What Doesn't Kill You (20 page)

I decided to send up a trial balloon, as much to see how it floated as to hear myself say, “I've been thinking about downsizing—selling the house and getting…”

And she was off. Talking about the great new high-rises in downtown New Brunswick, with penthouses and spas and panoramic views. Well, at least she was not going to break down because I wanted to unload the old homestead, but I wanted to say, “Earth to Amber, there will be no penthouse. You see what I'm driving, don't you?” I let it slide, though—didn't have the heart or the energy to burst her bubble. I would be in the market for something less grand, bigger than a tent by the side of the road, and indoor plumbing would be good.

When she left, I was worn out. Before that year I was generally a happy person, but at that point cheery was as exhausting as, say, trying to keep up with a cheetah, and it seemed just as pointless. I also knew it was time to wean myself off the heavy-duty drugs so I could get back to work. I had to at least tread muddy water until I could unload the house and get back on my feet—both of them.

Whatever notions I had about how much better I felt went straight down the toilet on day one without my meds. The throbbing of my foot kept time with the beat of my heart. It was a duet I could have done without. I took the over-the-counter stuff, as recommended, which helped a little. It was the difference between a jackhammer and a kettle drum—one is more out of control, but you can't exactly ignore either of them.

So ready or not, in two weeks I was back in the bucket seat, strapped in, ready to hit I-287, the Middlesex Freeway, except it wasn't really free. All the stopping and going, merging and maneuvering took a great big toll out of my hide. I was grateful I hadn't mangled my driving foot, but exhausted by the time I parked. I hobbled to my desk—

—to meet a two-foot stack of files and 612 emails. Obviously they missed me. My office mates even rigged up a copier-paper box and a chair cushion as a makeshift footrest. And I didn't want to tell the story again, especially since I couldn't say what really precipitated my tumble. Except they all wanted to hear it—the part about it sounding like Velcro was a crowd pleaser. And other than occasionally limping to the ladies' room or for coffee, and twenty minutes to down my tuna-salad sandwich, I kept my nose in my work and did my best to ignore the SOS coming from below my desk. And by 5:04 I was inching back to the car to reverse the rush-hour follies.

The routine boredom kept me occupied enough not to have time to think about my problems. By night I didn't have the energy for more than a bowl of soup and curling up on the couch. I was still skittish about the steps. The more I spread out, the more things could go wrong. So I kept my world small and close, hoping trouble wouldn't find me. Besides, I didn't need reminders of how my life used to look, all that mattered was the present.

And on weekends I pretty much stayed in my temple of gloom. I didn't bother opening the drapes. I liked the dreariness; it matched my mood. I knew I had to figure out how to get my house sold. It was either that or lose it. I figured I'd come out of it 2,200 square feet lighter and with a little money to sock away. Under other circumstances I would have phoned up my good old buddy Joyce to have her list the place. When I got overwhelmed by all those ads in the Sunday paper I still toyed with the idea. It would have been so easy because there were so many brokers, but who was good and what if I made a mistake—and at least I knew her. Which is exactly why I had to run the other way. Even I knew easy wasn't the answer, but did everything have to be so damn hard? All at the same time? One thing after another in a never-ending stream of the worstcase scenario meets crappy timing, thus creating a perfectly awful storm in my life. I mean, how much was I supposed to take? And did I have to lose everything? It wasn't fair.

Now, I could get my whine on and not come up for hours. But I really just wanted to know when it was going to stop raining on me.

Not yet.

It was a particularly snarly Tuesday morning. My traffic-radio station told me there was a five-mile backup ahead because of an overturned tractor trailer carrying live chickens in the right lane, and the Department of Transportation didn't seem to have a poultry protocol. Par for the course, there was something toppled over, fender-bent or otherwise disabled pretty much daily, going and coming, and I hadn't had time to figure out the alternate route. I was starving, I had to pee, and with nothing to do but think, I sank into the money pit, running a tab of how much this tie-up would cost me. I know I'm al
ways harping on money. No matter where it looks like the story is going, it comes back to dollars or the lack of them. That's because no matter where I was, or what I was doing, money was on my mind—from first foot out of bed in the morning until my head hit the pillow. If I woke up in the middle of the night, sleep was over. You want to talk about the little engine that could? Once that baby got started, there was no stopping her. Who could I pay? How long before I got the collection call? Would the car get me through the winter? Money was a constant in a way I never could have anticipated—that and occasionally hoping Didier would cut himself shaving and contract flesh-eating bacteria. Bitter wasn't a taste I usually craved, but with him, I savored the flavor.

