Driven Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part 1

  First Rides

  The Squarebacks

  Plymouth Volaré

  The Hondas

  The Turd

  The Saab

  Part 2

  U-Haul

  Subway Car 66

  SUV

  Skyline Double Wide

  Part 3

  The Vanagon

  The Planes

  The Majesty of the Seas

  Porsche 944

  Part 4

  Ford F-150

  Breakdown

  Gremlins

  Stuck

  Econoline

  Repair

  Trooper

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2018 by Melissa Stephenson

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Stephenson, Melissa, author.

  Title: Driven : a white-knuckled ride to heartbreak and back / Melissa Stephenson. Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2018. |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018009677 (print) | LCCN 2017045349 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328768308 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328768292 (hardback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Stephenson, Melissa (Creative Writer). | Automobile travel—United States. | Automobiles—Social aspects—United States. | Automobile driving—United States—Psychological aspects. | Middle West—Biography | Women—Middle West—Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS/ Siblings. | FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS / Death, Grief, Bereavement. | TRANSPORTATION / Automotive / General. | TRAVEL / United States / Midwest / General. Classification: LCC CT275.S68725 (print) |LCC CT275.S68725A3 2018 (ebook) | DDC 305.40977—DC23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018009677

  Cover design by Brian Moore

  Cover photograph © Shutterstock

  v1.0718

  for Matthew

  When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it.

  —HENRY FORD

  Prologue

  Texas: August 2000

  Five on Friday during rush hour in a city and state both new to me, and my dead brother’s truck starts honking its horn, loud and aggressive as gunfire. Honk honk honk. The truck has no air conditioning and the tweed upholstery feels both slick and scratchy against the damp backs of my legs. I’m on an access road that flanks the interstate, following an inside lane to where it U-turns at the underpass. I feel like a rodent lost in a closed-circuit maze. As I turn toward my side of the highway, the horn blares again. Honk. Honk. HONK. I have no choice but to keep going, a road hazard in a red ’79 Ford F-150 with Confederate flag plates. This truck, it seems, is driving me.

  One guy flips me the bird. Others stare. Some throw their hands up in confusion. Those who get a good look discover a hundred-pound white girl with a ballerina’s neck and an arm full of tattoos behind the wheel, shocked beyond tears. I cross into the far right lane so I can pull over before I get my ass kicked. Each time the horn honks, I feel my brother is fucking with me for making off with his ride. The honking seems to be growing louder, though I know that’s not possible. Honk HONK HONK. I coast into a spot near some trees at the edge of a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot and cut the engine. The chaos ends as suddenly as it began, and for a moment my whole being feels like the still space between heartbeats: body buzzing, ears deaf with silence, the world arrested. Is this what it feels like, I wonder, to be dead?

  I sit, waiting for my next move to announce itself. The thought of having the truck towed because of a horn glitch is beyond embarrassing. My husband knows far less about cars than I do, so there’s no point in calling him. I search the cab as if I might find a solution in an object. The console holds a half-pack of my brother’s smokes, a collection of mix tapes (some I made for him), matchbooks, and spare change. I light a cigarette and assess my predicament.

  Two weeks ago, my new husband and I left our home in Montana for Texas, a move I regret already. My brother died suddenly six days ago, after we arrived in San Marcos, where our zip code ends in 666. Now I’m stranded in a KFC parking lot as the temperature climbs above 110. My new driver’s license is nothing but a piece of paper folded inside my wallet—temporary, a placeholder. And this truck? I don’t even know the dimensions of the thing. I could walk home, but my gut says this is the kind of truck someone might steal. It has little orange running lights on top, a fresh red paint job, a corrugated steel toolbox, and the sort of after-market steering wheel you’d find on a racecar. I don’t dare abandon my only sibling’s prized possession, left to me by default.

  I close my eyes and focus. (Grief has overwhelmed my systems—I can now experience the full range of human emotion in minutes, but logic comes slowly, like reciting the alphabet backwards.) The heat amplifies in the stillness. What would Matthew do?

  The toolbox.

  I climb into the truck bed and unlock the steel box with the smaller of the two keys. Inside: my brother’s tools, a pair of leather work gloves, and a repair manual. Though I’m wearing only Converse, cutoffs, and a black tank-top (Texas has already cured me of the need for undergarments), the sun sears my back with such intensity that sweat drips down my chest, my sides, slides off my chin and splatters on the manual.

  I gather up my findings, unlatch the hood, and stare down the giant six-cylinder engine. All my cars so far have been four cylinders and fuel-injected, not carbureted like this one. To get a better look, I climb into the engine compartment and perch myself on the edge of the body.

  Think.

  Wires and a fuse control the horn. If the horn can honk, the fuse is good. It has to be a bad wire, something pinched or ungrounded, a loose connection. The horn went off each time I turned. I picture that tiny racing wheel atop a thick steering column, and I know that’s gotta be it—the wires crammed like a geisha’s foot into a shoe. I open the manual and flip through electrical diagrams. Though I have loved cars my whole life, my experience is in driving them, not fixing them. I haven’t done much more than change oil or an occasional tire—even those jobs managed in spite of self-doubt.

