The Red Car
Page 15
“Be careful,” I said.
Yumiko turned the keys in the ignition.
The engine roared.
Yumiko let down the windows; she let out a yell. I put on my seat belt. I wondered if Yumiko had her driver’s license. I decided not to ask. She was from Japan. How could she? Yumiko looked so young behind the wheel, like a high school girl. I realized this was a very bad idea.
“This is a bad idea,” I said out loud.
Yumiko put the car into reverse, backing out onto the highway.
“My uncle says I am a horrible driver,” Yumiko said.
“Ha,” Judy said, her voice delighted.
And we were off.
In the passenger seat, at least, I could look out the window, look at the view, the breathtaking view that was everywhere, on every turn, every stretch of Highway 1. It was as beautiful as anything I had ever seen. We were way up high, and I gazed out at cliffs overlooking the ocean, at rocky beaches with water that appeared turquoise, as if we were in Hawaii. Wildflowers lined the side of the road, bright purple and pink, yellow and red. I could feel the grin plastered on my face. It was a combination of exultation and fear. Yumiko was driving too fast, but unlike Margaret, she seemed happy and in control.
“I love this car,” she yelled. “I love it.”
She had to yell, because she was driving so fast. I was glad I could not see the speedometer. I wanted Yumiko to be my friend and she was. I remembered sitting on the steps of Margaret’s house with Jonathan Beene. I remembered, again, that this was what it felt like to be happy. His letter had said very little, the address to his loft, his private phone number, the phone number that had not been printed in The New York Times.
Yumiko abruptly pulled into a parking lot, the tires screeching in the dirt.
“You are stopping?” I asked.
“Come on,” she said.
The view from the parking lot was beyond perfection. The beach was covered with enormous elephant seals sleeping on the sand. How did Yumiko know?
“Thank you,” I said to Yumiko. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
“You are welcome,” Yumiko said. “Eventually you had to leave the motel.”
I stepped away from the car, walking over to the guardrail, looking down at the beach, at the seals. They were enormous, so much bigger than sea lions. They lay on top of one another. Looking closer, I saw baby seals, nestled against their mothers.
I closed my eyes.
I felt the sun on my face.
I recognized the sound of my car, pulling out of the parking lot. I opened my eyes and Yumiko was gone. She had told me about the places she wanted to go. San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. She would go to these places. See them before she got back on a plane to Japan. She would drive there in my red car.
“Okay,” I said.
“Indeed,” Judy said.
I put my hands in my pockets. I had twenty dollars. Two quarters. A lip balm. I looked out at the elephant seals. The baby seals were suckling. I gazed at them, wondering when I had ever seen anything like this before.
The sun was beginning to set, the sky turning brilliant colors. I wished Yumiko well.
THE WAITER PICKED ME UP.
I had already begun walking back to the motel. It was strangely okay, beautiful, walking along the side of the road as the sun went down, but then it had turned dark, and I was still on the side of the road.
“Now this, actually, is dangerous,” Judy said.
A family in a van had pulled over. The seat they offered me was occupied by a bulldog. I told them no. A man in a baseball hat pulled over to offer me a ride. I told him no, too. I would feel stupid, getting raped by a man wearing a hat, when all I had to do was walk a couple more miles. I bent down to tie my shoe and another car idled up beside me. This time it was the pickup truck from the motel. I did not particularly want a ride from the waiter either, but I got in.
“I have been looking for you,” he said. “Yumiko called to tell me what she did.”
“That was nice of her,” I said.
“Nice? She fucking stole your car,” the waiter said. “She is a cunt.”
The waiter, it turned out, was good-looking. Green eyes. Swoopy hair. He played the guitar, he had a college degree. But I knew, just from the way he said that word, that Yumiko was better off without him. If he had loved her, really loved her, he would never have said that. Even if he was heartbroken until the end of time, he wouldn’t have called her that. He would have treasured the idea of Yumiko.
Judy sniffed.
“I didn’t mean for Yumiko to have the car,” she said.
I just hoped that it didn’t kill her.
Because, it occurred to me, sitting next to Yumiko’s waiter, gazing out the window, that I was glad. Glad she had taken the car. She had done me a favor. Suicide, an accident, it didn’t matter. The car had killed Judy. Yumiko had also driven off with my old journal, still tucked away under the seat. I didn’t want it. That old me. She had taken her, too.
“She stole your car,” Judy said. “My car. She stole my car.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“What?” the waiter said. “What’s okay?”
