There’s a warm, wonderful aroma wafting from inside the home, and she tells me that she’s cooking dinner for when my parents arrive home from the appointment. “It’s a long drive from the city,” she says, “and they’ll be famished by the time they get here. I wanted to be sure I left them something to eat.” She asks if I’d like to come inside and wait. But I say no, for some reason put off by her efficiency and good manners. If I was half the woman as she, I would have thought to bring my own parents dinner, and yet I didn’t.
I carry my camera. It’s a heavy thing, a Nikon DSLR with a black strap that crisscrosses my frame. “My father wanted me to place a classified ad for my mother’s car online,” I tell her. “I needed to snap a few quick photos of it, if you don’t mind,” I say, though what I fail to say is that my father already sent photos, that I have more than I need to post the classified ad and that that’s not the reason I came.
Izzy smiles and says sure and of course, and gives me the green light to let myself into the attached garage and take the photographs. She asks if I could use a hand, but I say no. She asks if I need her to open the garage door for me, but I say no to this, too—I know the code—and we part ways, me heading to the garage by way of my own car parked in the street, where I pass my cell phone to Maisie through the open window to keep her company and take a quick peek at Felix to ensure he’s fast asleep.
I continue on to the garage door keypad and type the familiar numbers in, four digits that are also my birth date, the very same PIN as for their debit cards, my father’s cell phone, the computer’s log-in. It’s not very safe, having passwords that are all the same, I’d told my father long ago, saying how if someone got access to one, they’d have access to them all. My father pooh-poohed the idea, saying it was easier to remember this way. He’s far too trusting, not disillusioned like me. The only one that varies is the Chase password, on account of the bank’s guidelines and not my father’s intuition.
The door lifts open, and there it is, my mother’s car, a black Chevy sedan, the bow tie insignia glaring back at me, baiting me. A tease. I was in college when my mother bought this car. I didn’t help her pick it out, nor did I sit idly by, bored out of my mind, while she and my father finagled with the salesman over a deal. I missed out on a test drive. The times I’ve been in it are few and far between, and so long ago that I can no longer remember where or when or why. I’m certainly no car connoisseur; I couldn’t care less what kind of car I drive so long as it’s dependable and safe.
Is this the car that took my husband’s life?
I check my watch and wonder how long I have until the HVAC guys phone my father to tell him I skipped out on our appointment and that I wasn’t home when they came to call. How long do I have until my mother and father finish up with the neurologist and hurry home? Already it’s three thirty in the afternoon.
I hurry. I waste no time.
I examine the exterior like a dermatologist giving a full-body exam, running my fingers over the burnished steel, searching for signs of damage: a dent or a ding, chipped paint, a missing hubcap. But there are none. I get down on my hands and knees to examine the underside of the vehicle and the tires, all-season tires that look like they’ve seen better days. The depth of the tread is negligible, though still I find fragments of gravel embedded there, and I think of the gravel fringing the sides of Harvey Road, the sand and crushed stone and clay that span four feet or more on either side of the street. I pluck a piece of gravel from the tire with a fingernail and slide it in a back pocket of my jeans like a crime scene investigator collecting soil samples. Where did these rocks come from? I wonder.
I rise to my feet to continue my search, and I discover a single leaf—the leaf of an oak tree—tucked beneath the blade of a windshield wiper like circulars in a grocery store parking lot. I pluck the leaf from the glass and examine it in my apprehensive hands, a mossy-green leaf mottled with blisters, scaly yellow abscesses that rise from the surface. It’s a fungus, I believe. The white oak tree on the side of Harvey Road was ripe with leaves when I last saw it, some green, some yellow, drooping with thirst. I’ll bring this leaf with me; I’ll compare it to the leaves of Nick’s tree. If it’s a match, then I’ll know. This leaf, I tell myself, along with the gravel, will be all the proof I need to confirm that my mother has done this to me, somehow, in some insoluble way; she has taken Nick from me.
I find nothing else outside the car.
In the distance, I’m quite certain I hear a phone ring, and I peer toward the outside world, away from the garage, waiting for Maisie to joyfully answer my phone with a merry, “Hello, Boppy!” But from the car, there is only silence, and I worry now about the children overheating in the car, wondering how long I’ve been in the garage, how long I’ve left them alone. I can see Maisie’s little head through the back window, and there is movement. She’s moving her head. Not much, but a slight sway. Enough that I know she’s okay.
I set my hand on the car door’s lever and pull swiftly, opening the door. The car beeps as an interior light illuminates the dark cavern of the car. I gaze inside.
The inside of the car is nearly empty, save for an array of road maps and the casing of a Simon & Garfunkle CD left open on the dash, my mother’s favorite. If I were to put a key in the ignition and start the car, I’d hear “The Sound of Silence” playing through the speaker system, timeless voices filling the space. There isn’t much to see inside the car, but I go through it with a fine-tooth comb, just in case. I open the glove box and rummage around inside, finding nothing. What I’m looking for, I don’t know, though my brain is moving a mile a minute, confused with thoughts of Theo and my mother, images of Kat and Melinda Grey. How in the world could my mother have intentionally pushed Nick from the road? It couldn’t have been her; it just couldn’t have been. My mother doesn’t do anything these days with intent. It’s all random and involuntary.
But then it strikes me: maybe it wasn’t intentional at all. It was a mistake. The rental property—the home my parents used to own—is a mile or two from Harvey Road. It was just a rotten break that Nick and my mother happened to be driving down the street at the very same time, Nick heading to our house, my mother trying to find the old farmhouse she mistakenly believed was still home. There was nothing calculated about it. It was just bad luck, and I’m afflicted with a sudden pang of sadness, wondering who I feel the most sorry for, Nick or my mother or me.
But there must be proof. I need something tangible so that I will know. Something conclusive. Because without it, my mind keeps spinning, a montage whereby I see half a dozen different faces behind the wheel of the very same car. My mother. Nick. Even Maisie. Even four-year-old Maisie clutching her hands around a leather steering wheel of a car whose accelerator she can’t reach.
I have to know for certain. I have to know once and for all.