Snow Day

I awoke to a world muffled in white. In the grey-blue of the early morning, evergreen boughs were pillowed with snow. And the world was silent. 

I wanted to write, to get this feeling out on paper. But others’ words filled my head before paper was in sight—a text, then two. Then a song spun ‘round in my brain, washing my words and replacing them with lyrics that will stay with me throughout the day.

I stepped outside. Strands of my just-washed hair began to freeze, reminding me of my childhood when we were bused to swimming lessons in the dead of a sub-freezing, Central New York winter. Whoever thought that was a good idea? 

We had minutes after being in the pool to change back into our clothes and bundle up in boots, coats, mittens, and scarves and get back on the bus. A walk that was just enough time for our long hair, to solidify into clacking, chlorine-infused icicles.

I snapped photos of this white world to post on social media. White world, white sky—the only pop of color is the evergreen peeking though their pillowed weights. The world is quiet. A blissful reprieve in a world filled with the meth-like energy of business and “getting stuff done.” 

I like the quiet. I like the look of snow. I’m grateful for the precipitation in this high desert home. And, while it doesn’t carry the same excitement of my youth, I like these snow days.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

It Still Haunts Me

It still haunts me: The sound of his body hitting the pavement.

I was bored in my studio apartment in Center City Philadelphia. I was a small-town girl in a concrete world of anonymity and bored out of my mind in a 17th-floor studio apartment on a Friday night. The city, bathed in lights and shadows, captivated me. I’d nothing better to do that evening than to watch the neighborhood happenings behind a 35-70 zoom photo lens perched in the safety of my tiny room. I’d witnessed minor crimes and big ones—a woman getting mugged, and scores of people fleeing a movie theater, pouring into the street after a shooting in the theater. But this was different.

 

He stood in the shadows on the roof of a building long since abandoned as a family house, now chopped into apartments that crammed unfamiliar individuals into a building, not a home. His back pressed to the wall, he inched closer to the edge. He paused. I saw him. And through the lens, he saw me. I shivered with dread and responsibility. I wanted to call 911, but the phone was across the room. And I didn’t have an address to give them. There’s a lot you can see from an apartment aerie, but are powerless to influence, much less control. What would I say? I could feel his intentions, but did I really know for sure? Did I have enough justification to call?

 

I watched him. Both of us aware of the other. Neither of us willing to move. For 20 minutes. Then, he inched right to the edge of the roof and looked down. I had to do something. Even if I sounded like a nutcase and didn’t have a specific address to give them. I lowered my camera and set it down. I crossed the room in seconds and grabbed the phone. I started back to the window when I heard his body hit the cold pavement. I stared at the empty roof, at the unmoving body. At the dark stain pooling from beneath his head. I blamed myself for not having watched him longer. How long would have been long enough?

 

It still haunts me: the scream of the woman who found him seconds later. She came out of Donovan’s Irish Pub, her long, blond hair cascading elegantly over her shoulders, her white blouse tucked into a fitted, white skirt, and her hand nestled in the arm of her date. 

 

Cops, ambulance, sirens, a cacophony of lights and noise as if they cared. Where was all the attention when he’d needed it?

 

It still haunts me: the policeman who knew nothing. Two days later I rode the apartment elevator with a cop. I asked him if he knew what had happened. He didn’t. I was stunned. His answer chipped away some of my 20-something, small-town naiveté. This was a city without neighbors, a collection of anonymous dwellers. Humans without humanity, where the shadows became solace and one young woman with a camera delayed the inevitable for 1,200 ticks of the second hand on an analog clock. 

 

Decades later, it haunts me still.

 

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

What If I'd Said No?

It was a lovely party. Even if I hadn’t known anyone there but three: The host, Alain; a new friend, Melissa; and her best friend Rick—a man quick to anger, full of fire, and he’d zeroed in on me a couple of weeks prior.

“Come for dinner,” Melissa said not long after I’d met her. We volunteered together teaching English as a Second Language to adults. Melissa had joined a couple years after I’d started and I was doubtful that she would last. She liked teaching, but stuck too much to the book to reach those students who were illiterate in their own language. Melissa was focused, firm bordering on strident, enamored of her own opinions, and bursting with unswerving self-confidence. None of which I shared. But, in the provincial city of Philadelphia, where outsiders weren’t readily accepted, my circle of friends was thin and I was eager to make new ones. So I said yes.

“Tell me about yourself,” Rick had said when I’d first met him. I didn’t, with some polite evasion. Dinner with Melissa was dinner with Rick at his house. She’d waxed and polished him to a brilliant shine, expecting me to fall in love with him on sight. 

“Tell me everything about you.” I’d known him for half an hour and he was already probing into my life with what felt like a scalpel. It was too much too soon. I was uncomfortable and his leaning into my space, so much so that he was nearly hovering over my plate didn’t make me feel any better. I shifted in my chair, moved the plate a couple of inches away from him—lest he start feeding me like a child—and tried to act normal. I was a guest and well mannered.

