A blizzard rages through Duluth, Minnesota. It whips against a little beige house with white accents surrounded by an ocean of suburbs. At the end of the front yard, past sensible flowerbeds and a usually well-kept lawn, a little mailbox stands up against the howling wind.
Of course, they dreamed of buying a house, but they had to prioritize the wedding. Emma had used up most of her vacation time so far, deciding on minute things. Flowers, bridesmaids dresses, themes and now the color scheme. Paul hated her suggestions more often than not, and now he sits in their perfect living room on their plush, white couch, groaning when she suggests a blush pink, then rolling his eyes at the golden accents. The smart TV crackled, playing Fireplace 10 hours full HD across from them, the screen reflected on their glass coffee table. The Christmas tree had vacated the basement a week ago and had been set up during a grueling, four-hour decorating session.
"Come on babe, neutral is best!" He tells her, exasperated. He points again at the screen of her MacBook, which displays a pinterest board of weddings in spring colors. Blush pink, pastel yellow and sage green. "My mom would never wear those colors. They just don't suit everyone!"
"It's one day", she protests, "just once, let's do something more fun! Something more me?"
"Just you? Are you getting married to yourself?" He objects, "you've been acting so frigging weird." They'd been at it for hours, surely Emma was just hungry and tired. Still, she stares at him through tears. Hot frustration boils in her chest, and she struggles to form words.
He spends a moment, reading her face. "I hate that you just cry to get your way."
Her whole body tenses and she hops up. A sudden outburst. She yells, out of control. "When have I ever gotten my fucking way?!"
A sudden silence falls between them. Her outburst a monumental shift to both of them. The dried flowers on the coffee table of their perfect living room shake slightly, dropping a petal on the stack of books, neither of them had ever read.
She wipes her eyes, mascara smearing. "I can't do this", she mumbles primarily to herself, rather than Paul. But he takes her wrist in his hand anyway, and whispers: "Hey Emmie, babe. Stop. It's okay. This is hard on both of us."
The warmth of his hand around her wrist sinks into her skin. She's always been the chilly one and he was always her toasty teddy bear.
"I don't know, if I really want to get married", she admits in a small voice. She starts to settle into him, touching their foreheads together and continues, "we could just stay together like this. Say whatever to tradition, you know?"
Suddenly, he huffs. Abrupt, she tries to draw back, stopped by his hand tightening around her wrist.
"You have got to be kidding me", he answers, low and sharp, "We put down so much money for the venue. You want to throw it away? Be serious." His grip tightens more, and he pulls her down to his eye level.
"Paul, you're hurting me", she answers, trying to keep her voice steady.
"We are doing this wedding, whether it's minion yellow or red or whatever the heck. Do you understand me?" He holds her face with his free hand, making sure, she looks him in the eye.
"Stop! You're hurting me!" She tries to pull herself free, grunting with the effort. "Let go!" She succeeds, overshoots her goal and falls against the coffee table, spilling hot cocoa on their perfect, white rug. Instantly, his palm connects to her face.
❆❆❆
20 minutes later, her voice hoarse from screaming, Emma had left for the road, shaking behind the steering wheel. She had slipped on Ugg boots and a cardigan. The speaker of her SUV tells her, repeatedly and in a monotonous voice: Heart Emoji, Heart Emoji, Paul, Sparkle Emoji is calling. She presses dismiss each time.
She would regret this later, she thinks, as she turns off the forest road, through snow-covered underbrush. She had said things, she hadn't meant. They had a strict plan. In January they'd start trying for kids, in March they'd get married. A two-week honeymoon at a lake cabin in Canada. Pushing anything back would mess up everything. She was 36 and her biological clock was ticking to its miserable end. They'd been hoping, that the birth control would be fully out of her system by January. She was off her medication since the beginning of December and probably had simply not adjusted yet. Her tires squeal over the snow, her suspension bobbing her up and down. She tries to find more reasons for her outburst. She drives, ignoring the sharp pain of her wrist, cheek and hip as well as the forest growing denser by the minute.
