A Drive Through Grief

“You ready?”

“Yes,” I say, as I buckle my seat belt, “let’s just get this over with.”

To think that I’ve been sat in this same worn-in seat three times prior to today creates a pit of impending doom in my stomach. Although this might be the only time that actually counts, I can’t help but wonder if I should go through with this at all. As if everything that has happened since then is meaningless and without importance. Wondering whether this is really what she wanted- whether going through another round of anguish is worth all the stress.  

I’ve been fidgeting with the laces of my Converse for the past hour, patiently waiting for my proctor to enter the vehicle. I look down at the strands of my untied shoes gently beginning to press down on the brake as I shift the car into reverse. 

“Alright, let’s not waste time in the parking lot since I trust that you know what you’re doing. Fourth time’s the charm, huh?” says my proctor.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” I say, as I slowly begin to press down onto the accelerator as I back out of the parking spot. 

With one quick motion, I rotate the steering wheel clockwise and turn out of the spot. I straighten it out as I shift the car into drive, and gently press down onto the accelerator. 

“Good, now take me to 64th and I’ll tell you where to go from there.” 

On a road that I know all too well, I drive out of the DMV lot and make my way to the main road. My hands maneuver the wheel in different directions staying in complete control of the large vehicle as I quickly glance at my proctor. 

Once making it to the intersection, I am met face-to-face with an ice cream shop I am far too familiar with. 

“I’ll take the chocolate please,” she says as she turns to face me. Her big blue eyes stare down at me in awe as I tighten my grip on her hand. I can make out the shape of her breath in the cold winter air, creating a cloud around her face as I contemplate what to ask for. 

“The vanilla, mom,” I say. 

“Eyes on the road,” says my proctor, “you missed your opening.” 

I’m staring at the brightly colored ‘CLOSED’ sign shining on the freshly fallen snow as I hear a honk from behind me. 

“Sorry,” I say, as I quickly make my way across the intersection. The words “Nilla’s Ice Cream Shop” make their way past my line of vision, and my proctor seems to notice that it’s distracting me. 

“Distracted by the ice cream shop, seriously?” 

“Yea, I guess,” I say under my breath, as I turn right onto the main road. 

“One chocolate and one vanilla cone,” says the clerk as my mom hands one to me. 

I watch as the shiny liquid melts onto the side of the cone. I take it from my mother's grasp and it begins to drip onto my hands. 

“Oh! I’ll get that, don’t worry,” she says, as she reaches across the counter to grab a napkin. She pulls one out of the dispenser and wraps it around the cone. “There, all better.”

“You seem lost in thought,” says my proctor, as I jump back into reality. “You know, we’re going to be here for a while, so you might as well tell me what’s going on.

I haven’t processed the road in front of me for the past few minutes, relying on muscle memory to get me by. I notice that we’ve made it to 64th, and am now stopped at a red light. 

“Which way should I go?” I ask, dodging his previous question. 

“Turn right on the next intersection.”

I do as he says, and we make our way to the intersection in silence. 

“If you don’t want to talk about it it’s fine, I just don’t want this to jeopardize your driving,” he says, breaking the silence. 

I quickly glance over at him and notice that he is looking in my direction, waiting for some sort of answer. Coming up with said answer is like waiting for the snow to stop falling, a hopeless and uneventful stand-by. 

“I’m not distracted, just thinking,” I say, realizing that I have just lied right to his face. 

“Well, care to share?” he asks, “Make another right up here, you’re going to pull into this parking lot on the left.”

I do as he says, and enter into the lot. Rows of neutral cars pass my line of vision, each one covered by a sheet of fluffy snow. The condensation on each windshield is shielding my eyes from the contents of the inside, almost as if to conceal the insides of an individual’s life. They say ones car slowly becomes a part of a person, containing aspects of them not even a house could showcase. 

“My mom died a few months ago. We were really close, and I miss her a lot. That ice cream shop was our favorite, and it just brought me back a little, you know? Should I pull in here?” 

“Yes, right here is perfect.”

I steer my steering wheel and make my way into the spot, where I maneuver the car into it and place it in park. 

“Well, I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ sounds like the right thing, but I know you must have heard about a thousand of those,” he says. 

