No Right Turn (13 page)

Don says, “Terrible things happen in life sometimes—things we can't control. Good things happen, too, but really
bad
things sometimes. When your dad killed himself—your mom told me how you tried to save him.”

I stare down at the floor and say, “Yeah, I guess—I did CPR, but it didn't help.”

Don asks, “How many kids, how many thirteen-year-old kids, would have the guts to do what you did?”

I say, “It was stupid. It didn't do any good!”

Don's quiet a second. “You've been thinking you're some kind of a loser because of what happened with your dad. You've been thinking there was something wrong with you.
Losing
someone means you've
lost
someone,
period
—that's
all
it means! It doesn't make you a loser. What you don't get is that you were a hero that day, Jordan. You're still a hero in my book.”

I blush and say, “What's this got to do with me stealing your car?”

Don smiles, not a big grin or anything, just a slight smile. “You've been through some horrible stuff. Let's just say you've probably earned the right to a break or two in your life.”

We're quiet for a while, like the way we are sometimes when working on the 'Vette or just out for a ride, relaxed, not needing to say anything.

Don finally says, “Besides, I like your mom a lot, Jordan; she's a great woman. How would she feel if I sent you to the slammer?”

I have to smile at this one too.

Don says, “I'm not sure what the future holds for us, her and me, all of us—but I like you, too. You're a friend, and I'm really glad you and your mom are in my life.”

I don't know what to say, but I feel the same way. Finally I mutter, “I like you, too, Don—even more than just because you didn't have me arrested.”

I know this sounds stupid, but Don smiles and nods.

We're silent again for a while.

I suddenly remember back to one time my dad and I were riding into town and I'd said something about coincidences and Dad had laughed and said, “There are no coincidences.” I didn't know what he meant back then, but suddenly some of the things Dad used to say are starting to make sense to me. I don't know if that's a bad or a good thing.

I ask Don, “Did you know I was stealing the car?”

He looks kind of pissed off for the first time since we started talking. “How many times have you taken it out?”

I answer honestly, “About half a dozen … no, a few more than that, maybe more, maybe eight or nine times, usually on Wednesday nights when you were out of town.”

Don stares at me. “If I'd known about it, I'd have stopped you. I'd have had to. I gotta admit, though, when I was a kid I might have had a little trouble resisting the temptation too.”

He looks me in the eyes and says, “If you thought you could get rid of me just by stealing my car, sorry, but it won't be that easy.”

I feel my face go red. I look at him and think about everything that's happened since we met. I say, “No, that wasn't it; I just …” I don't know how to say what I'm feeling. Tears come to my eyes, but I force myself to control my emotions. “Taking the car wasn't about getting rid of you.... Ever since my dad died, right up until I met you and rode in the 'Vette that first time, things had been pretty bad. But since we met you, Mom and me, since then, it's been a lot better.... I've never …” I pause and take a deep breath, “I mean, both Mom and I … My mom really likes you, Don....” I can't find the right words, so finally I give up trying.

But Don gets what I'm saying. He says, “I like your mom too, Jordan. I hope that's okay with you. Sometimes in life we get second chances—and you deserve one, not just because you're her kid, but because you're a good guy.”

He pauses, like he's thinking for a few moments, then says, “You know, sometimes when you lose someone, only then do you realize how little you knew them—I mean, it's only after they're gone that you think of the million things you maybe never said....”

He stops talking.

But I think about his words. Finally I say, “After Dad died, I found all these books and magazines in his desk, all these things about cool stuff and risky adventure crap like skydiving and hang gliding, stuff he'd
never
really do—it was weird, 'cause Dad never took risks at all.”

Don says softly, “Everyone has his secrets, Jordan—everyone. Maybe for your dad, risks were dreams to him. I don't know, of course. I never knew him.” He pauses again; then, “But I think that a huge part of loving people is simply trying to know them.”

“Yeah,” I agree, thinking about my dad: A million things I could have said; a million things I'll never get to say—

Don interrupts my thoughts. “Whatever your dad felt, Jordan, I have a pretty good idea how much
you
love the Corvette, so if your mom says it's all right, I'm willing to let you borrow it and drive it if you want.”

I have to look at him to be sure I'm hearing him right.

Don smiles, then quickly adds, “There's a few conditions. First off, you've got ninety days to think about what you've done, ‘borrowing' the car without permission—call it probation. After ninety days, if your mom agrees, I'll let you use the car. But here's the deal: When you drive it, you have to drive carefully, and if you ever get pulled over, you stop immediately. You have to promise that you'll
never
use the nitrous unless I'm with you and I say you can. And never drink any alcohol or do any drugs when you're driving, not just the 'Vette, but
any
car—if I hear that you've been drinking and driving, that'll be the last time you use the Stingray. Fair enough?”

I don't have to think about it long. “Sure!” Then I ask, “Are you going to tell my mom about all of this?”

Don says, “No.” He pauses and stares at me, then adds, “But don't you think maybe you should tell her?” He hesitates a second. “I think there's a few things you two need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” I say, not sure exactly what he means or why I'm feeling such a mix of good and scared feelings.

Mom's up and has poured her coffee. I take a deep breath and come out of my room and sit with her at the kitchen table.

“Good morning,” she says.

I say, “So far, but the day is young....”