So there I was trapped on the highway, stomach growling, praying for bladder control. The traffic report repeated every ten minutes on the ones, and for the last 184 minutes I'd heard, “Cleanup from the incident on 287 is ongoing. It's quite a fowl-up.” Ha ha. The van in front of me had exhaust that smelled worse than cat pee and rotten eggs, so I did my best to keep my distance. But if I didn't roll forward as soon as the van crept two inches, the idiot behind me laid on his horn, like that was gonna get anybody anywhere faster. Oh, and my foot hurt, but that's a given. I was obviously late, which I hate. Julius isn't crazy about it either. That's when I noticed the needle on the temperature gauge was two clicks from the big red
H
. What the hell! I knew there was coolant in the radiator, and it wasn't that hot outside, but that needle kept waggling upward. I still had a ways to go before I reached the truck, but the radio said the road would clear after that. If I could just drive at normal speed, the engine would cool enough for me to get to work, and one of the guys at the office could tell me what to do. I
worked with those kinds of guys, the ones who know a little something about what goes on under the hood. So I turned on the blower full blast to get some of the heat away from the engine—learned that from driving my ex's hunk of junk. Hot air spewed out of the vents, which is exactly what I needed on a sixty-five-degree fall day. I rolled down the windows I could reach—yes, I said roll—feeling very much like an Oven Stuffer in need of basting, or turning, or how about getting me out of the oven. My manual ventilation system worked for a while, even though I could feel sweat coating my scalp and my hair rising like bread dough, and let me tell you, in case you never have the pleasure, there's nothing like the smell of steamed cat pee and rotten eggs on an empty stomach.

But deliverance was in sight. I was about thirty yards from the truck carcass, dinking and dunking with merging traffic and looking forward to my liberation, when steam erupted from under my hood. This could not be happening. The nightmares were bad enough, but I was wide awake. If I could just get to the shoulder, I'd be out of the way, but my windshield was steamed so bad I couldn't see, poking my head out the window made my eyes water, and my fellow drivers were not feeling charitable enough to let me over, so I had to stop. Which meant there were now two lanes of blocked traffic, creating an almost total standstill. That sent the idiot behind me into orbit, and he was now joined by a whole bleating chorus of frustrated motorists. Welcome to my daymare.

I wanted to tear up the registration and walk away, off the road, into the woods, someplace quiet where nothing was wrong and nobody was looking for me. Except walking was not my strong suit right about then. Cars peeled off around me, fighting to get to the one open lane, and the honking fool
behind me stopped right by my passenger side and leaned out of his car, so I could fully experience the force of the finger he was giving me and let loose a tirade the likes of which I hope never to hear again. Good morning to you too, you moron. By now my whole body is shaking, I can hear the traffic helicopter hovering overhead, and I'm sure I have elevated this route to the top of the “highway headaches” list, and I know I have to get myself out of this somehow, but my roadside-assistance plan had gone early in my economizing. I had never used it, which didn't mean diddly at the moment.

So I got out, used my car umbrella to pop the latch on the hood and avoid scalding myself and stared at the engine, because I'd seen people do that when their cars overheat. I'm sure I looked as helpless as they did, but it gave me time to clear my head. And in that moment of heightened awareness I determined that what I needed immediately was a tow truck. And the only possible connection I had to one was Ron.

Boy, I did not want to make that call, but I was squarely in a period of my life when what I wanted had zip to do with how things went down. So I dug in my purse, praying I'd been careless and distracted enough to leave his card—which I had no intention of ever using—stashed somewhere in the creases or recesses. I knew J.J. would have happily given me his number, but why make two awkward calls when one will do?

