The Corolla lasted another two weeks before I decided I couldn't keep driving it.
It ran well enough, but every time I climbed inside, I thought about the night I had sat in it with the engine running in short intervals.
I thought about Dad telling me the car was his.
He was right about the paperwork.
The title and registration were in his name, and he had paid for the car years earlier.
I had paid him a hundred and fifty dollars a month for the privilege of using it.
I had also paid for the insurance and most of the maintenance.
None of that made the car mine.
I could have fought him over the money.
I could have asked for the payments back.
Instead, I decided to buy a car he had no claim to.
I had five thousand two hundred dollars in savings when I left home.
That money had been set aside for moving costs and emergencies.
The apartment required no deposit, and my new job came with a better hourly rate.
I sat down with a notebook and worked through the numbers.
I wrote the rent at the top of the page.
Under that, I listed utilities, food, insurance, fuel, and the payment I wanted to keep putting into savings.
The totals weren't comfortable, but they were possible.
I called Marisol to ask when the new schedule would be reflected in my first paycheck.
“Your first full night-shift pay period will be after you start,” she said. “Don't spend money you haven't earned yet.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good. I like you, but I'm not going to let you buy a car on the strength of optimism.”
I laughed.
“I appreciate the concern.”
“It's not concern. It's arithmetic.”
She was right.
I spent the next several days checking used-car listings and calling sellers.
I took a notebook with me and wrote down mileage, price, maintenance records, and anything that sounded suspicious.
Some cars looked good in photographs and terrible in person.
One had a check-engine light the seller described as “probably nothing.”
Another had tires so worn that I could see the smooth patches from the sidewalk.
I walked away from both.
On Saturday morning, I found a 2011 Subaru Forester listed for forty-one hundred dollars.
It wasn't pretty.
The paint had faded along the roof, and the driver's seat had a small tear near the seam.
But the tires were decent, the engine sounded steady, and the seller had receipts for recent maintenance.
I took it for a test drive.
The steering felt solid.
The heater worked.
The brakes responded evenly when I tested them in an empty parking lot.
I asked the seller if I could have a mechanic look it over.
He agreed.
The mechanic found a few ordinary signs of age but no major problem.
I returned that afternoon with the money.
Handing over four thousand one hundred dollars hurt.
I counted it carefully and asked for a receipt.
The seller signed the title paperwork, and I sat in the driver's seat with the keys in my hand.
The car smelled like old fabric and peppermint gum.
I turned the key.
The engine started.
I sat there for a moment, listening.
No one was waiting for me to arrive home.
No one had to approve the purchase.
No one could tell me that the keys belonged to them.
I drove to the insurance office and put the policy in my name.
Then I went to the registration office and completed the paperwork.
When everything was done, I put the documents in the glove compartment.
I had spent nearly all the money I could safely spend.
I also owned my transportation.
That night, I called Mom and told her about the Subaru.
“Does it run well?”
“It does.”
“Is it safe?”
“The mechanic checked it.”
She paused.
“I'm glad you have something reliable.”
“Me too.”
“Your father says you should have talked to him before buying a car.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mom.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“I bought it with my savings. It's registered to me. I don't need his permission.”
“I understand.”
I waited.
She didn't add anything about his worry or his intentions.
“I'm glad you're happy,” she said instead.
“Thank you.”
I put the phone down and carried the army blanket from the couch to the Subaru.
I folded it neatly and placed it on the rear seat.
I kept thinking about the night on County Road 75.
Walt's forehead had been bleeding.
His left wrist had been swelling.
The snow had blown across the road so thickly that I could barely see the ditch.
I had stopped because somebody needed help.
I hadn't thought about whether the choice would make my father proud.
I hadn't asked permission to call an ambulance.
I had done what I knew was right.
The memory no longer ended with the locked door.
It ended with the Subaru warming beneath me, the blanket across the seat, and the road ahead.
On Tuesday, Mom came over again.
This time, she knocked and waited.
I opened the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
She brought a container of soup and a bag of oranges.
I let her set them on the counter.
She looked at the Subaru keys beside my coffee mug.
“Your father asked if you were going to come home for his birthday.”
“When is it?”
“Next month.”
“I haven't decided.”
She nodded.
“He misses you.”
I took a breath.
“I miss parts of being home.”
“I understand.”
“I don't miss wondering if a door will open.”
Mom looked down at the oranges.
“I don't blame you.”
That was as close to an apology as she had managed without circling back to Dad's fear.
I accepted it for what it was.
Before she left, she asked if she could take a look at the bedroom again.
I laughed softly.
“You don't need to ask every time, Mom.”
“I know. I just want to get used to it.”
“Then keep asking until you don't feel like you have to.”
She smiled a little.
At the door, she turned back.
“Your father still has the laminated rules on the kitchen counter.”
I didn't know what to say.
“He hasn't thrown them away,” she continued. “He keeps moving them, but they're still there.”
“That's his choice.”
“I know.”
After she left, I went to the window.
The Subaru was parked under a streetlamp.
Snow had begun collecting along the windshield.
I pulled on my coat and went downstairs to brush it off.
I cleared the windows and checked the tailpipe area, even though the engine was off.
It had become a habit after the blizzard.
The memory of exhaust in a blocked space stayed with me.
I returned upstairs, hung my coat on the hook, and made tea.
The apartment was still small.
The carpet was still worn.
The cabinet door still hung crooked.
But everything inside it was mine to arrange.
I could leave my shoes by the door.
I could stay up late reading.
I could sleep through the morning if my shift allowed it.
I could change my mind about dinner without asking anyone.
Those freedoms weren't dramatic.
They were small enough to fit into a regular day.
That was why I trusted them.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: When I Started Working Nights, I Finally Understood What It Meant to Come Home Without Having to Prove Anything
I Thought Coming Home After Saving a Stranger Would Be the Hardest Part of My Night, Until I Saw the Chain
Part 11 of 12
