Wicked Snow

PART I: The Wedding, The Honeymoon and The Bodyguard

The Phone Call

I was leaving my exam on Impressionism, my last exam of the semester, when I got the call. I had put my phone on silent for the test, but I could feel it vibrating in my pocket as I walked out the door. I pulled it out of my forest green coat and glanced at the screen. I groaned, wishing I could ignore the call, but knowing I couldn’t. Sighing heavily, I reluctantly made my way to a secluded bench so I could take the call in private.

The Yale School of Art building which most of my classes took place in, was near the large courtyard of the university. It was freezing cold, but there were still students milling about and scattered around the open area. I chose a bench farthest away from other people, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation I was about to have.

“Hello, father,” I said as I answered the phone, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I absolutely hated speaking to the man who had made my childhood a living hell.

“Grace,” he greeted in a flat tone. “You need to make arrangements to be home in three days,” he told me, not giving me the option of refusing.

“May I ask why?” I asked, sarcasm coloring my voice. I doubt many people in his life dared to ask questions when he gave an order, but I wasn't about to roll over like a trained dog on his command. With his next words though, my sarcasm died and a deadly seriousness took its place.

“Your mother is dead,” he said, his voice so indifferent and uncaring that he may as well have been describing the weather.

I wasn’t indifferent or uncaring though. His words sent pain through my body, which suddenly felt cold and numb, and my heart seemed to stop in shock.

“W-what?” I asked, unable to believe what he had said. I shook my head in denial, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. My mom was the one person who had always believed in me and loved me unconditionally. She was my world, and I couldn’t imagine living without her.

“The funeral is on Sunday. You better be there,” he demanded as if I wouldn’t go to my own mother’s funeral. “It would look bad if you weren’t,” he added, showing his true intentions of the call.

He had phoned me to make sure I didn’t make him look bad in the press. It would send a bad message if a daughter didn't attend her mother's funeral after all, and it might have been the only reason he had even bothered to call me. He was so selfish and self-absorbed that he was more concerned about his image than the fact that his wife–my mother–had just died.

“You’re f*****g unbelievable,” I spat at him, unable to contain my disgust. How could he be so callous? I didn’t think I could ever hate someone as much as I hated him in that moment.

“Stop being dramatic, Grace,” he said, only making my anger worse. “I’ll see you on Sunday. My assistant will send you the details.” He hung up before I could respond, saving himself from the hateful words I wanted to throw at him. He may be a celebrated businessman, but he was a complete failure as a father and a husband.

My father, Frank Thornton, was the owner of a hugely successful tech company, and with his success had come a fair amount of notoriety, something that I could do without. He of course loved the attention, which explained why he was more concerned with the press than with the fact that his wife had died.

I stared down at my phone, tears blurring my vision, but I was unwilling to accept that my mom was gone. I had spoken to her the night before over a video call and she had seemed fine–good even. She had looked happy and healthy, her skin tanned and glowing, so I couldn’t understand how she could be there one minute and gone the next. We had spoken about our Christmas plans and, like every year, she suggested that we watch 'White Christmas'. I had rejected the idea like I always did. I hated the movie, but I would have given anything to be able to watch it with her right then though.

I realized that I hadn’t even gotten the chance to ask my father how she had died, but I knew exactly how I could find out. I opened google on my phone and typed my mom’s name into the search bar. The first result was a news article titled ‘Rosemary Thornton Dies in Car Accident’. Hearing my father say the words had felt unbearable, but seeing the stark truth in writing was even worse, because I could no longer deny that my mom was dead.

I clicked on the link and gazed down at the picture of my mom that was displayed at the top of the article. My mom had given me her wavy auburn hair, but while I wore it shoulder-length, hers was so long that it went to the middle of her back. We also shared the same blue eyes and tanned skin, but my nose was smaller and my lips plumper.

My mom had been gorgeous and had barely looked thirty, let alone forty-five, and because of it, people often thought we were sisters rather than mother and daughter. I couldn’t face the fact that I would never be able to see her beautiful smile or hear her obnoxiously loud laugh ever again.

I scrolled down, turning my attention back to finding out what had happened to her. The article didn’t have many details, but what I read made my vision cloud with tears. While I had been in a lecture early this morning, my mom’s car had been T-boned by a truck. She had died on impact while I had been blissfully unaware that anything had been wrong. I tried to be thankful that she hadn’t suffered, but it was impossible to be grateful about anything to do with her death.

I wiped the tears from my face, only to have more fall form my eyes. With my vision blurred, I walked to my dorm room, just wanting to curl up in my bed and cry myself to sleep. I was hoping that sleep would let me escape the crushing pain; I felt like I couldn’t breath through my heavy sobbing, and I just wanted it all to stop.

