“I could go,” I thought to myself. “I could do it.”

The green sign that read the exit for Eureka was coming clearer into view. I could take the exit and drive until I reached peace, meet the Ocean and say “hello, Ocean. I have missed you.”

            I thought of this as I continued to drive. I could still do it. I wondered how much gas I needed. How much I would need to take me over the mountain divide. Grandpa came to my head, the drive o’er bridges with the rebellious triumph of Egmont Overture heralding. I could do it. The moment didn’t have to be over. I continued to accelerate.

            A crane to the side of the highway caught my attention.  Turning under the gravity, chains suspended another interstate sign. The lacquered metal shimmered green, dangling in my view just off the asphalt. The silver lettering said “Portland” and approximated the miles there. Portland. The sign met me, then turned and minimized in my rearview mirror. I could do it. When I got home I would make a plan; I was going to Portland.

            The resolve did not consider restraint, nor tolerate the possibility of failure. It ceased being an option and began being the only choice. Any ambition was forgotten to continue living in California. I knew working as a waitress to pay the rent was my only hope, taking night classes at the community college.

            What would I tell my parents? They would object, perhaps. It was the first realization of the possibility to act independently. Cousins and extended family I knew could help me secure a waitress position. What would they tell the closest friend when he returned? I would be gone by then, leaving the traces of myself in wisps, but only a ghost. I could do it. I could be free. I have to get out of here.

            The eerie resolve, I knew, may, and would, fade. I would have to wait until I finished the remainder of my semester. I would ask my cousin Emily to come with me. It had been the plan at one time, I would simply revive it. The sentence running through my head was a refrain of a title in the Hours. Something She Had To Do. The opening scene played in my head like it was my own story. The continual wear against the characters felt as if it were a retelling of the wear on myself. Day after day. The battle to own it, the battle to deny it.

What would I do? I would live. Would it work? It wasn’t a question I was tempted to entertain, though I knew a breath of it to anyone would shatter my motivation. It would remain my secret. The adrenaline from the night before still ran in me, the painful pricks in my fingers and veins. It gave me a cold understanding of this new reality.

Life and death. Something she had to do.