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.But logical or not, there was something about sitting inside these motionlesscars, these vehicles without destination or purpose, that always stilled his busy mind longenough for him to think about his mother.Peter didn t wish for his life to be different in the far-reaching, deeply hopeful way that othersoften do, and he rarely imagined what things would be like if she were still alive.How could he?She was somewhere beyond his memory, a hypothetical answer to the rhetorical question ofhis life.But his dad had never attempted to discuss her absence other than to occasionally announce with a sense of resigned finality that bad things just happen sometimes. Even when hewas very little, Peter had absorbed this information, had embraced it by the time he was five,hated it at seven, welcomed it again at ten, and rebelled against it at twelve.Now that he wasnearly seventeen, it had become simply the statement it was: a chain of words that haddictated much of his father s life, and as a result his own.He knew enough to realize that when she died giving birth to him all those years ago, a partof his father must have died as well.He understood this to be the way these things happen, thescripted etiquette of sudden death: the grieving widower, the crying baby, the rain falling acrossthe freshly dug grave site.Peter had seen it a million times in the movies, but it bore such littleresemblance to what was at stake now to what amounted to his life that he sometimes hadtrouble finding himself within the scenario.Sometimes he was surprised that Dad didn t just come out and blame him for what hadhappened.Because even though he didn t actually say it, Peter could often feel it just the same.He knew his father loved him in his own way, but it was also like he couldn t bear to look at himsometimes, and Peter had felt the push and pull of this his whole life, of a dad who consideredhis presence both a blessing and a curse.It was like being on a roller coaster, pitched forwardand then jerked back, ignored until he felt he barely existed in the house anymore, and thenloved so fiercely and briefly it nearly took his breath away.It was like falling and falling andfalling until the very last moment, when you were absolutely sure you d hit the bottom, and thenbeing swept upward again.And so Peter could only ever manage to care about his dad with love measured in inches,slid forward and drawn back like an uncertain card player.It would be too easy to say if thingshad been different or if she were still here or if he weren t the way he is, because those thingswere immutable facts; nothing could make them otherwise.So he worried and observed; hethought too much and he moved too cautiously; he studied his father the way he did everythingelse, wishing things could be different.Outside the car a peal of thunder made the ground tremble and the trees quake.Peterwatched the raindrops slide down the windows, making streaky patterns on the stark canvas ofthe world just beyond, and he breathed in the musty smells of rain and dampness and oldleather.He looked over at the empty passenger seat, the deep well that had been molded overthe years by the unknown driver s copilot.It made him think of the way he d often see mothersdriving their kids around town, so cautious and careful, inching forward at intersections, wary ofthe car seats in back or the children buckled in beside them.And when they came to an abruptstop when a dog darted out into the road or a light changed unexpectedly they never failedto fling an arm out to brace their kids, an instinctive measure of safety and concern for their charges.Sometimes when he sat out here in the car, unprotected and exposed, Peter couldn t helpfeeling that way too.Like the weight of some invisible hand was keeping him safe.He didn t even realize he d been sleeping when he woke later to the drumbeat of rain on thewindshield
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