CHAPTER EIGHT
“WHITEOUT CONDITIONS.” Those had been the radio forecaster’s words just a few minutes ago as Carrie slowly navigated the lakeshore route to her home in Fox Creek, Ohio. She couldn’t recall ever driving on such treacherous roads before, but now she knew exactly what was meant by “whiteout.” The paleness of the snow-covered asphalt seemed to blend with the white of the air around her as flurries mounted in intensity. The horizon had been obliterated, making the lanes of the highway indistinct and the sun only a gray, hazy memory. Her surroundings were muddled together, a vacuum of white, starkness and cold.
The sudden blizzard wasn’t the only frosty aspect of this holiday season. Her chilly conversation with her father last night was still fresh in her mind.
“I’m very disappointed, Carrie,” her father had said. “This is the first time you’ve missed Christmas, and I can’t imagine what is more important than being with your family.”
Once again her father had used the guilt factor to persuade her to do what he thought was best. Carrie was tired of explaining all her decisions. Besides, no one in the Foster family understood Carrie’s devotion to trees, especially the shoreline birches of central Michigan lakes that were showing serious effects of pesticide treatment.
Even worse, her father had followed up by announcing, “I’ve made you an appointment with a brilliant new allergist, Dr. Hower, for December 26. I don’t want to cancel.”
“Not another allergist, Dad,” she’d said. “We all know what I’m allergic to—nearly everything. I won’t be prodded and poked anymore!”
“Fine. Have it your way.” He’d been angry, but after a moment his tone had leveled. “Honey, I am the doctor in this family, and I’m only thinking of you.”
That statement had calmed her since it was true. Unfortunately, her father’s concern and medical expertise had left her longing for independence her entire life and a lot less mothering from her caring father. This time she was determined to chart her own course, which meant monitoring the experiments with her trees and refusing more asthma treatments.
Dr. Martin Foster had ended their uncomfortable conversation with a warning. “If you change your mind...”
“Daddy, I won’t.”
“If you do, don’t set out in the morning. Bad weather is predicted for Christmas Day.” As if he didn’t trust her to do anything he told her, he’d added, “I mean it, Carrie. Don’t drive if the forecast is unfavorable.”
When would he ever stop treating her like the baby of the family? Even babies grew up, and she was thirty years old. However, by that evening, Christmas Eve, she’d mellowed. With promises from her crew to continue her work, she’d decided to tackle the five-hour drive in the morning and arrive at her father’s estate, Dancing Falls, in time for Christmas dinner. She’d loaded her car with gifts and headed south for the normally easy drive. Hopefully she’d miss the worst of the weather.
But typical of Ohio winters, a freak blizzard, worse than predicted, had blown in off Lake Erie. The turnpike closed almost immediately, but the traffic app on her iPhone showed that the local two-lane roads were being cleared, leaving her route along the lake passable. That was a few hours ago. Now, in midafternoon, she still had more than two hours to drive in rapidly deteriorating conditions.
Carrie slowed her small foreign car, impractical for blizzard conditions, to a crawl, and was still unable to determine where the road ended and the shoulder began. She hadn’t seen another pair of headlights in miles, so she wasn’t worried about hitting another car. She gripped her steering wheel and plowed ahead. This storm couldn’t last forever. She pictured her father sitting in his chair by the fireplace, secure in the knowledge that his daughter wouldn’t dare ignore his warning and be foolish enough to set out in a storm. He would be furious if he knew she was out in this weather.
Vapor collected on the inside of her windshield, so Carrie lowered her window a few inches to let in fresh air. Just in case, she reached inside the pocket of her purse where she always kept her inhaler. Sometimes, thank goodness not often, a sudden blast of frigid air could bring on an asthma attack.
This was obviously not her lucky day. The wind rushed around the knit stocking cap over her head and seemed to flow downward and settle directly in her lungs. She felt her airways constrict with a tingling pain that signaled a problem. She put the inhaler between her lips, depressed the button and breathed in the lifesaving medicine.
Several seconds later she found herself staring
