Page 50

Nicole

I put my dad’s keys into his Ford Escape, a car I’ve never seen anyone drive but him. He’s had it for years. Before this one, he had another Ford Escape, the same color—gray. Was he loyal, or did he just hate change? Is there a difference?

I drive several blocks away and then pull over to text Elijah. I don’t even know how to get to his place from here, so I put his address into the app that will lead the way.

Can I come over? I’ve got my dad’s car

Him: Of course. But I can come to you. Is everything ok?

No.

Him: Are you sure you should be driving?

No. But I am. Should be there in a half hour

Him: Please drive safe

I’ve never understood that request— please drive safe . Who intends to drive recklessly? Accidents are usually just that—accidents. They are not the result of someone failing to remind someone to drive safe, or someone failing to obey that command.

I drive the 280 into downtown, soothed by the calm female voice telling me what turns to make. And then I am at Elijah’s apartment building.

I’m here. Can we just go for a drive?

For whatever reason, the thought of getting out of the car and ascending several floors to the one that is his sounds too daunting, as if I might collapse in the elevator for a security guard to find me.

Him: Ok, be right down

He appears at my car window a few minutes later.

I can tell by the concerned look on his face that I must appear as unhinged as I feel.

He goes around to the passenger’s side, and I unlock the door for him, then return my shaky hands to ten and two on the steering wheel.

I have a flashback of my dad teaching me to drive: They say ten and two, but I’m a fan of eleven and two myself, sometimes just one hand on twelve if I’m feeling dangerous.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asks.

That would be the wise thing, but my body feels welded to the seat.

“No, that’s okay. You can navigate.”

He nods slowly, a reluctant nod. “Where are we going?”

“I was thinking Half Moon Bay. That’s a nice drive, isn’t it?”

Am I speaking faster than usual? I think I might be. I tell myself to slow down, to sound more normal, to not worry Elijah, the man I may leave my husband for.

“Sure,” he says. “Half Moon Bay.”

His words are careful and measured, like the words of a hostage negotiator speaking with a lunatic wielding a gun.

My dad used to take me to Half Moon Bay.

He liked to look at the birds. Half Moon Bay is home to over 20 percent of all North American bird species.

At least, that’s what he told me. I don’t want to google it and find out he was wrong or exaggerating or whatever.

We would spend hours at Pescadero Marsh or Pillar Point Marsh.

He would point out the birds, tell me their names.

I would pretend to make mental notes, though the names never settled into my memory.

It’s nighttime. We won’t see any birds. It doesn’t make any logical sense to go to Half Moon Bay now . Elijah knows this, which is why he’s talking to me like I’m an insane person.

We take the 101 to the 380 to the 280. We do not speak until we turn onto CA-35, the highway that leads into the bay.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks.

“My dad died today.”

I know this is not news to him. I just feel the need to confirm it aloud for myself.

It’s strange that in a handful of hours, I will say, “My dad died yesterday.” Then, “My dad died last week.” Then: last month, last year, a few years ago.

At some point, the time frame will become irrelevant.

It will just be My dad died . Or My dad is dead .

At some point, I will reach an age when this fact will not be interpreted by others as any kind of tragedy.

Perhaps I’m already at that age. I am not a child or a teenager or a college student who has lost her dad.

I am a woman in her forties. My dad was in his sixties.

He was “elderly.” I am his only child. His death, the tragedy of it, is unique to me, and that is the loneliest feeling in the world.

“I was going through some photos,” I say. “And I found this journal.”

I start to feel dizzy. My vision goes blurry.

“Kat?”

Kat.

Kat.

Who is Kat?

He yells it now: “Kat!”

And then I see why he is yelling. We are veering off the highway. Or I am, I guess. I am the one holding the steering wheel.

I hear my dad’s voice: Look at all the trees, Nikki Bear.

And then all goes black.