“Come on, tell me about yourself.” I shut that down, again with polite evasion—a tactic I’d learned to protect myself from those who wanted to get too close without offending them or creating a scene, a disturbance, or calling even more unwanted attention to myself. It usually worked, in most social settings. 

My closest and dearest friends will confirm that I open up slowly. And someone wanting to fast track that has always made me wary. But there was something underlying his character that had me wanting him to know as little about me as possible. It wasn’t anything I could identify. It was just instinct.

“I want to know all there is about you.” I felt like a lamb caught in an abattoir. My only thought was escape. Escape from conversation, from the evening, from the house, from him. There was something predatory about Rick. In truth, he was mostly well mannered, until he picked up his fork—he used it as a shovel, as he kept leaning into my space with little regard to the newness of our acquaintance. “I want to read the book of your life. Tell me your story,” he whispered in my ear.

I survived dinner without further incident by pulling Melissa into the conversation and making her the center of attention. Survival tactic. But it has its limits. “Call me when you get home.” He couldn’t be serious. We’d just met.

Melissa drove me home, a thirty-minute drive that seemed to take hours. She was intent on finding out what I thought of Rick. Once again, I found myself politely, but unenthusiastically, answering questions without actually giving answers and turning the conversation around so that I was the one asking questions. How could I tell her that her best friend came on way too strong and ate with the sophistication of a prison inmate?

Relieved to be back in my apartment, finally, and alone, I kicked off my shoes and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. I tried to shake off the feeling of slick yick crawling across my skin so I could feel normal again, so that I could feel my own equilibrium away from the intensity of my inner voice yelling danger. The phone rang and I picked it up wondering who could be calling so late.

“You didn’t call me to tell me you got home okay.” How did he get my number?? Melissa. Fuck. I don’t remember exactly how I responded or what I said. I was listening to my instinct and soul screaming, “Get out!” at a volume that overrode conversation. I must have passed it off with humor per my usual, and an “I don’t know you,” because he asked me out. 

“Get to know me, then. Why don’t we see Pulp Fiction?” It had just come out and everyone was talking about it, but I have an aversion to violent films—and violence in general—so I answered truthfully. “I have absolutely no desire to see that film.” He took it personally and got angry. He didn’t suggest a different film, or bother to ask what I’d like to see. My rejection of the film was a rejection of him and he lit into me. His reaction took me by surprise. But, in the world of red flags, this was the gigantic, you-can’t-miss-it, red flag, on fucking fire. He was still irate when I hung up.

Two weeks later, I was at Alain’s party. Alain was French, a doctor, smart, funny, sweet, and beautiful. I was shy, quiet, had only a bachelor’s degree, and had a lowly secretarial job. A nobody. I knew Alain wasn’t interested, but he was kind and had invited me, so I went. I went by myself, which took some courage.

The party was nice—wine, cheese, and conversation—and a little scary as I tried to overcome my introverted, shy side to have easy small talk. It was difficult. Alain would check in with me occasionally, which was nice of him. Then, in walked Melissa and Rick. I kept my distance, as much as I could in a one bedroom apartment, but eventually found myself cornered by him. Rick had been waiting as I emerged from the bathroom. He maneuvered me into a room with no guests. The bedroom.

I’ve blocked out most of the events and almost all of what was said. But I remember he was livid because I’d ignored him. The louder he got, the more quiet I became. Confrontation was not going to go well in my favor. 

Before I knew what was happening, he darted in close, took me by the shoulders and threw me hard against the wall. I kept my wits, but not my breath. He pinned me to the wall. His voice menaced, mirroring the anger and violence I saw in his eyes. He accused me of being cold, frigid. I was terrified. I really thought he would hit me. How the hell was I going to get myself out of this? I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want a scene. Good girls don’t create scenes, especially quiet, shy, well-mannered girls who are guests and at someone else’s party.

One of Alain’s friends stepped into the room. He sized up the situation and looked at me as Rick stepped away, and asked me if I was ok. I paused—a breath, a lifeline, but also an admission of shame and embarrassment, a scene, an unwelcome intrusion into a lovely party, Alain’s home—so I nodded slowly and said yes. 

Physically, it was true. Emotionally, I was on the verge of tears and I was damned if I’d let that show. A few more minutes of verbal abuse and I escaped back into the fold of party goers, where there was safety in numbers.

I wanted to leave right away, but I was afraid that Rick would follow me out. I wouldn’t have the safety on the streets of Philly as I had at the party. Calling a cab seemed ridiculous as I lived only two blocks away. And when I noticed that Rick had left, I feared he’d be waiting for me—if he’d gotten my phone number from Melissa, might he also have my address? So, I overstayed my welcome at the party until nearly dawn and eventually got home safe. 

