“That was the last thing?”
“No.”
I looked toward her.
“I told her I loved her.”
“Good.”
“She said, ‘You better.’”
Naomi’s eyes glistened.
“That sounds like Mom.”
We drove several miles without speaking.
Then she said:
“You know she didn't die thinking you failed her.”
I stared ahead.
“You don't know that.”
“I know Mom.”
“So do I.”
“She may have thought you were annoying.”
“That I believe.”
“She may have thought you were stubborn.”
“Definitely.”
“But she knew you loved her.”
Naomi glanced briefly toward me.
“And she knew you loved me.”
“That’s the part you should keep.”
I looked at my daughter.
“What part?”
“The love.”
“Not the guilt.”
I could not answer immediately.
She continued driving.
Eventually I said:
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Monday came.
Naomi started the new job.
At 6:12 a.m., I woke before my alarm.
I reached for my phone.
Almost texted:
Check your tire pressure.
Then stopped.
I had checked them Sunday.
Of course I had.
I almost texted:
Traffic looks heavy near the interchange.
Deleted it.
At 6:38, Naomi texted me first.
Leaving now. Car is fine. Coffee is terrible. Do not send me crash statistics.
I smiled.
Then replied:
Drive safe. Proud of you.
She sent:
See? Growth.
The first week passed.
She drove ninety-two miles each day.
The sedan did fine.
Second week too.
At the end of the month, Naomi called.
“Okay.”
My heart jumped.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Why did you say okay like that?”
“Because I think I want the sedan from Westfield.”
I sat down.
“The midsize?”
“Yes.”
“The one with…”
“Dad.”
I stopped.
She laughed.
“Yes.”
“The one with the safety ratings you liked.”
“But also the one I liked.”
“Important distinction.”
“Very.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Come with me Saturday.”
I felt an unexpected rush of happiness.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Dad rides shotgun.”
I looked toward the framed photograph of Ellen on my bookshelf.
“Okay.”
Saturday morning, Naomi drove us back to Westfield.
Bradley saw us first.
He did not approach.
That was smart.
Maya came from her office.
“You came back.”
Naomi smiled.
“I did.”
“Decision?”
“Maybe.”
Maya looked at me.
“What does Dad think?”
Naomi answered before I could.
“Dad has been instructed to experience personal growth.”
Maya laughed.
“How’s that going?”
“Early-stage.”
I said.
We drove the sedan again.
This time, I sat in the back.
Naomi drove.
Maya sat in the passenger seat.
I asked two questions.
Only two.
That might have been a personal record.
After the drive, Naomi sat at Maya’s desk.
They discussed price.
Financing.
Trade-in value.
Insurance.
Warranty.
I stayed quiet unless Naomi asked.
That was harder than the safety research.
Numbers invited intervention.
I had spent thirty-five years negotiating construction contracts.