Just Fine

He comes outside through the garage, carrying the last of my things, his long strides bringing him to the car in just a few steps. Mom’s sick and won’t be going this time. Another headache, and car rides make them worse. Today it will just be the two of us.
I feel like I could throw up.
I get in the car first, buckle my seatbelt, and start picking at my nail polish. A habit I’ve been meaning to break. He checks the car one more time, gives the tires a light kick with is foot, and gets in.
“All set?” he asks.
Maybe I should say no.
“Yeah.”
Sand and grit crunch beneath us as the car eases down the driveway and towards the highway. I feel claustrophobic and wish I could read in the car without getting motion sick. The distraction of a novel would be nice. I settle for counting things in and around the car instead.
I’m at 107 rain spots on the window, 3 dead ladybugs on the dashboard, 12 crumbs in the seat, 34 cows outside, 2 abandoned shoes alongside the road and 1 pen cap on the floor when we pull over at the gas station. He always has to get something to drink. Can’t bring it from home, has to stop and get it a half an hour into the trip.
“Do you want anything?” he asks.
I ponder for a moment, I wouldn’t mind a little caffeine, but I shake my head no.
I can see him in the store through the large glass paneling at the front. He’s smiling, talking to some girl. My hands give a slight tremor. He’s always nice to strangers, especially pretty young girls. He’s got a kind of charm with other people that I’ve never experienced, I’ve just heard about it secondhand. I wonder if my mother started out as one of those girls, if that was how she came to think he was the wonderful man she still pretends he is. It’s an easy mistake to make.
He’s taking forever in there, and the car is starting to smell like gasoline now. A man with a bald head and a Hawaiian shirt is staring at me from his car, where he sits chugging a diet soda. I focus on my hands. I really wish he would hurry.
Finally, as the bald man pulls out of his parking space, he comes back out. His from-home economical mug refilled. His smile lingering on his face as we get back on the main road.
The car smells like a dryer sheet, thanks to the lime green basket of laundry shoved behind my chair. If I shut my eyes, I can almost imagine that I am part of an advertisement for Snuggle.
He turns the radio on a few minutes later. Normally I would click it right back off, and a silent war would ensue, but I remember the mp3 stashed in my purse. The slender green device was a gift from him, picked out by my sister.
“Got a good deal on it,” he assured me when I had opened it that Christmas morning.
Relief washes over me as I plug the headphones into my ears. I click start. Nothing happens. Two more successive clicks to the button result in the same outcome. I click it again. What is it about desperation that makes us so persistent? Three more rapid clicks draw a raised eyebrow from him. A message blinks onto the little screen: low battery. Perfect. A sense of defeat settles into the car as I slip the headphones out and slide the mp3 back into my purse.
I rack my mind, trying to come up with something else to focus on, having been denied the escape of music. A familiar song is playing on the radio, so I dial the knob up. I don’t love the song, but it beats the deafening silence. He starts tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat of the song even though he knows things like that make my skin crawl with irritation.
A few houses drift by, but mostly I see fields turned brown by a winters worth of snow and ice. We’ve about another hour and a half of driving, and the combination of warm sun and the gentle sway of the car relaxes my eyes and limbs with sleep.
My head bounces slightly against the window frame with each crack and bump in the pavement, keeping me from deep sleep, but placing me instead in the in-between place. The place where my mind wanders freely, as if in a dream.
I start to imagine the car crashing. It would never happen of course, he’s too safe a driver. But what if it did? The crunch of metal and cheap plastic would tear his enduring sense of control from his grip right along with the steering wheel. I can picture the surprise on his face before my own smashes through the glass of the window. The ambulance would come, and pronounce him dead, after trying in vain to save him. They would call my mom to tell her the hero was lost, and amidst her tears I imagine a small sigh of relief.
