“I saw the folder.”
“I saw him inspecting the door.”
“And I decided I knew what was happening.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I laughed at you in front of your daughter.”
“That was disrespectful.”
“I’m sorry.”
Naomi looked at me.
I could tell she was waiting to see whether I would make him suffer.
A week earlier, perhaps I would have wanted to.
That day had already taught me enough about deciding what somebody else needed.
I said:
“It wasn't okay.”
Bradley nodded.
“I know.”
“But you owned what you did.”
I closed the folder.
“That’s enough for me.”
Naomi looked at me.
Then Bradley.
“Let’s leave it here.”
Denise stepped forward.
“Mr. Turner, Ms. Turner, I want to apologize on behalf of the dealership.”
I shook my head.
“Don't give me a free oil change.”
She almost smiled.
“I wasn't going to.”
“Good.”
“I would like to review how appointments are handed off.”
“That’s probably more useful.”
Maya nodded.
Denise asked if we wanted written information on the two vehicles.
Naomi said yes.
Maya printed only what Naomi requested.
No sales worksheet.
No payment chart.
No pressure.
As we prepared to leave, Maya picked up the folder.
“You forgot something.”
She opened to the last page.
Blank.
Naomi looked at me.
“You left a whole page empty?”
“Yes.”
Maya smiled.
“After all this?”
“I’ve written enough.”
I pulled the page free and handed it to Naomi.
“That one belongs to you.”
She stared at it.
“What am I supposed to write?”
“Whatever matters to you.”
She took my pen.
Thought for a second.
Then wrote one line.
DAD RIDES SHOTGUN.
I laughed.
“That’s your technical assessment?”
“It’s my first note.”
Maya smiled.
“I think it’s useful.”
We left without buying a car.
For once, that felt like success.
The drive home was quiet for the first fifteen minutes.
Naomi drove.
I sat in the passenger seat.
That arrangement itself felt different.
For years, when we went anywhere important, I drove.
Airport.
Doctor appointments.
Family events.
Car shopping.
After Ellen died, I had turned driving into something connected with responsibility.
If I was behind the wheel, I could protect the people I loved.
At least that was the story I told myself.
Now Naomi merged onto the highway.
Checked her mirror.
Signaled.
Accelerated.
Confident.
Ordinary.
I noticed my right foot pressing instinctively against the floor when traffic slowed ahead.
Naomi noticed too.
“Imaginary brake?”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“Small imaginary brake.”
She laughed.
“Work on it.”
“I am.”
Several miles passed.
Then Naomi said:
“Do you still think Mom would be alive if she'd replaced the car?”
There was no easy answer.
“No.”
She waited.
I continued.
“I think there’s a part of me that wants to believe that.”
“Because if the car was the problem…”
“Then the world makes sense.”
“Yes.”
I looked through the windshield.
“The idea that somebody can do everything normal on a Thursday and still not come home by dinner…”
My throat tightened.
“That’s harder.”
Naomi’s hands remained steady on the wheel.
“Do you remember the last thing you said to her?”
I smiled despite the ache.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Your mother couldn't find her reading glasses.”
Naomi laughed.
“Of course.”
“They were on her head.”
“Also of course.”
“She was leaving for work.”
“I said, ‘They’re on your head, Ellen.’”
“She called me obnoxious.”
Naomi smiled.