Needle in a Haystack

Contest:            249

Author:             Elysa Casselman

Prompt:            A character driving and getting lost

Needle in a Haystack

The sweet smell of my daughter’s hair wafts into my nostrils. My lips graze her tiny forehead for just slightly longer than intended. A smile pulls at the corner of my lips; it takes willpower to stand erect and back away from her bedroom whilst blowing air kisses and mouthing “goodbye my love”. The unmistakable transition between plush creamy carpet to smooth hardwood triggers an automatic transition from “Momma” to “Time to Take some Names Woman”. Nearly a decade of honing an invisible barrier between professional and personal ensures there is no cross-over between the two personas – the effect carries an uncanny similarity to the flick of a light switch. My shoes click-clack down the hall in cadence with the invisible pen checking off the necessary tasks to ensure a smooth exit.  

The rhythmic release of the seatbelt and the comforting click of metal signify the moment I have spent the last hour gearing up for: departure. A quick flick of my eyes confirms the wallet and briefcase haven’t grown legs and sauntered off. My right-hand slips behind the driver’s seat and reassuringly massages the plastic file bins – I am ready. It is go-time. With my left hand on the wheel and my right on the gear shift, I confirm the correct directions have been entered into google maps, my trusted navigator. Thanks to meticulous planning, I embark onto the highway in good time, and am on track to arrive at the makeshift Courthouse within two hours, leaving 30-minutes spare for review and last-minute witness prep.

The connection between my left buttock cheek and hamstring shoots a familiar electric current of pain down my leg. Through gritted teeth I reach for the remedy, a mock tennis ball that is hard like rock. My upper lip inadvertently curls in contempt as my unconscious mind drives me back to the conversation that landed me on circuit court detail. After a month of shattering success in court my supervisor called me into her office to announce that the crown needed a body on circuit, “just for the month”. Because the designated circuit crown was gearing up for another stress leave, evidenced by the backlog of files, excessive adjourning of trials, and landfill of accused remanded a little too long, greedily awaiting their bail hearings. My lip quivered, and to quell a sudden onset of waterworks I repeated the mantra pounded into me during my paramilitary childhood: “You are strong. Criers are weak. This life is survival of the fittest, so, for God’s sake Mary, if you must cry, do it in private”. Fast forward to a strong bathroom cry and begrudging agreement to do the circuit run for the ensuing month. 

Traffic is light in the early hours, noticeably so since I exited the highway onto less stable terrain. The rural route started with patchwork cement that slowly eroded, eventually giving up any pretense of paving or effort – I am on a dirt road, and it is ten-and-two from here on out. The rising sun mocks my approach, daring me to keep my eyes forward on the road. My destination is a small reserve in the rural north. The provincial court has bi-weekly sittings. The sitting on the first Monday of the month is for out-of-custody matters and new arrests. The second sitting is designated for trials and bail hearings. My boss awarded me todays staggering 13 trials and three bail hearings, reverse onus to boot. A small part of me was chuffed at being regarded as capable of handling this burdensome load. The larger part of me was righteously ticked-off at what was tantamount to punishment for a job well done. 

The potholes were huge, and by my calculations, growing in width and depth, with each passing mile. The sun’s morning hello cast an eerie glean to the rows of cornfields on the north and south. The taunt of the sun’s glare reminded me that I could no longer deny my trusted travel guide, a.k.a. Google Maps, was steering me eastbound. And thereby forcing me to get out of denial and start addressing the niggling suspicion that my eastbound travel contradicted my northbound destination. A slight forward arch to stave off a burgeoning neck knot was evidence that stress-sweat highjacked my pores; I was having a full case of the meat-sweats and not traveling with spare clothes. A rookie mistake, no doubt. For the umpteenth time I scanned my dated iPhone 7, daring the map to be wrong. GPS had me continuing east for another twenty clicks, with the promise of arrival in a projected three quarters of an hour. In a last-ditch futile attempt, I alternated hands rummaging surfaces, crevices, and plastic storage spaces, desperate for a paper map. All the while knowing I most definitely did not have a paper-map. Nor had I taken the time to review my route, prior to departure – second rookie mishap. Was I becoming arrogant, and ergo sloppy? Had I slowly slipped from my pious placement at the top of Discipline and Rigour Mountain? 