  Stop it. Just THINK.

  I search the index for “horn.” If I can find the thing, I can disconnect it, but the diagrams offer no drawing or picture of the actual horn. It’s hard to find what you need when you have no idea what it looks like. Though the front of the truck is shaded by a tree at the edge of the lot, I grow hotter and more nauseous by the minute. When Matthew died, so did my appetite. The more I study the diagrams, the less sense they make.

  A kind of mental vertigo I am prone to when under pressure takes hold. In my final year of college, a French teacher caught me daydreaming in class and threw chalk at my head to illustrate the meaning of the verb jeté (“to throw”), a word I knew inside and out after a decade of ballet lessons and five years of French. But put me in the headlights and I’ll go deer on you every time.

  Breathe.

  I remind myself there is no sweaty man yelling at me in this parking lot. The smell of fried chicken provokes a wave of nausea so intense that I climb off the truck and stand in the grass with my head between my knees. Tears come instead of vomit. My brain gives up on logic, taxed from the brief attempt
to fix a simple thing. As reason slips away, my emotions kick into overdrive, and I kick a live oak tree older than me as cars whiz by. A stray customer wanders out of the KFC with a hot bucket under her arm. I kick the tree again, curse, and punch it. The pain in my knuckles turns my rage into shame, and I curl up, knees to chest, back resting against the giant front tire. My throbbing knuckles feel more real than any other part of this new Texas life. I sob till I’m hyperventilating, like I did when I was a child.

  The last time I had a public meltdown was a half-decade ago, during college, when my Volkswagen van got the yellow parking boot while I was in class. Turned out I owed $150 in tickets, $150 I didn’t have, so I went fetal on the curb and cried. Now I have better reasons for crying—a dead brother, a busted truck, and a cross-country move to hell— but I feel just as stupid as I did when I was four or eighteen.

  I focus on breathing. The idea of another cigarette appeals to me, and I open my eyes. On the ground next to my feet are those gloves. His gloves. The leather holds the shape of his hands. I slide them on, one at a time, my fingers so small inside I feel like a child, a forever little sister. This, I think, may be as close to him as I’ll ever again get.

  I stand, steadying myself on the Ford as the world wobbles. In spite of the horn, I do the thing I do best, the thing I do every chance I get, the thing I do when all else turns to shit: I fire up that engine and drive.

  Part 1

  * * *

  One

  First Rides

  Indiana: 1970s

  I’m not surprised that the only thing of material value my brother left behind was a truck, since I’m pretty sure he was created in the backseat of a car, and my most vivid memories of our childhood are of cars, and him—often in tandem.

  My brother and I had in our early days a different kind of love/hate relationship: I loved him and he hated me. But our family came together around cars—objects designed, from top to bottom, to work for you, with you, to complement and propel you. Wheels were a necessity growing up in Indiana—a state most pass through on their way to somewhere else. From the time I remember remembering, I knew you needed a car if you were ever going to get anywhere at all. I bonded with the vehicles of my youth the way some children attached themselves to blankets or stuffed animals. I didn’t realize until I was grown and gone that not everyone gets excited at the sight of a popped hood, the flash of chrome trim running the length of a vintage Dodge Dart, or a whiff of the vinyl interior of a Volkswagen Squareback warmed by the sun.

  Here is our automotive genealogy, our story.

  My father, the oldest of five, hailed from a swath of cornfields off Highway 421 in Boone County, Indiana, just north of Indianapolis. His childhood consisted of farm work and school. He shared a double bed with his brothers, the three of them sleeping head-to-toe until they left home. Dinner leftovers and snack foods didn’t exist in that house, though Jesus hung over them in one of those hologram pictures that shifted from crucifixion to headshot as you walked across the living room.

  My brother and I loved to hear stories about my father’s childhood. He’d tell us how all of his clothes came from the church donation pile. I’d have to pick someone else’s boogers off my high-water corduroys before I wore them, he’d say. Stories like this made us feel loved and rich by comparison (though we were as far from wealthy as we were from either coast—a fact our parents hid from us by acts of near magic).

  How my father ever got enough money to buy the used Chevy he was driving when, at age nineteen, he began courting my mom, I have no idea. Perhaps from several summers spent corn husking on nearby farms? He lost half his left thumb when, as he was riding on a flatbed truck and pulling ears off the stalks, the husking machine snagged his hand. I used to touch that callusy stump, rub it like a talisman, and make him tell me the story again and again: After it got cut off? I walked home and your Mamaw patched it up. But my friends found the tip and stuck it on top of a stop sign. I saw it on my walk to school the next day. Never occurred to me I should have kept it, that they maybe could have sewed it back on.

  My mother grew up in Lebanon, Indiana—the seat of Boone County. A town girl with a teacher for a mother and a state trooper father, she was the second oldest of four siblings. They lived in a fifties housing development where the kids ran from yard to yard and house to house while the parents socialized over cocktails.

