Fiction: The Pacemaker
Hurtling on I-70,
through the flattest part of Indiana.
Mile
marker 191.
Plans
to break at exit 208 for lunch.
Husband,
at the wheel for the past two hours, stares straight ahead at the broken white
line.
Highway
nearly empty, one small orange semi square far ahead.
Gerry
and the Pacemakers’ “Ferry ‘Cross the Mersey” croons through the speakers.
*Life
goes on day after day…*
“Boring
drive,” I say, noting the endless cornfields on either side, brilliant blue skies.
No
answer.
He
stares ahead in total concentration.
Mile
marker 195.
*Each
with their own secret care…*
“Well,
then…” I brush off the perceived slight.
His
body looks stiff and unyielding.
“At
least it’s not raining.”
No
response.
Dead
stare.
Is
he playing a cruel joke on me?
Slight
panic. “Honey?”
Still
nothing.
Mile
marker 197.
His
breath seems steady and regular, no sign of pain, color looks good.
Always
a concern with a cardiac patient.
*Hearts
torn in every way…*
Yet
the car remains steady, cruise control on, slight curves navigated perfectly.
The
blankness scares me.
My
God, is something wrong with him?
*And
always take me there…*
Yes,
we’re almost there.
*So
I’ll continue to say…*
Exit
208 ahead.
“Stop!
Stop! That’s our exit!”
Without
a word, Husband zips the car toward the ramp and slows down.
“Wha
–?” He shakes his head like a dog.
“We’re
here.”
“I
lost 17 miles. What happened to miles 192 through 207?”
*We’ll
never turn you away…*
“Hello!
The miles didn’t disappear. You did!”
Husband
slows down and switches on the right turn signal – when exiting to an unfamiliar
place, he always turns right – one of his quirks.
“Oh.
I remember now,” he says.
Green
road sign at the T:
Liverpool → 1 mile
“Liverpool?”
There’s
a Liverpool in Pennsylvania, but no signage has indicated an Indiana Liverpool,
at least from I-70 and, specifically, exit 208.
“That’s
right.” A strange red glow emanates from Husband’s eyes.
Panic
rises in my heart. “I think we took a wrong turn.”
“It’s
gonna be all right, all right.”
“What?
Are you kidding? We’re totally lost.”
“Here
we’ll always stay,” he says, his voice not quite – him.
I
suddenly get a whiff of salt air, mixed with that of marine life – not something
I’d associate with Indiana.
The
squawk of seagulls.
Gulls
invading mid-America?
Back
home, they often travel inland and hang around malls, about 50 miles from the
Chesapeake Bay.
Gulls
would have to travel hundreds of miles to be here.
And
why?
Husband
sings along: *‘Cause this land's the place I love…*
“What
are you talking about? Indiana?”
“No.
Liverpool.” He takes a deep breath. “They'll never turn us away.”
“Who?”
“Scousers.”
“Scousers?”
“Commonly
known as Liverpudlians.”
Another
sign:
Ferry → 1/2 mile
“Ferry?”
He
sighs impatiently: “We’re taking the ferry ‘cross the Mersey. The River Mersey.”
*We
don't care what your name is…*
“A
place we can love.”
A
boat ramp materializes before us.
“Here
we’ll stay.”
Forever
here.
Ahead,
a foghorn wails.
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