Hannah Pittard - Listen to Me

Totally, totally, she’d thought about it. And why not? She was a woman: it was impossible not to have the discussion at some point or another. When they first started dating in fact, Mark had asked if she was interested, but the conversation hadn’t lingered on babies. Instead, it turned quickly to Maggie’s own mother. “There was so much disappointment in that house,” she’d told him. “But there were also these photos, photos from before me and my brother, and in them my parents looked happy. I don’t remember ever seeing them look happy around me.” Maggie didn’t think her parents’ miserable attitudes were her fault, but she understood that — rightly or wrongly — she and her brother had changed things. “You know they didn’t hug us?” she’d told Mark that day. “I can’t remember a single hug. What I’m getting at, I suppose, is if it happens, it happens. But if it doesn’t, I’ll be okay.” And it hadn’t happened, and Maggie really was okay. There were bound to be regrets one day. When she was Gwen’s age, for instance, she assumed she would experience a sort of homesickness for someone who never existed — a son, maybe a daughter. She’d miss the presence of youth in her life; miss getting to see that son or daughter fall in love for the first time. But Maggie also assumed that the homesickness would be infrequent, and the possibility of a future regret certainly didn’t seem reason enough to change one’s life now.

She slapped the steering wheel. “A mother,” she said, though Mark was out cold, “what a strange thing to be.” She shook her head.

Maggie glanced in the rearview. In the back, Gerome readjusted himself. His two yellow eyes glowed up at her. “Can you imagine?” she said to the dog. “Can you even imagine something so odd?”

Gerome sighed. The yellow eyes disappeared into the darkness of the backseat.

They were east of Xenia now, but they were no longer making good time. The rain had slowed everything down. At nearly every streetlight, she caught the red. They’d have to get a hotel eventually, but they wouldn’t hit the big chains for another hour or two. They were still four hundred miles from Charlottesville, still two and a half hours from West Virginia.

“Damn it,” Maggie said.

Mark shifted but didn’t wake. The wipers ticked right, left, right, left. A streetlight ahead turned from green to yellow to red.

“Mark,” she said.

He smacked his lips and yawned.

“Mark,” she said again. Now she tapped him on the knee.

“We there?” His eyes were still closed.

She laughed. “You’ve been out twenty minutes,” she said. “We’re definitely not there.”

“What’s up?” He cracked his neck. He was slowly coming to.

“We didn’t even think about dinner,” she said.

US-35 was a wasteland when it came to food. Usually they were on 64, in West Virginia, by the time they were hungry, which meant Starbucks, Panera, Chipotle. US-35 involved gas stations with fried chicken and fast-food buffets with names like Krispy Kitchen and Fishin’ Freddie’s.

“Did you pack snacks?” he said.

She shook her head. “Only for Gerome.”

The light turned green, and Maggie slowly pressed down on the gas.

“Don’t get too close to the trucks,” said Mark.

“I know,” she said.

“Their brakes,” he said.

She nodded. She wasn’t annoyed. She might have been annoyed, but just then she wasn’t. Just then she liked that he was acting a little paternal. It made her feel safe. It made her feel loved.

“How far are we from Charleston?” he said.

“Three hours,” she said. “Then another three to Charlottesville.”

Mark got out his phone.

“What are you looking at?” asked Maggie.

“Why are you always asking me that?”

“I didn’t realize I was,” she said.

“I’m checking e-mail.”

“I thought you didn’t like checking e-mail on your phone.”

“Students,” he said. “We left early. I want to make sure there are no questions about the final.”

Mark was so meticulous about avoiding the computer at home. So meticulous, as a matter of fact, that lately she’d begun to wonder at it. Not that he could have known — because she wasn’t in reality, as he’d suggested, always asking — but she’d recently grown curious about the nature of his online correspondence: computers, phones, or otherwise. For one thing, she’d been wondering why he changed his password a few months ago. That question had most certainly been on her mind, but no way had she brought it up with him. There were too many obvious follow-up inquiries from Mark:

How did she know he’d changed his password?

Had she tried logging in to his personal account?

His school account?

Why?

Surely — as far as he was concerned at least — his queries would trump and possibly invalidate her initial one: why had he needed to change it in the first place? So she hadn’t asked, but it was something she wondered about from time to time.

“Also, I wanted to see where we are,” he said, “on the map.”

Mark had an early generation smartphone with a scratched-up screen; it was unlikely the map was even readable.

“Is it the stupidest idea in the world to say we should just turn around?” he said.

“Go back to Chicago?”

He gave a little chuckle. “Dayton,” he said. “We’re only twenty miles east of it.”

“How is that even possible?” she said. “That makes no sense.” It was daylight when they’d skirted Dayton. Now it was night.

“Small roads,” he said. “Rain.”

A station wagon pulled abruptly in front of them. Maggie hit the brakes and put her arm out as if to keep Mark from jerking forward. He took her hand and kissed it. “You’re doing great,” he said.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“Should we just keep going, then?” he said.

“I guess,” she said. “The idea of Dayton…”

“I know.”

Mark went back to his phone. Maggie drove in silence for a few minutes, then turned on the radio. Mark turned it off again.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He was looking at his screen. “We’ve got Washington Court House coming up and Chillicothe. There’s got to be something there.”

“You mean for the night?”

“No, no,” he said. “Dinner. There must be something. Even if it’s just a Subway. Then I’ll be good to drive.”

“You said we’d need a hotel.”

“Eventually,” he said. “But I think I can get us to West Virginia. It’s not even eight yet. I can go another three hours for sure.”

“Nine,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s nine,” she said. “You’re still on Chicago time.”

He looked at his watch and then at his phone. “Damn,” he said. “You’re right.”

“We’ll hit the big hotels in an hour,” she said. “We’ll stop for the night then.”

“It’s not like they close,” he said. “When we’re ready, there will be something.”

“It was your idea,” she said. “Getting a hotel.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Promise. Let’s make as much ground as we can. Short drive in the morning.”

Obviously, in an ideal world, they wouldn’t have to consider a hotel at all. But given the reports, given the state of the roads, a hotel was obviously the safest option. Only now that Maggie had come around to the idea, Mark was suddenly gung-ho to continue. Usually their timing was more in sync. She suspected, sadly, that he was trying to prove his masculinity in the most facile of ways: I’m a man. Men drive through the night.

Mark turned the radio back on and found the AM station, which was listing cities again.

“Let’s eat soon, though,” he said. “Whatever you see that looks good. Dinner’s your call. I totally trust you.”