Grudgingly
The drive back to Windsor was a nightmare: sleet and snow—all the worst February can throw at a traveler. My plans for spending Spring Break with Hanna in Cancun fell through, so I opted for snow–mobiling in Peterborough with my old friend, Tom, who attends Trent University. When Cancun unraveled, I first considered going home to Sudbury for the break—using the occasion to tell my parents that Hanna and I had split up. When I called home, I'd barely said a word when my mother told me about the ski–trip she and Dad had organized with friends for that week. She then asked if Hanna and I were getting excited about Cancun. I winced and said yes. Then I called Tom.
Setting out from Peterborough this morning, I was actually optimistic about the drive. Within an hour, however, a snowstorm blew in and traffic slowed to an unsteady crawl. The monotony of the highway was interposed by moments of jangled anxiety, watching impatient motorists dodge snow removal trucks, or swerve around slower moving cars. At one point, traffic stopped altogether. When it finally got going again, ninety minutes later, I glimpsed the accident that had the delay—three police cars and a wrecker flanked a mangled Chevette caught between the trailer wheels of a transport truck. The car's roof was crushed, its windows obliterated, and its doors cut away. The flares on the highway shoulder seemed to burn in memorial rather than warning.
And so a seven–hour drive stretched into eleven.
Now, nearly eleven p.m., I'm back at my apartment, worn out, but too keyed–up to sleep. Luckily I've returned a day early. I'll sleep all day tomorrow. Then it's back to classes on Monday.
Kicking off my boots and hanging up my coat, there's only one thing on my mind: beer. There are three in the fridge—a sight as welcome as a St. Bernard rescuing me in a blizzard. I open one and take a long swallow. Relief. A couple more and maybe sleep won't seem so impossible.
As I flop onto the living room couch, I grab the cordless phone to check my voice mail. A swallow of beer goes jagged in my throat as the computerized voice says, "You have twenty–two messages..."
"What the hell?" I mutter to the empty apartment.
I don't get that many calls in a month.
I press number one on the phone, and listen to messages from friends, acquaintances from school, the English department secretary, professors, even Hanna—all calling for the same reason.
Wondering if I am still alive.