Singing my mother’s favorite song with Kevin in our kitchen reminded me that I hadn’t spoken to her since the day she brought me the stack of books, over a month ago. She wouldn’t contact me first, I felt sure. After Dad died, she made it clear to Heather and me that she would let us know when she was ready to talk, that she needed some space to adjust.
So the next morning I grabbed the keys to Kevin’s car, and the stack of books I didn’t read, and went to see her.
Standing in the kitchen of the house I’d grown up in, I held a small, heavy object that looked exactly like a flat brown rock. I looked at my mother. “What’s this?”
She glanced at my hand. “It’s a baking stone. It promotes even cooking.”
“You just stick it in there with the bread or cake or whatever?”
“No, dear,” she said. “First you have to heat it up in the oven. Then you put whatever you are baking on top of it.”
I cocked my head to one side. Who was this woman who heated rocks? I couldn’t imagine her doing this when I was growing up. “How long does it take?”
She folded, unfolded, and then refolded a dish towel. “It really shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes or so.” She threw me a quick glance that seemed to say, “Please don’t tell your dead father.” Dad would have never understood his wife’s desire to cook rocks. I could almost hear him sputtering, “Waste, that’s what it is! Running the electric bill sky-high just to heat a rock. Ridiculous.”
“It’s good for pizza, too,” she said, running her hand over the round, flat surface.
I put the stone down. “You like pizza now?”
“No.”
I looked around the kitchen. I knew it like I knew my own childhood. But things weren’t the same here. There were changes I’d failed to notice when I first came in. Changes since Dad died. Beside the baking stone sat a new recipe box with the words BITE ME stamped on the top. The artificial roses that had sat perennially on the kitchen table had been replaced with massive, living gladioli from the garden. The faded lace curtains had been replaced with cotton ones the color of butter. The wallpaper—a blue and purple riot of tiny flowers I had long ago stopped noticing—was now a clean wall of paint, a soft, hazy green that drifted before my eyes like a summer memory. My father’s presence was nowhere to be seen. If he walked in now, he would look out of place.
“Are you cold, Kate?” my mother said.
My hands were running up and my arms, warming them in the already too warm kitchen. I dropped them to my side. “Is it going to get better?”
She took a long breath, and then let it out. She knew what I was talking about. “It’s going to get different.”
“I know life is different now, Mom. I meant—”
She raised a hand in a “shush, I’m talking” gesture. “I don’t mean ‘life is different.’ I’m referring to the way you’re feeling. About losing Kevin. About grief and loss and sadness. It changes.” She stared down at the counter as if searching there for some lost secret. “It seems to me that feelings are the most unreliable things.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. I don’t mean to be vague.” She took in a long breath. “When I lost your father, I felt like my life was over. Literally. That’s what it felt like. But it wasn’t true. My life wasn’t over. It kept going. It keeps going.” She shrugged one shoulder and turned away from me. “I feel differently today than I did in those first weeks after losing your father. I feel like my life has possibilities.”
I traced a pattern on the countertop with my finger. Possibilities sounded better than questions and a memory filled with gaping holes. Better than a future that could not be fathomed or understood. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
She turned and looked at me for a long moment. “Is it? My feelings when your father died turned out to be wrong. My life wasn’t over. Who’s to say these new feelings will turn out to be right?”
“You mean—”
“I mean the one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t trust your feelings.”
“So what can you trust?”
“Kate, honey, I honestly have no idea.”
Outside my mother’s house, I sat in the car fiddling with the keys. I didn’t want to go home. Being out, driving, seeing things other than my own four walls felt good.
I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. I was driving Kevin’s brilliant-red Mazdaspeed3. I drove mindlessly for a few minutes, with no intended destination. The car maneuvered with little effort, cornering with only two fingers on the steering wheel. I felt vaguely dangerous. After a tight right-hand turn at the intersection of Drinkle and Magnolia, a smile pulled at my mouth.
“Come on!” Kevin bellows from the front door.
I hop on one foot, trying to pull my shoe on. Where’s my purse?
