by Kate Gilead
Oh boy. I’ve been keeping it together pretty good up til now.
But all it took to discombobulate me is for Kyle to brush against my arm, even with both of us fully-clothed and coat-clad.
My face heats up again, probably turning bright red by now.
“It sure looks mint,” I say, trying to recover.
“It didn’t always,” he laughs, rubbing his chin as he looks it over. “Dad and I kept it running with bubble gum and toilet paper, basically, until I started making money. As a labor of love, we overhauled it, like I said. We did as much of it ourselves as we could.”
“Wow. I didn’t know you had mechanical skills,” I say.
“I like to tinker, that’s about all. But, it’s fun, and it gave us something to do together.” He pauses, then says, “We weren’t very close at first, after my mom passed. He got himself into an unhealthy relationship too soon afterwards. That kept us apart for a few years too. Doing this together seemed to, uh, you know…not heal us, exactly, but….um…ah…” He stops, obviously struggling for words.
“Help bridge the gap?” I offer.
“Yeah. I don’t think you really ever get over your mom’s death. But, it helped us get closer and kind of…move past it…sort of.”
Yes. This sad event is certainly part of that heavy vibe that I got from him, right from the start.
I just want to snuggle into his broad chest and wrap my arms around him.
Walking around to the drivers side of the car, he uses a key to unlock the door. “So, this is our labor of love.” he says.
“Um, it’s beautiful. And that worries me. You told me this was your college beater! What if I bang it up?”
He chuckles. “You won’t. We’re not gonna hit the highway. Just tool around the neighborhood here.”
“This is a nice neighborhood for tooling around in,” I remark. “It’s not ritzy, not over-crowded. Just solid middle class and…nice. But, I wonder why there are no cars parked on the street here? And why there are no mini-mansions either?”
“Strict zoning laws, that’s why,” comes a voice from behind us.
Chapter Eight
Heart
We both turn to see a tall, tanned older gentleman with a shock of thick white hair and brown eyes standing a few feet away.
“Dad!” Kyle exclaims. “Jesus! Don’t sneak up like that!”
“Sneak? The door to the kitchen’s wide open, didn’t you notice?”
“No. Where’s the truck?”
“Nice to see you too, son,” Kyle’s father replies, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The truck’s over at Stan’s. I just got back from Florida and he hasn’t brought it back yet.”
“Oh, shit, that’s right,” Kyle says, lifting a hand to scratch his head. “I completely forgot.”
The older man’s warm eyes move to mine. “I think I see why. Hello, young lady. Who are you?”
“Dad, this is Heart. She’s Nancy’s niece. And her temporary replacement at work, as well. Heart, this is my father, Don.”
“Hello, nice to meet you,” I say with a smile.
Don comes forward to offer a hand. “Likewise,” he smiles. “Your name is Heart? As in, I Heart You?”
“That’s right.“
“She’s named after her mother, who’s called Corazon,” Kyle explains.
“Ah. You must have to explain that a lot,” Don says.
I nod-shrug with a smile.
“Well it’s a lovely name. And, Moneypenny’s your aunt, is she? How’s she doing?” Don’s warm eyes go from mine, to Kyle’s and then back. “Kyle’s been worried about her.”
“Much better, thank you for asking,” I reply. Then, I can’t help but giggle. “Moneypenny! What a hoot. She never told me that Kyle calls her that.”
“Everyone at work calls her that,” Kyle says, grinning. “Not just me.”
“Well I think it’s pretty cool,” I say.
“Me too,” says Don. “You two taking the Golf for a spin or something?”
“I’m taking Heart for a driving lesson.”
“Oh, nice. Learning to drive a stick-shift, huh?”
What?! Oh, crap!
“Uh, stick-shift?” I look at Kyle. “I don’t have enough driving experience for that! I…I didn’t know this car had a manual transmission.” Leaning down to peer into the driver’s side window, I see the gearshift protruding from the floor, showing the shifting diagram for five gears.