“You’d be surprised.”

“How so?” 

“No one in my life really knows about this, and the family that does know doesn’t necessarily speak to me anymore,” I say. I inhale deeply. 

“Well then, I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Thank you.” 

We sit in silence for what seems like ages, until we are disrupted by the blaring sound of a car horn. I look up and notice the blue and white disabled sign sticking out of the ground from the rearview mirror. 

“Alright, I’ll move the car,” I say, as I move the gear shift into drive. 

Lightly pressing my foot onto the accelerator, I let the car move up a little before turning left into another spot. 

“That should do it,” says my proctor, as I make the final adjustments before placing the car into park. “So, does your mom's passing have anything to do with the fact that this is your fourth time taking your driver's test?”

He smiles at me. 

I laugh.  

“Yes actually, she was sick for so long, and it was all I could really focus on. She wanted this for me, which is why I’ve kept coming back. Now I’m not so sure,” I reply, letting my head fall back onto the seat cushion. 

“Why do you say that?”

“I think she just wanted something for me to take my mind off of how things really were for her. Now that she’s gone, I don’t really need that.” 

I look to my left and am met face-to-face with my proctor. Looking at me dead in the face, I can see the sympathy in his eyes. 

“But you do, don’t you? I mean she’s still all you can think of even now,” he says. 

“I guess,” I say, I let my head fall onto my steering wheel, releasing a honk from the car. I glance down at my dirty Converse and notice that my shoelaces are still untied. I pick up my knee and place my foot onto the seat, and quietly begin to tie my shoes. 

“You know, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says to me.

“What?”

“I mean, I get that you want to honor your mom and all, but who cares?”

I stare at him in disbelief. 

“I don’t understand, I-”

“You showed me yourself earlier: she’ll live on in your memories. So why put yourself through something that you don’t really want if, in a way, you’re honoring her just by existing?”

I’m so focused on his words that I nearly jump when the radio turns on at full blast. 

“Oh god, sorry about that,” I say. My proctor laughs. I scramble to turn it down, but can’t seem to find a way. He helps me look around the panel and finally is able to shut it off. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and rests his head onto the car window. “How about we do some parallel parking?” 

“Alright,” I say, and back out of the spot. 

“Exit the lot and turn onto 52nd.”

I drive in silence, unsure of what to say after he put things into perspective. I don’t want my license. I just don’t care enough. Taking this test is just keeping a part of my life alive that I simply want to forget. I would have a constant reminder of what I lost, and like he said, I already experience that enough on the daily so what’s the point of amplifying that feeling? 

After multiple red lights later and a few shy curbs, we find ourselves near an outlet mall where I spot an empty spot on the side of the road. 

“Okay, park there,” he says, pointing to said spot. 

I inch the car closer to the opening, and as I position it in the right spot, I start to turn the steering wheel and back into the spot. With a few quick maneuvers and one sharp break, I shift the car into park and look at my proctor. 

He smiles.

“I think we’re good to go,” he says. 

The drive back to the DMV is awkward, to say the least: talking about my trauma with a complete stranger isn’t always an ideal situation. Every so often he’ll ask a question such as, “So where did you grow up?” or “Do you live around these parts?” and I’ll either give a one-word answer or simply nod my head. 

When we drive by the ice cream shop, my eyes are glued to the ‘CLOSED” sign, noticing that the entire sign seems to be flickering on and off. It never used to do that, and I’m wondering whether this is simply a coincidence or a sign from the universe that I should move on. 

At the last red light, I notice the DMV lot in the distance, and I spot a woman sitting on a bench near the front door. 

“Who is that?” I ask. 

“Who?” 

“The woman sitting on that bench.” 

My proctor looks my way and simply laughs to himself. 

“Just pull in right here,” he says, ignoring my question. 

I pull into the DMV lot and park the car near the double doors. I look in the direction of the bench and notice that the woman is no longer there. 

“I guess I’ll go in and fill out my paperwork,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt and stepping out of the car door. 

As I step onto the dark pavement, I notice that I never finished tying my shoes. 

“Oh by the way,” says my proctor, as I turn around the face him, “you passed.”