My brother put his arm around my shoulder, smiled at a crowd of his friends, and announced that my grief was making me confused.
He was talking about a car. My late husband’s car.
The one I lent him for a month when his truck broke down.
The one he kept for a year, put fuzzy dice in, and let his teenage son thrash. The one he painted a tacky electric blue and entered in a car show under his own name.
He told everyone I was crazy for wanting it back.
He said he was the one taking care of it. That I was being selfish.
He thought he controlled the story by painting me as the crazy one, but he never imagined I’d give him the perfect photograph to prove it, and that it would be the price he paid for everything.
The Keys in Hand: A Cold Garage, A Warm Memory
The garage smelled like David. Not the sour, sickroom smell from the end, but the real David. A mix of gasoline, leather polish, and the faint, clean scent of Windex. Six months. It felt like six years and six minutes all at once. My hand hovered over the gray canvas sheet covering the lump in the center of the space.
My daughter, Chloe, appeared at the door connecting to the house, her silhouette framed by the warm kitchen light. At sixteen, she had his eyes, a fact that was both a comfort and a tiny, daily stab wound.
“Mom? You okay?”
I pulled my hand back. “Yeah, honey. Just thinking.”
I could feel the shape of it under the sheet. The elegant curve of the fender, the slope of the windshield. A 1967 Mustang fastback, cherry-red, the color of a perfect lollipop. David had spent a decade restoring it, piece by painstaking piece. It was his cathedral.
“Are you thinking about Dad?” she asked, her voice soft.
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen lit up with a picture of my brother, Mark, grinning on a fishing boat. I almost ignored it.
“You should get that,” Chloe said. “It might be important.”
I sighed and answered, pressing the cold glass to my ear. “Hey, Mark.”
The Favor
“Diane! How you holding up?” His voice was a boom, full of the forced cheer people use when they don’t know what else to say.
“I’m fine, Mark. What’s up?” I kept my own voice level. Small talk felt like chewing on sand.
“Listen, I’m in a real bind,” he started, and I could already feel the familiar pull of familial obligation. “The transmission on the F-150 just went. Kaput. The mechanic’s talking three grand and says he won’t even be able to look at it for a couple of weeks.”
I made a noncommittal noise. I was an elementary school art teacher. I spent my days with glitter and tempera paint; a blown transmission was outside my realm of expertise.
“The thing is, Karen needs her car for work, and Leo has practice every day. I’m totally stuck. I was thinking… and I know this is a big ask…”
I knew what was coming. I squeezed my eyes shut, the image of the red Mustang flaring behind my lids.
“What about David’s car?” he asked. “It’s just sitting there, right? I would be so careful with it. Just for a month, maybe two, until I get the truck sorted. It would be a lifesaver, Di. A total lifesaver.”
The silence stretched. Chloe was watching me, her expression unreadable. I looked at the covered car. It was just an object, wasn’t it? An engine and four wheels. My brother was in trouble. David would have wanted me to help family. Wouldn’t he?
“Okay,” I heard myself say. The word felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. “Okay, Mark. For a month or two.”
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