Page 35 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“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?”
