Free Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber

little pair of syllables hanging together in the air. “Mother.” The voice belongs to me, but the word doesn’t. It belongs to everybody
but
me. “Mother” slides out of Dr. Nesbitt’s mouth as easily as “please” and “thank you.”
    I practice it a few times—softly, like the little girl on the train with her play-act family.
    I tilt it up in a question. “Mother?”
    I stamp it sternly on the air. “Mother!”
    I singsong it. “Mo-ther.”
    I whisper it out the window, yell it in my pillow, float it like smoke.
    â€œMo… ther… mo… ther… mo… ther… moth…”
    I pour it out to the black night, until finally, the syllables get tired and fall apart.

CHAPTER 9

    â€œWhat make of car do you drive, Dr. Nesbitt?”
I ask at breakfast early Saturday morning. I feel dumb. All I know is that his automobile is black, but that won’t answer my father’s question.
    â€œFord Model T Tudor Sedan.” Dr. Nesbitt mops up the yolk of his poached egg with a piece of toast. “Do you drive?”
    â€œMe? Oh no, sir.” I cut the stems and put three strawberries on Mrs. Nesbitt’s plate.
    A breeze ruffles the curtains. Dr. Nesbitt glances out. “Looks clear today. After I do the lawn, I’ll teach you.” He rinses his plate in the sink, gives his mother and me a nod, and heads out to the garage for the mower.
    Mrs. Nesbitt looks at me, surprised. She shakes her head in a phony lament. “Oh, boy, a whole afternoon spent stirring up the roads. We’ll be dusting for weeks!”
    I picture myself spinning dirt devils out of the exhaust pipe. I smile, but truly, I’d rather be dusting than driving. You can’t kill anybody with a dustcloth.
    By lunchtime my stomach is a knot.
    In the driveway Dr. Nesbitt insists I sit in the driver’s seat. “We will begin,” he says in a serious way, “with the three easiest driving skills to master. Number one: stalling the engine. Number two: getting stuck in a ditch. And number three: getting lost.” He looks at me without cracking a grin. “Which’ll it be?”
    â€œHow about going backward when you mean to go forward,” I say with a laugh that sounds more than slightly hysterical.
    The seat is hard and high. For the first time in my life I’m glad to be gangly. We review the foot pedals: gears on the left, reverse in the middle, and engine brake on the right. “Driving is much easier for folks with three legs,” Dr. Nesbitt remarks. We review the two levers on either side of the steering wheel and the two on the floor. “And four arms.”
    After a string of directions, I start the engine. The car jumps to life. I inhale so sharply I choke. I am petrified. What’s a “Tudor Sedan” anyway? A booby trap? Over the engine noise Dr. Nesbitt says to press the left pedal to the floor for low gear. Next he says to adjust the throttle.
Throttle?
My hands flutter up and down.
Throttle… throttle…
I spot it!
Okay
. I move the right steering wheel lever to “
giveher a little gas
.” Mrs. Nesbitt waves Henry at us from the back porch. Our tires spray gravel. “Get out of the way,” I scream at the chickens as we buck forward.
    â€œNow brake,” Dr. Nesbitt says, calm as can be.
    I press the right pedal. We stall out. I exhale for what seems like the first time in hours. Panting, I turn to Dr. Nesbitt with my mouth hanging open.
    â€œWell done, Iris. You mastered skill number one on the first try.”
    I learn neutral and reverse and quite a bit about horsepower and flat tires and electric starters versus the old crank style. Dr. Nesbitt tells how he used to treat drivers with a “Ford Fracture”—the broken arm they got when a crank starter accidentally spun the wrong way.
    I’ve sweated through my dress again. My shoulders ache from being hunched