbs or swan neck or turned-out duck feet) in front of Eleanor Queen, fearing the girl would compare herself and make judgments about her own body, how it should or shouldn’t be. But at some point, they had to get back to a healthier manner of eating.

  After breakfast, Orla and Shaw agreed on a half-baked, better-than-nothing plan to create a guideline that would extend along the edge of the driveway from the far side of the garage out to the road. They went down into the basement and dug around the detritus that the previous owner had left behind, searching for usable supplies. Orla soon got distracted by a box of books and lifted up the flaps to see what treasures lay within. “Hey—maybe we should join an online book club. And find one for Eleanor Queen!”

  “We can do that.” But Shaw’s focus was on the wooden posts and the abandoned tools he’d found.

  “History. Nonfiction stuff mostly, it looks like.” She blew dust off the edges of a slightly mildewed book, absorbed in her find. “Pretty old, most of it.”

  “This should work. Orlie? Earth to Orlie? I think we found what we need.”

  It was Shaw’s idea to attach a rope between the posts (if they could get them into the frozen ground) and trees, so Orla could trail her fingers on it as she walked to the mailbox. If another whiteout happened, she could find her way back without being in the middle of the driveway.

  “Right.” Orla closed her box of books, planning to inventory it later, and hoisted it up.

  “You’re really gonna lug that upstairs?”

  “Yup. We need all the books we can get.”

  “They stink.”

  “Old doesn’t mean bad. Maybe there’s a valuable first edition here worth a zillion dollars.”

  “I don’t think anybody’d keep anything down here they really cared about. Carry a bit more?” When Orla nodded, Shaw laid some rope and bundles of cord on top of her box. He grabbed the posts and tools and they headed upstairs.

  “Walker might know of someone local who monitors the weather. That might be pretty big around here, like a Meetup group or something,” she said. It seemed that weather was a favorite topic for everyone, everywhere; her father started every phone conversation with Pittsburgh’s temperature and p
recipitation forecast. It made sense to Orla that in a place with dramatic weather, where the temperature and precipitation actually mattered, even more people would be in the know.

  “Maybe.” Shaw sounded noncommittal. “Could ask around too, when I’m in town. Maybe people rely on a certain forecaster more than others. Maybe we need to use a different app.”

  Orla suspected there was an underlying pride issue and he didn’t want to ask strangers—or his brother—unintentionally naive questions. No man wanted to come off as the stupid city guy, especially one who’d grown up an hour away. And were they certain that anything abnormally weird had even happened that morning? In a short span of years, New York City had become more susceptible to hurricanes—they’d been lucky to live just blocks beyond the evacuation zone when Sandy hit. Orla knew she was out of her element in this part of the state, and new and strange weather patterns were a real possibility. Yup. That, at least, almost made sense.

  They were being smart; ignoring the mysterious weather wasn’t going to make it go away. Better to be prepared, if they could. And making the guideline kept them all busy. Shaw used a sledgehammer to drive the posts into the ground, and maybe they were mostly held up by snow, but at least they were standing. Orla knotted the cord around the posts; they needed only a few, as most of the driveway was lined with trees. She wrapped the rope around the thinnest available trunks, hoping to make the bits and pieces last to the end of the drive. Tycho followed along, jumping in his father’s boot prints as he sang a little song about blowy-glowy snow. And Eleanor Queen held on to the bundles of cord, unspooling it as they moved ahead, and explained how people made similar guidelines around the buildings at the science stations in Antarctica—more information she’d gleaned from Derek’s book. “Just like this, so the scientists won’t get lost if a blizzard strikes. You could freeze to death really fast.”