Winter Grey

He touched her arm on the subway, a gentle clutching, but she was too cold to feel it. Her winter coat splayed open in the front, thrifted and missing one too many buttons, it had lost all protectiveness it once had. He was shivering, and rightfully, pale and thin peacoat nothing but a newspaper cloak in this storm. And a wonder the subway still ran at all, the snow blowing down the steps and forming drifts on the platforms taller than he was, or would ever be. She was nodding off, the walking against the wind was just too much for anybody, let alone her sickly being. The city was hung in ice and a thick coating of snow like buttercream icing she used to know how to make. Things faded over the years, even winters like this one. He tucked her scarf up under her chin and frowned, eyes red from the wind, and wanting to cry. The sunny seats were almost ironic this ride, perky and unendingly bright, while above him New york dwelt only in shades of grey, would be this way for months and months. And probably months more. It was like lighting, fast and unexpected. The snow camp in wet clumps, pummeling each other on their way to the sidewalk, to stick and make a mockery of the traction of every New Yorker's shoes. And then everyone slept and woke to mountains and white-out conditions, level 3 snow emergencies, sometimes. And the ice hanging as Christmas decorations in all the parks in Manhattan. Morningside Heights' trees were the prettiest, naked in rows, glittering for the holidays. 


And it was Christmastime now, December 21st, and 15 degrees throughout the east coast. It was one of those slamming storms which comes every so often, just enough to keep you leery of wintertime and sidewalk salt. They had planned to leave for Indiana today, but the flights were cancelled, the car packed in its own igloo, and she ran a fever of 104. Which, as far as he knew, was not safe at all. He missed his family right now, ached a little from the longing, his mother would know how to fix her, his poor sickly girlfriend. He wanted to take her to his old house, and sleep next to her in front of the fireplace. He had planned to, until three hours ago. Her limp frame had hung in the door way as she said "I really don't feel well", and collapsed in a jumble of gaunt bones on the ground. He had made a loud sound, a mixed gasp and scream, had bent over her with a growing sense of panic. He was no medic, what could he do in that situation? He gently pulled her up to sitting and got her water. He said a prayer that didn't make sense and waited for her to resurface. She did, after a few elongated minutes- vomiting as she regained herself. 


It was truly the scariest moment in this young man's life, his girlfriend, in his mind, might have died. She could have hit her head on the door, cracked her face when she fell. What if she had a condition? Like leprosy or something. 


He knew, the hospital could fix this, but it was block and blocks away, and no taxis could straddle the snowy intersections. So it must be the subway, and so they ended up in these seats, after haphazardly pulling on every overcoat and pair of mittens in the apartment. They fell a couple times, and he carried her down the street for a stretch. The experience recalled for him the time he had carried his sister when she had broken her leg on their farm back home. A leap from the tire swing, landing wrong and folding in on herself. She had screamed, ear-splitting and pure, but now in the city he could barely distinguish her limp whimpering from the wind's own voice.


On the train he held her hand, checked her forehead, made sure she still breathed. She was so pink and flushed, her eyes hollowed out underneath, a purpling like grapes into wine, the way bruises splash on the skin. And he was scared. Alone in this car, only the smiling and defaced advertisements to witness his attempts at care. He pushed her cornsilk hair back, and it was damp with sweat, but she shivered in her sleep. The lights flickered overhead as the car bumped along the tracks. Oh fuck, he thought, will the electricity hold out long enough? At this point, it was anyone's guess as to how long until the entire island was pushed into darkness, forced to live like huddled penguins for what could be up to an entire week? 


It was almost Christmas for christ's sake, he wanted to be home baking cookies and getting buzzed on eggnog. Instead he was confused on a subway car that could not decide if it wanted light or dark. Holding his girlfriend's sick body to his. Damn hospitals, they're always too far away. 


Life had ceased making sense at this point as he took of his mittens and put them over her second pair. She didn't wake up at all while moved her hands and kissed the gloved masses that had turned into flippers as opposed to hands with fingers. He even looked at the map of the trains, even though he knew which branch went where by heart. But somehow he'd failed to realize they were on the wrong train. 