“Let’s go!” He’s in the car now, window rolled down, thumping on the side panel with a fist, but he’s grinning. “Put some hustle in it, babe.”
I lock the front door and scurry to the car—my car, a green Ford Focus, perfect for bombing around town in. It may be my car, but Kevin is in the driver’s seat. He honks as I walk past the hood, and I scream. “What did you do that for?” I say as I pull my seat belt on. He laughs and backs out of the driveway before I can get it buckled. I’ve never seen him like this, acting like a child on the way to the circus. I can feel the excitement from him, like waves. Suddenly I can’t help but laugh too.
His right hand fumbles around near my leg, searching for the stick shift. He’s used to driving a manual transmission. He grabs the lever that sticks out of the steering wheel column and rolls his eyes. “Automatic transmission,” he mocks.
I cross my arms, pretending to be offended. “Technology exists to make driving simple. It should be utilized.”
He pulls a fast right, one finger on the steering wheel. “That technology makes driving dull.” He rubs his hands together above the wheel. Now he’s steering with his left leg. “But this beauty we’re going to pick up …” He lets out a slow whistle.
I smile at him. Not because we’re on our way to pick up a new car, but because he’s so happy about it. Happy? Try exuberant. Hands tapping to the beat of the song on the radio, head bobbing. He sings out an “uh-huh, uh-huh” along with the nearly incoherent words of the song. I feel the wind through my hair (both windows are down now) and the sun on my face as we speed through town toward the new-car dealership on the east side.
I reach across and squeeze his hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, a big, noisy smooch sound. “Mwah!” And tiny bubbles of contentment rise up from my stomach to my chest and fly from my mouth.
I giggle, not even sure what I’m so happy about.
I hadn’t wanted this second car, didn’t think we needed it. “What about our global footprint, or whatever it’s called? Reduce, reuse, you know?” I had argued.
Kevin had just grinned and replied, “It’s red and it has a sunroof.”
I told him we couldn’t afford it.
He smiled and said, “It’s the price of success, babe. You have to look successful to be successful.” I rolled my eyes at that bit of Tony Robbins advice, but he was convinced not only could we afford a new car, we couldn’t afford not to get a new car.
“What about saving for a down payment on a bigger house?” I said.
He got very excited talking about home equity, and said, “Besides, when I’m a veep, I’ll buy you three houses if you want.”
At the dealership Kevin is out of the car before I can unlatch my seat belt. I wonder if they will raise the price of the car simply because they can see how eager he is. In his current state of emotion, they could probably charge him an additional five thousand dollars with ease. I hurry to catch up. This isn’t difficult, because Kevin had suddenly slowed down, his giddy scuttle now a meandering slouch. I sidled up beside him. “Where’s your bounce, Tigger?”
He stares at the doors, slowing until we are at a standstill in front of them. “Hang on.” He turns and does a half jog to the show lot, me running behind him. He stops in front of a low, dark blue Audi, a serious car that looks like it might bite you if you stood too close. Kevin frowns at it, running a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. He lays two hands on the driver’s window and leans in, peering at the interior. Pushing away, he glances at the building where Gary, our salesman, is no doubt watching the door, awaiting our arrival.
I tap Kevin’s arm. “Hon, are you going to keep being weird, or are you going to go get your car?”
I scan the lot, but his brand-spanking-new Mazdaspeed3 is nowhere to be found. Probably in the garage getting its hubcaps polished or whatever they did just before handing over a new car. “Kev?”
“What do you think of this car?”
I point at the Audi. “This one? It looks like something my Great-Uncle Jonah would drive.”
Kevin pulls his eyebrows in until they meet in the middle of his forehead. “Your Great-Uncle Jonah can’t eat soup, never mind drive a car like this.”
I shrug one shoulder. “If he could drive, this would be his car.”
“Tony just picked one of these up,” he mumbles. I don’t know who Tony is, so I keep quiet.
