“Oh, I didn’t think we were doing this until next weekend,” she says, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. She taps her fingernails against her refilled tea mug and perches on the arm of the couch. I hold her stare for a second, seeing if I can get her to crack. She only shakes her head.
I expect a card with some cash inside and maybe a flat-pan cake with some sprinkles for my birthday, which is definitely at odds with the heavy package now resting in my hands. I can tell it’s a book, but it isn’t your normal hardback or the latest Brandon Sanderson. The shape is too odd for that.
“Well, go on.” Grandpa Hank nods at my hands.
The goofy grin of a child takes over my mouth and I laugh out nervously while I fumble with the paper. It doesn’t take long to unwrap the beat-up notebook with well-worn leather binding and an ink stain smudged across the spine. Turning it over in my hands I study it, and after noting his trademark handwriting engraved with pen on the cover, I realize it belonged to my father. He wrote like a typewriter, complete with the little hoods over his lowercase A’s and tails at the ends of his D’s and T’s. I used to look at his notes in his briefcase when he packed up in the morning and always wondered how he wrote so much in such a meticulous way.
“It’s Dad’s.” I glance up just long enough to catch Mom’s glossy eyes and half smile. I lift the book and suck in my lips, feeling some reverence for this notebook, but probably not as much as I should.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Great. I turn eighteen and all I get is a crappy old notebook,’” Grandpa says.
I breathe out a laugh at my grandfather’s guess at my inner dialogue.
“No, I like it,” I say, thumbing through the first few pages.
“Well, you will . . . when you crack that hood of the thing that goes with it,” he says.
It takes a few seconds for his comment to sink in, and when my head pops up from reading my father’s notes, my sudden realization is quickly confirmed by the glimmer of a gold key dangling from his index finger. I haven’t seen that key in years. It used to hang on the small hook by the back door, a nagging reminder of my dad’s long-gone teenage years.
“All registered, and insurance is paid up for six months, mostly because it’s considered a hobby car until you can get it running, but . . .” My mom stops mid-sentence and moves close enough to weave her arm through mine and rest her head on my shoulder while I flip through the pages of notes my father left behind.
“You really think I can get Dad’s old Bronco up and running?” I’m being serious because right now, I have major doubts. I’m book smart, sure. I’m great at math and I figured I’d study engineering in college, but the inner workings of an automobile feel a bit impossible, especially a seventy-two Ford that hasn’t run, at least not well, since my dad was seventeen.
“I know you can,” Grandpa answers. “My gift to you is I will pay for the parts. Whatever you need.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing. You guys, this is— I mean, I would love to drive the Bronco around, but I have no idea where to begin. And insurance after six months. Mom, we can’t afford that unless I work part time, and . . .” My hand finds its way into my hair and I grip at it, feeling overwhelmed.
“Page one.”
I stare at my grandfather for a beat, my brows dented as he leans forward and taps on the notebook clutched in my hands.
“That’s where you begin. Page one. Your dad kept that diary of everything he ever did to that heap of metal. From the moment he bought it for four hundred bucks to the last time he tinkered on that thing when you were in diapers. Damn thing’s too old to still have a manual so he figured he’d make his own.”
On Grandpa’s suggestion, I flip to the first page and begin reading. His analytical mind wasn’t great at being conversational, but there’s a bit of humor to his words.
Step 1: Battery and gas, you idiot!
“He always hoped it would be yours one day. We’ll make the insurance work. You worry about the normal things a kid your age is supposed to worry about.” Mom squeezes at my arm, and a shiver runs through my body. Maybe it’s a tinge of guilt over getting something so big I don’t really feel I deserve it, or worse, properly appreciate.
“Happy birthday, kiddo.” Grandpa’s mustache lifts with his crooked smile.
“Thanks.” I lift the book again and take the keys as he hands them over.
“It’s in the garage. I had an old buddy give ’er a tow from the storage yard he was keeping it at for your dad as a favor. Go on, spend some time with her.” Both he and my mom tilt their heads toward the garage door, urging me forward.
My feet feel like lead, though. I’ve never been more sure I’m going to fail at something in my life, and this includes that time I decided to try ice skating backward with Lindsey Monahan in junior high. I fell on my ass then, and I’m pretty sure the same fate awaits me now. But I haven’t seen my mom look this alive in months. The least I can do is spend some time in here every now and again pretending