The songs on her driving playlist have cycled through once and the sun has almost completely set. This is what she needed, she thinks, the suburbanite equivalent of a walk in the park. Deep breath in and out, just like in her yoga classes at the gym. When her pulse calms to the sounds of Måneskin, and she only feels the grimy residue of shame at the stupid fight she caused, she puts the car in reverse, ready to turn around and head back to her picket fence, perfect lawn and beige house. Then she hears it, her tires turning fruitlessly. Her trusty SUV is not budging.
After slamming on the gas, attempting to move in either direction, she has to accept it. She is stuck.
Ignoring 14 missed calls from Paul, she dials 911, but her phone refuses to connect. She tries again, and again. No signal. The tremor in her hands turns to a violent shivering. In an anxious rage, she tosses it onto the backseat. "FUCK", she screams, "FUCK! FUCK!!!" She jams her hand into the horn, once, twice, thrice, only to collapse onto her steering wheel.
She realizes right then and there, that she is terrified of freezing to death. She had read about it a few times, people found outside their tents, convinced they were burning instead of freezing. She glances outside, if civilization is nearby, perhaps she can make it after all. And there, far off in the distance, is a light.
❆❆❆
Ugg boots were not made for this weather. They got soaked instantly, and her cardigan was anything but a windbreaker. She made a run for it anyway, headed toward the light. And there, in a clearing she found three old farm houses, surprisingly well kept, a light burning in each of them. Close by, a barn and some sheds. Outside of the barn, a space has been haphazardly cleared, the shovel discarded in a pile of snow. A figure, dressed better for the weather than she was, lifts an ax high above their head and strikes down, splitting a log with a satisfying crack. They don't notice, when she approaches.
"Hello" she croaks and the figure jumps.
"Heya", says the voice, from beneath a knit scarf and Emma feels ashamed to admit, that the feminine voice reassured her momentarily.
"I got lost, well stuck- and I- I don't know what to do-" Emma's breath quickens, her wet clothes sticking to her limbs. The figure lowers her ax.
"Oh my god, girl, it's okay, just come in! Come in!"
❆❆❆
They stand before a chest of clothes, freshly washed and folded neatly, and all sorts of sizes and styles.
"During the season, people pass through here a lot", Sophie explains, "you'd be surprised what they forget in their rooms."
"Nice of you guys to wash them." Emma picks through shirts, sweaters and pants, unable to shake the feeling she had already overstayed her welcome.
"It'd be a waste to throw them out. Plus Allison is a wizard with a sewing needle. This one was way too big for me, but take a look at it now!" Sophie twirls for Emma, showing off a sweater littered with tiny cats in Santa hats.
"Wow!" Emma's eyes scan for a rough hem, anything to show the diy-nature of it. She fails. "I would not have known someone had fixed it up."
"I wouldn't be able to do that, but hey, we all have our skills."
Reassured by Sophie's enthusiasm, she picks a pair of blue sweatpants and a soft, orange sweater. The pieces don't fit her, but anything dry and warm worked.
"You hungry?" Sophie asks.
❆❆❆
A fireplace crackles away in the corner, enveloping the whole dining room in a warm glow. Emma sits in front of it, on a sheepskin rug. In the kitchen, she could hear the talking of a few women. They must be talking about her, she thinks, but can't motivate herself to leave the warmth to find out.
She glances behind herself, at a table, set for six people, the kitchen door leaned shut and a delicious scent of roast pork comes her way. She notices then, just how hungry she is and finally finds the will to ghost into the kitchen to ask, when they will eat. Within a few minutes, the table is set for seven, an additional set of mismatched cutlery and dishes added just for her.
The other women introduce themselves to her with an ease she hadn't anticipated. Even her clumsy question of what this is, they answer without resistance: A self-sufficient, off-the-grid and communal farming and hosting group. What they were eating for dinner, had been preserved from their fall harvest. Emma digs into roast pork, that melts in her mouth, as they gossip about workshops and previous guests, an older woman enters the room, Helen. Mary jumps up to help her to the table, but is waved off. Helen instead walks right up to the side of Emma, places a hand on her shoulder. But Emma flinches in response. Shame burns through her, flinching at a sweet old lady. Before she can apologize, Helen thanks her for coming and asks, if she's had the gravy yet. Apparently, it's boiled with bone, and while that sounds disgusting to Emma, she cannot deny an old lady.
