MUSIC IN THE SNOW A Short StoryLost In a Blizzard With a Toddler and A Baby on the Way. How do They Survive?

For Chris, Kendria, and Bud

****

Thelma was worried.  She didn’t want to say goodbye to her grandbaby or to Chandra either.  It seemed as if someone in her life was always leaving.  First, her husband, Ned.  Dead and gone these past twenty years, since 1955.  

Then, one by one, their four sons left to start new lives in far-away cities; now their youngest and only girl, Chandra, was moving to Alaska to live on a military base with her husband.  It made her sad to think of them being so far away.  It might as well have been the back of the moon.

Chandra had been only six years old when Ned passed away.  After having four boys, he'd longed for a little girl and the fifth time around, she'd finally shown up.  Now Thelma laughed out loud, remembering her husband's face when they'd told him he had a little girl.  That child had been the love of his life.  

How he’d spoiled her!  And how he'd laugh every day when she'd come running to greet him when he got home.  He'd pick her up, turn on that soft tinkling music he liked, and dance around the room, holding her in his arms.  

Thelma chuckled.  My Lord!  And how he'd protect her when I wanted to spank her.  Every other evening, that man came home with a different book.  He loved reading to his baby girl. 

They'd sit in that big rocking chair by the stove reading while I cooked dinner.  She still missed her husband.  And she knew she’d miss Chandra and Catina.  But she consoled herself.  They weren't dead.  They’d be back.

 

 ****

 

By the time Chandra arrived in Fairbanks, Alaska, winter had already begun to close its fist around the city.

She had known about the cold.  Grant had warned her.

“It's not Memphis,” he'd said.

She had laughed.  “I know that.”

“I don't think you do."

'Honey, you forget, I went to college in Chicago."

"No, I'm not forgetting.  Winter in Chicago is tropical compared to winter in Fairbanks, Chandra."  

She'd laughed again.  She'd never experienced cold like she had in Chicago.   And the wind was like a living thing.  It had stunned her.  It came at you with the force of a Category 1 hurricane.  She couldn't imagine anything worse.

She was a southern girl, and it had taken her two years to get used to Chicago's weather and to learn how to dress for it.

Now, six months pregnant with their second child, Chandra understood what Grant meant.  Alaska's cold wasn't simply cold.  It seemed to seep into everything—the walls of their small military housing and the windows.  She kept the heat turned up to eighty degrees, and it still wasn't warm enough to walk around in unless you were fully clothed in thick sweaters, long pants, and warm socks.  

Snow piled against the doors and windows, and daylight became something precious and fleeting.  Some days, it lasted only three or four hours.

 

At first, Chandra had tried to embrace the adventure.  She had imagined herself cross-country skiing with Grant, snowshoeing through the woods, and eventually learning to operate a snowmobile. 

She had pictured their little girl bundled in bright winter clothes, laughing as she made footprints in the snow.

 

Instead, most days she stared out the window.  Snow.  Gray sky.  Snow again.  The darkness came early.  By late afternoon, it felt like midnight.  She loved her husband and adored her daughter, but she had begun to feel as though the walls were closing in on her.

One evening, when Grant came home from the base, Chandra was waiting at the kitchen table.

“We need to get out of this house,” she said.

Grant removed his gloves.

“That's your greeting?”

“I mean it.”

He looked at her and smiled.  “Cabin fever?”

“Severe cabin fever.”

Catina toddled into the living room, eating a chocolate bar and wearing only one sock.  She picked up her daughter and kissed her little chocolate mouth.

Then, swatting her on her little bottom, she said, “Go.  Get dressed.” 

Grant laughed.  He took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere.”

 

So, they bundled up in layers of wool, down parkas, boots, hats, scarves, and gloves.  Grant moved all his work things off the station wagon seats and started the engine.

They drove into town to pick up groceries and a few things they needed for the house.  It was a mistake they wouldn't understand until later.

Two days earlier, Grant had cleaned out the station wagon.  He had removed the emergency supplies he normally kept in the back—heavy blankets, flashlights, flares, high-calorie protein bars, extra water, a snow shovel, traction mats, and all Catina's gear—extra clothes, crackers, wipes, dried cereal.

