Mom sucks in a breath and lets out a dreamy sigh. “But I did practice on it a time or two with Jean Oliver and his cousin… What was his name?”
That gets my attention and I turn to Mom. “At the same time!” Gross. I slept—or tried to sleep—on that mattress last night. Lindsey’s eyes are filled with horror.
“He sure had a big—”
“I don’t want to know!”
“—mustache,” she continues.
Thank God.
“That mattress had magic powers.” She stops as I open the car door and the lighted running board slides out. “Now you’ll never have magic powers like me.”
“Bummer.” And yet, somehow, I’ll find the strength to live on.
8
Mom’s a horrible back-seat driver.
Raphael’s a horrible bird.
Lindsey’s a horrible chicken.
THE “PASSION RED” Escalade was the shorter option, but it’s still bigger than my Land Rover. I would have preferred a smaller SUV, but Mother loves a Cadillac. The center console is so loaded with buttons and gadgets that it takes Lindsey and me a good ten minutes to figure out the GPS. Once we enter the information correctly and don’t have to delete it ten times, we buckle ourselves into the beast and take off. Not so much like a racehorse, but more like a turtle.
I’ve been in Escalades more times than I can count, but always in the back, with media escorts at the wheel. Everything looks a whole lot wider and longer from the driver’s seat. I feel like I’m driving a short bus with touchy gas and brake pedals. I turn corners too wide and at the best of times I am horrible at gauging distance. Three miles always feels like five to me, and ten feet might as well be fifteen. I have a hard time with measurements, too. I don’t know how many centimeters are in an inch, nor do I care. Tony used to tell me he was six inches, but even I knew that wasn’t true.
Yuck. I’d blocked out Tony from my head for quite a while. Now he’s back, thanks to Mom.
“You’re kinking up my neck!” Mom complains.
“It’s called whiplash,” Lindsey piles on.
I do not appreciate her help and momentarily take my eyes off the road to glare at her in the passenger seat. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Would either of you ladies like to drive?”
“I will,” Mother volunteers.
“I don’t have a driver’s license.”
I look at Lindsey, who shrugs at having left this vital information off her résumé. I’d just assumed that she always took the bus in Seattle because she didn’t own a car. “Since when?”
“Since never. My parents don’t think women should drive.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. My dad and brothers have licenses, but Mom and I and my sisters don’t.”
“You could have gotten your license when you moved out.”
She shrugs again. “I only just moved out, and I knew the Spokane bus system like the back of my hand.”
This is all news to me and reminds me of how little I know about Lindsey.
“Turn left in three hundred feet,” the guidance system directs. I turn too soon and end up in an Arby’s parking lot. The soothing female voice tells me to make a U-turn, and I whip the big SUV around.
“You’re kinking my neck,” Mom says again, but I ignore her.