Dead Ends — By Emily Hall

artwork by Brian McCafferty

In the end, I choose a random place on the map. The land juts into the Atlantic Ocean like a finger, and we joke that it’s beckoning us. Driving there, the GPS transforms into an endlessly refreshing circle on my screen.

            “We’ll go by instinct,” you say with a smile. I smile back, even though trusting my instincts has never felt easy.

            We drive with the windows down. In a nearby field, turkeys spread their wings and strut around faded cornstalks. You perk up because this is your first time visiting New England. I, who lived here when I was young, feel an emotion I struggle to name. I remember the blue house where I lived as a child. It had only just begun to feel like home when our landlord forced us out, sending us to another state and a rundown trailer. I watch as pavement gives way to gravel, beautiful homes to peeling ones. We see stacks of wooden lobster traps flanking overflowing gardens.

            “I want to live here,” you breathe. I follow your gaze to the most perfect house. A glass porch filled with green fronds. A widow’s walk at the top, where crows sit and spread gossip.

            Just as I start to imagine living there, I feel afraid. If I say I want to move here too, I may accidentally set this plan in motion, and we’ll have to leave our North Carolina home forever.

            “We can’t afford to live here,” I say flatly. You become quiet, but it’s not enough for me, I want to end this conversation entirely.

            “And if you want to live here, you can come by yourself,” I add. Then I look at you,

convinced that you’ll smile and shrug off what I said with a joke.    

            Instead, your eyes meet mine and you say calmly, “Maybe I will come up here alone.” You rest your hand on my leg and continue, “You see, I can be cynical too.”

            We turn away from each other and drive in silence. When we finally reach our destination, we get out of the car. In the distance, the land ends abruptly, the craggy rocks surrounded by the ocean.

            At first, all I can see is a dead end, and I question why we came here. But then I look over and see the wonder on your face. A city boy, you’ve never experienced so much open space.

            When I look back, I make myself see what you see. The seals scuttling along sandbanks. Tangles of kelp strewn across the rocks. Petrified wood that looks like an ancient, sleeping beast.

            As the smell of salt sinks into me, I imagine another road forming in front of us. At the end sits a home, where I pluck ruby-like radishes from our garden and we have coffee on our porch before walking to this shore. I envision us hunkered under quilts through a vibrant fall, a velvety winter.  

            I stand there, casting my imagination onto the waves. For the first time, I finally do what you’ve always asked me to. I let myself dream.

Emily Hall's prose has appeared, or is forthcoming, in places such as 100 Word Story, Passages North, Gooseberry Pie Lit, Short Reads, The Disappointed Housewife, Does It Have Pockets, Cherry Tree, and Blood Orange Review. She lives in North Carolina with her husband.