Free The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky

right on the ocean, the Cliff House, because I told Judy I had never gone there.
    â€œThat is ridiculous,” she said. “They have terrific French onion soup.”
    We took a three-hour lunch that day. We had French onion soup and gin and tonics, took a walk along the beach. I rolled up my pants and put my feet in the water. Judy said it was too cold. She shook her head fondly at me.
    â€œI will miss you,” I said.
    But I hadn’t.
    Or I did, but only for a short while. It wasn’t as if she was my mother. Or a friend my own age. She was my boss, she had been my boss, and so it did not make sense to stay in touch. Not when what she had to say no longer pleased me. I had fit her neatly into a category that did not quite apply. Who else did I go for walks with along the beach, get along with like that? There was no one. There was no one else.
    â€œI am sorry,” I told Judy now, sitting in her car.
    She didn’t answer.
    I would have liked if she had answered.
    I put my hand under the seat, I don’t know why, and I found an old journal of mine. It was a Japanese notebook with a navy blue cover, skinny lines, filled until the second-to-last page with my illegible scrawl. I remembered how bereft I had felt when I lost that particular journal. I had looked everywhere for that book, torn up my apartment, gone into every café and bar Ifrequented and asked if I had left it there. Now, I held it to my chest. Had it sat under the seat for years and years? Did Judy know that it was there? This had been the book I had written in, questioning my feelings for Daniel. My guilt about Alice, wasting away in front of me. Where I wondered, do I go to graduate school? Do I rent an apartment and live like a grown-up? What do I eat for breakfast? I opened it to a random page and closed it.
    I was not sure, actually, that I wanted to read these pages. I wrote journal pages just to write them, never to revisit. Taped to the back cover was a sealed envelope, my name written on it with a black calligraphy pen. I recognized Judy’s handwriting.
    Judy had written me a letter.
    She had written me a letter.
    I could suddenly feel it, like a wave. Judy had died in this car. What was I doing, breathing that air? I struggled with the door handle, unable to get out quickly enough.
    â€œDon’t fix the car,” I told the mechanic.
    The mechanic looked at me.
    â€œWhat about the money?”
    I blinked. I did not understand the question.
    â€œI will fix the car and then I’ll sell it for you,” he said. “And I will give you the cash. We can work out the details. Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I said, changing my mind again, quick as that. I did not feel any less panicked, but that did not matter. My father would be pleased with me. But I would not get back into Judy’s car. I was glad that was settled.
    The mechanic took my hand and led me back to his office. I sat down on the plastic chair across from his desk and wasnot surprised when he brought me a glass of water. It was easy to make fun of the hippies, but often they were kind. I knew, for instance, that when he sold the car, he would give me the money.
    â€œHe might not,” Judy said. “I wouldn’t trust him.”
    Judy had a less favorable opinion of hippies.
    â€œJudy, my friend, she died in that car,” I told him, both hands on my water glass, afraid that I might drop it. “I don’t think anyone should drive it.”
    â€œYou are probably right,” he said. “How about I sell it to a creep?”
    This made me smile.
    â€œShe wrote me a letter,” I said.
    I showed him the envelope.
    â€œYour dead friend,” he said, gently. “You gonna read it?”
    â€œNot here,” I said.
    â€œAre you going to give me your phone number?”
    I looked at him.
    â€œSo I can call you after I fix the car.”
    I nodded, dumbly. I wished that I had a cell phone. I gave him my home