Pulling over outside Chicago, I searched, only to find the listing still existed. It read as follows:
Financier seeks writer to pen memoir. 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.
Julia
The monologue in my head lost its ferocity. My self-absorbed determination to leave my life behind became more morose as I contemplated the possibility that I had facilitated that very goal—leaving my life, not by choice but by death.
Despite my gloved hand protecting my face, my cheeks ached from the cold. My fingers and toes were numb as I trudged forward. During the hours of my drive, I’d seen only a half dozen other vehicles, and yet as I moved forward, that was what I yearned to see.
The snow glistened as I imagined white light dancing on the newly fallen accumulation.
Looking back, I hoped to see a car, a truck, or maybe a snowplow.
I’d read about igloos. The thought came and went as I imagined digging into the growing drifts. It still seemed as if it would be cold, but at least I’d be out of the wind.
The howl of the blowing wind played tricks as I searched again for a vehicle.