I thought about Eli at the shop, keeping his hand close to my handlebar without grabbing it. I thought about Brian as a boy, learning to ride his own bicycle on the cracked driveway. His father had walked beside him, too. I don’t know why that memory came back just then. It did.
“You can walk beside me,” I said. “Don’t touch the handlebars.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
We went three blocks that way. Wilma followed in her Ford, flashers off now. Brian kept pace and didn’t talk much. At the first turn, I steered too sharply and had to correct. He reached out, then pulled his hand back before it touched me.
I saw that.
When we got to my street, he stopped at the corner.
“Do you want me to come by tonight?” he asked.
“No. I want you to call first.”
“I will.”
“And don’t call the insurance company about me again without telling me.”
“I won’t.”
I believed he meant it. I didn’t yet know if he’d do it. Those aren’t the same thing.
After that, the next few weeks were quieter. Brian called before stopping by. He didn’t ask for my keys. He did ask if I’d consider a driving check with a local instructor, and I said I would think about it. I didn’t say yes just to make him feel better.
The Buick money stayed in my account. I used some of it to pay the property tax and kept the rest. The bicycle stayed by the garden hose, where the car used to be.
I did go for the driving check. The instructor said I needed to work on my left turns and should avoid heavy rain. I knew that already, but hearing it from someone I’d hired felt different from hearing it as a decision my son had made for me.
Brian didn’t come along. He asked if I wanted him to, and I said no.
He said, “All right.”
That was a small thing. It mattered.
On a warm Saturday in May, he came over with a paper sack of peaches. He asked if I’d show him how the three-wheeler handled. I told him he could walk beside me, but he wasn’t allowed to touch it.
“I remember,” he said.
I rode to the end of the block and back. He walked beside me, hands at his sides. I rang the bell once when we reached the driveway. It was a silly sound, really. I laughed anyway.
Brian did too, though he looked a little embarrassed.
He stayed for coffee. We talked about the roof and Wilma’s new dog. We didn’t talk about the Buick. Not that day.
Before he left, he stood by the bicycle and ran one finger over the bell.
“Dad would’ve liked that,” he said.
“Maybe.”
He looked at me as if he wanted to ask more. He didn’t.
I still miss having the Buick. I miss being able to load groceries into the trunk without thinking about how far I have to carry them. I don’t forgive Brian just because he apologized, and I’m not going to pretend the whole thing was a misunderstanding.
But he called before coming over the next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that.
I have the bell now. I ring it when I leave the driveway. Not because anybody needs to hear it. Just because it’s mine.
