Page 21 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Twenty

Emily

I t starts to snow not long after Alex stomps out of the cabin.

I can see the first flurries from my spot on the floor near the door.

By the time my heart rate returns to normal and I pull myself to my feet, fat white flakes are falling.

I press my head against the cool pane of glass and watch from the window for a while before returning to my manuscript.

I have a half-formed thought that I might go outside for a break at some point, but while I’m typing away, the snowfall intensifies into the promised storm.

I’m so caught up in the story I don’t even notice.

Despite everything, including the strangeness of my host and the now-raging storm, I’m glad Tristan suggested coming here. I feel more in tune with my book than I have in a long time.

I write for hours until I reach what I think will be the midpoint, the spot where Maleen finally realizes nobody’s coming to save them.

She and Ruth have been forgotten. In the original fairy tale, the king says he’s locking up the princess and her lady-in-waiting for seven years, and they resign themselves to their fate, believing it’s temporary.

Outside the windowless tower, though, the kingdom falls into war and ruin, and the king is dead.

So when the seven years are up, they’re not released.

It’s the point of no return for the character.

It’ll be the impetus that makes Maleen find the strength to save herself.

I’m excited to reach the scene, and my fingers fly over the keys. I can barely keep pace with the story as it unwinds in my mind with startling clarity. I’m riding a huge wave of dopamine, prepared to keep drafting until I crash.

This is flow. The writer’s high I crave. When the story takes over, time loses all meaning, and I’m immersed in my work. Completely focused.

Until, at some point, the lights go out. I glance up, startled. Outside the wind howls, and the storm rages. I block it out and return to my book.

I keep writing, hoping the lights will come back on, but when I finish the scene and stretch my cramped fingers, the cottage is still dark.

Alex warned me this would happen, I remind myself.

I have flashlights and candles, and I’m tempted to press on, stay with the story, but if the lights are out, the heat is off.

I need to start a fire before the cabin gets any colder.

I stand and eye the pile of logs in the small fireplace with suspicion. Then I walk over for a closer look. I realize that, while I’ve watched Tristan start a fire at least a dozen times, I’ve never actually done it myself. But how hard can it be?

I find the flashlight in the kitchen drawer and aim it at the hearth while I flick the wheel on the long lighter.

The kindling catches fire, and for a moment, I think it’s going to do its job and light the logs, but then the flame sputters and dies.

I stare in disbelief. I swear the air is colder.

I shiver. I don’t know if the chill has already overtaken the cabin or if I’m imagining it.

I try a second time, then a third without success.

The last thing I want to do is call Alex. The woman was so weird and overbearing when she stormed in here earlier. But what choice do I have? I’m shaking and on the verge of tears. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and head upstairs to make the phone call.

I navigate the dark cottage cabin by flashlight, taking the stairs slowly so I don’t lose my footing.

It’s so dark inside. I glance out the window on my way to the phone by the bedside.

It’s even darker out there. I see nothing but a wall of swirling, howling snow.

The heavy snow blots out the late afternoon sunlight, and dark gray clouds fill the sky.

I shiver involuntarily, then turn away from the window and train the light on the pad beside the phone.

The telephone number is written in precise straight digits.

Not only is the phone a landline, but it’s an old-school rotary phone.

I trap the receiver between my neck and my ear and am reminded how I first encountered a rotary dial phone the summer I was twelve.

I was at sleepaway camp, and we could call home on Sundays from the phone mounted on the wall outside the mess hall.

The counselors laughed at all of us for our lack of familiarity and eventually told me the reason I couldn’t hear my dad clear was because I was holding the receiver upside down.

I smile at the memory as I dial Alex’s number.

I listen as the phone rings once, twice, three times.

“Come on,” I hiss. “Answer.” I picture myself dying of hypothermia in this stupid cabin.

Finally, after I lose count of the rings, Alex’s voice comes on the line. “Hello?” It’s groggy and hoarse as if she’d been woken from a deep sleep.

“Um, Alex, it’s Emily. Did I wake you?”

She doesn’t answer the question. “What’s wrong?”

“The power went out.”

“I told you that would happen.”

“I know, but I can’t get the fire to light.”

Alex goes silent on the other end for a beat. Then, “What do you mean, you can’t get the fire to light?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if the starter’s wet or I’m doing something wrong. I can’t light it. It’s getting really cold in here.”

I cringe at Alex’s exasperated huff. I feel stupid enough. This woman doesn’t need to make me feel worse, but she does, of course.

“I’m sure you’re doing something wrong. Do you need me to walk you through it?”

I crane my neck to glance out the window. Through the screen of white, I can see a diffuse yellow glow coming from the farmhouse. “Why isn’t your power out?”

“What?”

“A light is on in your house.”

“Oh, the backup generator must have kicked on.”

“Will that happen here?”

“No, the cabin’s not on the generator. And honestly, Emily, I’m not going to have power for long because my propane delivery was delayed last week.”

