Still in Control

I pass the Florida-Georgia border, the midway point of my eight hour journey. The unmistakable landmark renowned for its marshes, historical plantation homes, and fields of solar panels that stretch for miles, smells of sulfur and decay. The palm trees transition to pines and a hollow feeling sinks into my chest. My arms are heavy as I grip the steering wheel. There are no gas stations, convenient stores, or fast food restaurants ahead, only empty exits that lead to nothing more.

The darkness is so thick, it is pointless to consider the sporadic nature of the wildlife surrounding I75 North. The speedometer reads ninety miles per hour, but I can’t travel fast enough. Each minute passed feels like hours, and I have exhausted my list of podcasts about serial killers and UFO’s to keep me entertained, the lively voices of their hosts, my only company. 

I call my mom, and she doesn’t answer. Convenient. I didn’t want to talk to her. I wanted to talk to anyone, and I figured she was a safe bet. I was wrong. I call my brother and get his voicemail. I give up on phone calls.

A glowing billboard approaches in the distance. It’s the closest thing to a star that I can make out in the overcast sky. An image of Jesus Christ plastered over a bright yellow background comes into view. Lightning bolts strike the earth behind him and what appears to be an exploding helicopter hovers over his left shoulder. He is surrounded by fire and military men dressed in battle attire. The bright red text reads, “I’m still in control… Jesus.”

I wonder if Jesus will take the wheel if I let go and lay on the gas. I push the impulsive thought away and open the YouTube app on my phone. I know I should not browse the internet while careening a metal box down the highway at high speeds, but I do it anyway. It is late, and the road is mostly empty.

None of the automated suggestions based on my usual preferences interest me. I scroll without really looking until I spot a familiar title out of the corner of my eye - Celebrity Ghost Stories. I remember watching the television series as a kid. The late 2000’s cinematic reenactments and ghoulish faces frightened me then, but they must be laughable now. I choose a random episode and let the audio play through the speakers of my Volkswagen Jetta.

It is midsummer, and the air is hot and humid. I am trying to conserve gas to avoid stopping in some Podunk racist town, so I roll the window down further and turn up the volume. The scent of southern swamplands fills my nostrils with a jolt of energy stronger than any shot of caffeine.

A familiar young woman's voice filters through the wind tunnel I've created for myself. My brain cannot connect a face to her voice, but if I could see the screen, I’m sure I’d recognize her. I listen intently as she recounts a tale of purchasing a grand colonial home with her newlywed husband. A spirit begins to haunt them. Though the woman is unbothered by their ghostly companion, her partner soon becomes violent, blaming his unexpected outbursts on the entity. The woman has a dream of her grandmother, visiting her in the night. The spirit implores her to leave the house and the husband behind. The following day, the husband attempts to attack his wife with a heavy object. She narrowly avoids a blow to the head and spots an apparition of her grandmother in the corner. She gathers her belongings, flees the home, and the story ends.

I close the YouTube app, and despite my resistance, the flood gates have opened. Tears roll down my burning cheeks like a heavy rain descending upon a fragile leaf. My knuckles turn white with tension, and I release a wail that I do not recognize. It has been a year and a half since my grandfather died. This reaction feels too dramatic considering the passage of time, but I cannot control it. No one is chasing me with a heavy object, but I am aware that my life is an objective disaster. 

I speak out loud through my tears, “Why, Grandpa? Why aren’t you here when I need you? Why is no one ever here?” I allow the tears to fall a little longer and absorb the silence, the sound of wind moving through my hair with untamable speed. The quiet is interrupted by the seat belt alarm, chiming and flashing red on the dashboard.

I look down to confirm that I am still strapped in and then glance at the passenger seat. My wallet is there, so I throw it on the floor to remove the weight. A few moments pass and the signal flashes again. I look around for anything that could put pressure on the seats, but the leather cushions are bare. I roll up the windows and confirm there are no serial killers hiding in the back before testing the theory forming in my mind. I reach over and buckle the passenger seat belt. I unbuckle and re-secure my own. Seconds later, the dash lights up, and the signal chimes a third time.

A soothing warmth encompasses the space, and a pair of invisible arms settle gently around my shoulders. I am crying again. The dashboard continues to glow and the alarm still sounds as I travel. It is possible that my vehicle is majorly malfunctioning, but I have no fear. I take a deep breath for what feels like the first time since my departure. The air in my lungs is light and clean, free of salt or sulfur. My phone buzzes in my lap with a text from my dad. It reads, “hey baby just wanted to check in. been thinking about grandpa a lot lately. i love you.” The seat belt signal chimes for the last time, and I let Celebrity Ghost Stories play until I arrive.