 

He had meant to put them back.  He hadn't.  The drive home began uneventfully.  Then the snowfall thickened almost instantly.  Heavy, wet, fat flakes fell furiously.  The road disappeared beneath a shifting white surface.  The headlights illuminated little more than swirling flakes.  Grant slowed.

“It's getting bad,” Chandra said.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, the station wagon lurched violently.  Grant stepped on the accelerator.  The tires spun.  He tried again.  Nothing.

“We're stuck,” he said.  

Then it hit him.  He'd forgotten to replace their emergency supplies.  He remembered seeing them in the garage that morning. 

 

"Damn!"  He said, hitting the steering wheel.

"What?"

"I forgot to replace the shovel, flares, and traction mat when I cleaned out the car a couple of days ago!" 

Chandra looked out the window.

There were no headlights behind them.  None ahead.  No houses.  No movement.

“Can we back out?”

Grant tried.  The tires spun again.  He shut off the engine.  For several seconds, nobody spoke.  Catina, feeling something was wrong, began to cry.  

Looking over his shoulder, he said, "It's okay, Sweet Baby Girl."

Then, looking at the dashboard clock, he said,  “We can't stay here.”

“Why?”

“If the temperature drops, the exhaust pipe could get blocked.  We could end up with carbon monoxide in the car.”

Chandra's hand moved instinctively to her baby bump. 

“What do we do?”

“We walk.”

She stared at him.

“Walk where?”

“I know where we are.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Grant opened the door.  A blast of cold entered the car.  Chandra put her fur-lined hood up.  Grant lifted Catina into his arms.

“Stay close to me,” he said.

They stepped into the snow.  Within minutes, Chandra could no longer see the station wagon behind them.  The world had become white and gray.  There was no horizon. No clear road. No distinction between sky and ground.   Flat light.   Chandra had never experienced anything like it.   And suddenly she was afraid. Grant kept moving.

“Grant.”

“I know where I'm going.”

She hurried after him.

“Are you sure?”

He stopped.

“What is it, Baby?”

“I think we should go the other way.”

He stared at her.

“Chandra, I've been stationed here twice as long as you've been here.”

“I know.”

“I know these roads.”

“I know.”

“Then trust me.”  He took her hand, and they kept walking.

To Chandra, it seemed like they’d walked for miles, though they'd covered less than a mile.  She looked past Grant.  There was nothing to see.  Just white.  Then she heard it.  Music.  Faint at first.

Almost lost beneath the wind.  She stopped and turned her head.

“What?”  Grant frowned.  “What?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The music.”

He stared at her.  “There isn't any music.”

“Yes, there is.”

Grant cocked his head.  "Honey, I don't hear anything except the wind."

She listened.  It sounded distant.  A tinkling melody drifting through the snow.  It was not loud enough to identify the song.  

It seemed almost old-fashioned, with a soft, wavering quality.  It was vaguely familiar.  Chandra took a step toward it.

“It's coming from over there.”

Grant grabbed her arm.  “No.”

She looked at him.  “Why?”

“Because we're going this way.”  He pointed through the white.

“That road will take us toward the main highway.”

Chandra shook her head.  “No.”

“Chandra.”

“I don't think we should go that way.”

“We don't have time for this.”

“Grant, please.”

His voice softened.  “Baby, you're pregnant.  You're tired.  You're scared.  That's all this is.”

The music continued.  Chandra stared into the whiteness.

“No,” she whispered.  “It's real.”

“What is?”

“The music.”

“Honey," he pleaded, "there is no music.”

But Chandra could hear it clearly now.  Somewhere beyond the curtain of snow, the melody rose and fell.  She took another step toward it.

“Please.”

Grant didn't move.  “Chandra, we're not wandering around out here following something you think you hear.”   He loved this girl more than his life.  But she was being irrational right now, and all he wanted was to get her and their child home safely.

“Then stay with me.”

He looked at Catina, asleep against his shoulder.  Then he looked at his wife.  Finally, he sighed.  “Fine.  Five minutes.”

