Part II: Journeys (Chapter 36)
“Do we have to go so fast?” Nana says as she grips the
dashboard.
“We’re not going that fast,” I
say, noting the speedometer set squarely on 55.
If nothing else, Sheldon is a
careful, methodical driver who would rather die than break the law, even a
minor one.
“In my day, we didn’t go so
fast.”
“In your day, you didn’t have
superhighways,” I say, watching the road ahead of us wavering in the Iowa heat.
Mirage puddles glimmer ahead, then disappear before we reach them.
“Well, we didn’t need them. No
one felt the need to hurry so much. Everything these days is ‘hurry, hurry,
hurry...’” Nana tightens her grip on the dash. “I’m afraid.”
Sheldon slows down to 50. Phil
and Sal’s van, which has been following us, also slows down and then whips
around and passes us. As the van passes, I can see Sal’s mouth moving, “Is
everything okay?”
Sheldon nods and flashes the
A-OK sign. He glimpses over to his shoulder to Nana. “Better?”
Nana loosens her grip but keeps
her hand on the dash. “Maybe a little.”
“If I go much slower, I’ll be
pulled over for being a nuisance.” Sheldon is surprisingly patient with Nana.
“I’m 89 years old,” Nana says,
her voice wavering. “And I’ll die soon.”
A simple declarative statement.
I don’t know what to say – any reassurance would ring false, so I say nothing.
“I’m scared.”
Sheldon shuffles around in his
seat.
I sense his shift from
grandson-in-law to therapist.
Sheldon draws in a deep breath.
“So how do you feel about dying?”
The silence is palpable and
hangs in the air like a hint of rotting flesh.
Nana pulls her hand away from
the dash. She draws in a deep breath, tugs at the collar of her green Qiana
blouse, and smooths out her matching Polyester pants. The pant legs have a stitched
crease, the left one crooked. “What am I supposed to feel?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Do we have to talk about
this?”
Nana turns around and wags her
figure at me. “You keep out of this, little missus.” She places her left hand
on Sheldon’s shoulder. “I’m not afraid to die, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, then, what are you
afraid of?”
Nana turns around and looks
directly at me. “I’m afraid something bad’s up with Nicole, and I’ll never find
out about it.” She stares at me, her eyes boring into me as if any secret could
be drilled out through sheer O’Toole will power, and then she turns away. She
runs her fingers through her hair.
Cornfield after Iowa cornfield pass by in a blur.
“I’m afraid I’ll never see my Nicole again.”