“Don’t worry,” Kyle says. “This is the perfect place to learn. You already noticed there aren’t many cars parked on the street. And there’s not much traffic. You’ll do fine.”
“I’ve never driven a stick-shift, though. I wouldn’t want to break something, or…”
“I understand your concern,” Kyle says soothingly. “But you can’t break anything. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
“Learning on a stick is the best way, I think,” Don offers. “It’s actually very easy and you can gain confidence quickly.”
“I hope so. Frankly, what I’m thinking is that I’m going to wreck your labor of love and embarrass myself while I’m at it.”
“No and no,” Kyle smiles. “We’re not even going to leave the garage until you feel confident with how the gearshift works. Trust me.”
“Well…okay. Um, what’s behind that wall, by the way?” Jokingly, I gesture at the wall the car is facing.
Both men laugh.
“You won’t drive the car through the wall,” Kyle says. “I promise.”
“You’ll do fine. Good luck, Heart,” Don says, turning to leave. “Oh, if you like, you could come in for a tea afterwards. Or coffee, if you like. I haven’t done a full grocery shopping yet, but I did get cream, milk and a cheesecake from the dairy store.”
Kyle looks at me questioningly.
“I…well, it’s up to you Kyle, But it sure sounds nice to me.”
“Alright, Dad. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” Don says, then he goes inside and closes the door behind him.
Turning to me, Kyle says, “You ready?”
“I…guess so.”
Sitting behind the wheel, I check out the dash controls. Kyle waits as I do that, then hands the keys to me.
“Okay,” he says, “so, the clutch is the third pedal there, to the left of the brake. Push on it with your foot, get a feel for it.”
“It feels…squishy, compared to the brake, “ I say.
“Yep. That’s okay. That’s normal. It’s because they have different functions. ”
“Right, okay.”
“Alright. With a manual transmission, you have to start the vehicle in neutral. There’s two ways to do that: One, keep your foot on the clutch, which disengages the transmission, or two, use the stick to put it in neutral. See the shifting pattern on the stick here? Neutral’s in the middle.”
Next, Kyle instructs me to keep one foot on the clutch and one on the brake, then has me go through the shifting pattern a bunch of times to get a feel for it.
“Nice job,” he says. “You know, the good thing about learning to drive shift from scratch is that you don’t have any bad habits to un-learn. So it’ll be easier for you to get used to using both feet to operate the vehicle, whereas it’s only one for automatic cars.”
“It already feels pretty normal to use both feet,” I remark, shifting from first, to second, to third and so on, as Kyle watches.
“That means you’re a natural. Well, sweetie, there’s only so much you can learn from sitting in place. I think it’s time to hit the road,’ he says.
Sweetie! He called me sweetie. Face burning again, I turn to look at him.
It’s a good feeling, though. He’s supporting and encouraging me and teaching me a skill that will help me be independent and, once mastered, will last ’til my dying day.
My heart fills with a rush of affection for him. I give him my best smile.
He smiles back, then reaches up and gently brushes my cheek with the back of his
fingers. “Ready, beautiful?”
Oh my gosh! I take a deep breath. “Ready.”
“Just remember what I told you: It doesn’t matter which gear you start it up in, since your foot on the clutch will keep it in neutral. But until you get really good at it, you’ll likely stall if you try to start off in anything but first gear or reverse.”
Shifting the stick to reverse, I look at him and he nods.
“Okay, keeping your foot on the clutch and brake, start it up, then release the parking brake.”
I do it, hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles.
“Good. Now, release the clutch slowly while giving it some gas.”
“Oh, God…okay…here we go!” I say. Kyle gives me a thumbs-up.
To my delight and amazement, I’m able to slowly back the car out of the garage, stopping once I’m ready to reverse onto the road proper.
“Great! Now, just reverse onto the road, then holding the clutch and brake, put it into first, and off you go.”
I manage to get the car into the road, but then, as soon as I shift into first gear and try to move forward, the car stalls.
“Oh shit,” I say.
