The Driving Lesson

by Ben Rehder

  Missouri will have their ace sophomore pitcher on the mound for Friday night’s opener, the sportscaster was saying. So it should be a great defensive battle between —

  I turned the TV off.

  Opa was looking at me and, very slowly, he began to smile. “You’re absolutely right. It’s patronizing. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Just tell me what’s going on. Please.”

  He took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I will. I could really use a drink of water first.”

  He started to get up, but I went to the sink and filled one of those plastic cups for him. He drank it all down and said, “Thank you.”

  “Want more?”

  He shook his head.

  I sat back down on the other bed, facing him. Our knees were almost touching.

  He took another long breath, then said, “Let’s talk about it — but let’s do it rationally and logically. We’re dealing with a problem that offers very few alternatives. Getting emotional about it won’t help at all. There’s a time for emotions — hell, I’ve got nothing against emotions — but there’s also a time to set them aside and be pragmatic. Agreed?”

  “That depends. What does pragmatic mean?”

  He smiled again. “It means being practical. Some things you can’t change, so you just have to deal with them and face the facts.”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay, first things first, let’s just get this on the table: My cancer is terminal, which means I won’t survive it. There’s no question about that at all. I checked with a lot of doctors and they all said the same thing.”

  Already, I didn’t like being pragmatic.

  Opa continued. “So the next question is, what are my options? Unfortunately, there are only three. The first would be to do nothing. Let nature take its course. No chemo, no radiation, nothing.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a very good choice.”

  “I agree. Which brings up the second option — follow the treatment plan the doctors recommended. It might give me a little extra time, but they’ve made it clear that my quality of life would be very poor. I would lose my independence and wind up in a hospital or in hospice care. Without going into detail, it would involve a lot of misery and suffering. Not just my own suffering, either, but your parents’ suffering, and yours, too. I don’t want that. Nobody deserves to go through that.”

  “But it’s not up to you to decide what I’m willing to go through.” I wondered if I’d crossed the line. At home, Mom would’ve called that back talk.

  But Opa said, “That is the wisest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. And, again, you’re right. I realize that you’d be willing to endure quite a bit for me, Bud, and that means a lot. But I’ve decided I don’t want to take that path. If that comes across as selfish, there’s not much I can do about it. Can you understand why I wouldn’t want to choose this option? Remember, we’re being pragmatic.”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t really want to. I could understand. It sounded horrible.

  “Good,” Opa said. “So that brings us to the third option. I can tell you right now that it isn’t some magical solution that will make everything okay. You won’t like it any more than the other two. In fact, you’ll probably like it even less.”

  “What is it?”

  “A way for me to have some control, to enjoy my final days with as much dignity and as little pain as possible.”

  “What is it?” I repeated.

  He’d been fidgeting with the plastic cup, but now he set it down on the bed beside him and said, “It’s called assisted suicide, Bud.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting him to say. Not that, for sure. That idea hadn’t even come close to crossing my mind. Never in a million years. Suicide? How was that an option? How could he even be considering it?

  I must’ve had a pretty weird look on my face, because Opa said, “Sounds pretty scary, huh? So drastic. Maybe you even think it’s a cowardly way out. If you do, I don’t blame you. We’re all raised to think it’s a bad thing to do, and that’s because it almost always is the wrong choice. Sometimes people get depressed to the point that they can’t see any other alternatives. It’s tragic and the people left behind are devastated. But this is a different situation. I’m not depressed — well, no more than you might expect. I’m angry, sure. I’m disappointed. I think about everything I’m going to miss and all the things I still wanted to do. We shouldn’t talk about that too much, because we agreed to leave emotions out of it. We’re looking at the facts objectively and realistically — just as I’ve been doing for the past two months. And the truth is, sometimes none of your choices in life are good. Sometimes you’re faced with a terrible problem, and the only thing you can do is pick the least objectionable solution. Sucks, huh? Believe me, I wish I had a fourth option, or ten more options, but I don’t. That’s the only reason I’m even considering this.”

  Considering.

  That picked up my spirits a little.

  “So you haven’t made up your mind yet?”

  He started to speak, stopped, then said, “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. This is new territory for me. I do know that nobody — not my family, not my neighbors, and especially not the government — has the right to make that choice for me. Ultimately, the decision is mine and mine alone, regardless of what I decide to do. And I know that I need to prepare myself now, not later, when my health begins to fail. That’s what this trip is about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Assisted suicide is legal in only two states — Oregon and Washington. It isn’t legal in Texas. No surprise there.”

  Now everything clicked. “So this doctor in Seattle isn’t just a regular doctor.”

  “Well, she is, but her practice is limited to this one specialty — working with terminal patients who want to have a choice. See, it can get kind of complicated, legally speaking. There are a lot of hoops to jump through, forms to fill out. You have to talk to a second doctor — what they call a consulting physician. It’s not as easy as, say, going to a doctor and getting an X-ray or a cholesterol test. And it shouldn’t be. There’s even a fifteen-day waiting period. The doctor can’t write the prescription until fifteen days after your first request. I need to be up there, in Seattle, or this choice won’t be available to me at all.”

