Country Road, Take Me Home

“Yes, Mother, I know I’m late. It’s not-”

“Not your fault, right? Always on somebody else. You promised you would be on time, just this once, for me.”

“You’re right and I’m sorry. I should’ve been on the road already. But, the roads look pretty clear so I’ll be there before you know it. Shouldn’t take longer than an hour, hour and a half max. Save me a plate?”

Her pause tells me that I’ve won the argument. Until I get home at least and get another lecture about time management and the importance of family. It’s really not my fault. I have a condition. Chronic tardiness. Sure, it’s not an actual diagnosis but no matter what I do to get my ass moving something comes up and I fall behind. Setting alarms, pre-packing the car, leaving work early. Nothing works.

“Of course. Drive safe. See you soon.”

“You know you’re my favorite Mom, right?”

The call disconnects and I’m positive her eyes rolled so far back behind her head that she saw her brain. I’ll have to pick her up some flowers as I get closer to home. Disappointing my mother doesn’t make me dance and rejoice. I do feel terrible when I’m late. For most people it’s a one off or not a problem at all. My therapist says it’s because I’m too optimistic. That I have too much confidence in my ability to make up time by driving fast or underestimate traffic or unplanned, unpredictable delays. So, in actuality, when she says I’m too optimistic, that’s really code for delusional.

I wasn’t lying when I said the roads were clear. There’s nothing between me and the interstate except the giant green exit signs and tall pine trees swaying in the wind. Going a little over the speed limit won’t hurt. Plus, I have a shortcut to get over to I-75 which is a direct shot to my parents’ house. As I pull off the exit and see the rundown gas station, I check the gauge and decide it’s probably a good idea to fill up. With my hand gripping the pump, a cold breeze swings through and all the hair on my arm sticks up. The goosebumps that arise give me the feeling that I’m being watched. After a quick swivel, I duck inside my car and slam the door quickly. My shortcut will help me make up for the stop. Definitely delusional. Maybe I’m starting to understand what my therapist was talking about.

The large orange sign blocking the road deflates me. Detour. I know I’m fucked now. Mom is gonna be so pissed. Following the trail of orange down some backroad was not on my bingo card for this trip. Unplanned delay #2. Dare I say that treacherous word again. The road isn’t even fucking paved. Just a dirt path wide enough for one car. I can’t imagine fitting next to an oncoming car. A crash would be inevitable. At least Mom couldn’t be mad at me for that. With every bump and ditch, my car feels more like a rickety old rollercoaster. The further I continue, the more wooded it gets. Mother Nature is either being surprisingly helpful or awfully deceitful as the wind gets stronger moving the trees to and fro. Almost waving me to venture deeper. Inviting me to explore the unknown. But what other choice do I have?

I’m not a big horror movie fan. Mostly because they’re predictable. I mean why oh why would you run up the stairs where it’s harder to exit. Or use the landline when you know the killer already cut the power lines and hello it’s 2024. We have…wait for it…now this is ingenious…cell phones! Blows my mind. This drive is starting to remind me of Jeepers Creepers. You know the OG one from the early 2000’s with young Justin Long. He and his sister are driving home on school break and find themselves being hunted by some supernatural being that emerges every 21 years to eat body parts. Replenishing his vitality before returning to its two decade slumber. My shortcut was supposed to be more like the main road in that movie. Long stretch of nothing but one lane for each direction, dirt and fields. This is nothing like that.

After about ten failed attempts to connect with the outside world, I throw my phone on the passenger seat and admit defeat. No texts or calls can escape the thick canopy above me. Not even a radio signal. So here I am driving along in dead fucking silence. Bump after bump making sure I don’t bottom out or lose a car part. Oh, and to make matters worse. I have to pee. Yet another delay I didn’t account for, but I don’t dare stop now. As the sweat builds on my forehead, I crack my window. Only enough to get some air in and not nearly wide enough for any fingers to attempt to crawl inside. Paranoid? Maybe. I’d rather be paranoid than naive.