Eureka! I shall call the courthouse, let them know the haps, and obtain proper directions. My heart slowed and my composure returned. This relief was short-lived, because the wifi bars had left without forwarding address; my phone was as good to me as a chocolate stash in the dessert. Shaking and vibrating overtook my kneecaps and hands; even my teeth rattled up-and-down. I was in full-blown fear and terror. In a last-ditch attempt to rehabilitate my situation I jerked the wheel right and slammed on the brakes, causing my head to bounce on the driver’s side glass and onto the steering wheel. The blare of the horn roused me enough to acknowledge the metallic taste of blood coursing through my mouth from the gash caused by my teeth. 

            …

My heavy eyelids pulled upwards in response to a crushing headache. Severe dehydration was making it tough to swallow, and I look like a guppy, opening and closing my mouth, in failed attempts to utter expletives unable to form because of a dry throat and thick paste on the corners of each lip. My brain barely registers the time … my care-factor for professional tardiness has plummeted in correlation to the escalation in prioritizing survival. Repeat swiveling of my head does nothing to alter the landscape: golden fields covering the directions of the compass and a rust-colored bumpy road running east and west. My unconscious distracts me with fantasies of a youthful farmer bumping along in a John Deere tractor, chewing on hay. I can almost feel his 8-pack glistening beneath the cotton fabric of a white t-shirt, slightly too-tight Levis, and worn cowboy boots. Just as my fantasy evolves to him carrying me from my Lexus, ready to start CPR, the faint whirr of a motor echoes in the distance. Deep in my rear-view I detect dust, a sure clue of another traveler. A crack of the window confirms the low growl is indeed the chortle of an engine. My body tenses and seems to shrink together in response to my straining ears and eyes. Something feels ‘off’, the opposite of okay.

A dusty green Ford blurs in my vision, becoming sharper with the pass of each nanosecond. The comfort I seek through self-talk is stymied by dehydration, which is not getting better with time. My pulsating head makes it tough to generate and streamline available options, but my hunch is that a child could sketch the lay of the land: 

·      Stay put and hope the oncoming driver is the reason for the adage “don’t judge a book by the cover”. 

·      Book it for the fields and find cover within the wheat.

·      Find refuge in my SUV and pray he doesn’t see me.

·      Turn the key and drive like a maniac, banking on my 6 Litre engine, quarter tank of gas and superior driving skills. 

Unable to resist my childhood quirk, I lock eyes with myself in the rear-view mirror, glossing over the mouth crusts, dried blood, and telltale signs of blossoming racoon eyes. “Three, two, one and done …” I recite the comforting chant and let instincts take over. And a small part of me prays that I am a legend in disguise, concealing hidden strength surpassing those that lift cars. I dash across the driver’s side and summersault through the passenger side door and onto the rocky road. Adrenaline doesn’t disappoint and carries me into an army crawl as I descend the gravelly ledge of the road and into the wheat. The roar of a 1989 engine makes further contemplation impossible. 

The truck slows and cruises to a stop and neatly parks. My eyes strain to assess and categorize the threat as either Friend or Foe. My instinct dictate and I drop him in the Foe category. The rickety noise of a door, thirsty for WD-40, cuts through the air. I suck in air as I take in the sheer magnitude of his gargantuan build. The glint of a knife, reflecting off the sun, takes my breath away and I involuntarily shudder. The last thing I hear is the crunch of worn cowboy boots meandering through gravel. The last thing I see is the face of my fiction handsome cowboy, standing above me, the blade of an axe shimmering. The last thing I feel, precipitating sweet peace, is the sickening crash of wood on skull.