All shame and disgust is forgotten, when she tries the gravy. It is thick, savory and a total flavor explosion. It puts her mothers thanksgiving dinner to shame. Pickled vegetables, seasoned to perfection fit perfectly with the roast meat. Warm bread to mop up remnants of sauce and fragrant potatoes with a crispy shell and a pillowy, soft inside. Emma hadn't eaten this well in a while. She usually cooked at home, and while she wasn't bad at it, she never had the time to put in much effort. These days, she'd come home from work, eat something frozen and tried to organize the wedding with Paul. Paul. She swallows a mouthful of potato and sauce, and checks her phone. It shows nothing, but the 14 missed calls from earlier. Then the wine comes out.
She's told Taylor has gotten into wine making. Expecting something akin to a rotten closet-project, she takes a careful sip. But she is met with a fresh and complex blend instead.
"Oh my god! Are you like a professional wine maker?", Emma asks.
Taylor blushes and hides her face in her hands. "No, I swear it's just a little hobby!"
"A very delicious hobby", Jessica adds, lifting her glass.
Together, they tidy up, clean dishes and put away whatever was not eaten by the end of the meal. Scraps go to chickens, housed with a little heater in a barn. Emma is promised, she can see them tomorrow morning.
They play boardgames until late in the night. Emma shies away from them at first, dreading patronizing explanations her mind refuses to wrap around. But instead, they simply play and let her figure out the rules alongside them. They laugh at their own mistakes, and even when Emma loses her first round, she is surprised at how delighted she felt regardless.
At the end of the night, Sophie explains, they could not justify boiling enough water for a hot shower, but she can wash up anyway with a cloth, if she doesn't mind. Anything to shed the grime, she's felt since the fight.
❆❆❆
In the bathroom, some disheveled witch stares at Emma. Her face is bruised and smeared with mascara. She freezes, too scared to even scream. When she blinks, the hag blinks back at her. It is a mirror, she realizes with more shock than the witch evoked in her. The other women hadn't said anything all through dinner! She tries to scrub it all away, mascara, sweat and shame, ignoring the pain of her bruises.
She spends hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the whistling wind and roaming animals. But it is not the fear of being snowed in or being mauled by a bear, that feeds the fear in her stomach. The picket fence. The perfect house. The wedding. Just a few months ago she had been so sure, she would marry Paul. Now she lays here, in some commune with solar panels and a septic tank, debating her whole life. She's just been off, she thinks, it must be hormones. Maybe early menopause. Maybe she doesn't deal well with time off. The whole wedding planning has been way too stressful. Every time she blinks, she sees Paul, his brow wrinkled with anger. She aches to feel his angered face as unfamiliar, yearns to find this version of him a stranger in her home. But no, nothing paranormal had happened. This was the man she loved. He was easily annoyed, but he was her toasty teddy bear. He must be worried sick. And she was too old to be this moody and hysterical.
She will never sleep, if she keeps fidgeting with her engagement ring. On the nightstand, the pale diamond gleams back at her. So she yanks open the drawer of the nightstand. The sound of an object rolling around catches her off guard. It is a ring. A simple, golden band. Must be from a tourist, she figures, they leave all sorts of things behind. She places her own engagement ring next to it and shuts the drawer.
❆❆❆
Bird songs wake her in an unfamiliar bed. Blanket heavier than she is used to, and pillow thinner than the one at home. A scent of pancakes and bacon waft upstairs and she can forgive the thin pillow at once.
With a bright smile Sophie welcomes her, pulling her into a hug. "Heya! How'd ya sleep?"
"I usually sleep like crap in a different bed. But last night? I was totally conked out. Feels like I'm newly born." Emma stretches for emphasis.
"You seemed really done last night! I'm glad you got some rest." Then Sophie lowers her voice, carefully. "Listen, I don't think I can get anyone to tow your SUV, till at least Monday? If you really need to go, we could try to dislodge it today."
