Free The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky Page A

number, the one I shared with Hans. And then I wrote down my email.
    â€œIt would be better if you emailed me. I share that number with my husband. Back in New York.”
    â€œYou don’t wear a wedding ring.”
    I shrugged. I wondered if the mechanic was going to ask me on a date. There was nothing that I would like less. “It was uncomfortable,” I said. “When I did yoga.”
    This was true, though it had been a long time since I had taken a yoga class. I found it difficult to relax during a yogaclass. My mind raced during the slow parts, I could not begin to do a headstand and I was always watching women more beautiful than I was, stretching more deeply than me. And while I had these inappropriate competitive thoughts during a nonjudgmental yoga class, I judged myself for my thoughts. Of course, I stopped going. I had also never liked wearing my wedding ring. We had bought matching gold bands at a discount jewelry store on Route 17 the day of the wedding. It was uncomfortable during yoga, uncomfortable when I slept. I worried about losing it when I swam in the ocean.
    â€œYou wanna get high?” the mechanic asked.
    I tilted my head to the side.
    â€œYou look.” The mechanic paused, as if searching for words. “You look as if you need something.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Not really.”
    The mechanic seemed to be waiting for something more.
    â€œI don’t want to get high,” I said.

THE LETTER FROM JUDY
    Leah ,
    If you are reading this letter, it means that I am most likely dead and you have found your journal under the seat of my car. I have held on to your journal for all these years, sometimes rereading it. It was difficult for me to read, you should know. Your handwriting is such a fucking mess, but I suspect that is on purpose. You are hiding from yourself as much as you are hiding from everyone else. Wearing clothing several sizes too large. Dating men who are not worthy of you. Men who are either indifferent to you or smother you with their love.
    I have never met a person so in need while also so unaware of how needy she is. I think that is why I hired you. And smart. Also, I liked you right away.
    It broke my heart when you left to go to graduate school, even though I was glad to see you go. I helpedpush you out the door, didn’t I? I knew it would be good for you.
    I know you will be a great writer. I know things, you don’t always believe me, but there are some things I know. You think leaving was all your idea, but I had threatened to fire you, hadn’t I? You never worked very hard, and after you left, my new assistant did a much better job. I never took her to lunch. We were not friends. I had learned my lesson.
    I loved you, Leah, though I don’t think you appreciated me. Because I was your boss and not your mother. Because you did not respect me for having an office job. You had this idea that your life would be so much more than mine. You never liked my red car. I am not stupid. I don’t think you thought that I was stupid. I don’t think you valued me enough.
    Here I am, writing you a letter to read when I am dead, believing that my words will mean something to you. It seems odd to me, choosing you, when I don’t believe you valued me enough. Shouldn’t there be someone else? Well, let me tell you: it is hard to find true love. Or just love. To love and be loved back. Also, you were young, you did not know better. You are still young. I have been lonely. I made peace with my loneliness long ago. It is hard to be five foot one and wear thick glasses and meet a man worthy of my wit and intelligence. All my life, I have been underestimated because of my height.
    My first husband was a drunk. He threw me downa flight of stairs and he said it was an accident and maybe it was an accident, but I still broke my arm.
    To tell you the truth, Leah, I also thought that my life would be so much more. I am not that old, only