Chapter 21
The car became the next fight.
Estelle was eighty-three.
She backed into a concrete post inside her garage.
Nobody was injured.
The rear bumper suffered more than her pride.
Cassian arrived before the tow truck.
“How?”
“I reversed.”
“I understand vehicle motion.”
“Then why ask?”
“You didn’t see the post?”
“Clearly not.”
He looked at her.
“Give me the keys.”
Estelle became still.
Cassian heard himself one second too late.
“What?”
“I mean until we get the car inspected.”
“The car is damaged at the rear.”
“And you.”
“I am not damaged at the rear.”
Marcus turned away.
Cassian lowered his voice.
“You hit a stationary structure.”
“Yes.”
“You should not drive today.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“That is different from give me the keys.”
He knew.
He also knew his heart was still beating too fast.
They went upstairs.
Estelle called Dr. Weiss herself.
Then requested an independent driving evaluation.
Cassian wanted her license surrendered immediately.
Rebecca asked:
“Based on what?”
“She hit a post.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“So perhaps concrete posts are not a geriatric diagnosis.”
He hated lawyers.
The evaluation tested vision.
Reaction time.
Road awareness.
Navigation.
Judgment.
Estelle passed.
Barely in one category.
The specialist recommended no night driving and reassessment in twelve months.
Estelle agreed.
Cassian did not.
“No night driving is not enough.”
“Professional says it is.”
“He doesn’t know Chicago winter.”
“He lives in Chicago.”
“You know what I mean.”
Estelle stared.
“No, I know what you fear.”
He became quiet.
She continued.
“You think if I drive and something happens, you will have failed to prevent it.”
“Yes.”
“That is your problem.”
Harsh.
Accurate.
For nine months Estelle drove only during daytime.
Then she became lost returning from a friend’s house.
Not dramatically.
A construction detour confused her.
Her phone battery had died.
She drove for twenty-five minutes before recognizing a street.
She told Cassian herself.
He did not say:
I told you.
That was growth.
He asked:
“What do you want to do?”
Estelle surprised him.
“Sell the car.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
The answer stopped him.
“I don’t want to stop driving.”
“Then don’t decide tonight.”
“I already did.”
“You said you’re not sure.”
“I can hate a decision and still think it is correct.”
She sold the car the next month.
Kept her license.
Used drivers.
Taxis.
Walked when weather allowed.
Complained about every one of those options.
Cassian once offered to arrange a full-time chauffeur.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want a man waiting downstairs counting whether I leave.”
“He wouldn’t count.”
“You would.”
Fair.
She used an on-call service instead.
One afternoon Cassian arrived and found her returning from the grocery store in a taxi.
Three bags.
One cane.
He moved to take the bags.
She gave him two.
Kept one.
He smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t make carrying groceries symbolic.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Probably.
The car disappeared from the garage.
No ceremony.
No keys placed in a box.
No declaration that independence had ended.
Estelle stopped driving.
May you like
She did not stop going places.
That was another distinction the family had needed to learn.
