With three honks of the horn, she put the car in drive and set off.
Three honks, Daniel thought. The code for “I love you” that he and his daughter, Mazie, had worked out when she began driving. Three honks when she left. Two honks for “I’m home.” One honk for each word. It was theirs. “I love you.” “I’m home.” It meant she was safe.
He had grown accustomed to this ritual and the sharp repeated blasts of the horn. He knew it was a harsh sound. But, today, it was like an old church bell ringing upon the hour, fading away in the distance: full and rich and mourning and connecting to the past.
He could see a raised hand waving from inside his old Civic. He wanted to buy her a going away car for college, but she insisted on driving it “into the ground.”
A light rain began to fall as the car cleared the corner. He could hear the engine growing fainter, then an echo, then nothing but the droplets gaining momentum.
Daniel retreated to his rocking chair on the porch as the sky opened. It creaked as he put his weight on it. Mazie’s sat empty. She had insisted on matching rockers. “I’m an old soul. And, you’re old,” were her words. His crow’s feet deepened as he let out a chuckle. “Happy lines,” she called them as a toddler. This brought on the first welling-up in his eyes. A quick swipe as he steeled himself for more. But none came. Just more of the thoughts of “no more.” No more long conversation about her English’s teacher’s lack of humor, or why the prom was an outdated institution, but of course she still needed a princess dress and a ride. No more sitting in silence sipping espresso, her favorite drink, while pretending the aroma was lovely. No more waiting for this day.
The tears came.
He hadn’t noticed the old banker’s box sitting under Mazie’s rocker. They both must have missed it in those last moments and double checking of checklists full of things that would be replaced within a month.
“Get it over with,” he said as he sat the box on his lap.
He knew this box. He had tried taking it all in as she packed each of the photos inside and the birthday cards she had saved. He had stared at them night after night preparing for today.
His finger rubbed the dust from the edge of the frames. His eyes stopped. Wedged between two pictures was a small worn change purse. It was the change purse that had sat on top of his wife’s jewelry box in their bathroom. Her ritual was to place her wedding ring in it before she performed the washing of the face each night.
“I can’t sleep in my makeup or I’ll wake up with a breakout,” she repeated, when he would hurry her to come cuddle.
Their ritual.
He tossed the pouch between his hands. Its weight familiar. The faux leather worn by years of routine. He traced the circle ridges of the ring pressed through either side. It wasn’t a surprise, he expected it. His wife had given it to Mazie on one of the long hospital nights. She wore it at the funeral.
“It really isn’t anything special,” she’d said, “and that’s why it’s special.”
It was all he could afford. The jeweler had given him a pity discount: the brightness in his eyes had said more than any please ever could.
Mazie would want this. But she had just left, and his stomach tightened knowing it could wait.
“I’ll be back over break … maybe before that, if they only have public laundromats,” she had said as she closed the car door. She hated the idea of having to take her dirty clothes into the public. He had told her it was part of growing up and doing adult things and that means not coming up every weekend – words he regretted now.
Maybe she hadn’t made it to the freeway yet. I could catch her with a quick call. She wouldn’t be late to move in: there was no set time. And she would want this.
It could wait. Of course, it could.
He let out a heavy breath, not realizing that he had been holding it in, as he rose from the chair, box in hand. The rain was letting up. As he moved to the door, he heard an engine growing closer. He turned and saw his neighbor’s son parking his truck in front of their house. He watched him get out, grab a backpack, and walk across their grass. He disappeared from view.
He turned and grabbed the door handle. It resisted as he pushed to enter. Swelling from the rain.
He sat the box down in the entryway and leaned back against the front door. One more tear slid down his cheek.
Not tonight.
No two honks.
Photo by laura adai on Unsplash
