White Ribbon by Aleatha Romig
1
Julia
My knuckles blanched on the steering wheel as I pumped the brakes of my rental car. Even though I’d been told—more than once—that automatic brakes didn’t require pumping, I couldn’t help myself. The action calmed my nerves, giving me the illusion that I had an ounce of control as the tires slid and scooted upon the ice-covered road and large snowflakes the size of oranges fell from the sky.
With the sheer quantity of snowflakes hitting the windshield, I knew any sense of control I thought I possessed was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. If circumstances were different, I could relax and see the beauty around me. If instead of driving alone to an unknown future, I was sipping hot chocolate next to a roaring fire with friends and family, I might be able to appreciate that I had somehow managed to enter a giant snow globe and that whole world had just been given a strong shake.
My attention went back and forth between what I believed was the road before me and my GPS. The directional system had taken me on what it considered the best route. According to the screen, I was still on the pavement; thank God the GPS could differentiate because from my viewpoint, everything between the endless borders of tall pine trees was nothing more than a white ribbon.
Though I continued forward, my estimated time of arrival continued to grow later and later. That was in no doubt due to my decreased speed. Between the snow-and-ice-covered surface, the lack of defined road, and increased blizzard conditions including gusty wind, it seemed as if instead of driving, the car was crawling forward. The speedometer varied between fifteen and a whopping twenty-five miles per hour.
When I’d left Chicago this morning, the forecast had been clear. The weathercaster said that snow wasn’t supposed to arrive until late tomorrow. With only a seven-hour drive, my plan was to arrive at the hotel in Ashland, Wisconsin, before nightfall, spend a few days, and get a feel for the city. With fewer than ten thousand people, it would be drastically different from what I was used to in Chicago.
Different—that in a nutshell was exactly why I applied for this job.
“Good plan, Julia,” I said aloud to myself.
Maybe after hours of driving north from Chicago, I was hungry to hear a human voice, one not singing or on a podcast. Or perhaps, I was too exasperated with my situation to keep quiet any longer.
“Did you ever wonder why this job was available? It’s because whomever this client is could be a psycho and on top of that, it’s located in the middle of nowhere.”
Sadly, nowhere was exactly what I’d sought.
Going back to my analogy of a shaken snow globe, that was my life.
Shaken.
Hours of driving had given me a new perspective, one that benefited from a bit of distance. I knew there were many people who faced greater obstacles and more adversity. I also wasn’t the princess in the ivory tower that many believed.
My eyes narrowed as I tried to make out the road before me. The headlights created a tunnel of illumination filled with glistening large snowflakes above a thick white blanket.
“Come on, you can make it. Just” —I looked again at the GPS— “another hour.”
My stomach growled as I held tighter to the steering wheel, feeling the way the wind gusts pushed me sideways. I shook my head, wondering if I’d see any signs of civilization: a gas station or small town. The darker the sky became as my car plowed through the accumulating snow, the more I admitted to myself that I should have stopped in the last town.
As I crept onward, the phrase ‘should have’ seemed to repeat on a loop in my thoughts.
I should have stopped in the last town, filled the gas tank, gotten something to eat, and found a hotel.
I should have said no to Skylar Butler when he asked me to marry him. I should have seen the writing on the wall. I should have discouraged my parents from planning the most lavish wedding of the century. I should have known his parents were more excited about our nuptials than he was. I should have questioned Skylar’s schedule, his trips, and the times he didn’t answer his cell phone. I should have trusted what I’d known most of our lives.
In my defense, as the sayings went, hindsight was twenty-twenty and love was blind.
In my case, I think a more accurate assessment of our impending nuptials was that our love didn’t have vision problems; it quite simply never existed, not in the way that made your heart beat faster or your mouth go dry. It wasn’t that Skylar wasn’t easy on the eyes.
He was handsome and he knew it.
That had been an issue since we were young.
Skylar was also capable when it came to foreplay.
