all my marbles

We are driving down the dirt road that connects the cottages along this side of Lake Huron to greater civilization. The car fights physics to reach a sudden stop, my boyfriend gasping at the baby squirrel in the road. He honks gently, but the animal does not move. I ask if it is alive, and it lifts its chin to the sky in indignant affirmation. I leave my door wide open and approach with caution. Why am I approaching with caution? This thing has teeth like grains of rice and claws like fallen eyelashes. I point a toe towards it, hoping to encourage it to move away from the centre of the road. Instead it is on me in a flash, its little claws scrambling for purchase on my sandaled foot. It climbs me like a tree, or maybe it thinks I am its mother? If so, I am a terrible mother, because I swing my leg with a gorilla’s grace, effectively flinging the baby into the tall grass by the roadside. It shoots me a look of betrayal, then scurries out of sight. 

Back in the car, we resume our journey. We are on a quest to find the magic elixir that restores my constitution after hours of suffering from a migraine: Gatorade. We drive through golden farmland, a gentle bug massacre gathering at the windshield, Renaissance clouds hugging the horizon. 

A bird swoops in too close, chasing after a snack. The car skids to a halt again. My boyfriend curses the bird, calling it “BRO” to communicate that he is a friend to all living things – birds especially. He does not want to kill any birds – it’s not his fault he’s behind the wheel of this death machine. 

When the second bird glides too close to our headlight and the car swerves dangerously close to the ditch, I feel a familiar old click in the pit of my stomach. Some subconscious part of me had been counting the omens…1…2…3. My mother’s voice rings out in my head: signs from God come in three. I turn to my boyfriend to tell him we are going to die today. 

“That’s your internalized Catholicism – all I see is coincidence.” 

We buy the Gatorade and drive home, my breath held the whole way. I regret that the last thing I’ll ever taste is Blue Gatorade. Blue is by far the best flavour, but it is not a death row sort of meal. In the afterlife, will I be frozen with this taste on my tongue? Am I doomed to taste Blue Gatorade forever and ever? I find myself wishing I had gone for Cherry Coke instead. 

My boyfriend tries to make eye contact, to tell me he loves me. The light from the setting sun gives his nose and cheekbones a heavenly, golden glow, but I tell him to “keep your eyes on the damn road!” 

I start to explain, again, how I am not religious, but I do believe in signs, when another bird dive bombs in front of our car, nearly sending us into a tailspin. I let out a sigh of relief. 

“This is great,” I tell him, “now it really is just a coincidence.” Signs from God do not come in four.