Kyle chuckles. “No, that’s how everyone learns,” he says, his gaze lingering on my face again. “Everyone…and I mean, everyone…stalls a stick-shift at first. Even experienced drivers still do it, once in a while. It happens.”
Smiling my thanks, I start the car again. This time, keeping my foot on the clutch, I give it too much gas, making the engine race, but the car goes nowhere.
“Oops,” I say, letting up on the gas.
“It’s cool…okay, let up on the clutch sweetie…now, give it a bit more gas…good…bit more….good! See, we’re moving. You’re driving my car, baby!”
“Oh my God, I am! I’m actually driving a stick…oh wait, shit, what do I do now?”
He laughs. “That revving means it’s time to shift into second. You can look at the tachometer too, but it’s easier to listen for the revving, at first.”
Clutching awkwardly, I push the gear-shift into second, and immediately the engine revs drop and the car starts shuddering.
“Whoops, you shfited too far over, that’s third gear,” he says. “Here, let me help you. Ready?”
Putting his hand over mine on the gear-shift, he guides it into second as I depress the clutch, then release it and touch the gas.
“That’s it… clutch, shift, gas, in that order, listening for the revs.”
And now, the car moves forward smoothly. He keeps his warm hand over mine as we proceed down the street.
“Shit! Wow! Shit!” I babble, grinning like a maniac. “I’m doing it! My dad’ll be so proud!”
Laughing, Kyle says, “Damn right! I told ya! You’ll be able to drive any manual transmission car within a couple weeks. You’ll see.”
We spend the next hour driving around the streets of Don’s neighborhood, with Kyle’s hand over mine on the gear-shift. The speed limit dictates that I never go faster than third gear, and I do end up stalling out a couple more times, going around corners and once, at a stop sign.
But… by the time we arrive back at Don’s house, I have no trouble parking the car back in the garage, without smashing through any walls.
And now, I have no doubt that I’ll be able to master this new skill and have new confidence on the road.
Just like Kyle said.
Kyle leads me through the garage door into the kitchen, calling out, “Dad?”
“Be right there,” Don’s voice comes from somewhere within the house.
Taking our coats off and slinging them over the back of a kitchen chair, Kyle smiles at me and motions for me to sit down.
“Have a seat, Heart,” he says, “make yourself at home.”
Then goes to the fridge, opens it, and peers inside. “Where’s that cheesecake,” he mutters. “Aha!” He pulls a white cardboard cakebox from the fridge and puts it on the counter.
The spacious kitchen is a bit bachelor-messy, and could use an update to the decor and fittings. The dark cupboards and chunky appliances look like they might have been new in the nineties, when I was a baby.
The most modern item in the kitchen is a Mac mini with a giant display screen, set on a little desk beside the table.
Kyle sees me looking at the computer. “That was my idea,” he says, quietly, looking around the kitchen himself. “Dad’s thinking about updating the kitchen, finally. I haven’t pushed him. He didn’t even want to have a computer, but I convinced him he could start by looking up recipes.”
“It’s a nice computer, Kyle. Does he use it now?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s gotten better with it. He has another one in his study now, too. He’s on Facebook mostly,” Kyle laughs.
“How old is your dad, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He’s sixty. “
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty-five,” he says with a grin. “I already know how old you are, Heart. I admit, I looked it up in payroll.”
“Ohhh? Sneaky.” I smile. “So now you know my birthday, too.”
“Yep. June fourth.” He leans back against the counter. “Mine’s July sixteenth, by the way. Okay? Now, we’re even,” he says with a grin.
Don comes into the kitchen, saying, “So? How’d it go?”
“Fantastic,” I say, while, at the same time, Kyle says, “Great!”
Don laughs. “I told you! It’s really very easy once you get the hang of it.”
“Well, it was nerve-wracking at first, but after a while, it did get easier.”
“If you keep at it, it’ll be second nature in no time.”
“Thanks Don. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
“Tea, thanks.”
