She's Not Gone

by Sarah Northwood

  I'm on my way into town to pick up a new car from the showroom and begin a new chapter in my life. I'm turning the page and moving on. That’s not to say that all the pain of the last few months of my life has been washed away by moving into a flat and getting away from Daryl’s clutches. The outer wounds have healed but the ones on the inside, the ones you can’t see, those I feel sure will linger with me forever.

  I’ve learnt the hard way that all things come to an end, even if it has been for the best in my case. It is certainly true the kind of ending Daryl had in mind for me was a permanent one. Yet, here I am, with a taste of freedom and a thirst to get on with things. Moving on was the right thing to do. I am ready to say goodbye to that part of my life and all it meant. The time for grief is over; like the season around me, it's time for rebirth.

  I confess to feeling a flutter of excitement at the prospect of buying and owning a car but I don’t quite know what possessed me to call in on the showroom in the first place. It seems an odd thing for me to want, especially given that I don’t have any money, but something drew me to the place and told me this is a thing I need to do. My experience with car ownership has been limited, and somewhat tainted. Most have belonged to other people in my life. My father owned one, and he left. Daryl owned one too, and look how that turned out. Yet, here I am.

  Yes, I'm looking forward to getting a car to call my own. One of the first things I’ve ever owned in my life. I might even decide to give it a name. It lends a certain kind of permanence to a thing, perhaps it is time for that. It’s a funny thing, I suppose, feeling the need to assign a gender to an inanimate object but humans—as I’ve come to realise—are a peculiar and unfathomable species.

  As my mind wanders over the last few months, I can’t help but wonder what the new car will be like to drive on a real run. I know it’s a red colour, a deep kind of autumnal shade. A colour not entirely suitable for the season of spring, but I suppose the colour of a vehicle is hardly of vital importance. It's more about what it signifies.

  The car isn’t brand new or anything. Like me, it has a few miles on the clock (it actually has more than me) but it’s considerably less rusty and carries significantly less metaphorical baggage. It has leather seats and air conditioning. No fancy bells and whistles like alloys or anything, I can’t afford that on my small budget! The main thing is it's justifiably roadworthy. Not tacked together with bits of blue tack and optimism. A new car, a new start, that’s what I have in mind. Yeah, it's better than okay.

  I can see the car yard on the other side of the traffic lights ahead of me, and my stomach flutters a little with anticipation. Just doing everyday things makes me nervous these days, an anxiety I can’t shake. I suppose the scars are a bit more visible than I like to think. The car I am collecting is exactly that, four wheels and an engine. It isn’t a symbol for anything brave like a whole new me but nonetheless, I'm excited.

  A driver notices me looking for a spot to cross. He kindly flashes his lights to let me walk across the road but I wonder if I should trust him. I hesitate for a moment at the kerb, one foot clinging to the pavement. If I let fear consume me now, it will set the standard for the rest of my life. I’ve done enough of that, living in fear. If I cling to the safety of the pavement, I will never get better, so I plunge into the road with a lolloping gait, strolling across the oncoming traffic. I smile a sunny smile back to the driver, outwardly looking like a carefree pedestrian. Inside, my heart is beating wildly and the blood seems to have pooled into my feet, making them heavy and hard to move, but there is no harm done. I’ve crossed the road.

  Inside the showroom, I see an unfamiliar face.

  “Hello, I’ve to come to pick up the Toyota?”

  Hopefully the quiver in my voice is undetectable. I worry that the young man on the other side of the shiny desk can hear the tremble but I try to sound confident. It strikes me from my fleeting glances of his face that he is most likely a Saturday boy. His youthful skin is shining with the ravages of acne. I feel silly for being afraid.

  “Do you have an appointment, Miss…?” he asks, leaving the sentence dangling, awaiting my answer.

  I try to inject a sense of confidence into my reply. “It’s Miss Hawcroft, and, erm yes, I arranged it with Dan. I phoned earlier this week and he said it would be ready to pick up at ten, so yeah, here I am.”

  Unfortunately, my sentences blend together in a rather speedy manner, but thankfully the lad gets the gist. About sixteen or seventeen, he is doing a good job of being professional. He is polite and even kind, given my outburst, but if I had to guess I would say he’s only been working there for a few weeks. The nervousness in his hand informs me he is less than confident at dealing with the public or perhaps, like me, he is just of a nervous disposition. I can’t blame him, I know how he feels. I’ve used the excitement of procuring a new vehicle to hide my own anxieties. We are all hiding the truth, in our own way.

  The boy drops his head to look through the notebook in front of him, his tie a little crooked and a little too large for his slender frame. He pops his head back up. “Yes, I’ve got you here, Miss Hawcroft. Wait here and I’ll just go and get Dan. Do you want to take a seat while you wait? He gestures behind him and I do as he suggests, sitting with my legs crossed and my arms clutching my handbag tightly, as if it's a protective shield rather than a mere repository for my meagre collection of useless items.