  When she was fourteen, getting sent home from school for wearing a too-short go-go dress was my mother’s biggest problem, until the day a semi-truck driver lost consciousness and annihilated her father. He’d been assisting an elderly woman whose car stranded her on I-65, the main artery that connects Indy and Chicago. He was killed instantly, honorably, in the line of duty, reduced to a stain on the highway despite his well-known charm and integrity. He left behind my grandmother and the four children who called her Betty behind her back and Mother to her face.

  I’d make Mom tell me that story over and over as well, wondering how I might feel if anything so spectacular ever marked my life: I realized something bad had happened when all of us got called into the office. We walked home together, and when we saw the police cars at our house, I remember saying out loud to Bonnie and Lisa, “God—I hope it’s Betty.” But it wasn’t. It was our dad.

  The next year, my mother’s first love, Max, died in a car accident. He’d been both anchor and anesthesia after her father’s death. My father—one of Max’s best friends—grieved along with my mother. My dad was no stranger to tragedy either. The year before, another best friend of his had driven his motorcycle straight into a construction barrier at high speed one night. He got his whole face smashed off, Dad told me. After the Max accident, Dad started checking in on my mother, finding the small-town house run by four teenagers a lively reprieve from his stoic family farm on State Road 421. My mother was fun, smart, and pretty. Eventually, he made her laugh. They started talking. They went for a drive—a resilient choice for two kids who’d lost so much to cars already.

  Dad says an ex-girlfriend of his painted a sunset on the trunk of the Chevy one night in secret after he’d started dating my mother. It was a territorial move—a visual reminder of a previous romance—but it didn’t stop my folks from starting a family in the backseat of that car, or so Dad hinted more than once. A half-year later, in 1971, my great-grandmother gifted my parents three hundred dollars to purchase a better vehicle. They were by then a pair of longhaired newlyweds renting an apartment in Indianapolis, which brought them a step closer to Bloomington, where my father pursued a degree in social work at Indiana University. Leaving Boone County was not a common or expected move.

  It takes a lot of gall, their families said. It takes a lot of drive.

  When my mom was nine months pregnant, my dad came home one day with a miles-wide grin and a sixties Fiat. Orange. Two doors, with only a whisper of a backseat. The racy little ride was his antidote to matrimony and paternity, perhaps—a nineteen-year-old’s attempt at balance. Mom rubbed her belly to reassure her unborn child. “Where is the baby going to ride?”

  Dad regarded the car and let loose a nervous laugh—the trademark reaction to confrontation that runs, to this day, the length of the Stephenson family line.

  “Give me the keys.” She held open her hand.

  Barely able to clear the steering wheel with her popped-out navel, she drove the car back to the lot and came home with what should have been a more sensible vehicle: a sedan made by Toyota, a company new to the States. Ads promised buyers would “get their money’s worth” on a “car that doesn’t ask for much,” which would lead them to exclaim, “Oh, what a feeling.”

  Our mother—a poor, pregnant, fatherless, teenage newlywed—needed the kind of feeling the Toyota promised: security in the form of four doors, a full backseat, and a sticker price she could afford.

  Mom gave birth to my brother not long before her eighteenth birthday, and my folks soon moved forty miles south to Columbus, Indiana, where my father took a job at a
halfway house while continuing to work on his college degree. Both the Toyota and my brother overwhelmed them with unexpected complications. Dad kept taking the Toyota back to the dealership for repair. Each time he surrendered the car to the shop, he’d have to pedal his ten-speed to the halfway house and bum rides from friends to attend classes in Bloomington. Dad racked up sixty- to eighty-hour weeks between his job and his studies. He worked night shifts and changing hours, often sleeping till noon.

  Mom and Matthew spent most days stranded at home, not that she minded. Despite her initial horror at the sight of my brother’s forceps-bruised face, she loved her baby dearly. She had good walking shoes and a stroller and kept herself looking nice, skimming magazines in the aisles at the grocery, trying out a new type of braid, an unusual shade of nail polish, her blue eyes thickly lined in black.

  Matthew was a difficult baby who cried without pause. In the night. In the day. In the stroller, their bed, his department store crib. But the few moments he calmed and smiled they savored like blue skies in a northern winter. Alert, he’d study their faces: dark hair, bright eyes shiny with hope. They were good-looking people: our mother in the ballpark of a young Cher, our father a dead ringer for Jackson Browne.

  It turned out Matthew had colic and an allergy to our mother’s milk. Mom gave up breastfeeding for hypoallergenic formula—a change she also says was fine by her, but the medication for Matthew’s colic made his teeth crumble not long after they erupted. Until the age of seven, he looked part vampire—nothing in his top jaw between the incisors other than bare, pink gums.

  In the year after my brother’s birth my folks finagled for themselves a childless vacation, an event that wouldn’t occur again until the fall I turned fourteen. I don’t know how the idea for a road trip to Arizona came to them, though I bet my father longed to travel a stretch of Route 66 and taste the desert air of the Southwest. Though Dad committed to a life as a family man without hesitation, he’s always had a flicker of wanderlust as sure as my mother’s love of nesting. I bet my mother agreed to the trip for the thrill of escape, leaving behind laundry, diapers, and sleepless nights to spend an entire week basking in my father’s attention.