Fifteen #2
When I got my driver’s permit, I started saving for a car.
My mother had no money, and my father was notoriously mercurial.
He would provide nothing, then suddenly hand me five hundred dollars for no apparent reason.
He can be wildly generous, and wildly withholding, sometimes in the same breath.
My mother has always said his meanness was a way of punishing us.
I don’t think he thought of it as punishing me, but I do believe it was a way of punishing her, certainly a way of keeping a degree of control over her.
I didn’t dare ask him for a car, because if the answer was no, as it was likely to be, that door would be shut forever.
I decided to do it myself. I took every babysitting job I could find and worked in a clothing store after school.
On the day I passed my driving test, my father called to congratulate me. “Let’s celebrate,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at
eight and we’ll go for ice cream.”
He picked me up, we went for ice cream, and when we finished and it was time to go home, instead of walking back to his car,
he kept walking, stopping at the car parked in front of his car. It was my dream car, a cherry red Volkswagen Super Beetle
convertible, 1976, beautifully maintained.
“Wow!” My father whistled between his teeth, leaning in and admiring the polished wood dashboard, how well it had been kept.
“Oh my God,” he said suddenly, leaning in. “They left the keys in!”
I joined him and leaned in to see keys in the ignition. “Should we call the police?”
“No. I think you should drive the car.”
“Ha-ha. I’m not getting into a stranger’s car.”
“It’s not a stranger’s car. It’s yours.” My father had a smile on his face that I couldn’t quite decipher. It was part pride,
part embarrassment, part discomfort, part joy.
“What do you mean?”
He leaned in and pulled the keys out of the ignition with a grin on his face, before dropping the keys into my hand.
I looked down at the shiny keys, noticing for the first time that they were on an embroidered key chain that read “Missy.” I looked up at my father, eyes wide, mouth falling open.
This was the most extravagant thing anyone had ever done for me.
I turned and looked at the car, then back at my father, unable to believe this was happening.
If I was lucky, if I managed to scrimp and save enough, I would have ended up with a rusty old jalopy, but that would have
been fine. I didn’t care about flashy cars, I just needed something to get me around. One day, I thought, in the distant future,
I might be able to afford a convertible; one day, I might be able to afford a convertible Beetle, or Karmann Ghia. One day.
A long way away.
“Marty!” I threw my arms around my father with a squeal of delight. “She’s really mine?”
“How do you know it’s a she?” My father shared in my enthusiasm and delight.
“Of course she’s a she. I just know.” I pulled away from my father and examined the gorgeous car, musing. “Her name is Celeste.”
He burst out laughing. “What kind of a name is Celeste?”
“Her name.”
Celeste and I have been together ever since. There are times she is temperamental, like tonight, her engine sounding throatier
than normal, but I will never sell her. I make a mental note to call the garage the next day, and make my way slowly through
the hills to my father’s house, hoping I won’t be too long. I wasn’t tired, but all the yawning has me longing for my bed.
Scarlett is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter with a glass of wine, staring into space. Uncharacteristically, she gets
up and gives me a hug. I do that thing where you start patting someone’s back to tell them it’s time for the hug to be over,
but she doesn’t pull back.
“Everything okay?” I ask, but before she has a chance to answer, my father walks in.
“Hey, Peanut!” He smiles, but something about him is muted. If I didn’t know from that hug that something was wrong, I know as soon as I look at my father.
“What’s going on?”
“Sit down.” He gestures to the stool next to Scarlett.
“I’m getting scared.” I say this out loud, hoping to be reassured, hoping one of them will tell me there is nothing to be
scared about, but neither of them do that.
Marty sighs. “I’ve got some bad news. I have cancer,” he says. I think my heart stops, but he keeps talking and I keep listening,
even though I want to throw up. I look at Scarlett and know this is real. Her face is serious, her eyes hooded and sad. She
takes a giant swig of her wine and looks into the glass.
“It’s lung cancer,” he continues. “Stage 4, and in my bones. The doctors have said it is terminal, but we have been exploring
our options. There is an experimental treatment in Switzerland where they have seen extraordinary results. There are countless
stories of people like me, diagnosed with stage 4 cancer and told there is no hope, who are now walking around cancer-free.”
What does he mean, no hope?
“Don’t look so terrified.” My father actually laughs. “I promise you, no one ever died of bone cancer.”
I stare at him, unsure if this is a joke or something he is telling himself to make himself feel better. It’s definitely not
true.
“Not this person, at any rate,” he says. His confidence, his strength, his laughter make me feel better. I adjust my voice
to try and sound businesslike, as if my world hasn’t just collapsed around me, but I feel as if I am made of cotton balls.
I am aware that my whole body is shaking, but I won’t cry, not here. My father hates any show of emotion, thinks of it as
weakness, and I tell myself over and over: Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I force my voice to sound normal as if I am merely curious. “So the prognosis isn’t necessarily bad?”
“The treatment doesn’t work for everyone, but when it works, it works incredibly well.”
“When do you start?” Shit. I can feel a tear form and I try to will it away, but it ignores me to trickle down my cheek. My
father pretends he doesn’t see it.
“We leave for Switzerland tomorrow. Scarlett and I leave for the plane first thing.”
“How long is the treatment and when will you know if it’s working?” These are the only questions amongst a sea of questions
that emerge from my lips.
“We don’t know yet,” says Scarlett. “But a minimum of six months.”
I gasp. “Six months in Switzerland? What about . . .”
“ipryy?” My father manages a wry smile and nods approvingly. “You really are your father’s daughter. I have decided to leave
you as the steward of ipryy while I’m away.”
I stare at him, the words he has just spoken tumbling over and over. I am quite sure he is the one who is confused, that the
words he just spoke do not mean what I think they mean.
“What?”
“You’re going to be the interim CEO of ipryy.”
“I can’t do that.” My voice is shaking. I attempt to keep my composure, to prove to my father that I am strong and capable,
even as I turn down this offer.
He is resolute, steely-eyed. “You can, and you will. You have the brains and the business mind to take care of it while I’m
away. You are the person I trust most in the world.”
I stare at my father, barely hearing. He thinks I am worthy enough to take over as CEO of ipryy? I’m dumbfounded that he has
this much faith in me, while wanting to shout that he is out of his fucking mind.
“Why not Clara?” I find myself saying. “She’s been with you for years.
She’s far better equipped to do this. Why me?
” I feel like a child, abandoned, terrified, wanting only to be taken care of by my father, wanting my father to make everything better for me, but there is no better. There is only now.
“You’re family,” he says. “And you’re brilliant. The Inferno deal was dead in the water before you stood up. You have a vision,
and an empathy, and an understanding of the world that is unique. There is no one else. It has to be you.”