Die Before I Wake by Laurie Breton Read Free Book Online Page B

The nearest DMV office is in Portland.”
    I thanked him and headed across the lawn to the driveway. It wasn’t until I got into the Land Rover that I discovered it was a stick shift. Crap on a cracker. My Miata had been an automatic. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Bright yellow, automatic, four-cylinder convertible. You’re thinking, chick car. I plead guilty as charged. But I liked driving an automatic, and I was a disaster with a stick.
    Jeffrey had tried once to teach me how to drive his five-speed Corolla, but the lesson had been a catas-trophe I didn’t want to repeat. The shifting part I got down without much trouble. It was the clutch, the dreaded clutch, that was my downfall.
    In theory, I understood how it worked. The clutch goes to the floor, the car starts, the clutch comes up slowly as the gas pedal goes down. When it catches, you give it more gas and ease the clutch the rest of the way up. It sounds so simple, but a crucial piece of the puzzle, the kinetic understanding of when to ease up on the clutch and when to press down on the gas, had thus far eluded me. I could probably manage to drive the damn thing, but it would be a herky-jerky, humiliating experience.
    My options ran the gamut from A to B. A, I could stay home, tell Tom that I couldn’t drive a standard shift, and see what happened. Or, B, I could teach myself to drive the car, no matter how humiliating it might be.
    I thought about my determination not to let life defeat me. Thought about my dad, who had. Thought about how I’d survived the death of my newborn, and the subsequent death of my marriage. I was a strong woman. An intelligent woman. A determined woman. I’d survived the loss of everyone I loved, then moved on and started life over with Tom. I’d moved three thousand miles away from home to be with him. If I could do all that, I could drive this damn car.
    I took a breath, pressed the clutch to the floor, and turned the key. The engine roared to life. So far, so good. I locked the seat belt into place, made sure the shifter was in first gear, then slowly, smoothly, eased up on the clutch with my left foot while stepping on the accelerator with the right.
    The car lurched forward and came to a rocking, shuddering halt.
    A trickle of sweat ran down my spine. I started the engine again. Concentrating hard, again I eased up on the clutch. This time, I gave it a little more gas than I had the first time. When I felt the car begin to roll, I stepped down hard on the gas pedal and let up on the clutch. The engine roared, and I actually managed to move forward a couple of feet before coming to a stop so abrupt that if I hadn’t been wearing my seat belt, the windshield and I would have experienced a close personal encounter.
    I was not having fun. I wiped sweat from my eyes and bit down on my lower lip. Concentrate, I told myself silently. Just concentrate. You can DO
    this. I let up on the clutch and pressed the gas, and the car jerked and shuddered so hard my teeth clacked together.
    “Fuck,” I said, thumping the palms of my hands against the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
    “Having a little trouble?”
    I flushed crimson when I saw Riley standing there.
    “Go away,” I said. “I really don’t need a witness to my mortification.”
    “You’re thinking too hard. You don’t drive a car by thinking. You drive by feel.”
    Slumped over the steering wheel like a beach ball with a puncture wound, I said, “Then I believe my feeling apparatus is faulty.”
    “No, it isn’t. Slide over.”
    “I thought you had work to do.”
    “It’ll still be there when I get back. Go ahead.
    Scoot over.”
    I climbed awkwardly over the gearshift and plunked down hard on the passenger seat. Riley slid in behind the wheel, started the car, and together we listened to the purr of the engine.
    “You can’t think your way through it,” he said.
    “You have to turn off your brain and tune into the vehicle. Become one with the car.