  Peering out through the larger windows designed to entice a would-be customer to survey the shiny vehicles outside, I search the yard for mine. Oddly, it isn’t out on the front yet. Perhaps Dan has placed it out of sight now that it’s sold. I vaguely remember Dan mentioning the car had been on the lot for over a year, hence the bargain price. For some strange reason, everyone else that had tested it out had brought it back. I try not to let silly worries about it being too good to be true overcome me.

  As I sit there, the thoughts begin to creep in once more. I try to mentally bat them away but my defences are low. The real reason I want to get a new car is trying to push its way to the front of my mind. That’s how it is with truths, you can only keep them buried for so long before out of the blue they push themselves to the front of your mind and steadfastly refuse to be ignored any longer.

  The vehicle is a safety net, a place I can run to, a thing I can run away in. Daryl and I have parted ways but there isn’t a moment I don’t feel his voice in my head or fear that he is behind me. He knows exactly where to find me and Jeannie, but worse than that, I don’t trust myself. I’m not quite sure whose voice is doing the thinking in my head, mine or his.

  I feel tired as I sit here, the weight in my legs increasing. Shaking myself, I get up and stroll around, pretending to inspect the paintings that hang on the wall, ignoring the ticking clock above the desk mocking me for my impatience. Ignoring the intrusive thoughts. Trying to.

  Eventually, what feels like hours later, Dan appears at the door, jangling the shiny keys in his hand and smiling at another customer about to leave with a car.

  “Hello! I’ve got it right out here for you, Miss Hawcroft. We’ve given her the VIP treatment, a polish and a valet. I’ve even popped some new mats in for you,” he says proudly.

  I nervously smile back at him, making sure there is a good distance between us. I stretch across the space to reach for the keys he is holding.

  “Do you want to look it over, before we sign on the dotted line?”

  I’ve no idea why he said we, quite clearly it's me about to sign away MY money. A sharp remark sits on the edge of my tongue but I chew my lip and smile pleasantly.

  “Yes please, thank you. I’ll come inside in a minute,” I reply.

  Pretending to be knowledgeable about automobiles and their inner workings, I survey the vehicle analytically, taking in the outside: the bumpers, the wheel arches, the tyres. Hoping anyone who sees me won’t fall about in fits of laughter at the joke of this girl trying to look like she knows about cars. I hold off sitting inside behind the w
heel until the paperwork is done, as the car is still red and looks exactly as it had the first time I viewed and test drove it. I can see no more will be gained by sitting in it again. It’s not as if I have any other things I can check.

  As I sign the paperwork, which mainly consists of my contract for the vehicle, paid in cash and bought as seen, Dan tells me the vehicle ownership documents will come to my house in a few days. With that, my new start—correction—my new car begins.

  I take my time getting familiar with the gears on the drive home. The clutch bite feels a little lower, less worn than I used to, and I don’t want to stall it on the bypass. With no pavements and only room for one vehicle each side, I need to take care. Or risk a quick end on the trip of life and in the vehicle. One near miss in my short life is already enough.

  I find myself settling a little lower into the seat, feeling the stress slowly peel away like the road beneath my wheels, and relax a little. I don’t even notice when I pull off onto the side road at the roundabout, I barely pass breath at the traffic lights. I’m just cruising in automatic. I’m in the zone. Damn, the Toyota is smooth.

  Almost as if I’ve done the annoying thing commentators do to athletes or some other sure-fire person about to win a medal, the car begins to chug and draws a deep, unhealthy smoker’s cough. When I look around, it dawns on me where I am. I hadn’t just gone on automatic, I’d fallen into an old, faithful habit. Following the same deep grooved routes I’ve followed countless times before. The tracks are so familiar they’ve practically etched themselves onto my brain, so it would be fair to say I’ve literally gone down the same roads I’ve been before. Except for me, it's more than just a tired old cliché. It's the story of my life; I try to make a change and find myself turning back, back in the same routine and left with the same scars. The car decides it’s tired of my self-serving pity. Unable take any more, it gives one last silent gasp and stops. I can hardly blame her. I’m sick of myself.

  “Come on girl, don’t stop on me now.” Yup, seems like the Toyota is a girl too. I can’t believe my brand-new car (new to me anyway) has broken down already. Just my luck, go figure.

  Briefly, I think about it. About calling him. The voice in my head tells me he isn’t so bad. He loved me once, in his own way. I know he's damaged but aren’t we all? The house is less than half a mile away, I could call, and he’ll come. Who am I kidding, thinking I can do this by myself? Daryl will come, give the car a jump or whatever it needs and that will be that. Although I know I am telling myself the same old lies, or more accurately the brand-new truths I’ve taught myself, there's no way for me to stop. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I give myself a stern talking to.

  He doesn’t love me, how can he? He’s too damaged to love anyone, and clearly, I’m not entirely whole. I can’t change what happened. How can I even think about going back? No, the car is right. Thank God she broke down when she did, or who knows what might have happened.

  I take out Dan’s business card from my pocket which is still warm with freshness, less than an hour old. I root around the depths of my handbag and retrieve my mobile. “Dan, it’s Katie, Miss Hawcroft. The damn car’s broken down and I haven’t even got home yet.” This time I let the venom in my tongue trip off casually.

