Mom answered every one of them.
At the Buick, she searched through her handbag for the keys.
I held out my hand.
“Want me to drive?”
She examined me suspiciously.
“In my car?”
“Yes.”
“You used to say it embarrassed you.”
I felt my face warm.
“I know.”
She placed the keys in my palm.
“Don’t grind the gears. The transmission’s older than some of our drivers.”
I laughed and opened her door.
She climbed into the passenger seat, settling her handbag on her lap.
I walked around to the driver’s side.
The old car smelled faintly of leather, coffee, and the peppermint candies she kept in the center console.
I started the engine.
It turned over immediately.
Mom fastened her seat belt.
“Where are we going?”
“The diner near the old depot.”
She smiled.
“Your father loved their pancakes.”
“I remember.”
I backed carefully out of the parking space.
As we reached the gate, Mom looked toward the freight yard one last time.
“After breakfast, remind me to call the warehouse manager.”
“What for?”
“He wants to replace the break-room chairs. Some of them are falling apart.”
I glanced at her.