I smiled. It was the first time I had been caught talking out loud to Judy.
“Everything,” I said.
“Bullshit,” the waiter said. “Yumiko left. She left me.”
The waiter looked unhappy. But he had just called Yumiko a cunt. The hate packed into the word still resonated. It was a horrible word. I thought about Hans, crying, crying when he put me into the taxi.
“I love you,” he had said. He had held my hands. He had kissed me. Stroked my hair. He carried my small suitcase down the flight of stairs. “I love you so much, Leah,” he said. “So much.”
And I got into the taxi.
I rolled down the window.
“It’s okay,” I had said. Those same words. That’s what I told him. “I’ll call you when I land. I’ll see you soon. It’s just two weeks.”
“You will come back?”
“I will come back. I love you,” I said. “I love you, too.”
I had been lying. They were the words I needed to say, to allow me to get on the plane. I just didn’t know it at the time.
AN ENVELOPE WAS WAITING FOR me at my old office, just as I was hoping it would be. Facilities Management. I felt a shiver go through me as I walked through the parking lot. I had it timed just so. My next stop was the airport. Two weeks ago, Diego had bought a plane ticket for two weeks. It had once seemed like such a crazy long amount of time. It had seemed impossible to me, to go away for that long.
Beverly had everything ready.
There was money. I only had to go inside to pick it up. I had to walk by Judy’s office to get to Beverly’s desk. It was empty. They had not hired a replacement for her yet. Judy was the person, after all, who hired the replacements. I stared at the round table next to her desk, the table where we sat together, where she would sit and knit while we talked. I could see us, sitting there.
I paused in front of her doorway, remembering. I had been so young. Judy had told me that. I had thought I was old. A college graduate.
“Hey, you,” Beverly said. “You came back after all.”
I wanted to stay there, in the hallway, looking in. I followed Beverly to her cubicle. Judy had always said Beverly was an extremely capable administrative assistant. She still sat in the same cubicle. So close to retirement. She looked younger, I realized, than when I left all those years ago. I found that strange. I hadn’t noticed at the funeral. She caught me staring at her now.
“I started dyeing my hair,” Beverly said.
“It looks good,” I said.
“You keep in touch.” Beverly touched my shoulder. It was as if I was already gone, her attention turning back to her computer, the work she had to do. Now that I had stepped away from Judy’s office, I wanted to get the hell out of there anyway. “It was a treat to see you,” she said. “Com
e back soon.”
“You’ll be here.” It came out before I could stop myself. It was not a kind thing to say. Judy hooted.
“Only five more years before my pension.”
Five years. That seemed in the realm of possible. I found myself hoping that Beverly was happy. That secretly she enjoyed hating her job. That she did not really hate it as much as she had claimed, for all those years.
“No, she hates it,” Judy said.
“Thank you, again,” I told Beverly.
It was a manila envelope with my name written on it. Inside, the envelope there was another envelope. A check. It was the money Judy had written about. It was not a massive amount. But it was enough for a while. To rent a new apartment, to pay for a security deposit, to live for one month or maybe two.
“Until you sell your novel,” Judy said.
I winced.
“You think you are going to jinx yourself?” Judy said. “That’s ridiculous.”
There was one more envelope still, the invitation to her niece’s bat mitzvah. I had forgotten, again, about the bat mitzvah. The invitation was printed on cream-colored paper, engraved, addressed to Judy. She had known she would never go.
The bat mitzvah was the next day in a suburb of Philadelphia. There was no way I could make it. I was in San Francisco. My flight that night was back to New York. I had to go home. I had to go back, even if I did not want to. I had said that I was going back. I had said it. And then, I thought about the logistics. The bat mitzvah. Judy’s last wish. I did the math, calculating the ins and outs of the trip. Of course, I could make it. I could arrive just in time.
“Got you,” Judy said.
I shrugged.
It was time for me to go.
I started walking.
“I almost forgot,” Beverly called, chasing after me. She handed me a small canvas, the size of a paperback book. It was a painting. The painting Judy had left for me. Wildflowers. They were like the flowers I had seen on the side of the road, along Highway 1. The beautiful wildflowers. Purple and pink, red and orange and yellow.
“This is so beautiful,” I said.
I held the painting to my chest.
“Thank you,” Judy said. “My honey.”
DIEGO DROVE ME TO THE airport.
