by Ben Rehder
And that’s where I’m going to end this part of the story, because even though our journey became the biggest media event of the summer, the conversation Opa and I had in those next few minutes is mine alone.
18
Hey Chuck
It was only a simple two-word text message, but it brought out my first real smile in several weeks. It was June 27 — a Tuesday — and I had been back in Abilene for four days.
Hey back. Good to hear from u. Then I added: Been thinking about u.
Really?
Every day.
Liar!
No its true. And it was.
U r sweet. How r u doing?
That was the question everyone had been asking me, and there was no short answer for it. Of course, everybody knew almost every detail about what had happened, because of the wall-to-wall coverage. It’s hard to keep anything private nowadays. That was the drawback. The media had helped us complete our trip, but they had also attempted to elbow their way into everything that followed.
There had been no happy ending, of course. No magical last-minute treatment or miraculous recovery. Real life doesn’t work that way.
Opa had chosen to die two weeks and five days after we’d arrived in Seattle.
I have no interest in describing his physical condition by that time, but I will say that any doubt I ever had about his choice had disappeared completely by that nineteenth day. I understand that there are people who could have been right there in the room with him in those final moments and still condemned his decision — and they are entitled to their opinion — but I will never agree with them.
That includes my parents. In fact, they were there. They saw what the disease had done to him. They offered as much love and emotional support as anyone can offer, but they never considered that maybe Opa had done the right thing. At least they were respectful enough to stop interfering after they’d flown up to Seattle. Opa had been worried that they’d try to get him declared incompetent so he couldn’t follow through with his plan, but they hadn’t done that. After all, they are honest people, and saying that Opa was mentally unstable would’ve been a lie.
Mom and I had flown home the day after Opa died, while Dad drove the Honda home. Opa’s body stayed behind. He had chosen to be cremated, so that was being done in Seattle, and his ashes would be shipped to us later. He’d also left a letter addressed to me — not to Dad or Mom, but to me — with instructions on what he wanted done with his ashes.
Dear Bud,
Remember that conversation we had about being practical and rational? How there are times when you need to think logically and leave emotion out of it? That’s true, of course, and both of us did that on our journey to Seattle. You know I’m grateful beyond words.
But there are also times when practicality is a burden and you must “think” with your heart. I bring this up because I’m going to ask you for one more favor. In just a few more years, you will be an adult, free to make all of your own choices. I have no doubt that you will be the type of caring, compassionate man that seems to be in short supply in today’s world.
When that day comes, I’d like for you to find a resting place for my ashes. Where? That’s up to you to decide. Just jump in the Honda (it’s yours now, by the way), take a drive, and scatter the old man wherever you see fit. Whatever feels right to you is fine with me. Will you do that for me?
With Love, Opa
I felt honored that he would ask. But I will admit that I was a little intimidated by the request at first. This was a big responsibility. Just spreading the ashes over some random lake or up in the mountains didn’t seem fitting. It took me awhile to figure out what I needed to do, but as soon as the idea occurred to me, I knew it was right. It wasn’t just right, it was perfect.
On my eighteenth birthday, I’d leave Abilene and drive through Lubbock to Amarillo. See, just west of town, there’s a place with a bunch of old Cadillacs stuck nose first into the ground. That seemed like an appropriate place to sprinkle some of the ashes. After that, I’d continue west through Albuquerque to Flagstaff. Then north to the Grand Canyon, where’d I’d sprinkle a little more.
You get the idea.
I’d retrace the route we’d taken, remembering every moment, good or bad, happy or heartbreaking. After all, that trip was now as much a part of me as the color of my eyes and the curls in my hair.
And, yes, regardless of how things went in the next few years and the different directions life might take us, I thought it would be appropriate to stop in Salt Lake City and say hello to a new friend.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Rehder lives with his wife near Austin, Texas, where he was born and raised. The Driving Lesson is his eighth novel.