Page 38 of Life and Death
The inside of the Volvo was just as pristine as the outside. Instead of the smell of gasoline and tobacco, there was just a faint perfume. It was almost familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Whatever it was, it smelled amazing.
As the engine purred quietly to life, she played with a few dials, turning the heat on and the music down.
“Is that ‘Clair de Lune’?” I asked.
She glanced at me, surprised. “You’re a fan of Debussy?”
I shrugged. “My mom plays a lot of classical stuff around the house. I only know my favorites.”
“It’s one of my favorites, too.”
“Well, imagine that,” I said. “We have something in common.”
I expected her to laugh, but she only stared out through the rain.
I relaxed against the light gray seat, responding automatically to the familiar melody. Because I was mostly watching her from the corner of my eye, the rain blurred everything outside the window into gray and green smudges. It took me a minute to realize we were driving very fast; the car moved so smoothly I didn’t feel the speed. Only the town flashing by gave it away.
“What’s your mother like?” she asked suddenly.
Her butterscotch eyes studied me curiously while I answered.
“She kind of looks like me—same eyes, same color hair—but she’s short. She’s an extrovert, and pretty brave. She’s also slightly eccentric, a little irresponsible, and a very unpredictable cook. She was my best friend.” I stopped. It made me depressed to talk about her in the past tense.
“How old are you, Beau?” Her voice sounded frustrated for some reason I couldn’t imagine.
The car stopped, and I realized we were at Charlie’s house already. The rain had really picked up, so heavy now that I could barely see the house. It was like the car was submerged in a vertical river.
“I’m seventeen,” I said, a little confused by her tone.
“You don’t seem seventeen,” she said—it was like an accusation.
I laughed.
“What?” she demanded.
“My mom always says I was born thirty-five years old and that I get more middle-aged every year.” I laughed again, and then sighed. “Well, someone has to be the adult.” I paused for a second. “You don’t seem much like a junior in high school, either.”
She made a face and changed the subject.
“Why did your mother marry Phil?”
I was surprised that she remembered Phil’s name; I was sure I’d only said it once, almost two months ago. It took me a second to answer.
“My mom . . . she’s very young for her age. I think Phil makes her feel even younger. Anyway, she’s crazy about him.” Personally I didn’t see it, but did anyone ever think anyone was good enough for his mom?
“Do you approve?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I want her to be happy, and he’s who she wants.”
“That’s very generous. . . . I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“Would she extend the same courtesy to you, do you think? No matter who your choice was?” Her eyes were suddenly intent, searching mine.
“I—I think so,” I stuttered. “But she’s the adult—on paper at least. It’s a little different.”
Her face relaxed. “No one too scary, then,” she teased.