With daytime descending, my headlights do a mediocre job of lighting the right way down this dirt path. I don’t see the small hill in the road and I swear the floor of my 2002 Honda Civic might detach. The butterflies in my stomach are bouncing off the walls slowly turning into nausea. By the time I get back to flat ground, I slam my foot on my breaks. It takes me a minute to realize it’s not my car heaving, but me. My hand flies up to my chest to calm my rapid breathing. I don’t have asthma but it sure feels like my lungs are collapsing right about now. Surrendering is tempting although it wouldn’t change the fact that I’m lost. Don’t know where I am or how long I’ve been traveling down this forgotten trail. All of my emotions reach the surface and I grab my steering wheel and let out a blaring scream.

Like a parrot mocking me, the matching screech alerts me that I’m not alone. I’m not stupid enough to believe nothing lives in these woods, but I’ve been so focused elsewhere that being killed by an animal didn’t rank. Its yells didn’t sound like a friendly hello or a seductive mating call. No, it sounded painful. Struggling. In need of help. My foot slams back on the gas while my head hits the headrest like I’m going through a hyperspace. Thinking the faster my car goes, the greater the distance between me and the sound of that deadly altercation. I was proven wrong. Again. The scream seems closer than ever this time. Like it’s riding alongside my vehicle. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”.

Yeah nope. Not ready to die. Not today, not here. My mind races through all of the true crime documentaries I’ve watched leisurely trying to recall the victim demographics. Murdered women are usually blondes or brunettes. While I fit the typical age range, no one wants a redhead. I mean c’mon they’ll take one look at me and realize that. My thoughts don’t justify my fear though. If anything I find myself becoming more vigilant. Wrapping my fingers around the steering wheel, any and all color that was once in my knuckles is now gone. Even my chest is pressed up against it as if being so crunched up and alert is going to help my case. Regardless, I know that whatever might happen will happen regardless of my posture.

Not sure if it’s heaven I see in the distance or the main road. Nonetheless, I speed up hoping and praying I’m back on the right track. I can almost taste Mom’s delicious dinner and smell the cigar smoke from Dad’s breath as he pulls me in for a tight embrace. The wheels lift up onto the well-paved open road and for some reason the miles and miles of empty field in front of me is just as eerie as the forest maze in my rearview mirror. I’ll be the first to admit that even with the dark skies around me it’s nice to have some visibility. My breathing is finally stabilizing and my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to jump out of my chest anymore. Time to get home.

I’m not a big distracted driver. Texts and calls can usually wait until you’ve reached a destination or put in park, but Mom is probably going crazy wondering where I am and it’s only right to fill her in. Even if it is to give her another excuse like a detour, I just want to give her peace of mind. Reaching across the console to grab my device, it takes me no time at all to voice a text to her. Even with just a few, short seconds of not watching the road, I don’t seem to see whatever it is that I just ran over. But I know it’s not good. My car continues on for a few more yards before slowing down to a stop.

The chilling feeling returns and all of the hair on my arm stands up again as I twist the key pulling it out of the ignition. Now is not the time for my car to break down. Not on this nightmare of a drive to see my parents. After a few deep breaths, my door swings open and I stand looking down at my tires. What. The. Fuck. Rounding my car, I’m in an all-out panic. My shaky fingers run through my hair and it’s the first time I’m realizing how truly sweaty and scared I am. All four tires are busted. Deflated. Useless. As I’m about to hop back in my car, I turn to look at the road behind me to see what could have possibly done this to me. The spike strip is being pulled across the road into a ditch. The head pops up and my feet are stuck in cement on a hot summer day. Like I couldn’t be any more on edge, the car radio gets its signal and my blood runs cold. The chorus begins and John Denver sings “Country roads, take me home / to the place I belong”. I’m starting to think this detour wasn’t a detour at all.