But what of me? What is my fate in this horrible crash? I would earn a body bag too, it’s only fair. That way she wouldn’t have to feign further grief out of motherly duty to me. That and I don’t want to be around for the funeral. I don’t want to pretend either.
What a wonderful caricature of a family we are.
The car slows as we enter the residential area surrounding the campus. Groggy, I rub the lingering signs of sleep from my eyes, my previous thoughts vanishing to the back of my mind. He pulls the car into a parking space, and gives his hair a quick check in the mirror before throwing on a baseball cap and stepping out of the car. I follow him outside, enjoying a stretch before I head around to the trunk.
Two trips and I’m moved back in. Boxes and bags litter the floor, and pile on the chairs. I’ll put it away later. He would like me to put it away now. When it becomes apparent that I’m not going to, and he follows the usual routine of “checking”, as he calls it. As in, ‘I’m just checking’. I call it nagging.
“Did you turn your fridge back on?”
“Yeah.”
He opens the door and checks, nodding.
“You plug everything back in?”
“Yes.”
He makes a quick circuit around the room with his eyes, checking each outlet. Satisfied, he stands by the door awkwardly. I keep standing by my desk.
“So I’ll see you in a few weeks. Don’t forget to turn your forms in. And remember to check out the job opportunity, it’d be a waste for you not to.” This is his way of saying goodbye.
“Sure, I’ll get right on it.” I have no intention of doing any of it, but I’ve learned it’s futile to point that out.
We share a stiff, one-sided hug, he pops his hat back on, and then he’s gone. I can see him pull away from the loading zone from the window in my room. I watch until I can’t see the car anymore.
As I unpack a few things around my desk and set up my laptop again I think about his drive home. It will be much the same as the one here. The radio will play softly in the background, he’ll drive 5 miles under the speed limit and he’ll stop at the gas station to refill his mug before he’s half way home.
And then that thought bursts forth from my mind again.
Maybe his car will wreck.
It’s morbid, I know. I don’t want to think it, but it just keeps clawing at me- taunting me.

I let it continue to poke at me as I fix dinner. Nothing too special, seeing as how I’m limited to microwave cuisine. I decide on soup. While the microwave hums, I open the window to let in a brisk breeze. It’s almost dusk; I can see the sun beginning to descend behind the building next to mine. An hour or so has passed since he left. He should be almost home now. I don’t think I really want his car to wreck. Maybe I just like imagining the changes it would bring out. Maybe I just want a moment to pretend, to act out the scene in my head.
Maybe I honestly want his car to wreck.
The microwave beeps, pulling me back to the reality contained in my small room. But before I can pull out the steaming bowl, my phone rings. I look at the tiny screen on the front before I open it; it’s an unavailable number.
“Hello?”
My mom’s voice crackles and blurs on the other end as she chokes out an answer.
“You’re father’s been in a car accident. On his way home. I’m at the hospital now. You’re sister’s on the way. I just, oh God…”
My hands start to sweat and pinpricks of light mar my vision. The phone slips from my grip and I rush like a broken robot to pick it back up.
“Mom, what happened? I don’t understand.” I understand all right, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that my dreams have turned to full-blown hallucinations.
“Another driver hit him, slid right over the center line. Smashed the car up pretty good. The ambulance had to come for your father.” Her words are rushed, punctuated with gasps of breath. She’s leaving out a crucial detail: what’s his condition?
“What happened to dad? Mom, how bad was he hurt?” My words come out louder than I meant for them to. Their volume surprises me and my mother too, from her stunned silence. But as always, she assumes the best of me.
“Oh my God, you must be worried sick. I’m sorry, I was just so flustered. You’re father is fine honey, he’s okay. Some bruises and scratches, and a broken arm. The doctor said he was very lucky. He’s going to be just fine.”
He’s fine. He’s not taking up space in a body bag. He’s still the hero. He’s fine.
I should feel relief, but I’m feeling something all together different: disappointment. This is no hallucination, because he’s fine.
I drop the phone again.