  I didn’t know what to say or how to react to all of this. I was even beginning to regret that I’d started the conversation. Just minutes ago, I’d felt mature enough to handle it — whatever “it” turned out to be — but now I wasn’t so sure.

  “I know this is a lot to take in,” Opa said. “I didn’t mean to just spring it on you like this. But after talking to your dad — well, he and I disagree on a lot of things, but I realized I was making you a part of my plan, whether you wanted to be or not. That was never my intention. All I wanted to do was spend some time with my favorite person in the world. That’s you, Bud.”

  By now I had a huge lump in my throat, but I managed to control my emotions. I said, “So we’re going home tomorrow?”

  “That’s the best thing, yes. It wasn’t right for me to bring you along without telling you all the facts.”

  “Then what? You’ll turn around and make the drive yourself?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ll probably fly. Since you won’t be with me, there won’t be any reason to drive. Plus, well, driving across town is one thing, but up to Seattle? I don’t think I’m up for that. A train might be nice. I haven’t been on a train in a long time. Probably fifty years.”

  “But you’re going, for sure?” I guess part of me was hoping that he wouldn’t go through with it.

  “Yes, Bud, I’m going. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t made up my mind about that. But don’t worry, we’ll get to spend some more time together. Once I get settled in, you and your mom and dad can come up and visit. If you want to. It’ll be beautiful up there in the summertime. You can go hiking in the mount
ains, go whitewater rafting, fishing. They’ve got a bunch of great museums, the zoo, the aquarium, the Space Needle.”

  He was doing his best to sound optimistic and cheerful — trying to make Seattle sound like a fun vacation destination, instead of the place where he was going to die. I wasn’t buying it and he knew it.

  Opa stood carefully, without using his cane, then sat down on the bed beside me. He put one arm around my shoulder and pulled my head to his cheek, and I was about as sad as I’ve ever been in my life.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. At one point, I woke to the sound of Opa closing the bathroom door. He stayed in there for a long time, and after about ten minutes, I could hear him shaking an aspirin or Advil or something else out of a bottle.

  The next time I opened my eyes, the room was much brighter, with light sneaking in around the curtains. The digital clock said it was fourteen minutes after seven. Opa was still in his bed, snoring loudly.

  I could hear movement outside. Someone closing a car door and starting the engine, heading off to who knows where. Then I heard someone tromping on the floor of the room above us. Back and forth, from the bedroom to the bathroom, several times. Packing up, getting ready to leave. Maybe on vacation, or a traveling salesman, making a living. Just making a living.

  That made me remember a time, at school, when we were talking about current events, and the teacher asked what each of us would do if we had a family — a wife or a husband and several kids — and we were running out of money. What if you were about to wind up on the street, homeless, with no food, no money for any sort of emergency, desperate, nowhere to turn for help, and everybody you knew, all your friends, were in the same situation? What if all you had to do was cross a river, where lots of work was waiting? Even if it was illegal, if you had no other options whatsoever, wouldn’t you cross the river? Wouldn’t that be the right thing to do, for the sake of your family?

  They were rhetorical questions. She didn’t expect anyone to answer, and nobody did. But we heard later that the teacher got in trouble for asking those questions. The rumor was that the principal told her to quit sharing her political opinions with students. Then he came to our classroom and gave his own speech, saying that there are always options, and that a man could always find work in his own country if he looked hard enough. The funny thing was, one student raised his hand and said, “My dad’s been unemployed for a year and a half. How come he can’t find any work?”

  The principal’s face got very red and he couldn’t come up with a good answer. Weird. I don’t know why I was thinking about that now.

  I got up quietly and took a long shower. I thought about Mom and Dad, and it seemed like a week since I’d seen them last. I wondered if they were mad at me, and I figured they probably weren’t. They were probably blaming Opa for this mess. But I wasn’t.

  After I toweled off and put yesterday’s clothes back on, I noticed a brown prescription bottle on the vanity. The label said it contained something called hydrocodone. This was the bottle I’d heard Opa opening in the middle of the night.

  I sat down on the rim of the bathtub, holding the prescription bottle in my hand. TAKE ONE TABLET EVERY SIX HOURS AS NEEDED FOR PAIN MANAGEMENT. MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS, DIZZINESS, BLURRED VISION, CONFUSION, OR LIGHTHEADEDNESS.

  Opa has some wild ideas about what he should do next. He isn’t thinking straight.

  That’s what Dad had said yesterday, after my driving lesson. But was it true? Were the pills to blame? I didn’t think so. All things considered, Opa had seemed like his same old self last night. Just as sharp and logical as always. And braver than I could even imagine. It made me wonder what Dad would do if he were in Opa’s place. I honestly didn’t know the answer. I knew what Mom would do — and what she wouldn’t do. No question about that.