I probably attracted a lot of attention as I made my way to the dorms, with my loud crying and tear-stained cheeks, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. I made it to my room, and I was relieved to see that my roommate wasn’t there. I didn’t want to deal with anyone. I didn’t want to deal with the questions or the sympathy or the condolences that would only make her death more real. I just wanted to be alone.

I knew I would have to make arrangements for a place to stay back in New York because there was no way I was staying with my cold and heartless father, but that could wait until the next day. All I wanted to do was sleep and escape reality, even if only for a short time.

~

I woke up with red and puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks and a throat sore from my sobs. For a second, when I woke up, I forgot about my mom, but the memories came crashing down on me, and with them came the heart-breaking grief. I lay in bed for hours, unable to muster up the energy to get up. I felt like an emotional wreck– numb and exhausted.

Eventually, I found the motivation to use my phone to book a hotel room for the next afternoon. That was all I managed to do though, because I didn’t get out of bed for the rest of the day, not even to eat. I felt empty and drained and the last thing on my mind was food.

I must have slept through my roommate getting in the previous night and leaving that morning, which I was thankful for because I still wasn’t up to dealing with anyone. I set my alarm for seven o’clock and fell asleep, still in my day-old clothes after spending the entire day in bed.

~

The ringing of my alarm woke me from a fitful sleep, forcing me to get up even though I just wanted to stay in bed, hiding from the world under my covers. I had to get to New York though, so I gathered up all the strength I had and pushed myself out of bed. I filled my suitcase, packing as much as I could fit, not knowing how long I would be gone.

I didn’t feel any better after a hot shower, nor did I feel any better after changing into clean clothes.

Too tired to face walking to the bus stop and then taking the bus to the New Haven train station, I ordered an Uber instead. I left the dorm and my still sleeping roommate, who had come in late the previous night, to go wait outside the building. There were barely any other people around so early on a Saturday, so the historic and quaint campus was quiet and still.

My Uber driver arrived quickly and with a wide and friendly smile he took my suitcase from me and put it in the trunk. He was an older man with graying hair and he was obviously very kind, but seeming to sense my bad mood, he didn’t try to make conversation. The trip to the station only took ten minutes and, despite the heavy silence, it went by quickly because I was so lost in my thoughts.

From New Haven Station, the train trip to New York took just over three hours and I spent most of it in a window seat staring into space thinking about my mom. I was completely unaware of my surroundings, so when someone spoke to me, I jumped in fright.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he said, breaking through my thoughts.

The train had filled up as it got closer to New York, and by then the train was crowded, leaving few available seats. I looked at the person who had spoken, surprised to find a tall good-looking guy who looked only a few years older than my twenty years. He had medium-length black hair that just covered his ears, and a good amount of stubble on his face.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologized, looking amused at my jumpy reaction. His voice was deep and sexy, making him only more attractive in my eyes.

“Don’t worry. It was my fault–I was just lost in thought,” I replied, giving him a small smile. “And of course you can sit next to me,” I said, moving my suitcase over so he had more room.

“Thanks,” he responded, taking the seat next to me.

His green eyes were kind, and his smile was sincere, making me feel at ease. I sometimes struggled to feel safe around men because of the way my father had treated me and my mother, but this stranger didn’t make me feel uncomfortable at all.

“I’m Hunter, by the way,” he introduced himself.

“Grace,” I replied.

“Are you coming or going?” he asked, gesturing to my large suitcase.

“Coming,” I answered. “Just for a week or so though,” I added, my mood falling as I remembered what I was there for.

He nodded, but he must have noticed my red-rimmed eyes and the change in my mood because he didn’t keep the conversation going.

“This is my stop,” I said as the train slowed at Columbus Circle Station, a few minutes later.

Hunter stood up at my words, giving me room to get out of the row of seats.

“Thanks,” I smiled at him.

“Bye, Grace. It was nice to meet you,” he said as I dragged my suitcase past him.

“Bye, Hunter.” I sent him another small smile and exited the train into the busy subway station.

It had been a while since I had been in New York, so the noise and the busyness of the city was overwhelming. There were so many people and they were all in a rush to go places. I wasn’t a big fan of crowds, so New York could be daunting. I had grown up there though, so I had learnt to somewhat cope and bear with it even if I disliked the chaos.

Being the third week of December, there was a frigid chill in the air, making me thankful that I had my warm knee-length coat on. The snow that had fallen overnight had mixed with the dirt of the city streets, creating a grayish slush along the sidewalks. New York could ruin even the purest of things–the snow being one, and my mother being another. The Christmas decorations hanging around the city should have given me joy, but instead they seemed to be laughing in the face of my sadness.

The walk to my hotel was quick but uncomfortable, because the area it was in was bustling with people. A few bumped into me, and the unwanted physical contact made me feel skittish and nervous. By the time I checked into the slightly run-down but affordable hotel, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed again, which is exactly what I did when I got to my room. I burrowed under the soft sheets and cried myself to sleep, feeling lonelier than I ever had in my life.