Detour to Christmas
By
Carmen Ruggero

To my father, Peter Ruggiero 1914 - 2009

It was Christmas Eve. I was driving to Chicago to spend the Holidays with friends. A milky gray sky spread as far as I could see. Light snow flurries dusted my windshield. Kind of nice

, I thought. The air was crisp. I lowered my window to let its coolness in; it brushed against my face. It smells like Christmas

, I thought. Listen to me! It smells like Christmas… I mocked myself; what kind of talk is that? It smelled like snow, and I liked it!

Just before getting to Naperville, the flurries turned into big flakes and quickly covered the road. No problem, I thought – I’ll drive carefully. Jane and Laura had said we’d meet at Valentino’s for a whiskey and soda, before dinner. I looked forward to it, I lied to myself. Whom was I kidding?

The last time I saw them was December 2004, at my father’s funeral. Then I became the social recluse of the century. My way of dealing with his death was to withdraw into a deep hole… yeah, I called it a shelter. . My own fault, I admit. So, social encounters scared me to death.

Some thought I mourned him longer than considered healthy. By whose measuring stick? I wondered. I was close to him. He died on Christmas eve, at the age of seventy, for heaven’s sake; seventy! The heart attack was unexpected and so was his death. We had no time for goodbyes. No hug, no kiss and he was gone. “It needs to end; I need closure,” I told myself.

The reflection of headlights on my side view mirror snapped me out of it. What was I thinking? Daydreaming like that. Suddenly, that semi was upon me. The driver had tried to pass me – I never saw it coming – no time for me to maneuver. He sideswiped my car, and sent me gliding sideways, across three lanes of traffic. The ground was slick – I couldn’t stop. Panic burned my brain – stop it… stop it… stop it!

My car swerved back into the highway facing the oncoming traffic. I kept calm and didn’t touch the breaks. Kept the steering wheel to the left, and went back off the road, barely avoiding a head-on collision. I decided to get off the highway though at the speed I was going, I traveled a good distance before I was able to stop.

“No one’s hurt,” I told myself. “No one’s hurt.”

When I finally stopped I decided to rest a while by the side of the road. I didn’t recognize the place. It looked like a desolate dirt road, and I thought it would eventually connect with the highway. Maybe it would lead back to town, but it didn’t; it went deeper into the woods.

It seemed like I’d been driving for ever, though I really hadn’t. Eventually I came to a bend on the road. The snow had piled up to at least a couple of feet. In that short a time? That’s not possible

. I hadn’t slept. I’d been driving for a long time, but not long enough to justify the accumulation of snow. What I saw when I got on the highway were little Christmassy flurries. Had I lost track of time, somehow?

I drove until I had to come to a full stop. The accumulation made it almost impossible. I wasn’t prepared for that kind of whether. I bundled up, and began to walk – didn’t know where I was going, though.

****

Well! If it wasn’t just, like in the movies: where did the farmhouses come from? Big houses with lights and smoking chimneys. Like someone had just dropped them there.

I thought, well, I might as well knock

. Surely, some one would help. Assuming I was still on earth.

I looked toward the property on the right side of the road and I was horrified by the sight.

Not possible – not at all, and I’m not hallucinating... I know I’m not.

I decided to walk back to the car. If I must freeze to death, then let it be!

The snow was knee high by then, and it was difficult to push against it. I pushed harder; I wanted to get off that road and into the car, but I slipped and fell. I reached over, held on to the bottom part of a gate, and tried to push myself back onto my feet.

Once up, I saw the paint on the old gate was chipped. It reminded me of our old gate and just beyond it, was a pine tree… it sure looked like OUR pine tree? It was probably… more like certainly, a coincidence. Then I looked toward the house.

It was dark. Surrounded by trees. The porch swing was broken. It appeared that one of the hooks holding it to the beam had cracked. It made my hair stand on ends. I remembered ours had broken the same way, and stayed like that all winter; bouncing and squeaking, like the one I was looking at; a ghostly echo of another Christmas Eve.

“Is this some sick idea of a joke?!” I yelled. It wasn’t funny. Not at all. “That,” I pointed in the direction of the farmhouse, “is my old home.”

How did I get here – miles away from Chicago?

I don’t know why I decided to step into the property, but as I opened gate, I heard something rustling in the woods – an animal? But then I heard a whoosh through the silence and the swing squeaked and the sky turned deep indigo and snow shook loose from the pine tree branches and something sparkled, like a silver star and I don’t know why I yelled my Dad’s name: “… you come down here, you crazy old man! I need to say goodbye and then I need to go to Chicago and have a whiskey and soda!” And the breeze caressed my face.

****

“Wake up, Liz. You’ve been in an accident,” said a nurse.

I was in pain. My left arm was broken. My head was spinning.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Where did you find me?”

“The trucker – called from the highway…”

“The highway? …I didn’t drive off?”

“You were in no condition, to. Here, he found this in your hand.”

A Little silver star, but …? Don’t ask...

I thought. “Thank you,” I said to the nurse.

The End

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.11.2009

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