You're a flower, you are. just a little desert flower.
Sun|11.03
Nichol's parking lot stretched before us, empty except for the family station wagon and my brother's go-cart. It was Sunday, and the store wasn't open. It was the early 70s.
We'd dropped our mother off at church, then drove here, and my brother helped our father unload the go-cart from the back of the car while I jumped around in excitement. It was summer, hot, early morning. I was pretty sure I could talk them into letting me drive.
Jay started it up and sped off and I bounced on my toes next to my father, then steadied myself against the car. The faded asphalt stretched before us, the lot as big as a cemetary, its gentle slopes marked by pale yellow lines meant to guide cars into spaces. Jay drove around and around, getting smaller, bigger, and smaller again.
MAN how boring, let me drive let me drive let me drive! Gum, in my pocket, mmmmm, now in my mouth. Bubble Yum. Grape. Bounce bounce chew chew blow a bubble pop it. Blow a bubble pop it.
The sky was clear, the sun so bright that it seemed to add a haze to the day. I moved my legs to feel a breeze against them. I wanted to go home and swim. First drive, though.
My fast endless questions beat against my father until he motioned to Jay, and Jay drove over and stopped.
"Give her a ride," my father said.
"I want to drive!" I shouted.
"No way." Jay shook his head at the thought.
"Get in, he'll give you a ride."
I sat on the passenger side of the cushioned seat and held onto the metal frame just behind me. There were no sides or doors or windshield. The go-cart was the floor, the seat, some metal, four wheels. Gas and brake. Steering wheel. Motor.
Jay pushed on the gas and we were off. I grinned at the feel of the wind, the rush of the bouncy movement. I held tighter, sure I was going to fall. We sped to the far side of the parking lot and turned. Our father was way away, against the car. If I didn't know it was him, I wouldn't from this distance.
"Please can I drive?" I shouted above the motor.
Jay looked at me, and slowed down. OH MY GOD he was going to let me. He smiled and I caught my breath. Good mood! I felt warm. He loved me, he loved me, he loved me.
He stopped and we switched places.
"Do you know what to do?"
I nodded. My head buzzed and I felt a little unreal, above instead of inside. I slammed my foot onto the gas and we jerked ahead. Jay held onto the frame as I swayed across the lot, headed in the general direction of the car and our father.
An enormous pothole loomed ahead; Jay had avoided it on our way over and he yelled at me to do the same.
"Turn the wheel. TURN THE WHEEL!" he shouted. It became apparent that I would drive right through the crater; he reached over and turned the wheel, too late. We jumped across the rocky hole, and Jay bounced out of the cart.
My eyes widened in terror at my brother lying on the pavement and I spun the wheel as far as it would go to the right and kept it there, and drove in a tiny circle over his bare calves.
I heard him scream to hit the brake but I just couldn't, and I did another circle over his legs. My foot was frozen on the gas, my arms stuck in this steering position. I would go in endless loops over my brother until fate intervened.
He sat up and reached over as I passed him, and he pressed the brake pedal with his hand. I lifted my foot, relieved. The cart stopped. My father was next to us, having jogged over without my noticing, and he lifted my brother and carried him to the car. I burst into tears and followed them.
His legs were bleeding. He was probably going to die. I'd killed my own brother. Why did I go through the pothole? What was wrong with me?
I sobbed as we sped home, and my brother cried from the pain. My father, upset by two crying children and from the sight of his son being hit by the cart, shouted at me to stop crying, for Christ's sake. I hadn't been the one run over.
It made sense. You cry when you yourself are run over, not when you run someone else over. Still, I couldn't stop crying.
We pulled into the driveway and I ran into my room. When I realized they weren't in the house, I tiptoed to the bathroom and looked out the window to the patio. My brother was sitting on the bench out there, and my father was dressing his wounds. It almost looked okay. He'd stopped crying. His legs were still attached.
I brushed my hand against the window screen, pretending to pet my brother's head. Stupid me, thinking I could drive. It felt so wrong, this one thing, that maybe it hadn't happened. It didn't fit in with the day. But it had, it did, and they were out there with bandages and I was in here watching.
I sat on the tile, sick, relieved, then sick again. I was bad wrong and stupid plus I cried when I ran people over. Such a baby.
I went back into my room and curled up under the desk. I smelled the wood and brushed my hand back and forth against the rough carpet. I wished I'd gone to church with my mother.
After a while I heard my father call my name. I wasn't sure if I should answer. Probably it wasn't good that he wanted to see me.
He called again and I stood and went to him.
"Jay's all right," he said. "Why don't you put your suit on and go for a swim."
I nodded and did what he said.
It was still morning and hot, and summer.
aRcHiVeS | hOmE
