THREE WEEKS AND TWO DAYS AFTER THE ACCIDENT, I went
to the doctor’s office to get new casts and x-rays. My father took the day off. On the way to the doctor’s office, my dad was very talkative—which was very weird. “August thirtieth,” my dad said.
Okay, so that was my birthday.
“I thought maybe you’d like a car.”
A car. Shit. “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t drive.” “You can learn.”
“You said you didn’t want me driving.”
“I never said that. It was your mom who said that.”
I couldn’t see my mom’s face from the backseat. And I couldn’t exactly lean over. “And what does my mom think?”
“You mean your mom, the fascist?” “Yeah, her,” I said.
We all busted out laughing. “So, what do you say, Ari?”
My dad sounded like a boy. “I think I’d like, you know, one of those low- rider cars.”
My mother didn’t skip a beat. “Over my dead body.”
I lost it. I think I probably laughed for five minutes straight. My father joined in the fun. “Okay,” I said finally. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“I’d like an old pickup truck.”
My mother and father exchanged glances.
“We can make that happen,” my mother said.
“I only have two questions. The first question is this: Are you getting me a car because you feel bad that I’m an invalid?”
My mother was ready for that one. “No. You’ll be in invalid for another three or four weeks. Then you’ll do some therapy. Then you’ll be fine. And you won’t be invalid. You’ll just return to being a pain in the ass.”
My mother never cussed. This was serious business. “What was your second question?”
“Which of the two of you are going to give me driving lessons?”
They both answered at the same time. “I am.” I figured I’d let them fight it out.