Further than that, and I was in the minority of women in Skylar’s orbit. I didn’t know if the rumors of his sexual prowess were accurate. We’d agreed to wait for that final consummation of our relationship. That’s not to say we hadn’t gotten close. The thing was, we’d been a couple since neither of us could walk or talk. It was difficult to think of one another in romantic terms.
The agreement of remaining pure was implied.
Apparently, it was an agreement between Skylar and me, not him and...well, anyone else.
My grip intensified on the steering wheel. It wasn’t the worsening conditions but the memory of finding the text message from my best friend and maid of honor, Beth.
Let me backtrack.
A year ago, at a large holiday gathering surrounded by family and friends along with some of the most powerful people in both our families’ world, Skylar took my hand and on bended knee proposed. Like everything else in his life, the entire scene was a performance. My smile and acceptance weren’t as important as the hushed whispers, the pregnant pause waiting for my answer, and the cheers from the crowd when I said yes.
And then my fiancé was off for cigars and bourbon with our fathers and others in the same social sphere to celebrate the uniting of our families. It wasn’t as if I were forgotten. No, I now had an important role. I was immediately surrounded by our mothers and all the ladies in Chicago’s high society who could welcome me into the married world of Chicago’s finest.
Becoming Mrs. Skylar Butler was a destination I never questioned. The road map had been not only sketched but written in ink since the day of my birth, just three months after Skylar’s.
Time moved on. My wedding showers were completed. Our newly constructed home was mostly finished, filled with gifts and all the luxuries money could buy. Our two-week overseas honeymoon trip was booked, and RSVPs to the big day were coming in by the hundreds.
Our wedding was set for New Year’s Eve.
It will be—was to be—the event of the decade.
No expense had been spared for the union of Julia McGrath and Skylar Butler.
This was not only a love story—according to all the society pages—but the business deal of the century. My family lost majority interest in privately owned Wade Pharmaceutical before fiscal-year 2000 when our stock hold went below fifty percent. The reasons could be cited as bad management, the economy, or a number of decisions that didn’t pan out. Regardless, my family lost what we’d possessed since my great-grandfather founded the company.
My family’s controlling interest existed by a paper-thin margin.
Dad blamed it all on my grandfather’s decision to offer shares of Wade—a privately held company—to outside investors. Over time, the chosen investors sold to others, increasing the number of investors, weakening my family’s influence, and increasing liability. As was spelled out in my grandfather’s will, our family’s shares of Wade Pharmaceutical would transfer to me upon my fulfillment of his criteria, the final step being marriage.
The Butlers held twenty-five percent of Wade stock. By combining the Butler and McGrath stock, the founding family could once again fend off attacks from Big Pharma. It was my father’s constant belief that a coup was in the works. He believed that the giants in the industry were picking up shares here, with another there, to swoop in and swallow up Wade.
With my family’s thirty-nine percent and the Butlers’ twenty-five, Wade would be secure.
The evening after my last bridal shower and a week before Christmas, Skylar and I were to attend a charity event at the Chicago Philharmonic. Before the performance, we drove out to our new estate, west of the city on a sprawling ten-acre plot of land—our future home.
Skylar had laid his phone on the kitchen counter before going out back to check on some last-minute construction changes. Our wedding was only two weeks away, and the house needed to be ready upon our return from our honeymoon.
When I saw my best friend’s name flash on the screen of his phone, I envisioned a planned pre-wedding surprise. I justified that she’d call Skylar; after all, we’d all known one another for years and also, she was the maid of honor in our wedding.
Opening the text message, I was without a doubt surprised.
“Oh no.” My scream echoed as the rental car lost its traction and began to spin, flinging me from the thoughts of the recent past to the here and now.
Still a ways from my destination, my life flashed before my eyes as the white ribbon appeared to be replaced by trees and then back to the ribbon. Like a child’s top, I continued around and around.
