Eleanor heads into my garage, reaching the passenger door of the Bronco when it dawns on her.
“Duh,” she laughs out. “Guess that’s probably why we’re going to get an alternator, huh?”
“Among many other parts in my future,” I add.
Our eyes meet for a long second above our matching smiles.
“It’s a really nice Chevy Malibu. I think you’ll find the lumbar support to be quite nice.” I gesture toward my mom’s car parked behind the Bronco. Our garage isn’t clean enough to handle two vehicles inside it, which means I have a few weeks to get this mess under control unless I want to spend the winter scraping ice off her windshield.
“I do like a good massage chair in a vehicle,” Eleanor says, carrying on my joke.
I pull the door open for her and flash a guilty smile that I speak through.
“I didn’t say massage chair. This ain’t a Lexus.”
My self-effacing humor draws another laugh out of her as she drops into the seat and pulls her safety belt over her chest. She wriggles into the faux leather that still has an ink stain on it from a major backpack explosion I had in eighth grade.
“Bring on the massage,” she demands, clearly joking.
I give her side eyes.
“I never promised—”
“I demand a massage,” she cuts in, reaching out for her door and shooing me out of the way so she can close it. She continues to shuffle in her seat as if something magical is about to begin, and I look to the ground, shaking my head while I laugh my way to the driver’s side.
“You might be crazy,” I say as I get in.
She shrugs it off with a smile, leaning forward and patting her hands on the dash as I turn the ignition. She takes control of the radio the moment it’s on, tuning in a country station I doubt has ever played through these speakers. I’m in awe at the difference between her from her dad, and from the version that stumbled into my garage a week ago.
I’m also aware that she lives in a bubble, riding a distraction and pretending life is normal. She’s missing out on major rites of passage because her family has been rocked to its core. I may not have been close with my dad in a typical way, but I still feel every ounce of the void now that he’s gone. Addy’s void is never far from being felt. Hers just comes with the added pain of hope.
“You like country music?” We’ve driven a full block with her singing along to the current song before she asks this.
“It’s all right, I guess.” I lie for her benefit, but to be fair, I’ve never really given country a chance. It’s not a big Chicago sound, and most of the things I listen to are in the top billboard charts. If it’s on the pop station, I’ve heard it.
“You’re missing out. I’m going to school you in the art of country music, Jonah Wydner. Prepare yourself.” She leans into the center again and turns the volume up a little more. I maybe recognize this song from commercials, or maybe from the background on Monday Night Football. It’s upbeat, and not at all the stereotype I often associate with the genre of dead dogs and pickup trucks with flat tires. What intrigues me more, though, is the way Eleanor sounds singing along with it. There’s a slight lilt in the way the lyrics fly from her lips. It’s oddly, pleasurably, heartbreaking. I glance and catch her smiling back at me through the verse.
“You ever do choir or anything like that?” I ask. My voice shakes a little with nerves this time, and I mask it with a cough. This entire scenario is surreal and I’m starting to feel it. I also realize her parents have no idea where she is, where she went. Her car is at home, but she is not. They have to be worried. Is she worried they’re worried? I keep all of those thoughts and questions inside to protect the bubble, but they bounce around my brain like a pinball.
“I don’t have the time. Cheer takes up most of my afternoons and I do student council stuff in the mornings. At least, I did.” Her eyes flit down to her lap then move to stare out her window. I’d forgotten she was on student council too. I’m wondering if that’s something they let her participate in from home, at least to keep it on her college resume.
“I guess it’s a pretty full slate, huh?”
“Yeah,” she sighs out. Reality seems to be pushing in on her all of a sudden. It makes her shoulders drop, and she’s no longer singing with the radio. Thankfully, we’re a block from the auto parts shop.
“I mean, I was going to sign up for advanced shop class, but my schedule is just so—” I let go of the wheel briefly to hold my palms outstretched to signal something exaggeratingly big. It’s a clever enough joke to draw Eleanor’s attention back to the inside of the car, to me, and it gains me a fleeting smile. “Where would I fit welding metal and running circular saws in amongst all this studying and writing unnecessary essays for extra credit I don’t need.”
“Maybe you can give some of that extra credit to Jake,” she adds.
My lips form a puckered smile and I shrug one shoulder.
“It wouldn’t be enough to help him.” Poor Jake is going to have to be the butt of this joke. I’m sure his ego will be fine. Besides, he’s passing his classes, and that really is thanks to me.
We arrive at Toby’s Auto Parts before another bout of quiet has a chance to settle in
