fiCtioN

"But if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe."

Exodus 21:23-5

The trip between Good Hart and Cross Village can be treacherous, even in good weather. Once you hit Levering road it's a straight shot east, but the drive along the coast is serpentine. The specialist Don Merryweather needed to see was in St. Ignace, so they really had no choice. Being a black single parent in Harbor Springs was no picnic. Don had thought that raising his daughter in northern Michigan would be better than bringing her up in Detroit. Now he wasn't so sure. But there was no turning back. He had accepted a three-year internship and felt obligated to fulfill his contract. Now here they were, creeping along a desolate road in near blizzard conditions, on their way to an appointment with an oncologist who was sure to confirm his daughter's advancing leukemia. At least the radio was cool: "Let's stay together. Loving you forever, whether times are good or bad, unhappy or sad."

Al Green was their favorite. "Daddy, how soon will we be able to see the bridge? Nicole pleaded, her almond eyes imploring him to somehow make the trip go faster. "Once we hit the expressway the road will be better. Then it's only a hop, skip and a jump to the bridge," Don said, with that tone of distraction that implies an untruth. The combination of Blizzard and lake effect snow, and the interminable squalls that come where northern lands meet big water, had reduced the visibility to almost zero. Swirling snow devils made it such that driving at 10MPH was a risk.

It's been an hour since we left Cross Village, Don thought. Where is the fucking road? A county snowplow suddenly appeared, illuminating the sign indicating the entrance ramp to I-75. "It'll be smooth sailing now, ‘scuttlebutton’.” That was his pet name for Nicole, "first one to see the bridge wins." The fact that they were up to 30MPH raised Don's spirits, it also meant he could briefly think about something other than what was immediately in front of him.

"Aplastic anemia, myelodysplasia, who in the hell knew the difference?" He would have given anything to add the proverbial, "and who cares,"; but the sorrowful events of late had taught him that this is ultimately a moot question; an inquiry that inevitably comes back to haunt us. He now believed that no matter what question one qualified with a "who cares," at some point in the hourglass of one's days, the answer must inevitably be answered with an, "I do." Dr. Paul Hackman, the hematologist in Petoskey, had said that Nicole's marrow was void of cells, profoundly scarred and incapable of producing healthy blood. His diagnosis? Without an immediate bone-marrow transplant Nicole was terminal. Six months at best. The transplant, an extremely aggressive and risky form of treatment in the best of circumstances, was further complicated by the unavailability of a compatible donor. Hackman had advised that this was the only option. Merryweather, ever the skeptic, decided to get a second opinion.

From a distance the car's flashers might have been mistaken for the lights on the Mackinaw Bridge. Don knew this couldn't be, since they had yet to reach Indian River. The uneven tilt of the car said flat tire. Anyone but Don might have gone by. For Don, however, the thought of ignoring someone in distress in a sub-zero gale was not an option. He pulled up behind the Oldsmobile, put on his emergency flashers, checked Nicole, who was now sleeping in her car seat, and whispered he'd be right back.

12/19/71: "Whenever I cross a bridge, any bridge, there is an impatient hiss in my head. When this happens, I cautiously move my tongue back where I can feel the edge of my brainpan. It is on this margin that I fight my battles. Sometimes, it is in a moment as brief as a needle's prick that I make my decision. It takes someone like me to really understand what it feels like to fall through the snow...through the night...through the ice. She couldn't take the cold water. You know, Baker, some people think you can never swim in Lake Superior, not even in summer. I always wanted to star in action movies and perform heroic feats. I did it too. It's not killing that's cool, its cruelty; the ultimate satisfaction of knowing you are at the center of a helpless pupil; a universe, in the sense that the universe is nothing more than the subjective perception of each person; not some objective foundational reality we can posit in some collective way."