They should be in school.

My stomach tightens as I think it, but I push down my anxiety and pull into the third gas station of the day.

It’s as barren as a filling station in a zombie apocalypse movie. Bags cover the handles of each pump. A piece of plywood rests against the front door. It reads: “No gas. Water gone.”

AD

I look in my rearview mirror and read the look of fear on my 10-year-old son, Brady’s face.

“It’s okay, bud. We’ll find something soon.”

AD

But I’m not sure if I’m lying.

All the gas was gone yesterday at every station I passed, and I’d steadily watched my gas gauge drop from three-quarters, to half, to one-quarter in the last couple days. I mentally kick myself for not filling up three days ago.

I crank the radio up as I pull out of the parking lot. The weatherman is giving the latest updates on Irma, so I shush the boys so I can hear. As he talks storm surges and hurricane-force winds, I contemplate the very difficult decision my husband and I face: stay to battle out the winds and rain of Irma, or get the heck out of dodge.

AD

It’s not as easy of a decision as you’d think.

My friends and family in the north believe we should leave. Cries of “Why haven’t you left yet?” have been filling my instant messages, texts, and social media accounts.

AD

But, those concerned people are not here. They don’t know the guesswork, assumptions, and reasoning that goes into a decision like this. Are we safe over here in Tampa? Will it brush the east coast of Florida, or will it make an unpredictable turn like Charley in 2004? As of 8 a.m., we were projected to get high wind gusts and tropical storm conditions inland and that was it. But I wondered if one of those gusts would be strong enough to uproot the half dead oak nearby and send it into the back windows of my house.

AD

And what if the projections are wrong? The storm could turn and barrel through our little town with just a few hours’ notice.

But – and here’s where my husband’s arguments come in –weathering the storm could be better than traveling I-75 north. According to friends on the road who have evacuated, and apps like Waze and Maps, there’s a 100-mile gridlock along the interstate. Some cars have been crawling for hours, moving just a few hundred feet. A friend stuck north of Ocala reported that six of the gas stations they’d tried were out of fuel, so to bring along our own if we decide to flee.

AD

The light turns green and I cross the intersection, a Sunoco station on the other side. There are lines of cars down the busy four-lane road, and I quickly join their ranks with a sigh of relief. Where there are lines, there is gas, and I’m hovering just above empty.

AD

Although the premium fuel is out, economy is still going strong. I fill up and we head home, where I wander from room to room for the next few hours, absentmindedly picking up discarded clothing, remnants of snacks, half-built Lego houses.

I fold laundry on the couch, watching the forecasters on the TV talk about the latest models shifting Irma west. Toward us. My gut clutches with anxiety.

“Are we going to Atlanta to see Uncle Andy?” my middle son, Kaden, asks.

My husband’s brother has a little apartment there, and although some other family who live near us in Tampa have already claimed a guest bedroom, Andy has offered us a place if we need it.

AD

AD

“I don’t know, bub.”

But that little voice inside my head is yelling at me to just go. I wanted to escape the previous night, jealously reading texts from my friends and family who braved the the interstate for the relative peace of a Georgia refuge. That could’ve been us, I thought. Sharing a frosty pilsner in someone’s back yard while our kids played tag on the lawn. Not worrying about our windows being blown in while we clutched each other in terror in the laundry room.

I hear the garage door go up, and my husband breezes in. My three boys run to embrace him, but I stay on the couch, watching the news, folding the socks.

He reads the worry on my face like a book. “What’s up?”

AD

“We need to leave.” I pick up a handful of T-shirts and shorts. “Now. Look at the projections.” I hand the clean laundry to the boys and tell them to put it away.

AD

“It’s fine, babe. It’ll be fine.” He runs through the logic of staying versus leaving, but the words aren’t really registering.

Tears tighten my throat, choking me. They spill from my eyes, and the anxiety of the last few days runs down my face. “I really think we should just get out of here!”

“It’s statistically more reliable to …”

“I don’t care about any of that!”

“You’re acting crazy. Stop it.”

“I feel crazy! This whole thing is making me crazy! I’m telling you that if you make us stay and something happens to those kids, then I will 100 percent divorce you. I won’t be able to forgive you, Matt. I won’t.”

AD

He reels back as if I’ve slapped him. I know I’m hurting him, but I feel like an animal with its leg in a trap. I don’t think I’m strong enough to make the trip alone, nor would I want to. The anxiety wouldn’t abate if I left the man I love behind. But, as a mother who is responsible for the lives of these three boys, I don’t think I can stay.

AD

We go on about our evening routine. The boys bicker and I let them fight it out while making a mental list of what I’d bring if we left. Matt goes outside and makes preparations for the hurricane, tying projectiles down, laying out sandbags.

After giving the kids baths, I check the latest storm news.

The sliding glass door opening brings my eyes up to my husband’s face.

AD

“Let me just see the news.”

Hope fills my chest.

We watch as a reporter is battered by wind from Cuba. We listen to Sen. Marco Rubio urging coastal residents to leave Florida and warning that the path of the hurricane is unpredictable. We see image after image of destruction.

“Babe,” I start, but he’s ahead of me.

“You’re right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

I’m packing within 30 seconds. I yell for my kids to fill backpacks. My husband carries our patio furniture into the living room and ties down the boat as the sun sets and the sky melts to black.

AD

We carry gas cans filled to the brim to the car and just finish stuffing the rooftop bag with our belongings when the rain begins. Our adrenaline pumping, we close the garage, and head out into the thunderstorm.

It’s 10:00 p.m., and my sons should be nestled in their beds. Instead, we’re headed north on U.S. 41 toward the Georgia-Florida state line.

For the past few days, I’ve battled internally with the decision to leave or stay. There were good arguments on both sides. Brilliant people have left Irma’s path, and brilliant people are staying.

But for me? I couldn’t wrestle with the anxiety anymore. I’d rather drive for 20 hours on back roads hyped up on caffeine than stay and have my kids awoken to the roof being gnawed off by Irma’s greedy craw.

I reach across the console and squeeze Matt’s hand as we drive. He interlaces his fingers with mine. “You’d divorce me, huh?”

AD

I laugh, giddy with the caffeine and the hope springing in my chest. “You weren’t listening. I had to pull out the big guns.”

He smiles and pulls my hand to his lips for a kiss. “Well, I hope you’re wrong. I hope nothing happens and this is all a waste.”

“I’ve never wanted to be wrong more in my life.” I settle in my seat, watching as the occasional car turns from a side street and joins us in our trek out of town. Gas station after gas station is dark as we pass.

Luckily, we’re set for the next 300 miles. I look back at Brennan, our 3-year-old who’s drifting off to sleep.

Irma, eat our dust. Atlanta, here we come.

Kelly Coon is the editor and a writer for Blue Ocean Brain, a micro-learning tech company, and a young-adult-fiction author. She’s on Twitter @KellyCoon106.



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