  “Oh dear, Miss Hawcroft. I can only apologise. I’ll send the truck out to come and get you. Where are you?”

  An hour later, the garage’s retrieval truck arrives and to my surprise, Dan has deigned to come along too. For a split second, I am honoured by his presence but quickly realise it's probably a PR thing. Keep the dissatisfied customer happy and all that. I chortle to myself at the thought of them bringing the car back to the garage. I'm pretty sure a broken-down car might put off a prospective customer or two.

  Dan climbs out of the truck on the nearside, away from the traffic. I take the time to look him over more thoroughly than I have before. It’s funny how you never truly look at a person most of the time. Sure, I’d taken in his face briefly the first time we’d met. Dan has the kind of look you want to drink in but I’d done my best not to stare. I hadn’t dared to linger for long, in case our eyes should meet.

  Now I take the opportunity to really look, to take him in like a piece of chocolate you’ve waited all Lent to devour. He’s tall and his clothes bulge a little at the waist, but only slightly. For a man who probably sits at a desk a long time, he keeps himself in good shape. Long legs meet his torso with a well-defined proportion and as he strolls towards me, they have a gentle easiness to them. Not slouching or rushing, he walks over to me and meets my eyes with an honest gaze. “Well Miss Hawcroft, I must say I’m rather pleasantly surprised to be seeing you again so soon.” Smiling, he reveals beautiful white teeth that light up his already rather handsome and round face. Not about to fall for anything as foolish as that, I’ve learned my lesson well, I reply shortly, “You and me both.”

  “We’ll get the car back to the garage and see what’s going on. Go on and jump in the truck. It’s not safe stuck on the road here. We’ll get this hooked up in no time.” He nods to encourage me, and I do as he suggests. Not because Dan has been the one to say it, although, despite my best intentions I have a feeling I’d do anything he asked me to, but because he is right. This is hardly the place to be standing around.

  Back at the car showroom of Altos Motors, a family run business, I am guided to an office space to wait in instead of the general waiting area, which, although separated from the rest of the office area, gives me a good view of the general comings and goings. The same kind of plastic seats as in the reception area leave my legs feeling somewhat clammy. The cars outside taunt me with their reliability and general awesomeness. Nothing much changes, I guess.

  After about an hour, Dan returns. During my time waiting, I’ve noticed there are four other salespeople (one a woman) and a young girl manning the phones. A part of me wonders why I'm being treated to such personal service from Dan himself. Then I realise he probably doesn’t want me blabbing to the customers about how I’ve just bought a car and it's already broken down. Not exactly a great advertisement for the business, I suppose. Probably why they put me in the office area. Probably why I'm getting the luxury treatment. It makes perfect sense.

  “Well, the guys in service can’t find a thing wrong with the vehicle, Miss Hawcroft. It seems perfect. They hooked it up to the engine management system, checked out the fuses, the battery, everything is in tip top condition.”

  “Huh, so why did it break down then, less than an hour after driving it off your forecourt?”

  “To be completely honest, I don’t know. Look Miss Hawcroft...”

  “Katie,” I correct him.

  “Look Katie, you’re well within your rights to return the vehicle, but honestly it’s had a more thorough work up than all of the other cars put together on the lot. However, I won’t hold it against you if you want to forget about it.”

  His easy charm and honesty are hard to resist. My instincts scream at me to just return the fucking thing and be done with it, but then I’d be back where I began. Where am I going to find a car as cheap as this one again?

  “No, it’s ok. I’ll take it, but it better not break down again.”

  “Why don’t you bring it back in say a month’s time? For a free service, on us?”

  I get the feeling he's just looking for an excuse to see me again, but then I realise it’s more likely he’s trying to keep on my good side.

  “Sure. OK.” He hands me the keys for the second time that day and I say goodbye again.

  This time, I engage my brain and make sure I’m sitting firmly in the driver’s seat. I turn out of the garage and head in the opposite direction. This way takes a little longer to get home but there is no way I can accidentally find myself at Daryl’s house. No way I'm driving down the same old road again. Before you ask, I mean both literally and figuratively.

  The car runs as smoothly as if it's the first time it’s driven off a forecourt. There's no unex
pected coughing or spluttering, the journey is entirely uneventful. I start wondering about giving the thing a name but think better of it. We're on a probationary period until we’ve both proven ourselves more responsible and reliable. I guess it makes the score 1-0 for now. It feels good to be winning on the scoreboard for a change.

  It’s a relief to get home in one piece with no further incidents. As soon as I get through the door to my apartment I take off my trousers and vest top, peeling away a layer of sweat with them. Heading straight to the bathroom is the first job on my list, to wash away the unsavoury smell arising from my wait in the car showroom. There is nothing else left to do today except veg, eat pizza and watch a movie. Then my last job will be to consume enough wine to pass out until morning. Hopefully I can devour enough to squash the nightmares too, but if anything, they’re getting worse.