What They Saw
We had been driving for a while when Mother saw it. She asked Father to pull off the road to get a closer look. It was late and the road was empty. Snow drifted across the black asphalt and yellow dotted line to rest on the shoulder, where it had been piling for hours. We were halfway to Newburyport, through the back roads of New Hampshire where Father knew his way the best. “I could drive this road with my eyes closed,” he always said, and such a talent might prove useful if the weather persisted.
It was dark and growing late, and the grandparents were expecting us. Mother had been nervous about making it there in time for dinner, but when she saw it, she clutched Father’s arm and quickly forgot about our destination.
The children were instructed to stay in the car. Father got out first, left the car running with its headlights shining into the rapidly thickening snowfall. He went around to Mother’s door, glanced back at what she had seen, then looked her in the eyes. He told her that perhaps she should stay in the car, too, just in case her fear was real.
The snow was heavy and pelting, and we could barely see Father as he walked along the shoulder, behind the car, and stopped. He bent forward and over, slowly reaching down to touch it, identify it. Quickly, he recoiled and came running back to the car, sending up white powder from under his boots.
Just before pulling open his door, he keeled forward below the window, and we could hear him vomiting into the snow. When he was finished, he climbed inside and slammed the door, gasping and shivering.
“Eyes forward, everyone,” he said. “Eyes forward.”
