Snowfall

All he could do lately was stare. He would stare at walls, chairs, desks, basically anything inanimate. The past few days, however, consisted of him looking out the window. There had been snow, for quite a while now, and it was falling heavily. He watched it with an entranced gaze that he had only reserved for the objects in the room. This snow brought back something to him; some feelings that he thought had gone.

The man went by the name Cal Davies, and he had had the worst six weeks of his life. He had cut all contact with family and friends and moved out to a cabin in the woods that once belonged to a mentor of his. The woods provided further isolation for Cal, isolation that had already begun to settle in his mind. It had been exactly 42 days to the date that he drove his car off the road and into a deep ditch. His wife Jane had been in the passenger seat and suffered major head trauma, lapsing into a coma that she never came out of. Needless to say, Cal was devastated by this loss, as any loving husband would be. But he seemed to take it extremely hard, so much so that his family couldn't console him, he even stopped playing hockey at the local ice rink, and that's when he packed to move into the cabin.

For three weeks he had been living in the cabin, going out only for food at the supermarket. Other than that, he continued to stare. Nothing brought joy to him, and yet nothing brought tears either. He was a shell of his former self, wishing he could go back and feel whole again. It wasn't enough to say that Jane was the love of his life, for she was everything in his life. Cal worked at an industrial plant, a job he hated, but because it provided for them and he was skilled at welding, he held on to it. Jane, with her raven-black hair and endlessly blue eyes, made the world a brighter place than what Cal usually saw it as. But that light had flickered out, and Cal was left to live in darkness.

There was one small feat that Cal managed to accomplish in his days at the cabin. It was to write. On the computer, freehand, in his mind, he wrote and visualized stories and ideas. He wrote them for no one in particular and never planned for them to be seen by anyone anyway. But while his face remained stoic, his hands dispelled everything he felt into written words. Sometimes he would write all day, and over the course of the three weeks he must have accumulated 500 pages of stories, spanning every genre. What he took notice to was that he was a heavy user of metaphors, symbols, and foreshadowing, concepts that his mentor had stressed upon him to help his writing reach a higher level. Never had he written like this before. Never had he the time or resources. He had taken an indefinite time off work, leaving him to hold up in the cabin and write.

But the writings were a curse to him as well. While they brought a sort of relief, they brought back the memories also, especially the night of the accident. He regretted going out that night, especially in that weather. Freezing rain had started to pour as he and Jane left the Christmas party of a mutual friend. Neither had been drinking, merely enjoying themselves and talking it up with those they hadn't seen in some time. When the time came to go, the rain had begun and their friend, who was throwing the party, Jason, invited them to stay the night. Ever the polite-non-burdensome-people, Cal and Jane risked the roads and crossed their fingers.

They were 5 minutes in when the wipers stopped wiping, and that's when both their hearts started pounding. Furiously, and louder than the engine, their heartbeats raced. Jane pleading with Cal to at least stop for a while, but he refused, reminding her they were only going 25 miles per hour and the roads were familiar. Nevertheless, such slow speeds can still cause problems, no matter how often the roads have been safely traveled. A patch of ice can never be seen in time, even for those with working wipers. Cal's car hit it, and from there it never had a chance at recovery. They knew where they were going; the ditches were everywhere and absolutely unavoidable. In they went, passenger side first, and with that, Jane's head it the glass window and her neck underwent tremendous whiplash. Her seat belt didn't save her, and neither could Cal. She slipped in and never came out again. The doctors pronounced her dead three days later, the same day Cal was cleared to leave for his fractured hip and jaw.

The snow he was watching filled him with feeling, a sense of wonder, the first sense he had honestly felt in such a long time. It almost made him smile, but he still couldn't bring himself to that, he wouldn't allow himself to. So he took it upon himself to somehow preserve this, and so he went and slept, hoping that he could accumulate these feelings in him over time like the snow on the ground.