Two days of a girly, home-grown vacation? Sounds perfect.
"Don't worry about it. I've got plenty of time."
Helen preferred to sleep in, so the six younger women sit around the dining table, sharing stories and enjoying their breakfast.
"Is this place on Airbnb?" Emma asks, reaching for another helping of bacon.
They look at one another for a second, then Allison answers. "Well it used to be. After Helen's family first moved out, they had it on Airbnb. But people totally wrecked the rooms, left trash around the woods and everything. Even now, we only really let people stay, who we trust."
"Ugh, I need to come by when it's nice and warm. I'd never litter. These woods are just too beautiful!" Emma says.
"Yess! Sitting out on the porch with a cup of wine and your girl friends, totally life-changing." Taylor holds her coffee with both hands and smiles at Emma. Maybe, she can be one of those people, who would be allowed to stay.
❆❆❆
After breakfast, Emma couldn't stop herself any longer. She needed to meet the chickens. Allison walked with her, boots crunching on the snow. She was the tallest of the women, even Paul she would loom over. And yet, Allison had not once intimidated her. Instead, she knelt in the snow, picking up a chicken with the utmost care.
"Say hi to Beatrice." Allison said, her already deep, rougher voice lowered to a careful cadence. The chicken settled into her arms, cuddling into Allisons chest.
"Hi Beatrice." Emma whispered to the chicken. It turned to her, and Emma waved at it. Suddenly, the chicken flapped its wings and jumped out of Allisons arms.
"Sorry, she doesn't really like strangers."
In the barn, Emma watches, as Allison digs around a pile of hay and then, like a prize, holds an egg up to Emma.
"Giselle always lays here." She admits, a smile on her lips.
"Does this have a baby chicken in it?" Emma asks, wide eyed.
Allison places the egg in Emma's hands. The warmth of it surprises Emma.
"No. We don't breed them. They are rescue hens from a factory. They were getting too old. They would have been butchered three years ago"
"So this is like a chicken retirement home?"
Allison laughs, a soft and genuine sound. Then, getting more serious, she says to Emma, "Sometimes they still lay, it's less consistent than in young hens, but the eggs taste just as good."
❆❆❆
Under a blue, cloudless sky, surrounded by sparkling snow, Sophie thrusts the ax into Emma's hand. "It's not rocket science, girl. If I can do it, so can you!"
Usually, Emma tries not to do things, she isn't good at. She has gotten used to Paul and his friends. Making fun of her failed paintings, awkward looking diy's and scratchy karaoke.
"It looks really dangerous. What if I chop off my foot?"
Sophie waves a hand. "No way! I'll stop you."
And so Emma hacks away, sweating and grunting. But the wood would not split right. At first, it was funny and she laughed along with Sophie. Then after a few tries, her ax got stuck again and again, and she even dropped it into the snow. Frustration bubbles in her, shame heats her cheeks and anxiety wraps tight around her throat.
A hand on her arm stops her from lodging the ax in the wood again. She flinches, again, and again, she kicks herself for it. These kind people take her in, and she is acting like a stray dog. "Emma, Emma. It's okay. We can stop. It's fine. It's just wood."
But for Emma, it was about anything but the wood. Words and tears flow out of her, about Paul, about the wedding. "I'm too old to find someone else! And I'd rather die than move in with my parents. And I hate beige and the house is beige and so is our bedroom and the plates and I just could never convince him to do anything my way and I always thought it was fine, this is how it is with couples, and we'd meet halfway eventually but I'm so tired of fighting. That stupid picket fence is like a prison, I swear, I just lock myself in it for fun or something."
Sophie holds her, rocking back and forth. "It's okay", she whispers, over and over again. Then, a great silence spreads between them, and Sophie does not stop holding her. Finally, after a deep and shaky breath, Emma whispers, "I don't think I want to leave this place."
"You should speak with Helen."
❆❆❆
Helen's house was the smallest. A two-story farm house. Wooden ornaments decorate every inch and corner. She knocks on the door, painted a bright blue tone. Sophie said, just to enter the house. Still, Emma waits a few minutes, listening to birds and watching her new friends wander about the courtyard, shaping snow into snowmen.