They followed the sound only Chandra could hear.  The farther they walked, the clearer it became.  The music made her feel strangely warm despite the bitter cold.  Chandra began to feel certain they were close.  Then she saw a light.

“Look!”

Grant stopped.  Through the snow stood a large dark structure with a few glowing windows.  A lodge.  They hurried toward it.  Grant pounded on the door.

“Help!”

For several seconds there was no response.  Then the door opened.  A man wearing heavy work overalls stared at them.

“Good Lord!”  He stepped aside.

“Get inside.”  Two other men appeared behind him.  They helped Chandra remove her coat and took her and Catina to a huge couch near the fireplace.  One of them handed Chandra a blanket.

“Where did you come from?” one asked.

Grant explained.  The men exchanged looks.

“You're lucky,” one said.

Grant nodded.  “I know.”

“Come here, ” the man said.

He walked to a window.

“You see that ridge?”  Grant looked.

“I can't see anything.”

“Exactly.”

The man turned back.  “Flat light.  Snow.  Fog.  You wouldn't know where the ground ends.”

Another man spoke quietly.  “If you'd kept going in the direction you were headed…”

He paused.  “You'd have walked right toward Cleary Summit.”

Grant's face changed.  “How far?”

“Not far enough.”

The first man shook his head.  “There are steep cut runs up there.  You can step off what looks like level ground, and suddenly you're over the edge.”

Chandra felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.  “What would have happened?”

The man looked at her.  “You'd have lost your footing at the crest, and tumbled down the brutal 900-foot vertical drop, rolling blindly down the steep, icy ridge."

 

Grant sat down.  He lowered his head.  For the first time that night, he looked frightened.  He took Chandra's hand and moved closer to her on the couch.  One of the men brought them coffee and warm milk for Catina.  Chandra held the cup between her hands.  Then she remembered.

“The music.”

The men looked at her.

“Music?” one asked.

“The music that led us here.”

Silence.

“What music?” the second man asked.

Chandra looked from one man to another.  “The music outside.”

The men exchanged another glance.

Finally, the oldest man shook his head.  “Ma'am, music is usually piped through the loudspeakers here, but this ski lodge has been closed for repairs for more than a week.  There’s been no music, no service, no people, just us workmen.”

Chandra stared at him.  “But I heard music.”

“Well, there isn't a radio on.  But even if there were, it wouldn't have been loud enough for you to hear out there in that storm.”

“No,” she said.  “I guess not.”

The man looked toward the dark windows.  “There hasn't been anybody staying here while we've been here.”

Chandra swallowed.  “Then what did I hear?”

Nobody answered.  Later, when the storm eased, the men drove them back to their car.  The station wagon was still buried in the snow.  The men dug them out, then led them home.  

Before they left, Chandra stood beside the lodge and looked toward the woods.  There was nothing there. No footprints.  No lights.  No sound.  Just snow.  She turned toward Grant.

“Do you believe me now?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“I believe you heard something.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

Grant didn't answer.  Catina stirred in his arms.  "Come on," he said, "Let's go home."

They drove home in silence.  That night, after Catina was asleep, Chandra stood before the child's bedroom window.  The snow had stopped.  

For the first time in days, the sky was clear.  The moon reflected off the snow, turning the entire world silver.  Chandra placed one hand over her stomach.  Then she heard it.

Very faintly.  Music.  She closed her eyes.  The melody drifted through the darkness.  She felt a whisper-soft kiss on her forehead.  Chandra smiled and opened her eyes, expecting to see Grant.  But the room was empty.  

Suddendly she remembered where she'd heard the music before.  She pulled the curtain shut.  She never told Grant about the kiss.  And she never heard the music again.

But years later, whenever someone asked her whether she believed in miracles, Chandra remembered that night in Alaska.  She would remember the snow.  The darkness.  The ridge they almost walked over.  And the music that only she could hear.  Then she would think:

You wouldn't believe me if I told you.  Only one person ever believed me, and she's long gone to be with my dad.

 

Thanks for Reading!

"How I'd love to dance with my father again"— Luther Vandross 2003

© 2020 Jade Love 

And thanks for dropping by the Café!  Your support means the world to me!  If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a small tip for a coffee!

Every cup helps keep the next story brewing.