Snow

She saw the trees swim by as the car spun lazily on the snowy road. Her knuckles whitened on the wheel, but she instinctively pulled her foot away from the gas pedal, kept herself from stomping on the brakes.

When the car finally juddered to a halt after interminable seconds, the engine stalling, she dropped her head to the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She couldn't breathe, her heart was pounding, her palms slick with sweat. Amazingly, the car had not skidded into the ditch on either side, where the road dropped away toward the trees — the snow had not yet been plowed, and there were no banks to stop the plunge. The car was upright, and though it now straddled both lanes somewhat drunkenly, she was unharmed. Which was why she was so surprised, suddenly, to find her chest wracked with sobs, her face wet with tears.

No, not surprised.

The radio still played on, the mind-numbing bass thumping much more loudly against the silence. Impatiently she reached one hand to twist the knob, the other hand scrubbing at her cheeks. No, not surprised. In her mind's eye she saw Yerra's calm still face, heard her impart the news, her inflection barely changing. Brain tumor. Inoperable. Three to six months.

She too had gone still then, thinking about Yerra's husband, their three kids. Three months would find Tom dead in the spring, when the daffodils would be presenting their new golden faces to the world, the grass would be greening up underfoot. Six months would find him dead in the heat of summer, while everyone else would be swimming, picnicking, watching fireworks. Three to six months would find him dead. She could not understand that on any but the intellectual level; her face felt slack and heavy as she'd left work without saying goodbye.

Dead.

The snow had begun to fall again, heavy wet flakes that stuck to the windshield and did not melt. The world beyond the car was white and furred, without distinct forms or outlines. She could see where the gulley would be, and the weighted boughs of the trees on the other side. There were no houses along this stretch of road, skimming the south edge of the lake. She was alone. Just as Yerra soon would be alone.

And how would Yerra do things? She found herself wondering this, she who had done things all her life, practical things like thawing frozen pipes and replacing blown fuses. Just this morning, arriving at work before the snow, she had come across Yerra in the parking lot, staring at a near-flat tire in perplexity.

"What do I do?" Yerra had asked in genuine puzzlement. "Tom takes care of these things." So she had driven with Yerra to the gas station, shown her how to spin the cap off the valve stem, squeeze the handle on the air hose, fill the tire to 35 pounds of pressure. A simple enough thing. And yet one of so many things, she knew now, that Yerra would have to learn to do, because Tom would no longer be there to do them.

Perhaps, she thought, wiping at her eyes with her rough wool sleeve, that was the root of these tears. Tom's imminent death. Or perhaps anxiety for Yerra, as ignorant in some ways as a child, even at 49 years old. Or perhaps even for herself, grieving for a life of care and comfort she'd never known, missing something she'd never had.

She shook herself, took a ragged breath. The snow was still falling thickly, oppressive in its absolute silence. She turned the key in the ignition; the engine protested, then roared into life. With a hesitant touch she shifted into first and let up on the clutch. Carefully she steered back into her lane, aiming toward home. She had to be careful, she thought. She had to take care of herself, if only so that she could show Yerra how to take care of herself. She had a responsibility here, and she could not shirk it. She concentrated on the road. Up ahead, a crow lifted with a shower of snow from a branch and flew on through the white tunnel of the trees, and she followed.