I didn’t think to check my phone. I was angry, dealing with emotions I rarely experience; perceiving a story that I’d imagined in my head and taken to heart. It might’ve been the God’s honest truth or simply convincing. It was a reason to harden. And that phone. I was leaning against that condiment counter when I finally checked it. It isn’t instinct, it’s not in me to do that. I should’ve thought to do that.
You think that way, after.
I should’ve known, I should’ve called, I should’ve been relentless.
It must’ve been early. Earlier than I needed to leave. I saw the innkeeper on my way out. He emerged from his office at the back of the house with half a shirt on and blotchy red skin. I hadn’t seen any sunshine during my entire time in town, so I concluded I’d simply missed the ferry.
“I’m heading out,” I said.
He pulled down the remainder of his shirt and gawked. He hadn’t seen me since I showed up around midnight on Friday.
“Oh, well, alright. We’ll just print your bill out for you.”
I dropped my single bag and approached the desk they’d positioned in the center of the foyer. I could see the names of all the guests they’d signed in that weekend. They might’ve all been John and Mary.
“We’re sorry about disturing you, yesterday. Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.
“Didn’t see your guest, did we?”
“No. The plans didn’t work out.”
“Oh, well sorry to hear that. Can we fix you breakfast?”
“No. I need to catch a flight in Chicago.”
“Way out there?”
“Yup.”
“How about we fix you something to go.”
“No, thanks.”
You try to just go. You try to remain polite, and go. You pick up your bag and go.
I liked it. There’s always something to like about a place if I look around. There were fields, of course. Fields and trees everywhere. A lot of young folks, oddly enough. Perhaps youth stands out to me more than it once did. Walking along one of the main streets, Market or something, I’d seen a girl who looked too young walk into a bar in the middle of the night. I wondered, noticing this and talking to the odd gas station attendant, if it was any different. I’d been many places. People always seemed like people.
You think about what you missed and what you remembered. The logistics: the car, the four post bed, the giant mirror, the bed ‘n breakfast built of aging, creaky wood. You think of the smell of the midnight light and the library just outside the corner room filled top-to-bottom with decorative spines. The condoms become a symbol. You think of a decade ago, of awkward fuck-ups that are never past. You feel, using the word in your head like it means anything more than general malaise.
On the drive out of town you pass the hospital and wonder if they take care of her there. If they are expedient, efficient, and caring. You think of the white walls, the sickly feeling of overcompensating for bodily failure with straight lines and pastel decor. You quickly pass into empty roads and fields.
I listened to NPR. I’d found the local station on the radio and set it to preset 1. I only remember news of the weather and following the directions east, then north, then west, then north, then west, passing through towns which I don’t recall. For every five miles I passed half a car. I looked for animals and saw many lonely dogs. I don’t remember cows.
Then you’re at the McDonalds and you check the phone.
Wait, no. Before that, you arrive at the toll booth from Indiana to Illinois.
“Do you have coins?”
“Just a credit card. Nothin’ else.” I might’ve smiled. I do.
“Well, it’s alright. You can go.”
“You won’t get in trouble? Come up short?”
“No one’ll notice.”
“Alright.” I nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
That’s right. She said I’m welcome, then I drove up onto another highway. I drove up and across the state line, now two hours closer to home instead of three. That’s right. It was still cloudy, and still expansive, surrounded by rurality and industry I couldn’t tell you anything about. I could see as far as Lake Michigan, I bet.
But that’s not what you think about. Places like those, that stretch between Gary and Chicago—it’s all been shown before. Gray skies, metal yards, empty grass. It leads to that last toll crossing and the McDonalds restaurant stationed right there in the middle, straddling both sides of the highway and open to all. Waiting for a bagel sandwich of some sort, you think you ought to check your phone. You do, you finally check it, and when you hear her voice it’s about as much as you can do not to blow off the flight and drive back. You realize that you have quite plainly fucked up, having missed one opportunity, and another, and another, and another, until you’re no longer a reality and thousands of miles in the red.