With the contents of my pocketbook splayed on the seat next to me, I shuffled, for the third time, through the pack of discount club cards in my wallet, and there it was, with his cell number on the back. It was too noisy for me to think about how embarrassing this was, so I just dialed—after I'd gotten my glasses off the floor so I could tell the difference between the 3s and the 8s.

He sounded worried when I identified myself, asked if everybody was alright. Guess he wasn't exactly expecting to hear from me so bright and early—or anytime. Then I wondered if I'd woken him up, and maybe I should have called the business number, because this was really work related and maybe this wasn't a good idea. Then I remembered to say yes, the kids were fine, and I apologized for bothering him and blathered on about being stranded in the middle of I-287. And he said oh, and asked if I was the disabled car they just reported on the radio. The backup had grown to seven miles. Great. But he said he'd send a truck for me. I don't know how many times I thanked him before we hung up. I'd figure out later how to pay for it. Then there was the problem of what was wrong with my steaming sack of sedan, and how much would it cost to fix it, and how would I get to work in the meantime—that's when the state policeman showed up beside me, looking somewhat weary of cars breaking down and cluttering his roadway. I told him a tow was on the way. He used the patrol car to nudge me to the shoulder. What a relief! I was stranded by the side of the road, not in the middle of it, which makes a huge difference. After that I spaced out for a while, watched them get the tractor trailer back on its wheels and round up the last of the birds. What a production. It made pulling my car onto the flatbed Ron sent seem like a snap.

The driver helped me and my cane climb into the cab, and even though I was thankful for the rescue, I realized I was disappointed it wasn't Ron who had come. I wondered what it would be like to see him. I hadn't since our hibachi outing. Or if he'd even be at the shop. I didn't ask. But the driver let me off in front of the building, and Ron met me at the door. He even looked good in his crisp blue coveralls, but everything in the
place was sharp, which I should have expected. The tow truck was shiny black with purple and fuchsia lettering—definitely not half-steppin'. And this wasn't some grease-monkey garage. It was like the Mayo Clinic of classic-car restoration. The place was spotless, with checkerboard floors that looked like the winner's flag, and the technicians—because I couldn't exactly call them mechanics—looked like they were about to scrub in for surgery. There was an aqua Continental convertible with suicide doors being prepped for work. A yellow Karmann Ghia, like the ones I used to think were so cute when I was little, was being lowered from one of the repair bays. Then there were his specialties—the muscle cars: a Shelby Mustang, a Pontiac Grand Prix having an engine-ectomy. I was embarrassed I had them tow mine in. Ron said, “Haven't had one of these in a while.” Right. How about ever? No wonder the tow driver took it around back.

We stopped in the waiting room for coffee, then Ron led the way to his office. I followed, convincing myself I wasn't disappointed he hadn't kissed me on the cheek. The walls around his desk were covered with photos, some of cars he'd restored, some from his racing days, posed next to his Demon Dodge. Yeah, he looked fast. We made small talk—about the weather, the kids. He told me he'd gone with J.J. on some of his house-hunting expeditions to help him check out the systems—plumbing, heating and electrical—and give him advice on what would make a sound investment. Hadn't heard about that from Amber's end, but I was glad J.J. had reached out for advice, which I clearly should have done with my automobile choice.

After a while one of the guys came back, said he'd had a look at my car. He lost me after radiator, thermostat, water pump. I must have looked dazed because Ron took over, asked about
parts, how long it would take. I heard the guy say a couple of days and Ron said go ahead. I'm sure I looked kinda green around the gills when I asked him how much this would cost. He said to let him worry about that. I was sure he'd let me arrange some payment plan that didn't involve midnight phone calls from collection agencies. The truth was, I didn't have space for another worry at the moment, aside from how I was going to get to work for the next few days. He must have heard me think it, because he said, “I can loan you something to get around in until your car is done.” Well, then I didn't know how to thank him, but he said, “Come on, let me get you the keys, so you can get on your way.”