Just like that he awoke again and was watching the snow continue to fall, this time with a cup of coffee in hand. Cal reckoned he had been out for at least 5 hours, which was the usual for him these days. The snow was still falling at a steady pace and Cal could tell that this was the kind of snow he would have loved as a kid. The kind you could pack together so tightly that when you threw it, the kid it hit would not have been able to tell whether it was a snowball or a baseball. And how beautiful it fell, each flake being the size of a half-dollar, but each one being priceless to Cal. They seemed to heal him, an alternative medicine that simply needed to be looked upon to cure its patients. The outside lights from the cabin made the ground light up, and the falling snow seemed like little lit bulbs being slowly pulled down to Earth.

This inspired him to write again. He took a deep breath and almost smiled as his fountain pen touched the paper. It flowed forth the words he still couldn't say, this time in the form of a poem. He was trying to connect his wife's radiant white skin to that of the snow he watched. He saw the branches collecting snow and was reminded of how every flake would cling to his wife's hair, as if it were magnetically attracted. Cal wrote all this and more, working through the ache that began in his wrist and spread to his elbow. This poem was grand, consisting of seven pages and 23 stanzas, all of which were necessary and fully expressive. It took everything out of Cal to write it, leaving him drained and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep once again.

His acute hearing interrupted his sleep. A car had pulled up, an old one, or at least one in poor quality judging by the brakes. He shot out of the couch and put on his boots and jacket, whoever was here, Cal wanted to beat them to the door. This was still his isolated world, and he was going to keep it that way. No one knew he was here, Cal realized as his left boot finally slipped on. And it wasn't until his jacket was fully zipped did he recall that many horror movies went like this. The emotions of slight fear and certain paranoia had apparently come back to Cal.

He opened the door without bothering to look out the peephole and began walking to the car, which had it's windows bouncing the morning sun into Cal's eyes. All he could hear was a greeting, at once familiar and curious. It was one he had heard before, or something like it, but who's it was was still being blinded by the light. Cal shielded his eyes and saw a man of average height looking up at him, as Cal was six-foot-four-inches. This man was dressed quite out-of-date, yet very fashionable, with a fedora atop his head and a personally crafted suit fitting snugly to his body. A traditional gray overcoat draped over him like it was made in Heaven. The man was stunningly dressed and tailored to the stitch; he was a sight to behold in these lonely woods. The man greeted Cal once more, noticing that he had now gotten a good look at him.

"Good morning. Hope I didn't wake you."

Cal didn't bother returning the pleasantry, "Who are you?"

"Just a man in the woods. You?"

"Same. What's your business in the woods, mister?"

"I'm just here to see you, Cal."

Cal's posture and tone became more defensive by the second. He didn't know this man but the man knew him, that much was sure. Cal began scanning through his mind who this might be, and with his mental database coming up with nothing, he decided to take a crack at guessing.

"Did my family send you here? A friend maybe?"

"No, no, no. They don't have the slightest clue if you're even really alive at the moment."

"Well, it's been six weeks."

"It has, Cal. Mind if we talk inside?"

"Not until you tell me exactly who you are and what your business is here."

"I think that's best left to be discussed inside. I'd hate to ruin my suit out here in the snow telling you why I drove here today."

Cal stared long and hard at the man, having mastered the art over the weeks. He looked into the stranger's eyes, which were hazel and reassuring, and saw that no harm was going to be brought about by this man. His defensive posture broke down and his voice fell as well, leaving Cal to motion the man inside. Both walked in, with the stranger in the lead, observing every facet of the cabin. He slowly took off his overcoat as his eyes continued to sweep over the area. Cal closed the door behind them at the same time the man's eyes fell upon Cal's large mass of writings on his work desk. He didn't say anything about them, no comment made, he simply watched them with a hawk's glare as he removed his coat and threw it over his arm. Cal hadn't been paying attention, rather he went toward the kitchen area of the cabin and opened the refrigerator.

"Milk? Water?"

"Ah, no thanks, but thank you. Do you write a lot, Cal?" The man had finally taken his eyes off the papers and was staring at the floor.

Cal took his time before he answered this, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and considering why he was going to even talk to this man about his writings. Yet, he answered the man's questions without an air of sarcasm in his voice.

"Not much else to do out here."

"It is pretty lonely out here, yeah. A man can sure get a lot of thinking done."

"It's all I do. Think and write. Please take a seat..." Cal left the sentence open for the man to finish.

"Jack, and thank you very much."

