About My Sisters (28 page)

My mother reached the car just as it was turning at the bottom of the hill, a few feet before it would have hit the freeway. She grabbed the door with one hand and slid halfway in, slamming one foot on the brake while her other scraped the concrete outside the car. And, like that, we came to a stop. My brother fell across the seat into my lap and starting squalling. All the sound in the world came rushing back into my ears. My brother crying, Lavander and Maya shouting from the back, my mother saying, “Oh my God, oh my God,” over and over again.

The gas station attendant reached the car a couple of seconds later.

“You okay?” he asked my mother.

“Yes, we're okay,” she said, and he broke into a grin.

“You ran pretty fast,” he said.

“I've got my kids here,” she said by way of explanation. “My whole life is in this car.”

“Are you all right?” she asked me, but it was a question for all of us.

My mother didn't ask me why the car started moving. She didn't ask me why I did nothing to stop it. I'd seen my mother cry, heard her shout, even scream. But I had never seen her like this—too shocked to do any of those things. A post-disaster quiet settled inside the car. Even my brother stopped crying and sat still next to me as my mother slowly navigated her way back onto the freeway.

“I don't want to go to the party,” I told her.

My mother didn't argue, didn't ask me why not. The day was ruined; she understood that. “Let's go home,” she said. She looked into the backseat for the first time. “You all right?” she
asked Maya, who nodded, mute. Lavander's little lips were pursed tight and she held the fringes of her purple poncho in her hands. I thought she looked incredibly small. My mother looked over at me once more and I forced myself not to cry by digging my fingernails into my palm. As far as I was concerned, I'd almost killed my whole family with my inaction and I didn't deserve the luxury and release of tears.

When I thought about that horrible afternoon in all its particulars, I realized that the feelings I had then—paralysis, helplessness, impending doom—are exactly the same as the ones I feel every time I sit in the driver's seat. So there it was, the reason
why,
and my problem solved. Well, not exactly. As I learned a long time ago, understanding the antecedent of an undesirable behavior pattern doesn't necessarily eliminate it. For me, it was only a start to getting myself, literally, on the road.

I turned forty six months ago and had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get a new identification card. While I was there, I decided to take the driver's permit written test one more time—for the last time, I told myself.

“Hey, great job,” the woman correcting my test told me. This time, I missed only one question.

“Thanks,” I said. “I've had quite a bit of practice with these tests. I'm going to see if I can actually make this one turn into a license.”

She glanced at my birth date on the form. “Why now?” she asked me.

“Well, I'm forty,” I told her. “Seems like the thing to do.”

 

It's taken six months for me to actually get into a car with somebody and start driving. There was the question of who I was going to go with to settle first, as well as quite a bit of backpedal
ing on my end. To be honest, the thought of driving is still immensely unappealing to me. Enlisting the aid of nonfamily members was out as a possibility. I've taken that route before and it's been totally ineffective. It's too difficult, at this point, to try to make someone else understand what is at the root of my problem with driving and, besides, I feel like a complete idiot trying to explain it. Even among my family, there are few possibilities. I can't drive with my mother. She dislikes driving herself and is convinced that my fear of crashing will end up causing an accident. I can't drive with my father because, well, I've tried that already. Besides, his advice is this:

“I told you, the only way for you to drive is to get yourself a little car, get in it, and just drive.”

“I can't do that, Dad.”

“Yes, you can. It's the only way.”

“Who knows better, Dad, me, who doesn't drive, or you?”

“I do.”

My siblings have never known me to drive and have accepted it as part of who I am. They don't all understand it, to be sure, but it is familiar to them. Most of them have difficulty visualizing me as a driver at all. Still, when I asked for their help, they all seemed willing. Déja actually seemed excited about helping me and looked on it as an adventure as opposed to a chore. She was also the only one who wasn't worried about what I might do to her car. After pondering the situation for way too long, I decided that Déja was the only choice, the only person who I could feel truly comfortable with. Déja is open and ultimately accepting. She is sometimes moody, sometimes overly blunt, and perpetually late, but she is, and has always been, the sweetest person I've ever known. Perhaps more important than this, though, is that Déja was the only person who
wasn't
in that Pontiac the day it rolled out of control down the hill. I feel safe with her.

 

On the fifth reschedule, my day of reckoning finally arrives. Déja shows up at my house after her yoga class and hands me her keys. “Let's go,” she says. “This is going to be so much
fun
.”

“Not likely,” I grumble, climbing into the driver's seat and wondering if I really have to do this. Déja's legs are at least six inches longer than mine, so I have to adjust the seat and the mirrors. Before I can even turn the key in the ignition, my stomach takes a familiar lurch and my depth perception wavers. Objects in the mirror are nearer, farther, bigger, and smaller than they appear.

“I hate this,” I tell Déja.

“Look, it's fine,” she says. “I'm fully insured and I have airbags.”

“Great,” I sigh. “A real vote of confidence.” I turn the key, place my foot on the brake, and put the car in drive. “Okay,” I say, “we're off.”

“Um, Deb,” Déja says with slight hesitation, “you're going to want to put the car in reverse so that we can back out of the driveway.”

“Right,” I say. “Reverse.” I glance over at her. Her eyebrows are raised into the same zigzag of puzzlement she's had since she was a tiny baby. She's struggling to hide it, I can tell, but she's a bit worried. For some reason, this makes me laugh. She giggles with me.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask her.

“Let's just go,” she says.

I pull out of the driveway, out of my street, and we're on the road. I'm relieved to find that I'm not sweating yet and my heart is only beating double time instead of triple. Both good signs.

“Okay,” Déja says. “Now, I just want you to remember that you
own
this space, this car. You are in control.”