Thankfully, I never saw Rick again. I never saw Melissa either, outside of our volunteer work. And I never saw Alain again. I was ashamed at having stayed too long at his party, and too shaken every time I remembered what had happened, to try developing a friendship.

“Are you okay?” It still echoes in my head. I said yes. It was my problem, my shame, and I would find my own way out of it, survivor that I am. So, I said yes.

What if I’d asked for help? What was the worst that could possibly have happened? No, I’m not okay. No, I shouldn’t have to deal with this alphahole. No, I’m not responsible for his fragile ego. Please call a cab, I want to go home. What if I’d said no? No, no, no. I. Am. Not. Okay.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.

Five Words

Small towns. Pro: you know everyone in your class. You’ve known them pretty much since nursery school. Cons: first, small towns have small populations and tiny class sizes; second, the opinions—good, bad, or indifferent—you formed of certain individuals of the opposite sex were set when you were 3 or 4 and they don’t often change; third, this is your dating pool.

I was the shiny new penny after a year away from my hometown. I’d spent the year in Chicago while my dad was on sabbatical and then spent the summer in France with friends of the family. I’d left just shy of 13—pulled out early from 7th grade—and returned at 14 and a high schooler. I must have changed a lot because I’d never garnered any attention from boys prior to leaving. And, to be honest, I hadn’t been particularly interested. But suddenly, I was being treated like the “new girl” by boys I’d known since the days of learning that painting on the walls was utterly unacceptable. 

No sooner had school started then Homecoming loomed. I’d been focused on school, re-establishing friendships, forging new ones, and discovering all that I’d missed over the last 14 months. Much of our conversations were not focused on school work, homework, or plans beyond the following week. To be honest, alot of it was about boys. Hey, 14, remember? 

Boys. Boys treating girls—me—like anything other than a non-entity or, at best, an “also ran” was new, nerve-wracking, and exciting, but also kind of scary. 

So when Rob asked me to the Homecoming Dance, I was a bit stunned. I’d never been asked for date before and I really hadn’t expected to be asked. I’d anticipated going with my girl friends, just like we’d done through junior high.

Rob was shy, kind, and thoughtful, with a warm smile and clear, blue eyes that seemed to see more than the physical. So, I’d said yes, when he asked me to Homecoming. Two, shy, 14yo introverts on a date is not without social awkwardness, and I struggled with small talk. Yet, I still had a wonderful time. But he never asked me out again. I never knew why and after a while, I moved on.

Still the shiny, new penny, I had more unwanted attention than welcome ones. Navigating attention from boys I didn’t want to date and, worse, harassment, had me on a freak and nervous about each school day. I stuck close to friends I trusted, yet longed for sincere interest. The small town dating pool wasn’t exactly deep with prospects.

A year later, I was dealing with the onset of depression. I wasn’t ideating suicide, but I wished I’d never been born. And I wasn’t getting help. Unwanted attention—harassment—had me in a tailspin. I’d always been the wallflower and didn’t think much of my looks. The sudden, unwanted attention from boys my age and older had triggered the fight, flight, or freeze response. I was clueless about how to navigate boys, the harassment, dating, behavior, and hormones. I spiraled into darkness. I cried during class. I made myself sick, taking off my boots in the winter and walking a mile home just to be sick enough to miss school for a week. And, when not in school, I slept, escaping into a world of dreams and nothingness where I didn’t have to feel the disappointment of being me or listen to the negative self talk telling me that I was nothing and reviewing every cringeworthy moment. The litany of what I should have said or should have done played on a loop as I slid even further into self loathing.

That fall, I had confirmation classes. Small town, small church, small number of candidates to teach. We numbered four all together, and Rob was one. There are very few memories that burned through the darkness to imprint themselves in my mind and in my heart, but one moment in confirmation class still burns bright.

We were discussing our homework from the workbook about what qualities we admired in each other and in ourselves. It was easy for me to find positive traits of others, but, being so deep in the darkness and self hatred, I had nothing positive to say about myself. It must have taken some courage when Rob said quietly, “You have a beautiful smile.” 

I was stunned, surprised, and, despite all the negative, suspicious and abusive chatter constantly running through my head, I believed him. And I believed his sincerity. That one, courageous compliment began to dispel the darkness. Rob found something positive about me when I was blind to and unaccepting of my own strengths. In the darkness of my own mind, his words were like a switch, turning on a nightlight—not enough to illuminate every corner, but enough to begin finding my way out.

I’ve dealt with depression occasionally since and every time I’ve turned to those words and that feeling that someone out there in the world has something positive to say about me. And if there’s one person, mightn’t there be others?

We never know how our words imprint themselves on others or how one’s truth—quiet and simple—can help.

I saw Rob again recently. I hadn’t seen him since high school. He’s still a bit shy, and still thoughtful and kind. His smile is just as warm and his eyes are just as blue, clear, and seeing. And, I am ever grateful for his five words that led me out of the dark: You have a beautiful smile.

©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.