  What would I do? That was the most important question right now. Then I realized that’s why I’d been thinking about that day in class. I probably couldn’t figure out what I’d do if I were in Opa’s place, but what would I do if I were the man on the other side of the river? Cross it? Or stay put and let my family suffer? Was there a right or wrong answer? Maybe there was an answer that was right for me, even if it might be wrong for someone else. I had a feeling Opa would think that was a pretty smart observation.

  I put the prescription bottle back on the vanity, right where I’d found it, and opened the bathroom door. It was much cooler out here, away from the steam of the shower. Opa was still snoring. It was nearly eight o’clock. No more noise from the room above us.

  I went to Opa’s bedside and gently shook his shoulder.

  “Opa.”

  He stirred a little but didn’t wake up.

  “Opa.”

  He moved a little more. His eyes didn’t open, but he said, “Yes, what is it?”

  “We’d better hit the road,” I said. “It’s a long way to Seattle.”

  7

  In 1974, a millionaire named Stanley Marsh 3 halfway buried ten old Cadillacs nose first into an old wheat field. I swear I am not making this up. It’s called Cadillac Ranch, and it’s located a few miles west of Amarillo on Interstate 40, just off the historic old Route 66.

  I didn’t know any of this until Opa told me to exit the highway, make a U-turn, and go back east.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. It’s pretty cool. Pull over right there.”

  “Where?”

  “On the shoulder. There’s plenty of room.”

  So I did. We got out and went through a gate in the fence, into a big, treeless field. No grass or weeds anywhere, just dirt.

  “Aren’t we trespassing?” I asked.

  “No, it’s okay. Follow me.”

  We started walking along a path — slowly, because Opa was using his cane — and then I saw them, several hundred yards away, in a perfect row. At first, I didn’t even know what they were, because, really, who expects to find a bunch of old cars sticking up out of the ground in the middle of a field?

  Then, as we got closer, I could tell that they were cars, and I could see that they were absolutely covered with graffiti. Top to bottom, people had painted every square inch of every car, even the wheels and tires and mufflers and oil pans, in every color you can imagine. Closer still, I could see names, dates, drawings, and just big swirls and splotches.

  It might’ve been the strangest thing I’d ever seen in person.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Well, you could call it a roadside attraction, I guess, or a monument, or even an outdoor museum, but a lot of people say it’s art.”

  “This is art?”

  Opa grinned. “I’d say it qualifies. They call this sort of thing ‘installation art.’ It really is a sculpture of sorts, if you think about it. The man who owns this place hired a group of young artists from San Francisco to help him do it. He has a reputation for being a little wacky. The word they always use in newspaper articles is ‘eccentric.’”

  Funny, because that was the same word Mom sometimes used to describe Opa.

  Then he told me a little about Stanley Marsh 3, who used a “3” at the end of his name because he thought the traditional “III” was too pretentious. Marsh came from a wealthy oil and gas family and had also owned some TV stations at one point.

  “What some people say it’s supposed to represent,” Opa said, “is the golden age of the automobile. The oldest car here” — he pointed at one with his cane — “is from 1948. The newest one, that one over there, is from 1963.”

  “How do you know all this? Have you been here before?”

  “Oh, maybe two dozen times. I stop by whenever I’m passing through. Actually, I’ve only been to this particular location a couple of times. It used to be set up in a different field, a mile or two closer to town, but they dug ’em all up and moved ’em out here about ten or fifteen years ago, to get away from urban sprawl. Part of the im
pact of the exhibit comes from the sheer isolation. Just a big expanse of nothingness — except for these cars.”

  We just stood there for a minute or two, taking it in. There wasn’t anybody else around. I could hear the traffic on the highway, but it was much quieter than I would’ve expected.

  Opa said, “See how they’re all buried at the same angle to the ground? Supposedly, that corresponds to the angle of the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’m not sure if it’s even true. Could be just a rumor that got started somewhere.”

  He was wearing a light jacket, and now he reached into a cargo pocket and removed the can of spray paint he’d bought at the convenience store in Lubbock. He tossed it to me.

  I gave the can a good shake, removed the cap, and approached the nearest Cadillac. The passenger-side door looked like a good canvas. In big green letters I wrote “OPA.”

  I should probably mention how Opa had reacted when I’d woken him up in the motel room that morning, before the Cadillac Ranch, and told him it was time to leave, because it was a long way to Seattle.

  The first thing he said, after sitting up in bed, was, “No.” He still felt it was wrong for him to take me along, but I kept arguing, and eventually he said, “You sure about this?”

  “Yeah. You said you’re going anyway. Why shouldn’t I drive you?”

  He hesitated. “I can tell you right now, your mom and dad are going to be furious. But I’ll take the heat.”