Learning How to Drive

Lauren's been working all day and by the time we leave the interstate it's dark and she's asleep in the back with the two dogs. The van is bigger than anything I've driven before but it's okay. The moon is nearly full and it lights up the lake and the warning signs that just say ROCKS up ahead of me. The headlights on the van are weak and Chris shrugs and says he doesn't mind driving if I'm uncomfortable but it's okay, I like it: I feel good and in control and free.

On my first night back in the States there'd been a terrible storm and I'd woken up to the sound of something knocking. I'd got out of bed to investigate and found America sitting in the basement. She was up on top of the dryer, swinging her bare feet and banging her heels against the metal. She looked about ninety years old, wearing a red silk slip and smoking a cigarette, but her skin was so creased and her chest was so flat that for a second I couldn't tell if she was a woman or an old man in drag.

"Where've you been?" she'd snapped at me.

"I was away," I said, afraid of saying the wrong thing, trying to think of something that might excuse me. "I was learning some long, hard lessons about life."

America didn't flinch. "And during recess?" she asked.

"During recess?" I'd repeated, giving myself a moment to think. "During recess, I was learning how to drive."