Kyle cuts and plates the cheesecake, then takes the seat next to mine and we dig into our dessert, listening to Don’s little stories about spending the winter in Florida.
I stretch my legs out under the table and accidentally bump my foot into Kyle’s. I move it away, but immediately, I feel his foot touching mine again.
Experimentally, I move it away again, only to feel his foot press even more firmly against mine.
It’s all I can do not to giggle at the high-school silliness of playing footsies under the table with my boss.
But I love it. I can’t help it, I just do.
After a bit, Don takes his coffee to the computer desk, asking if we mind if he checks in with a Snowbird Facebook group that he’s a part of, and let them know he arrived home safely.
“Oh, and Heart? Do you mind if I add you to my Facebook friend’s list?”
“Not at all. Go ahead, Don,” I reply. “My last name’s Flannigan.” I spell it for him so he can find me.
“Ah, there you are. Okay, friend’s request sent. Now, I can spy on you… mwa-ha-ha,” he jokes.
Kyle and I smile and shake our heads as Don clicks on my friend’s page and starts checking it out.
“Tsk tsk, I don’t see you on Heart’s friend’s list, Kyle,” he mock-scolds.
“I hardly use the site, Dad,” Kyle says. “You know that.”
“Yes, yes, and you don’t mix business with, uh, personal relationships, do you.” He shoots Kyle an ironic glance.
“Not usually,” Kyle replies, before winking at me.
“You don’t have a lot of Facebook friends either, Heart,” he observes. “Seems like Facebook’s becoming more for the old folks than the young’uns anymore….oh! Who’s this?” He pauses and squints at the screen. “My God,” he says, eyes widening. “Is…is this Moneypenny here, Heart? It says. Nancy Garcia.”
“Yes, that’s her,” I reply.
Don turns to stare at his son. “Kyle, how come you never mentioned how much Moneypenny resembles your mother?”
Chapter Nine
Kyle
“She does?” Leaning back in my chair, I check out the photo of Nancy that Dad’s looking at.<
br />
It’s an old photo. In it, Nancy’s maybe thirty or so. Her hair is down around her shoulders and blowing back in the wind. She’s laughing, facing the camera directly, her smile showing her pretty teeth. She’s wearing a pair of sixties-type capri pants, a well-fitted, short tunic top and a giant pair of white-framed, Jackie-O style sunglasses.
“Oh, that one? I just posted it,” Heart says. “I scanned some old pictures for Mom. If you look at the others, you’ll see my mother, too, Don. She and Nancy are twins.”
“Oh, twins?” He clicks through my public photo album, reading the captions aloud. “Different hair, different personal style. But, yes, identical twins. I bet you could always tell them apart, though.”
“Yes, of course.” Heart says. “So can my dad.”
“The resemblance to my wife is more in that one photo, really,” Dad says, mostly to himself. “They have the same overall look, but that one photo is especially similar because of the glasses.”
“I…well, shit. Yeah, she looks like Mom in that one shot we have hanging in the hallway.” Glancing at Heart, I say: “I’ve never seen Nancy dressed like that. She always dresses professionally, even on casual Fridays. I’ve definitely never seen her wearing those sunglasses.”
“Here, come with me,” Dad says, rising from the chair. “I’ll show you.”
We both follow him into adjoining hallway, where he flicks on a light to reveal his dozens of framed photos, all sizes and shapes, most of which capture my mom at various ages, places and stages of life.
Nancy’s features are very different but, in a general sense, she does look like Mom. I’m not sure why it never quite dawned on me before now.
At that moment, it occurs to me that a shrink would probably say that I’ve sub-consciously projected my grief over the loss of my mom onto Nancy and made her into a mother-figure.
And that’d be about right, I think to myself.
Dad stops in front of an old photo, where my mom’s wearing chunky-framed sunglasses and a happy smile.
“There, see? That’s Margaret in those same kind of glasses,” he says. “That’s one of my favorite memories of her. We were in Boston, on vacation. She was trying to talk in a Boston accent.”