The Passing Storm(13)

“The White Hurricane was a blizzard—the storm of the century. More than fifty people died of exposure. Others were trapped in their cars on the highway. In some parts of Geauga County, snowdrifts literally buried houses. It happened in January. I was a senior at the high school when it struck.”

“A senior . . . like me.”

The remark seemed an effort to find common ground. Rae let it pass.

Recognition broke across Quinn’s face. “Wait. I know what you’re talking about. Last year, my homeroom teacher told us about the blizzard. She said the snow was piled eight feet high in front of her house. I thought she was exaggerating.”

“Believe me, she wasn’t.”

“Is it true, people were stuck in their homes for days?”

“The lucky ones.”

“How long did the blizzard last?”

“Close to three days,” Rae said, wading further into the tragic story. “The winds clocked in at eighty miles per hour. Before the storm hit, the temperature was right around freezing. The temps plunged twenty-one degrees in less than an hour.”

The peril she described slowed Quinn’s pace. “Why was your mother outside in that kind of weather?”

“She wouldn’t have been, if my dad wasn’t down with the flu. He’d packed himself off to bed that morning, after warning us to stay away. Mom already had the sniffles, but she kept pacing the house. The blizzard came in fast—neither one of us could remember if we’d bolted the barn shut. To make sure the animals were safe.”

A sickening wash of memories rolled through Rae. Up ahead, the wall of pine trees hid the house from view. Quinn, riveted by the story, motioned for her to continue.

“The wind was shaking the roof,” she told him, “and I volunteered to go out to check on the animals. I should’ve insisted. Argued, or something.”

“You were scared.”

“And doing a lousy job of hiding it. Night was coming. We were already in whiteout conditions. And the wind . . . screaming through the eaves like a demon set loose. I’ve never heard anything like it, before or since. Back then I was fairly bold for a seventeen-year-old. Brave, even. But I’d never been in danger. Not the life-or-death kind. Listening to the wind, I bit my fingernails down until they bled. I wasn’t aware of what I’d done until Mom fetched the first aid kit. After she cleaned me up, she told me to stay put.”

“Your mom went out alone?”

Rae nodded. “An hour went by, then two. She didn’t come back.”

“Why didn’t you get your dad?”

“I couldn’t wake him. His forehead was on fire. Like a hot griddle. That’s when I knew I had to go outside to find my mother. So I pulled on my coat and went out.”

Quinn ground to a halt. “That’s crazy.” She swept past, and he picked up his feet to catch up. “If she couldn’t get back from the barn, why go after her?”

“There was no way of telling if she’d made it to the barn. You wouldn’t believe how fast the wind slammed me against the house. Winds that fast can pick you up off your feet. Toss you around like a rag doll. I made it back inside and switched into my dad’s coat. Weighed down the pockets with cans of soup.”

“Smart thinking.”

“Not quite. I’d walked several paces when something whizzed toward my head. A tree limb or the bird feeder. Whatever it was, it could’ve knocked me out cold.”

She was at a near-jog, the acceleration helping her speed through the story.

“I dove for the ground. When I got back up, I’d lost all sense of direction. We’re talking serious whiteout conditions. I was also nearly deaf from the wind’s screaming. By some miracle, I heard my father shouting. I crawled back to the house. My dad was delirious with fever, but he knew I was in danger. Somehow, he knew. When I got him to the couch, he didn’t fall back to sleep—more like he passed out.” A quick intake of breath, and Rae added, “I didn’t wake him at dawn, when I decided to go back out. The winds were still high, but manageable. And the daylight helped.”

The past blotted out the present. Rae saw herself at seventeen, her muscles burning from long minutes searching the property. Stumbling through the snowdrifts—spotting her mother in the distance. Hester seated beneath the tree, her down coat and immobile features wearing a powdery glaze of white.

The hope Rae clung to morphing into horror. A sob breaking forth as she rested her palm on the frozen, unyielding flesh of Hester’s shoulder.

Quinn listened to the rest of the story with the color draining from his face. When she finished, he brushed his knuckles across his eyes. The gesture drew her attention to his hands. They were raw from the cold. Silently Rae chastised herself. On the long trek, they should’ve traded her gloves back and forth.

“Thanks for telling me the story. Talking about it can’t be easy.” He caught her staring at his hands and shoved them into his pockets. “Lark never mentioned how her grandmother died. All I knew is that she was gone before Lark was born. We only talked about Hester’s art, and how she was famous. Lark wanted to be an artist too.” He looked away, embarrassed. “But you knew that, right? Your daughter was nonstop with her dreams. Her favorite topic.”

Lark. My sweet, perfect child. Gone forever.