I wondered what that had been, the two of us, back in his apartment. I had been drunk. But he wasn’t. Or maybe he was. I didn’t have a crush on him anymore and somehow that made me sad. Diego apologized for not parking the car, but he had a meeting he had to get back for. He dropped me off at the departure gate. It was an uneventful drive. We did not talk. I felt grateful for his sleek but sensible silver car. It was if I had passed some kind of test, not letting the red car kill me. And I would be okay.
“Keep in touch, okay?” Diego said.
This, it seemed to me, was the thing that you said to someone you never expected to see again. He was still so ridiculously cute. Diego. He still worked in my old office. He made a lot of money. I had gotten away.
“I will,” I told Diego. “And thank you.”
I kissed him on the lips.
It was what I wanted to do.
I TOOK THE AIR TRAIN TO the subway to Penn Station.
I waited half an hour and then boarded Amtrak to Philadelphia. I ran across the station at Thirtieth Street, bought my ticket, and then waited another six minutes, taking the commuter train to the suburb where Judy’s sister lived. Probably, I should have rented a car, but I didn’t want to drive again.
Not for a while.
The town was not far from Haverford. The train, in fact, passed the Haverford station. I nodded when the conductor called out its name, almost as if to pay my respects.
From the window, I could see the back of the Wawa, the very same Wawa that was across the street from the duck pond where I used to go after class, when it all felt like too much. Where I had gone just to look at the ducks. I knew it was there, the duck pond, even if I couldn’t see it.
I had never gone back.
The conductor called my station and I got off the train. I caught a taxi and told the driver the name of the synagogue. In the backseat, I brushed my hair. I put on lipstick. I thought about putting on mascara but decided not to bother. I was fine. I was wearing my black funeral dress.
“You look nice,” the taxi driver said.
I patted my bags. I had my small carry-on bag. I had my backpack. I had my laptop computer. I had Judy’s painting. I held it carefully. The bat mitzvah had already started when I arrived.
I slipped into the back row. I did not know anyone there. I did not understand the Hebrew being spoken from the stage. I had not been in a synagogue since I was thirteen years old, for my best friend’s bat mitzvah. I tried to remember the last time I had been in a church. It had been in Austria, the funeral for Hans’s grandmother. I had looked around furtively, staring at all of the old people filling the pews. They had been alive during the Holocaust.
I looked up at the teenage girl standing on the stage, standing behind the podium. She was also wearing a sleeveless black dress, a simple Audrey Hepburn dress very much like mine. She was lovely. The door had squeaked when I entered the room and everyone turned around to look at me, late.
The girl, Judy’s niece, had also looked at me, a question in her glance. She had no idea who I was. She had messed up her verse, but then she took a breath and continued. I had not ruined her rite of passage. She was fine.
She looked just like Judy.
“Just look at her,” Judy said.
I did. I looked at her. I looked. Judy’s niece? Her daughter? Could that have been her daughter? I wondered what I would say to her. I could not remember her name, written on the invitation. I wondered what I would say to her. What I would tell her about Judy and how she died. And how she had lived. I wondered where I would live next. I would not go home. I wondered what kind of food would be served at the reception. I was hungry.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Liveright/Norton for making this book possible: Katie Adams, Cordelia Calvert, and Peter Miller, I am grateful for everything that you do.
Thanks to Alex Glass, my smart and loyal agent, for sticking by me.
Thanks to my smart and loyal friends and family, who have also stuck by me (in alphabetical order): Sarah Bardin, Lauren Cerand, Ann Dermansky, Ira Dermansky, Julie Dermansky, Michael Dermansky, Nina Dermansky Fauth, Melissa Johnson, Heather Paxson, Stefan Helmreich, Shelley Salamensky, Talya Shomron, Lizzie Skurnick, Adina Taubman, and Sondra Wolfer.
BY THE
SAME AUTHOR
BAD MARIE
TWINS
The Red Car is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Marcy Dermansky
All rights reserved
First Edition
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Production manager: Anna Oler
The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Dermansky, Marcy, 1969–author.
Title: The red car / Marcy Dermansky.
Description: First edition. | New York : Liveright Publishing Corporation, a Division of W.W. Norton & Company, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016019280 | ISBN 9781631492334 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Self-actualization (Psychology) in women— Fiction. | Self-realization in women—Fictio
n. | Life change events—Fiction. | Bereavement—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.E7545 R43 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019280
ISBN 978-1-63149-234-1 (e-book)
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