“I don't own anything,” I tell her. “Believe me. Just watch what I'm doing, okay?”

“Let's go around the neighborhood,” she says. “I'll show you where I go with Blaze on our aimless drives.”

So this is what we do, drive aimlessly through adjoining neighborhoods, through intersections, cul-de-sacs, and school zones. We turn left, turn right, change lanes, and yield. Déja starts to get excited. “You're doing so well,” she says. “I'm so impressed.”

“That's because there aren't any other cars around,” I say. “Other cars are the problem.” This isn't entirely true. Speed is also a problem. As soon as I get over forty-five miles an hour, I start feeling like I'm losing control, like the car is developing a mind of its own. I wonder if I'll ever be comfortable in this position and start feeling that maybe it's all for naught, maybe I just don't have the capacity to get over this mountain. Then Déja reminds me that this is only my first day out.

“Well, you've got a point,” I tell her. “But I'm definitely not ready for the freeway.”

“Don't worry, we'll take it slow,” she says. “Look, we've already been driving for almost an hour. Seems like no time, doesn't it?” I have to admit she's right and that, even though my hands grip the steering wheel, my knuckles aren't white and I am able to talk to her and drive at the same time. I'm not paralyzed. I haven't crashed.

Déja starts talking about her nails. Lavander bought Déja a set of acrylic nails for her birthday, and Déja, who's never before taken an interest in her nails unless it was for a character she had to play, is thrilled. Lavander, on the other hand, is in the nail salon at least twice a month. I can't remember what her hands look like without a manicure.

“Lavander's so funny,” Déja says. “You should see her at the nail place. She's on the phone, making deals, and talking to me, loudly, across the salon.”

“How do you talk on the phone when you're having your nails done?” I ask.

“I don't know, but she manages to do it,” Déja says. “It kinda scares me.” She lowers her voice. “You know, they don't like her at the nail place. Don't tell her I said that.”

“What do you mean, they don't like her?”

Déja stifles a nervous giggle. “She's always telling them what to do and that they're not getting it right. She's been through, like, ten nail places. They won't wait on her after a while.”

“Why do you suppose she does that?”

“Well, if you ask her, she says that they're just no good and she should get what she pays for. She always tips big, but she's just, I don't know,
rude
. She doesn't think so, though.” Déja sighs. “Please don't tell her I said that. Maybe she's not rude. Maybe it's just what I see, because I'm just so not like that.”

“Or maybe it's just a game she plays with herself. And you.”

“Maybe. But I'm going in by myself next time. Less stress. You've got a stop sign here, by the way. You're going to stop, right?”

“I see the stop sign, Déja.”

“You know, Bo's thinking about moving in with Lavander again,” she says.

“Really? I suggested that to him a while ago, but he said he needed to live alone.”

Déja, Bo, and Danny have been living together in that apartment for almost a year now and their lease is about to expire. None of them wants to renew it. The search for affordable housing is on again.

“It's so expensive to live alone around here,” Déja says. “And it's lonely. I don't know why anyone would want to live all alone.”

“I really liked it,” I tell her. “I was perfectly happy living by myself before Blaze was born. Probably could have gone on that way for quite a while. Then I had him, of course. You're never alone after you have children. Once you share your body with another person for nine months that privacy thing is pretty much over for good.”

“But you still spend a lot of time by yourself,” Déja says.

“Yes, that's true,” I tell her. “Blaze is really good about giving me time to be by myself. He also needs that time. Maya's like that too. We all give each other a lot of space. I hardly speak to Maya at all some days, just watch her coming in and going out, like some kind of time-lapse photograph, while I sit at my desk and work.”

“I think Maya gets lonely sometimes,” Déja says. “I get the same kind of lonely feeling from her that I get from Bo sometimes.”

“Don't take it so much to heart,” I tell her. “They're okay. We're all okay. I'm a little sad that you're moving out, though. I thought it was nice that you were all living together. I've gotten used to having you around the corner, too.” I sigh. “Listen to me,” I say. “I'm turning into our parents, wanting to keep everybody close. I'm telling you, Déja, it's a scary thing when you start hearing your parents come out of your mouth.”

What I am hearing right now is a recent conversation between me, my parents, and Maya. My parents were talking about how Danny was feeling pressure from his family to move back to New York. He is the only member of his close-knit family to be living so far away. Before he met Déja, his intention was to finish school in California and then move back home. He misses them and they miss him. Because she is so close to her own family, Déja understands this and feels great empathy for him. The two of them have discussed the possibility of Déja moving to New York for a short period of time, but Déja is hesitant.

“Of course Déja can't move to New York,” my mother said. “Déja could never live that far away from her family.”

“But Danny's living that far away from
his
family,” I said.

“That's what you have to do, though,” my mother said. “You have to go where your mate is. And where your mate's family is.”

“But wouldn't that apply to Déja?” I asked her. “Why wouldn't she go where
her
mate's family is?”

“No, no, no,” my father said.

“Why not?” Maya asked.

“Because Déja's
here
,” my father said. “And so is he.”

I don't tell Déja about this conversation. Nor do I tell her that, despite my devil's advocate position with my parents, I feel very much as they do. I can't imagine what we'd do without Déja. Nor she without us. She herself has said, “I never opted to leave my family for any length of time like he did. I don't know how long I have to spend with my parents. They aren't going to be around forever and I don't want to miss any of that time. Besides, my family are my best friends. They are my people.”

And, although I give Danny enormous credit for integrating our family into his life so seamlessly, I also believe that he's getting a pretty good deal. His own mother confirmed this when she came out to visit recently and we all met her.

“Thank you for taking such good care of my son,” she said. “I was worried about him being out here all by himself, but I see now that he has not just Déja but her whole loving family around him.”