Kevin answered after the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"It's me."
"Hey, Mom. You're home?"
"Yes. I just arrived."
"Good. How was the ride?"
I looked through the kitchen window.
The empty driveway was still there.
"Kevin, where is my car?"
There was a brief silence.
Not a long one.
Just long enough for me to notice.
Then he answered.
"Oh, that."
I tightened my hand around the telephone.
"What do you mean, that?"
"I sold it."
I didn't understand him at first.
I actually thought I had heard the wrong word.
"You sold my car?"
"Yeah. A guy was interested. I arranged everything."
I sat down.
My hip was aching, but I barely noticed.
"Who gave you permission?"
"Mom, you weren't using it."
"That doesn't answer my question."
He sighed.
I could almost picture him rolling his eyes.
"You've been in the hospital for weeks. You're not going to be driving around anytime soon."
"That is not your decision."
"I was trying to help."
I looked at the small calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
Tuesday.
I had been home for less than half an hour.
And my son had already taken something that belonged to me.
"How much did you get?"
"Thirty-two hundred."
I closed my eyes.
The car was old, but it was dependable.
I had kept it in good condition.
It had never given me much trouble.
"Where is the money?"
Kevin didn't answer immediately.
Then he spoke in a casual voice.
"I needed to take care of a few things."
"What things?"
"Some bills."
I waited.
He didn't explain.
"Kevin, that was my car. That money belongs to me."
"I know. I'll pay you back."
I had heard those words before.
I had heard them when he borrowed money for rent.
When he needed help with a repair.
When he said his bank account had been frozen.
He always promised.
And I always believed him a little longer than I should have.
"How soon?"
"I'll work it out, Mom."
That was not an answer.
I wanted to ask for the buyer's name.
I wanted to know where the car was.
I wanted to tell Kevin that selling something without permission was wrong.
But I was tired.
My body hurt.
I had spent weeks trying to learn how to walk again.
I didn't have the strength for another argument.
So I said nothing.
Kevin spoke again.
"Honestly, Mom, I thought you'd be happy. You don't need to worry about the car anymore."
I looked toward the front window.
My empty driveway seemed larger than it had before.
"I have to go."
"Okay. I'll call you later."
He ended the call.
I kept holding the telephone.
For a while, I didn't move.
Then I placed it carefully on the table.
I felt humiliated.
Not because I had lost a car.
Because my own son had decided that my belongings were his to dispose of.
I went to the kitchen window again.
There used to be a small oil stain near the place where I parked.
I could still see it.
A dark mark on the concrete.
It was the only evidence that the sedan had ever been there.
I lowered myself into my chair.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
I simply sat there listening to the refrigerator hum.
I had always imagined that growing old would mean having fewer responsibilities.
I hadn't imagined it would mean having to defend myself against my own child.
Later that afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Collins, called to ask whether I had returned.
She had seen the nurse helping me inside.
"Peggy, how are you feeling?"
"A little sore, but I'm home."
"That's good. I've been wondering about you."
We talked for a few minutes.
She asked whether I needed groceries.
I told her I had enough food for the evening.
Then she asked something that caught me off guard.
"Did Kevin come by to get the car?"
I stared at the telephone.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw him here a few days ago. He was opening the garage and moving things around."
I swallowed.
"He didn't tell me."
There was a pause.
"Well, I thought you knew."
"No. I didn't."
She apologized.
I told her it wasn't her fault.
After we hung up, I sat quietly again.
Kevin had been at my house.
He had used the key.
He had gone into my garage.
And somewhere during the time I was recovering, he had arranged to sell my car.
I tried to remember exactly when he had last visited.
The second hospital visit.
The question about the spare keys.
His interest in the driveway.
The way he had spoken as if my future had already been decided.
I didn't like how those memories fitted together.
Still, I wasn't ready to believe the worst about him.
That evening, I made myself a simple meal.
Soup from a can.
A piece of toast.
I ate slowly at the kitchen table.
The same table where Walt and I had eaten breakfast for almost forty years.
I looked at the empty chair across from me.
Walt had always been careful with money.
Not wealthy.
Not even close.
He worked hard, saved what he could, and believed that a person should prepare for the days when things went wrong.
He used to keep a little cash in different places around the house.
I thought he was being overly cautious.
He would just smile.
"One day, you'll understand."
I did understand.
Eventually.
But by then, he was gone.
After dinner, I took my medication and went to bed.
I couldn't sleep.
My hip hurt whenever I turned.
The house felt unfamiliar without the sound of my car engine outside each morning.
I thought about calling Kevin again.
I thought about demanding the buyer's information.
Then I remembered the way he had answered.
He had not sounded ashamed.
He had sounded inconvenienced.
That hurt more than I expected.
The following morning, I sat in the living room with my walker beside me.
My eyes kept moving toward the telephone.
I considered calling my son.
I wanted to hear him say he had made a mistake.
I wanted him to offer to return the money.
But the phone remained silent.
And then I remembered something.
Something I hadn't thought about since Walt died.
The spare tire.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Husband Had Made Me Promise Never to Leave Everything We Saved in One Place
I Came Home From Three Weeks of Recovery and Found an Empty Driveway Where My Car Had Always Been
Part 2 of 20