As she pushes open the blue front door, a shrill creak announces Emma's arrival. The inside is a vision in granny, despite the home lacking that noticeable old-person-scent.
"Helen?" she calls out to no avail. She had wanted to avoid snooping, but she had to search for Helen somehow. Even if it meant finding her in pictures. Helen as a young woman, with a man and children. The photos seemed to be taken in front of this very house. Emma felt a chill down her back at the five small children. The Helen of the photograph was younger than her. And here she was, childless, ready to throw her life away. For what? Red-cheeked porcelain figures watch her wrap her arms around herself and creep further into the old ladies house.
A patterned green and pink carpet adorns the hallway. Here she finds more photos. Her new friends on a fishing trip with Helen. A cute cat relaxing in the sun. Some chickens. Helen's kids. When Emma runs a finger along the top of a picture frame, it comes away clean.
Shining into the hallway, a column of light. A door stands slightly ajar. Her chest flutters in excitement, she needs to make her case! She wants to go on the fishing trips, take photos of chickens, make snowmen and sleep in. Emma pushes open the door. "Helen?"
Before her, a flight of stairs, leading down into a basement. Just from standing at the top, could she smell iron. This must be, where they butcher their deer and rabbits, she protests against her true-crime riddled mind.
"Yes, dearie?" comes Helen's sweet voice.
She creeps down, despite the horrible creaking of each step and the feeling in her gut, telling her to turn back. The whole basement was tiled in a faint blue ceramic.
First she sees a Home Depot bucket placed on the floor. At a steady rhyhtm thick red droplets fell into it. Above the the bucket, Helen stands, one hand around a paring knife, the other gripping a thick layer of skin, pulling and slicing with practiced ease. Sinew connects lines of flesh to its meat. Behind her a half-skinned man. His bound ankles hang from a meathook attached to the ceiling. His muscles and fat glisten in the glow of a singular, cool-toned, led lightbulb. Helen turns to face Emma, her long apron splattered in blood. The old lady's face softens and she smiles.
Screams ring out through the whole house and courtyard as Emma dashes back upstairs. She stumbles out through the porch and breaks down in the snow, puking. Everything spins, again and again. Too bright, and too sharp. The pale face of the man burns into her mind, replaced by Paul's own face. His brow crinkled with anger. The picket fence imprisoning her with him in that horrible basement. She can't breathe, the cold air stings her lungs and tears burn her cheeks. She was a complete failure, and now some crazy old lady in the woods will butcher her. But then, what life is she leaving behind? The perfect house and lawn. Notes from the HOA about flowers she'd planted one summer. Misshapen ceramics from a workshop she went to once and never again. A wedding in neutral tones. Bruises on her wrist and neck. A child down the line. Coming home to a messy house every night. Fighting over stupid things. Laying awake, scared of Paul moving next to her. Fear. Hate. She wanted to puke again, but there was nothing left. Who was this woman she'd lived as for years? How could she have ever wanted this? The future disgusts her, terrifies her and now she has nowhere left to turn.
Then, a clean, rubber-gloved hand is laid on her shoulder. Helen's sweet voice. "Dearie, come inside for a cup of tea." For once, Emma did not flinch.
❆❆❆
Paul opens a private tab and types optimum-tracker.com in the address bar. A familiar site loads.
Deep in the woods of Minnesota he sees a red dot. He watches it for a while, anticipates it moving as she keeps driving. But the dot stays put and so does he.
For a few days, he doesn't know what to do. Often he thinks about calling the police, but he freezes at the thought. Worries, what they might find, should they examine him. Would they think he killed her?
He determines, he needs to find her on his own. No one can know about their mishap.
He brushes snow off Emma's car, shines his phone flashlight inside but nothing. Like she was never there. The forest looks all the same to him, no matter how far he walks. Eventually he stumbles upon some old buildings, guided by the light from their windows.
"Have you seen a woman come through here?" asks Paul at the blue door.
❆❆❆
Tomorrow, Emma and the other women will enjoy a delicious pot roast.