In those visions, I saw Skylar and myself as we were growing children. I recalled my desire to pursue literature and journalism, an unacceptable major for the future owner of a pharmaceutical company. Double majoring in business and literature, I squeezed in a minor in journalism from Northwestern. The academic road took me an additional semester, allowing me to complete my degree in time for the grand engagement.
The car came to a stop, bringing me back to the present.
Letting out my held breath, I laid my forehead on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. Opening them, I saw that I was no longer on the white ribbon of road. The hood of the car was mostly buried in a snowbank and from my vantage, it looked like the bumper must have stopped inches from a tall pine tree.
I reached for my cell phone. There was no signal.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw my own blue eyes. “Happy holidays, Julia. You had a fiancé, a family, a company, and a brand-new home. Maybe you should have stayed.”
Swallowing, I stared out at the white surrounding me.
With each passing minute, determination surged through my veins.
If I stayed in the car, I’d freeze.
If I began walking, I could freeze.
“You didn’t get here by staying put.”
It was a conversation with myself; nevertheless, it was accurate.
After learning that my best friend was expecting my fiancé’s baby, I bolted from our newly constructed home, leaving Skylar stranded. As I drove away, my mind spiraled with the shock of my uncertain future. Millions of thoughts swirled in a whirlwind only to settle with no distinguishable rhyme or reason. It was as one disconnected thought passed by that I grabbed ahold, recalling a job listing I’d seen nearly a month earlier.
Pulling over outside Chicago, I searched, only to find the listing still existed. It read as follows:
Financier seeks writer to pen memoirs. No experience required. Must be willing to live on-site until the project is complete. Salary negotiable. Contact Fields and Smith Agency for more information.
It was a crazy idea—a crazy idea that would allow me to walk away from my life’s planned trajectory, and in the process, utilize my degree in literature and journalism. From the side of the road, I sent a message to the Fields and Smith Agency, a legal firm in Ashland, Wisconsin.
Less than an hour later, I received a phone call. The gentleman on the other end of the call sounded older. He asked all the appropriate questions. It was when I asked who the financier was that Mr. Fields informed me that his client wanted to remain anonymous until it was time to meet a candidate.
“Have I heard of this person?” I asked on the call.
“I’m not certain who you’ve heard of, Miss McGrath.”
“Is he old? Or is he a she?”
“You will have your own quarters. My client’s gender and age are irrelevant.”
“Is there something wrong with your client?”
“No, miss. My client prefers his privacy, and this project is something he takes seriously. I assure you, if you are selected, you will be well compensated.”
The only clue I’d managed to glean was that the client was male.
It wasn’t compensation I sought. It was the chance to get away from my commitments and obligations—my shares of Wade would remain in my father’s hands—and to take some time away from all the lies I’d accepted, to find out what it was I truly wanted.
“I’d like to have an interview, Mr. Fields.”
“How soon can you get to Ashland?”
“In a few days.”
“There is the holiday.”
“I am aware, Mr. Fields, but I’d like to move on to this opportunity or to something else.”
My note to my parents simply said that the wedding was canceled, and I would be in touch. Throwing clothes and cosmetics into two suitcases, I waited until morning and began to drive. Hell, I didn’t even know who this client was who wanted privacy. I envisioned an old man on death’s door with war stories to tell—stories he felt would be relevant to someone.
Before they’d passed, I’d been close with my grandparents. The idea of listening to some old man’s stories in the middle of nowhere and writing them down wasn’t unappealing. I wished I’d spent more time listening to my grandfather’s stories.
Taking a deep breath, I secured my lined boots, added another layer of a down coat, and donned my gloves and hat. As I took one last look in the rearview mirror, determination continued to grow.
I was here and by God, I wasn’t going to freeze to death in a car on the side of the road.
Reaching for the door handle, I opened the latch. It took pushing with my full weight, but I finally managed to wedge the door open into the snowbank.
After securing my belongings, minus my phone, in the trunk, I climbed up onto what was the road. Ducking my head from the pelting snow, I continued to follow the white ribbon.
