One more caution and I'll be disqualified.
The whistle blows, and the ref calls out, "We've got a bleeder for Fremont. Two minute break."
Coach Wenner stalks over to me, eyes blazing. "What are you doing? My team doesn't play dirty, Becker. Now either you go out there and try to win that match, or I'm forfeiting it for you. Which is it?"
THIRTY-SIX
Maggie
Mrs. Reynolds is going to be the death of me. She's determined to make me get behind the wheel of her black monstrosity sitting in the garage.
"It's a classic," Mrs. Reynolds says, her chin held high as the garage door opens and reveals the Cadillac.
"I'm ... I'm really not ready to drive yet," I say. "But you can drive it and I'll ride on the passenger side."
Mrs. Reynolds opens the passenger door and slides into the seat. "Honey, my eyes can hardly see two feet in front of me. Come on, now. Time's a-wastin'."
She hangs her hand out the window, the keys dangling from her fingers. She shakes them, the keys on the ring clinking against each other.
I'm huffing and puffing as I slip the keys from her hand, hoping she'll get the hint. She doesn't. I open the driver's side door and slide into the front seat. Wow. The white leather is soft, and the back of the seat is as big as an old Lay-Z-Boy recliner. I look out the front window. The hood is wide and has that shiny Cadillac symbol.
I turn to Mrs. Reynolds, who has her small purse neatly clutched in her lap, ready to go. Making the old lady proud of me would be so great. But... I'm not ready. I think.
"I can't do this," I explain, hoping she'll understand. She's having none of it. Just by the stern look on her face, I know. "Margaret, put the key in the ignition." I do it.
"Now turn the key and start the car." I turn the key.
"What are you afraid of, dear?"
"Hitting someone. Getting into an accident." I gulp.
"This part of you has to change, you know. Being afraid to take chances is scarier than actually doing things that challenge you."
"I haven't driven since the accident."
"It's about time you did, then."
I shake my head.
"Back up slowly so you don't hit the fence." Mrs. Reynolds faces forward and buckles her seat belt.
I buckle mine, too. I have no clue why the lady can make me do things I don't want to do. It's like she has this power over me.
I take a deep breath, press my foot on the brake, and put the car into reverse. Slowly releasing the brake, I turn back and make sure I'm all clear to back out of the driveway.
"Watch out for the mailbox," Mrs. Reynolds advises.
We're safe at the bottom of the driveway and I back out into the street. I'm trying to convince myself not to have a panic attack, but I don't think I'm being too successful. Part of me is excited to drive again and get that fear out of my life, but the other, stronger part of me, wants to put the car in park and limp home. I hear Caleb's voice inside my head, pushing me to do it.
Mrs. Reynolds pats me on the knee. "Well done, Margaret."
With that vote of confidence, I put the car into drive and slowly head down the street.
My feet aren't used to the pedals and I'm stopping too hard and accelerating too fast. "Sorry," I say after we come to a stop sign and Mrs. Reynolds jerks forward.
She clears her throat. "No problem. Let's take it a little easy on the accelerator and brake, shall we?"
"Uh, sure." But when it's my turn to cross the intersection, I take my foot off the brake and gently put pressure on the accelerator. I pump it a bit because I don't want to jerk Mrs. Reynolds forward again.
But now I'm making it worse. Oops. "You'd probably be a better driver, even with your vision problems," I say seriously.
"I might have to agree with you, dear. Next time we try this, remind me to take some Dramamine."
I give her a sideways glance. "You look like you're going to be sick."
"Just look at the road, not at me," she orders. "My looking sick has nothing to do with your driving."
She directs me to a place called Monique's. It has cute dresses in the window. By the time we get there my nerves have gone from overdrive to idle. I follow Mrs. Reynolds into the store. Dresses in all colors and patterns are positioned on racks throughout the store.
Mrs. Reynolds runs her fingers over a short, light blue silk dress. "Do you know how to spot quality material?"
I take my hand and run the soft cloth through my fingers. "I've never really paid attention to fabrics."
"Every fabric has its own personality, just like my daffodils. For some, the softness and weight matters. For others, it's the way the fabric moves ... and you can't discount color vibrancy."
"How do you know so much?"
"Honey, when you're as old as I am, you know more than you want to know."
A woman who works at the store comes up to us, wearing a plum pant suit and blonde hair that's neatly combed and curled at the ends. "Can I help you ladies?"
"We're looking for a dress," Mrs. Reynolds says, then points to me. "For this young lady."
"For me?" I say, following behind as the lady leads us through the store.
Mrs. Reynolds stops and turns to me. "You need a little something to spice up your wardrobe, Margaret. All you wear are solids and, to be completely honest, your clothes are a bit too big and casual."