A storm of trouble fell without warning, as if fate liked to drop snow on a head when you werent looking. Greg Turner was a longhaul lorry driver. For five years he steered his massive cab back and forth between London and Oslo, the hum of BBC Radio 2 spilling from the speakers, a steaming mug of tea tucked in his insulated flask, a photograph of his beloved wife Mary glued to the windshield. Yet something else was missing: the warm scent of the knitted scarf his mother had made, his fathers firm handshake before each departure, the certainty that a cosy flat in Manchester waited for him, that a kettle would always be on and a cuppa ready. Those simple comforts haunted the open road.
One night the road betrayed him. A sudden drift of ice on the bend forced an oncoming rig into a clash. Both lorries tipped onto their sides. The other driver walked away with only a startled gasp, but Greg suffered a serious blow to the head. The injury struck the parts of his brain that guard memory. He could have lost speech, limbs, even his will, but fate was merciful that day. He awoke in a York hospital unable to recall his own name, who he was, or what had happened. When his relatives entered the ward their faces were strangers to him; the doctors could offer no bright prognosis, only the quiet prayer that the brain might mend itself in time.
Discharged, Greg discovered that forgetting was only the beginning. His shortterm memory failed him; three hours ago was a blur, everyday tasks slipped away. He could not heat a kettle, could not walk unaided, and the thought of finding his way home seemed a distant fantasy. Yet his intellect, his emotions, his will remained intact he was not a shell, merely a man with a blank notebook where his past should have been.
Mary, now heavily pregnant, went on maternity leave and devoted every hour to him. Night after night she wept, remembering how Greg had once promised toys for the child he had not yet seen, how he would fill a future nursery with a sea of playthings. Why, Greg? she would sigh, its not the right time. They say you shouldnt plan ahead; its a bad omen. He would laugh, twirl her in his arms, and reply, Superstitions are for the superstitious, love. I want our daughter to burst into the room with joy, surrounded by endless toys a whole ocean of them.
When he left the hospital, a nurse handed Mary a tiny plush bear. Is that some sort of talisman youre taking on the road? she asked, amused at the sight of a grown man clutching a toy. Yes, a good luck charm, Mary replied, and placed the bear not in the babys cot but on the nightstand beside Gregs pillow.
They strolled together through the park, shared icecream, and strangers assumed they were a happy couple awaiting a new addition. In truth they were, but after a brief nap on a park bench Greg could not recall the walk, nor that he had a pregnant wife. Mary found herself starting over each day, reminding Greg that she was his wife, that a daughter would soon arrive, that his parents were eager to help. His own parents, James and Evelyn, stepped in, easing the mounting pressure.
One evening James called Mary into the kitchen, shut the door, and said, Mary, well understand if you decide to leave Greg. Youre young, beautiful, with a whole life ahead. But think of how tired youll become, how heavy the burden will feel if his memory never returns. Dont worry about the granddaughter well love her as our own. Well be here for you. The words boiled inside Mary, mixing exhaustion, fear, and hurt. Yet she steadied herself, forced a smile, and bowed her head slightly. Her fatherinlaw, Ian, brushed a stray lock from her hair and whispered, Hang on, love. Youre stronger than you think, even with a child growing inside you.
Mary had always been slight, barely taller than a footstool, while Greg towered over her like a gentle giant. When they first visited his parents home, his mother gasped at her frailty, then asked, Shes like crystal! Where did you find such a treasure? The Turners quickly grew fond of Marysweet, a touch shy, and instantly warm to Gregs family. From that moment Greg often called her my crystal.
Their daughter, Poppy, arrived bright and healthy. Greg met Mary at the maternity ward, his eyes shining with wonder. The next morning he asked, What a little miracle you are. Mary, now accustomed to repeating the same story, added a new chapter each time, weaving in Poppys giggles and tiny hands. Greg would cradle the baby, his face alight with pure happiness.
For a while Mary moved Poppys cot into her own bedroom, needing the child close for nighttime feeds and to keep an eye on him in case he needed a drink of water. Sleep fled her, fatigue settled deep, and her milk supply dwindled. Her motherinlaw, Fiona, urged, Come stay with us, dear. Its hard to manage alone. Mary declined, not wanting to add to Fionas worries and knowing she must learn to stand on her own.
Poppy was soon fed formula. One night, instead of her daughters wail, a soft lullaby drifted through the room:
Scattered toys lie on the floor,
Children dream of sugarsweet sleep,
A sly fox steals their biscuits,
An elephant prances by the gate,
Days whirl like snow in a storm,
Outside the white snow glitters,
The moon paints shadows,
Searching for its silver portrait.
Mary lifted her head and saw Greg rocking Poppy, a tiny bundle of cloth in one hand and a bottle of formula in the other, the plush bear perched on the cots edge. She slipped onto the bed, silent, fearing to disturb the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Moonlight poured through the window, bathing the room in a silvery glow.
Here is happiness, she thought, watching the scene unfold. Greg placed the bear gently beside Poppy, whispering, This is for you, my love, my gift. Then, shivering in the chill, he curled under the blanket beside Mary.
I love you, my crystal, he murmured, the words echoing like a promise in the dreamfilled night.