I don’t really understand how generators work or what propane has to do with anything. But I do know that Alex has power now.

“Can I come up? Just for a little while,” I hurry to assure her. I hate how plaintive I sound.

“I’ll come down there and show you how to make a fire,” she suggests. “Better to teach a man to fish and all that.”

“No. Forget it.” I hang up the phone, frustrated and about to cry.

I pull an extra sweater, the heaviest one I’d packed, from my bag and yank it over my head. I tell myself that with enough layers and blankets, I’ll be fine and thump back down the stairs less carefully this time, propelled by adrenaline.

I pull out the chair, sit down in front of my laptop, and place my fingers on the keys.

Then I stop. I don’t know how long the cabin will be without electricity.

And even if, by some miracle, I manage to light a fire at some point, that won’t power my laptop.

It’s better to save my work now and switch to a notebook, even though I don’t want to.

My muse is geared up and ready to write, but losing all my work would be stupid.

Tragic even. I have to be smart even if it means losing my flow state. So I sigh, hit save, and close my file.

I go from room to room, gathering as many candles as I can find because I don’t want to waste the flashlight battery either. I’ll write by candlelight like some sort of romantic poet. I wonder if Emily Dickinson wrote by candlelight or maybe Charlotte Bronte. I’ll bet Mary Shelley did.

I light the candles and pretend the ambiance is inspiring.

Then I scratch my pen across my notebook until my fingers cramp.

As I stop and shake out my hand, my gaze is drawn to the unlit fireplace.

I could give it another try, but failing again will send me into a tailspin.

Maybe Alex will take pity on me and come over to start the fire even though I told her not to and hung up on her.

I walk out to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea and realize that I can’t use the electric kettle or the microwave to heat the water.

I give a small scream of frustration that morphs into dark laughter.

Alex is no more coming to save me than the king is coming to release his daughter and her friend from the tower.

Like Maleen, I’m going to have to save myself.

I sigh deeply. That means tackling the fireplace. My gaze falls on the bottles of wine lined up beside the sink. One is a Chianti, which Tristan packed to go along with the lasagna. I smile as a thought forms. There’s more than one way for a princess to save herself.

I grab a cloth bag and pack up the container of food and the bottle of wine.

Then I tuck in the half-loaf of Tristan’s homemade bread.

I blow out the multitude of candles and bundle up as warmly as I can before slipping the flashlight into my pocket and shouldering the bag.

I straighten my shoulders, open the door, and step outside into the tempest.

It takes longer than I could have imagined to traverse the distance between the cabin and the farmhouse.

It feels as if the fierce wind drives me back a step for every step forward.

I begin to wonder if I’m actually making progress or just walking in place.

Not only is the wind strong, it’s piercingly cold, and the snow is wet and thick.

Heavy flakes coat my eyelashes. I blink them away, and they land on my cheeks, stinging my skin as they melt.

The snow is already piled ankle-deep as I trudge toward the house.

Finally, my slow progress pays off, and I find myself on Alex’s porch. I stare at the door with my hand raised and lose all confidence in my plan. I twist and look over my shoulder. I’m not trekking back to the cabin.

“The only way out is through,” I tell myself. Then before I can second guess myself, I rap hard on the door. I hear Alex walking around inside and vow that if she doesn’t open this door, I’ll break a window to get in.

Alex yanks the door open and stares at me. “What?”

My teeth chatter as I force out the words from between my numb lips. “It’s too cold in there. I can’t light the fire. Please let me come in just for a little while.”

She crosses her arms. “That’s not how this works. You rented the cabin.”

“I know how it works, and I know I rented the cabin, but it’s really cold.

” And I muster a smile and hold up the bag.

“I have food and wine. Really good food—lasagna and homemade bread. And a bottle of Chianti to wash it down. Please let me in. We’ll eat, you can tell me how to start a fire, and I’ll go back to the cabin. I promise.”

She stares at me, impassive.

I stare back, hopeful.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be rude?—”

I cut her off. “Alex, I can’t be by myself during this storm. I have really bad anxiety. I have ever since ….” I trail off.

She narrows her eyes as if I’ve piqued her curiosity. “Ever since what?”

I don’t talk about this with strangers—or anyone really, aside from Dr. Wilde. But if it gets me inside her warm house, I’ll tell her.

I let out a long breath. “Ever since my roommate was murdered. She was stabbed to death during a bad storm, and I found her body. I’m going to have a panic attack if you don’t let me in.” My voice breaks on a sob.

Alex’s face pales, and her eyes go wide. “Your roommate was stabbed to death.”

I nod, swallow, unable to speak and I see her face shift. Her expression is more than pity, but I can’t place it.

She shakes her head as if she can’t believe what she’s about to say and steps back, gesturing for me to enter. “Come on in.”

She closes the door against the storm and my shoulders sag with relief.