Kind of like kids.
Or so I’m told.
The phone rings and snaps me out of my silent rant. Zeke turns towards it, seemingly indifferent to me and my internal monologue.
“So, anyway,” he calls from over his shoulder to us, Sean looking at me with a wrinkled brow. “You two take a good look and let me know what you come up with.”
Sean just stares at me now with a half-smile on his face, shaking his head.
“Man, you should see someone about that zoning-out thing you do. You daydream more than a damn teenage girl.” He walks to circle the car, but not before smirking and shooting me a wink. Smartass.
“Shut the hell up and lift the car,” I hiss back, returning his wink with my middle finger.
Daydreams — yeah, right.
More like nightmares.
Just all of the time.
2
Claire
Ipull outonto the main street of Maple Grove, making sure to check all of my mirrors first, if only for effect. I never drive my dad anywhere. He’s critical of how I brush my teeth, let alone how I operate a vehicle, so, when he asked me to pick him up at Monroe’s, I wasn’t necessarily excited. Regardless, I love my dad and the distance between the garage and his house is barely a mile, so here I am.
I didn’t realize Dad was just going to sell Grandpa’s latest hot rod after he died. Grandpa probably didn’t either for that matter or he might not have left it to him in his will, but I guess it’s a little late for that. Dad never cared about cars, and he constantly fought with Grandpa, so the fact that it is worth a decent penny, is just a bonus I think. Still, this is just like him — practical and decisive.
“That thing is just going to sit around and collect dust, Claire,” Dad says, turning to me. I didn’t ask, but I think maybe he’s saying it more for himself. “Not to mention the space it takes up in that darn garage your mother is always complaining about.”
It’s true. Mom complains about how messy and unorganized the garage is every time the seasons change or a new holiday approaches and she ventures into it looking for her decorations.
“Besides,” he continues, this time turning his head and staring out the passenger window. “Your Grandpa spent so much time working on these cars — cleaning them, waxing them, messing around in their already pristine engines. Just not sure I care to constantly look at the thing that kept him from ever spending time with your grandmother and me.”
I have heard stories about Dad’s childhood and how unloved and ignored he seemed to feel. It is, I assume, the reason he is so critical of me. Having a parent who didn’t seem to noticeanything, evidently turns you into a parent who noticeseverything.
“I get it, Dad,” I say boldly so he doesn’t feel the need to further explain. And I do get it. If this is what keeps him from the constant reminder that even a two-door metal frame got more attention than him growing up, who am I to tell him to keep it?
Dad exhales loudly at my understanding but seems somewhat sad now, his right temple resting gently on the passenger window. His eyes start to glaze over staring at the passing cars, but we’re barely through the next light when he lifts his head.
“Speed limit is thirty-five, Claire Bear.”
And he’s back. I playfully roll my eyes, looking at my speedometer that reads thirty-nine. Dad’s not a square, but he is definitely not one for risk.
“Oh is it?” I joke back, pushing my foot to the gas just ever-so-slightly so that the speed now reads forty-three. Dad nudges my arm light-heartedly, but his face tells me he is not amused. He always means well. Half of the time I don’t think he even realizes he’s finding fault in little things. It’s why I don’t hold it against him, but it’s also why I think I’ve been programmed to stress over every little thing myself.
“I’m going to need you to come over tomorrow around three,” he declares as we pull into the driveway.
“Is that so? And what makes you think I don’t have plans?”
“You do,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s to be here at three.” He unhooks his seatbelt, kisses my cheek, and exits the car ending the conversation. Ah, the joys of living right down the street from my parent’s house.
I got my first teaching job as an English teacher right out of college at Jefferson Middle School just a few blocks from my childhood home. When they found out, my parents were insistent that I come back home and save money.
“It’s silly to waste your hard-earned money on your own place when you’d practically live alone here anyway.”
It’s true that they are around even less than I am. My dad works long hours in finance and is usually either at his main office downtown or tucked away in his office at home, and Mom — her calendar is fuller than mine, mostly with the church, always helping with this or volunteering with that. More often than not she’s grabbing lunch or doing a charcuterie class with someone I don’t even know.
Despite all of this, I love my parents and my plan was to keep it that way. I just had a feeling that if I moved back in with them, a war may just erupt right under their roof. So instead, I got an apartment just down the road that I could afford on my teaching salary. I’m far enough away to feel like an actual grown-up not living at home with Mommy and Daddy, but close enough that I’m still very susceptible to favors. Especially when school’s out.