The two men each took a seat, with Jack very calm in his seat on the couch and Cal leaning forward trying to get a read on the guy. Silence sat in the room with them for awhile, eventually leaving when Cal began to speak.

"I don't know how you found me, Jack, and I don't know how you know me, but I'll be honest with you, I'm getting a little edgy about you asking me such a question when I know next to nothing about you. So if you could please clear some of this up, I would much appreciate it."

Cal's words did not make Jack move any which way, the man still sat in that seat in a relaxed fashion, with the slightest smile since Mona Lisa on his face. When he answered, he didn't move anything but his mouth, his eyes stayed fixed and his body in place.

"Do you believe in God, Cal?"

"I used to," Cal answered quickly despite his surprise.

Jack's smile finally widened and showed some teeth, "It's a good thing he still believes in you then."

Cal didn't know what to make of this. He wanted to ask another question but he actually feared it being countered with another question such as that one. He tread carefully before he decided to question Jack from a different angle.

"Who are you? Beyond your name, who are you?"

"Truthfully?"

"I would hope so."

"I'm someone you won't believe at first, Cal, until I prove my claims. But before I prove anything, I suppose I must try and tell you."

"Please, do tell."

"You can see me in different ways, Cal. I'm your guardian angel, your regular angel, you're conscious, your subconscious, your inner voice, your voice of reason, I'm all of those, Cal, personified as the man sitting before you."

Cal was dumbfounded, but his face didn't show it. This man was crazy. Clearly, if nothing else, this man was insane. Still trying to figure out what the man was talking about, Cal spoke without thinking.

"Prove it."

"Cal, the last thing you thought before you're wife passed away was, and I quote, "God, you let this happen. You were stupid enough not to take me. You'd rather kill an innocent woman and let the man who caused her so much pain continue to live. I hate you. I hate for everything you've done." End quote."

Cal's eyes sparked, wide-eyed and beginning to sweat, Cal jumped out of his seat and began pacing around the room. This was something that was beyond his realm of comprehension, something that just didn't happen to people. He wanted to yell at the man. He wanted to scream for the man to get the hell out and stay away, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Every last one of his words was on hold as he cupped his mouth and began to have trouble breathing. All the while Jack sat calmly in his seat with a look of sincerity in his brown eyes. The man had leaned forward and looked down at the floor once more. Cal continued his labored breathing and stood frozen in his place, staring with absolute disbelief at this man who had come out of the woods and read his mind.

"I'm sorry, Cal. I shouldn't have, ahem; I should have started with something lighter, a happier memory. I apologize."

"Who are you?"

"I'm your guardi-"

"No! Don't you say that again. You are not...you can't be anything...no, no, no."

"Cal, please listen to me. What do you remember after the crash?"

"What?"

"Details, specifics, exact things. What cab did you take up here, what was the day when you arrived here, what brand of coffee did you drink last night?"

"What does it matter?"

"Try and just answer it as a normal question."

"I don't know."

"Anything? Not even the coffee?"

"No. Nothing."

Jack stood up and took a calculated step toward Cal, who was being struck with the thought that he couldn't recall any dates or names of anything at the moment. His mind was going through its database again, but everything was coming up empty, even the coffee. Jack lowered his tone and spoke each word with precision.

"Doesn't that strike you as odd? That in three weeks up here you can't recall the names or dates of one single thing?" Jack paused and took a breath before he continued on, "Can you even remember the name of the hospital your wife passed away in?"

This was like a dagger to Cal. He kept asking himself why he couldn't remember anything specific. Blanks were drawn on every fact, making it feel like a weight had crashed on his chest. Cal wanted this man out of his cabin immediately. Three weeks of solitude were starting to have positive effects on Cal; he was steadily recovering like the snow that continued to gradually fall. This man had come out of nowhere and was undoing everything in just minutes. Before Cal could yell out at Jack to leave his premises, the man asked another calm but pressing question.

"It's been snowing a lot, Cal. Haven't you been concerned in the least? Three days, now four, of this snow. You're looking at five feet soon enough. Without a shovel on you, I don't see how you're going to make you're way out either.

Cal deflected this as much he could, but even as he did, he began to wonder about the snow's accumulation for the first time, yet he gritted his teeth and made himself clear.

