He’s more than likely divorced. My mother probably liked the appeal of his neighborhood and the prospect of moving us in with him so that I could have a father figure in my life. She probably had their lives mapped out and was waiting for him to propose, when instead, he broke her heart.
He spends the next several minutes washing and waxing his car, which I find odd since it’s so late at night. Maybe he’s always gone during the day. That has to be irritating for the neighbors, although the neighboring homes are far enough apart that no one even has to notice what goes on next door if they don’t want to.
He retrieves a gas can from the garage and fills the car with gas. I wonder if it takes a special kind of gas, since he’s not filling it at a fuel station.
He sets the gas can down next to the car in a hurry, and then fishes out his cell phone. He looks at the screen and then brings his phone to his ear.
I wonder who he’s talking to. I wonder if it’s another woman—if that’s why he left my mother.
But then I see it—in the way his hand grips the back of his neck. The way his shoulders droop and the way his head shakes back and forth. He begins pacing, worried, upset.
Whoever is on the other end of that line just told him my mother was dead.
I grip my steering wheel and lean forward, soaking in his every movement. Will he cry? Was she worth dropping to his knees over? Will I be able to hear him scream in agony from here?
He leans against his precious car and ends the call. He stares at the phone for seventeen seconds. Yes, I counted.
He slides the phone back into his pocket and then, in a glorious display of grief, he punches the air.
Don’t punch the air, Donovan. Punch your car, it’ll feel much better.
He grabs the rag he used to dry off his car and he tosses it at the ground.
No, Donovan. Not the rag. Punch your car. Show me you loved her more than you love your car and then maybe I won’t have to hate you as much.
He pulls his foot back and kicks at the gas can, sending it several feet across the grass.
Punch your fucking car, Donovan. She might be watching you right now. Show her that your heart is so broken, you don’t even care about your own life anymore.
Donovan lets us both down when he storms inside his house, never once laying a finger on his car. I feel bad for my mother that he didn’t throw more of a fit. I’m not even sure if he cried, I was too far away to see.
The fluorescent lights go out in the garage.
The garage doors begin to lower.
At least he’s too upset to pull the car inside.
I watch the house for a few more minutes, wondering if he’ll ever come back outside. When he doesn’t, I begin to grow restless. A huge part of me wants to drive away and never think about this man again, but there’s a small part of me that’s growing more and more curious with every second I sit here.
What is so fucking special about that damn car?
Anyone who just received news as devastating as he did would want to lash out at the thing closest to them. Any normal man in love would have bashed their fist onto the hood of the car. Or, depending on how much you loved the woman, maybe even bashed their fist through a windshield. But this asshole grabs a rag to throw on the ground. He chose to get his aggression out on an old, weightless rag.
He should be embarrassed.
I should help him grieve properly.
I should punch the hood of the car for him. And even though I know nothing good will come of this, I’m already out of my car and halfway across the road before I tell myself it’s not a good idea. But when it comes to a battle between your adrenaline and your conscience, adrenaline always wins.
I reach the car and don’t even bother looking around me to see if anyone is outside. I know they aren’t. It’s after eleven at night by now. No one is probably even awake on this street, and even if they were, I wouldn’t care.