In his haste he'd brought her down the first set of stairs to the underground, instead of the second, which would have taken them within a block of the hospital. He looked at the map and traced the green line until it hit its final destination for the day. The goddamned beach. 


"Is this some sadistic joke?" He was enraged to the point he was crying, afraid she was dead and he was going to die on a broken down subway car in the middle of this fucking snow storm. The beach, he said over and over. And the beach was nowhere near the hospital, but by now, there were no stops left on this line, and to the beach they were headed. It was 3:37 pm, they should have been in the car, singing Christmas carols on the freeway towards home. 


He dug around in his pockets, hoping for some sign of life outside, a cell phone perhaps, but it was on the bedside table in the apartment, probably dead or without signal in this weather. He found a paperclip, 73 cents, and a peppermint candy. He ate the candy and it made him think of Christmas too much so he spit it onto the floor and watched it. It did not move, but he wanted it to, because he couldn't focus on anything. His vision was blurred from exhaustion. It took a lot to get her onto this train, and he wasn't very strong, was actually very weak and scrawny. But he had been going to the gym for five months. He had not gone this week.


The candy stayed, her body stayed, and his feet stayed as the train swayed to stopping, and the door cracked wider and let in the cold again. Where did subways go when they reached the end of their lines? Did they rest? He wanted to rest, but she might be so sick beside him that she would die. He picked her up, and she weighed less than she ever had. He wondered if part of her had disappeared when she was sleeping. He had read before, when he was young, about how when people died, they weighed 21 grams less than when they were living. At the moment of death they lost 21 grams. It scared him so that he couldn't sleep for three days as a boy, wondering why this happened. What if his soul weighed more, and it never ascended at all?


He knew she felt lighter, but more than 21 grams lighter as he lifted her up the steps into the blinding world. He paused on the sidewalk and heard the sea crashing a block away. He had never been to the beach in winter, couldn't imagine snow on the sand. He took his gloves back from her, feeling guilty. She was still not awake. 


He didn't know where else to go, didn't know if there would be any lines running towards home soon. And they were far from home, too far too walk, the hospital farther. And not a crawling Yellow Cab in sight. Not even a goddamned Gypsy Cab around. Nobody was walking, it was a ghost town like in Old Westerns, or that one episode of The Brady Bunch he remembered too well. 


He made the executive decision to see the ocean in winter. If he couldn't go home, this might be the next best thing. The walk wasn't tough, the snow had drifted all around but there were spots that were only a few inches deep, and he followed that haphazard trail to the edge of the sidewalk, where it met the sand. And the sand was covered in snow. Inches of thick white cotton and fluff above the beach. But the sea was not frozen, saltwater froze different he recalled from somewhere. It didn't matter, it was too nice to care for a moment. He listened to the waves, and there were still gulls in the air who cried out shrilly. The grey mass moved like always, motion as constant as the sun. He was too tired to walk anymore, he had ventured across the half the city by now, on foot and by train and he was tired. He pulled her scarf around her face, careful to leave her nose uncovered for breathing, and then he did the same. He was so tired, too tired; exhausted. He curled around her on the sand, after he cleared the snow with his frozen hands. She was still breathing. Still breathing and sighing. He was ok, he knew she was here, he was alright. But so tired. How did he get this tired? He couldn't remember. But he wanted to call his mother. His pockets had no phone, but did have 73 cents, enough for the payphones they still scattered every 50 feet in this area. 


He left her for a moment, because she was breathing still, and pulled himself to the blue phone to dial the only number he ever memorized right, and the mechanical sound that answered him was soothing. She answered, voice golden and dripping light, "Hello?"


"Mom! Mom, it's me. Guess where I am." He sounded five years old.


"Honey, where are you? Are you stranded somewhere? Do you need me to get you, I'll send your dad up to get you-"


"No mom... I'm at the beach."