This is kind of an old family joke, something she and Dad used to say to each other when they had bad news to discuss.

My tone of voice must give away that I need to talk too, because Mom looks up, staring straight into my eyes, and asks, “What's going on?”

“I have to tell you some stuff.”

Mom says, “Okay.”

When I'm done with explaining about stealing the 'Vette and Don saving my ass from the cops, I pause and wait for her to react.

Mom takes a sip of coffee and is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, she says in a low, careful voice, “Your dad was sick, Jordan.”

I look away from her. This wasn't what I expected—nothing about grounding me, or how stupid I've been.

“Listen to me, honey, this has to be said
now
!” she says. “Your dad was terribly sick.”

Honestly wanting to know,
needing
to know, I ask, “What does that mean? Sick how? Cancer? Lou Gehrig's disease?”

My stomach flip-flops and my hands start to shake.

Mom says quietly, “No, Jordan, not that kind of sick. Your dad was clinically depressed, and he had been for years. He'd gone off his medicine, and he was in terrible emotional pain.”

“But he must have
hated
me! He killed himself when we were all alone. He
knew
I'd find him, he
knew
!”

Mom says softly, “He wasn't thinking about you or me when he did it, Jordan. It wasn't about us—it was about him needing to escape his suffering.”

My chest feels real tight; I'm struggling to catch my breath.

Mom says, “Listen, Jordan, it
wasn't about us
, it wasn't about
you
! We've avoided this for a long time, and I've let us avoid it, but it's something we
have to talk about
!”

I know what she's saying—it makes total sense. It's kind of like what Don told me—things happen, both good and bad things, and we can't control them all.

Mom gets up and comes around the table and kisses my cheek and hugs me.

She sits back down and sips her coffee.

I say, “I thought that Dad must have hated me.”

“I know, Jordan, but he didn't—I know he loved you.”

“But he killed himself when we were here alone. He knew I'd find him, he knew that I'd—”

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I feel this huge sob come out of me. My voice breaks, and I can't say another word. I cry and cry, burying my face in my arms as I collapse onto the kitchen table. I'm sobbing too hard to go on. My chest aches and snot pours from my nose. My throat feels incredibly tight. I want to throw up and fall to the floor and just die. I've never felt so sad, so terrible. A hundred pictures of my dad rush through my head, a thousand pictures of him: laughing, angry, quiet … dead....

Mom comes over and pulls her chair close to mine and wraps her arms around me. More snot pours out of my nose and drips down, my face feels hot, and I can feel sweat dripping down my sides—but I can't stop crying, I can't stop, and suddenly I realize that I don't want to stop—it feels like everything horrible I've ever felt is pouring out of me. I know this sounds weird, but as bad as this feels, it feels good, too. I can't explain it—but I don't need to, words won't help me anyway—I'm crying so hard I have to fight to catch a breath.

All I can think is that it feels amazingly good to get all my tears out.

“Dad loved me,” I say when I'm finally able to talk again.

“He loved us both, Jordan.”

“He did, didn't he?” I say, not really asking.

“Absolutely.”

“You know the last word he ever said to me?”

Mom looks at me curiously. “What?”

“He said, ‘bullshit.' He said, ‘It's all such bullshit.'”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I'm sure that's how it felt to him that day—lots of days he must have felt like that.”

I say, “But he wasn't saying that I'm bullshit.... He wasn't saying that.”

“No, Jordan—I promise you that he didn't mean you. He loved you.”

I nod. I know deep down that what she's saying is true.

“I loved him, too,” I say. “I still do.”

“Me too,” Mom says.

And for the next three hours Mom and I remember Dad together, not just the end, not just that last day, but everything else—sometimes we cry, more often we laugh and smile. My dad died, he killed himself because he was sick—but now he's alive again in Mom's memories and mine—he's back with us where he belongs—in our hearts; in some way I can't explain, I know that my dad is back.

Even though at the end of our talk I feel amazingly good, Mom still adds her own ninety-day sentence to Don's probation.

“You're restricted, house arrest, for the next three months.”

I nod. I can handle that. Right now I could handle anything.

Mom's given me permission to take care of one final thing before my punishment begins—something Mom knows that I have to do.

Becka hangs up on me twice before I can even get a word in.

But the third time I phone, she answers, real mad, “Stop calling me!”

I say, “I will, I promise, if you'll just let me explain.”

“There's nothing you can say that makes what you did okay!”

“I know, Becka, you're right. If you'll let me talk to you for ten minutes, I promise I'll never call you again if you don't want me to.”

There's a long silence; then Becka says, “Not on the phone … and
not
in the Corvette!”

I smile to myself. Not in the 'Vette, huh? She's got that right! I say, “I'll come by in Mom's Honda.”

Becka says, still mad sounding, “I'll be waiting.”

“I'm on my way.”

Then Becka says, “Ten minutes.”

I say, “That's all I'm asking for.”

We sit in Mom's Honda at Arlington Park. I'm ready.

“The reason I ran from the cops is that the 'Vette isn't really mine. It belongs to Don Lugar, my mom's boyfriend, the guy you saw sitting next to it at the Five Mile Show and Shine.”

Becka doesn't act surprised at all. She says, “I knew the car wasn't really yours. I mean, an Elvis Presley tape? You should have seen your face. I didn't like you lying to me, but I liked you anyway.”