Die Before I Wake. Laurie Breton
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on a cracker. My Miata had been an automatic. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Bright yellow, automatic, four-cylinder convertible. You’re thinking, chick car. I plead guilty as charged. But I liked driving an automatic, and I was a disaster with a stick. Jeffrey had tried once to teach me how to drive his five-speed Corolla, but the lesson had been a catastrophe I didn’t want to repeat. The shifting part I got down without much trouble. It was the clutch, the dreaded clutch, that was my downfall.
In theory, I understood how it worked. The clutch goes to the floor, the car starts, the clutch comes up slowly as the gas pedal goes down. When it catches, you give it more gas and ease the clutch the rest of the way up. It sounds so simple, but a crucial piece of the puzzle, the kinetic understanding of when to ease up on the clutch and when to press down on the gas, had thus far eluded me. I could probably manage to drive the damn thing, but it would be a herky-jerky, humiliating experience.
My options ran the gamut from A to B. A, I could stay home, tell Tom that I couldn’t drive a standard shift, and see what happened. Or, B, I could teach myself to drive the car, no matter how humiliating it might be.
I thought about my determination not to let life defeat me. Thought about my dad, who had. Thought about how I’d survived the death of my newborn, and the subsequent death of my marriage. I was a strong woman. An intelligent woman. A determined woman. I’d survived the loss of everyone I loved, then moved on and started life over with Tom. I’d moved three thousand miles away from home to be with him. If I could do all that, I could drive this damn car.
I took a breath, pressed the clutch to the floor, and turned the key. The engine roared to life. So far, so good. I locked the seat belt into place, made sure the shifter was in first gear, then slowly, smoothly, eased up on the clutch with my left foot while stepping on the accelerator with the right.
The car lurched forward and came to a rocking, shuddering halt.
A trickle of sweat ran down my spine. I started the engine again. Concentrating hard, again I eased up on the clutch. This time, I gave it a little more gas than I had the first time. When I felt the car begin to roll, I stepped down hard on the gas pedal and let up on the clutch. The engine roared, and I actually managed to move forward a couple of feet before coming to a stop so abrupt that if I hadn’t been wearing my seat belt, the windshield and I would have experienced a close personal encounter.
I was not having fun. I wiped sweat from my eyes and bit down on my lower lip. Concentrate, I told myself silently. Just concentrate. You can DO this. I let up on the clutch and pressed the gas, and the car jerked and shuddered so hard my teeth clacked together.
“Fuck,” I said, thumping the palms of my hands against the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Having a little trouble?”
I flushed crimson when I saw Riley standing there. “Go away,” I said. “I really don’t need a witness to my mortification.”
“You’re thinking too hard. You don’t drive a car by thinking. You drive by feel.”
Slumped over the steering wheel like a beach ball with a puncture wound, I said, “Then I believe my feeling apparatus is faulty.”
“No, it isn’t. Slide over.”
“I thought you had work to do.”
“It’ll still be there when I get back. Go ahead. Scoot over.”
I climbed awkwardly over the gearshift and plunked down hard on the passenger seat. Riley slid in behind the wheel, started the car, and together we listened to the purr of the engine.
“You can’t think your way through it,” he said. “You have to turn off your brain and tune into the vehicle. Become one with the car. Feel what it’s feeling.”
“How new age-y. Will we be hearing Yanni playing in the background anytime soon?”
“It has nothing to do with any new age bullshit. Close your eyes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer. Just do it.”
“You know, your family might be a little unusual…but you certainly aren’t boring people.” I closed my eyes and waited for what would happen next.
“Instead of thinking,” he said, “I want you to use your other senses. Hear the sound of the engine. Feel the vibrations. Let the car tell you what it wants.”
“Whatever you say, Yoda.”
“Stop being a wiseass and pay attention. We’re going to take a little spin around the block, and you’re going to feel how I drive the car. Without filtering it through your left brain thinking mechanism. No talking. Just feel.”
Eyes squeezed tightly shut, I gamely settled back against the passenger seat. This little experiment was doomed to failure, but I was a good sport, and it wasn’t as though I had anything to do that wouldn’t wait.
But a funny thing happened on the way to failure. As we cruised the suburban streets of Newmarket, Maine, population 8,931, I began to get a sense of what he’d been trying to tell me. Experiencing the motions of the car, listening to the up-and-down hum of the rpm’s, I thought I understood. Just a little.
Until he pulled over. “Your turn,” he said.
He left the shifter in neutral and the parking brake on, and we swapped places. “Remember what I said,” he told me. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
“Do I get to keep my eyes closed while I drive?”
He reached around behind him, found the seat belt, locked and tightened it. “No.”
“I sort of figured you’d say that.”
I made a couple of false starts. “When you feel it start to catch,” he instructed, “synchronize your left and right foot. Don’t think about it. Feel it catch, feel the car start to move, feel how much gas it needs, and follow through.”
Right. Like that was going to happen. But this time, I actually got the car moving. No shuddering, no jerking. Just a smooth ride down the street. I shifted at the proper time, with a minimum of disturbance, and Riley nodded.
“You’re a good student,” he said.
“I do all right once I’m moving. It’s the stopping and starting that bother me the most. Where to?”
“Keep going straight.” Apparently without fear of imminent death, he slumped comfortably on his tailbone and stretched out his legs. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“All righty then.” I upshifted until I reached cruising speed, then sneaked a glance at him from the corner of my eye. “So,” I said. “What’s the story with you and Tom?”
I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept mine on the road. “What story?” he said.
“Don’t be oblique. It’s obvious to anybody who isn’t deaf, dumb and blind that there’s some kind of bad blood between the two of you.”
“Maybe you should be asking Tom.”
“Tom’s not here,” I said brightly. “So I’m asking you.”
Riley casually pressed the button for the car window. A little too casually, I thought. The window lowered with a soft hiss and he turned his face to the fresh air. “There’s no bad blood,” he said, scrutinizing the passing scenery. “We just don’t always see eye to eye. Maybe you’ve noticed that we don’t have a lot in common.”
Looking at him, with his torn T-shirt, wrinkled jeans and shaggy hair, I thought of my husband. Thought of his buttoned-down neatness, his trim haircut, his meticulously clean fingernails with the cuticles pushed back to reveal the white half-moons. Thought of his closet, the clothes hung with such precision that he could have measured the distance between them with a ruler. “Yes,” I agreed, “I think it’s safe to say that your styles don’t