I give his arm a tug. “It looks expensive. And the Mazda is expensive enough.” He doesn’t move. I give him my most alluring smile. “And it’s red.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, and he makes a snorty laugh through his nose. “Let’s go.” He scoops up my hand and he’s happy again, walking with a jagged beat in his step. I glance back at the Audi, so stern and grumpy on the lot. It looks like a banker’s car. Besides, the Mazda is a four-door, which will make it easier to get a baby seat in and out of.
Greenfield is a small town, which means that aimless driving has serious limits. I forced the Mazda into a too-sharp left turn and found the street was blocked by a farmer’s field. End of the road. I fumbled with the stick shift and gave it a shove.
I looked at the black-and-white street sign. Apple Tree Lane. I’d never been down Maggie’s street before. I hadn’t intended to end up there. Still, I slowed the car and began studying the houses I passed. It didn’t take long before I spotted a house that could only belong to Maggie. It was painted a painful shade of red and sported jaundice green shutters. The combination gave the house an odd aura. Like being sick at Christmastime. The sidewalk leading up to the house was bordered with deep purple delphiniums that stood at least five feet tall. As I drove past, I saw a riot of wildflowers growing along the front of the house. Bees and butterflies made equal time among the coneflowers, foxglove, and poppies.
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator while maneuvering the stick shift, but I forgot the clutch, and the gears made a horrible grinding sound. I looked down at the stick. I was in fourth gear. I glanced up, horrified to see I was speeding toward the fence that separated the road from the farmer’s field at the end of the street. In a panic I pulled a fast U-turn and the car accelerated as it came out of the turn.
Dead ahead a Mustang made a slow approach into one of the driveways. I stood on the brakes. They screamed as my car slammed into the side of the Mustang. The air bag exploded in my face, pushing me back hard against the headrest. I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I pushed at the air bag, trying to move it out of the way so I could see what had happened. Out the windshield I saw the Mustang neatly folded around the front of the Mazdaspeed. I blinked stupidly at the scene out my window.
I saw the dark outline of the driver through the other car’s shattered window. The driver sat motionless for a long moment, then leaned into the driver-side door and began rocking back and forth, pushing at it with a shoulder. Must be stuck, I thought.
The Mustang rocked back and forth, and then the door gave way and the driver emerged from the wreckage. Maggie.
She made slow but steady progress toward my car; her left leg seemed to jerk with each step. I scrambled for the door release, my hands shaking and weak. I pushed the door hard and it opened with a quick jerk. I fell into a tidy pile on the road.
I heard Maggie’s voice say “Oh” as I hit the pavement. Then she was beside me, bending down and saying, “Are you all right, miss?”
From my position on the asphalt, I could see a line of blood running down Maggie’s shoe. The blood started a small pool at her feet. There was a tear in her purple pants.
“Maggie, I’m so sorry.”
At the sound of her name she jerked as if surprised. She bent and peered down at me. “Who—?” she began.
I turned my face up to her. I felt a sharp jab in the back of my neck.
“Kate! Are you hurt?”
I pushed at the ground, trying to stand up. Maggie held her hand out, but I waved it away. “I don’t know. But you are,” I pointed to her leg. Maggie looked down, saw the blood leaching out of her body, and let out a small noise that sounded like “Geep.”
I stood, leaning hard against the ruined Mazda.
Maggie turned back toward her ruined car and hobbled toward it. “I have a cell phone in my purse.”
“Let me get it. You stay still,” I said as I lurched past her. Dizzy, I grabbed Maggie’s purse out of her car. I closed my eyes and leaned on the roof of her mangled Mustang for a long moment as spots exploded behind my eyes. Finally I wobbled back to Maggie and handed over her purse. She pawed the contents in what seemed like slow motion. I felt a wave of nausea rise up into my rib cage. I sat down hard on the curb as Maggie spoke into the phone. Her face matched her lime green cell phone.
“They’re on the way. Police, and the ambulance, too,” Maggie said as she clicked the phone closed. She looked down at her leg again, then back at me. I was gently prodding the back of my neck with my right hand. I hit a tender spot and yelled out.
Maggie made a tsk sound. “I think we are headed for the hospital, dear.”
I started to cry. “I hate hospitals.”