The Other Side of the Lot

It’s Sunday morning, and the parking lot behind the Target on Route 9 is empty. Sunday morning is the only time Desmond teaches driving.

“Ready?” he says.

“I think so.”

“Good,” Desmond says. “Me too.”

“Seatbelt?”

“On.”

“Mirrors?”

“Um.”

“Mirrors,” he says. “You must check them before you move. Every time.”

You reach up to turn the mirror, and then you stop.

“Should I ask you first?”

“You don’t need my permission for the mirror,” Desmond says. “For the next half hour, everything in this car is yours.”

You start the engine. Desmond puts one hand on the door handle and leaves it there.

You drive at eight miles an hour toward a long line of shopping carts. “Focus,” he says, quietly, and you understand that he isn’t saying it to you.

You go around the lot. Then around again. Somebody’s car comes in and parks by the store doors, and Desmond watches it until it stops moving.

After half an hour he says, “Okay. That’s enough for today.” He drinks some water, and his hand isn’t completely steady.

“Was I bad?”

“You were great,” Desmond says. “Really. Same time next Sunday, and next week we’ll go a little further.”

“How much further?”

He looks out across the empty parking lot.

“The other side,” he says.