"Get out. Get out now."

"What do you hear when you dream, Cal?"

"Get out."

"Do you hear noises? Voices? Any sounds?"

"Get out!"

"Cal! What do you hear when you dream!?"

Jack's sudden intensity made Cal sit down in his seat. For the first time since he saw his wife in that passenger seat, slumped over, just before they both passed out, did he finally cry. Tears fell into his hands and flooded out in between his fingers. He could barely muster out his words as he wiped his nose and coughed.

"What do you want?"

Jack knelt in front of Cal and put his hand on his shoulder. It was warm, strangely warm, like a heat that he had not felt in the longest time. The tears stopped at an instant. Cal looked up with watery eyes at this man of great claims and many questions and waited for an answer.

"I'm here, Cal, to help you come to terms with something. But I can't help you do that unless you answer my questions honestly. Now, let's try this again. What do you hear when you dream?"

"I don't know. I, I, I hear my car running. It's all blurry, but I know, I know it's the night we're driving home from the party. I can't tell myself to slow down even though I'm trying to scream it out, you know? I want to wake up because I know how it's going to end, but I just can't wake up from it, and I'm stuck there watching it all again. And then I hear her. I hear her, Jane, she's, her voice is really quiet, like a whisper or something. This is after the crash. And I can't see anything really anymore, but I can hear her voice. She's probably asking me for help, but I can't do anything, I'm stuck where I am, and I just have to hear her saying my name. Then it all fades away. It's gone. And then I'm up and about again writing or watching snow."

"This is every night you sleep?"

"Every night for six weeks."

"You just hear Jane's voice?"

"Every night for six weeks. Saying my name."

"I need you to close your eyes and think hard, Cal. I need you to really try here. I need you to think of your dream. Are you slumped up against the door or away from it?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the ditch. What side is the car laying on?"

"The passenger side. My wife's dead because I slid into the ditch passenger side first."

"Close your eyes and think. In your dream, what way are you slumped over?"

Cal could do nothing immediately but stare in increased terror at the man. Finally, he slowly shut his eyes and his dream began replaying step-by-step. The broken wipers, the patch of ice, the skid, then Cal began slowing down the process, as if he had a remote control to the event. The car twirled around as if without care on the road, and into the ditch it went. Cal and Jane slammed around inside and both were partially knocked out. Cal's eyes opened and looked left; with full concentration he opened his eyes and saw Jane above him, ensnared in her seat belt, whispering his name through a bloody mouth. He saw long locks of hair streaming down toward him, just a foot from his face. Then with all energy spent, he laid his head back upon the cracked glass window of the driver's side door, through which he could see right in front of him nothing but cold, wet grass.

Cal slowly opened his eyes again to look at Jack. Profound realization was shown on his face. He was about to speak words that he had believed not to be true, that couldn't be true. How could they be true?

"I went in that ditch driver's side first."

"Would you like to know your last thought before going into the ditch? You thought, "It can't be her. I won't let her feel any pain." And then you came to a stop."

Silence returned. Cal stared. Jack looked at the floor once more.

"Where am I?" Cal asked unblinkingly.

Jack continued to look at the floor, not even able to hold his head up for his answer. "You've been in a coma, Cal. For the past six weeks. I'm sorry."

The answer, surprisingly, did not seem to faze Cal the least bit. In his mind, he was still able to piece together what was going on. One by one, they all fell into place.

"I can't remember anything because facts and stuff can never be recalled in dreams. And her voice, Jane's voice, that's her at my hospital bed, right? But what's the snow mean?

"The snow piling up outside means your time is nearing an end. Once you're enclosed, this, all this around you is over. That's why I'm here, Cal. To see you through it, I'll be here with you and take you once it's over."

"I'm not coming out of this."

"I'm sorry."

Cal turned to Jack, who finally looked back up. He felt it, he was full again, of all his emotions. He took a breath and it felt real within him. Most astonishing of all, he smiled. He smiled wide and forced his watery eyes to shed the last tears from him. Jack was honestly curious as to this and couldn't help but comment on it.

"You're smiling."

"Because," Cal began, "Because I know she's okay."

MERRY CHRISTMAS