Motorhead

by Kate Gilead

  Poof.

  It’s as if the other drivers don’t even exist… as if only Marie and I are doing this high-speed dance, the two of us, flying around the track together, yet apart.

  At the end of the practice session, I’m soaked with sweat.

  From my position, it looks as if Marie and I hit the finish line at exactly the same time.

  Pulling into the pit, I wait as Freddy runs over. He jumps into the car with me to ride back to the garage building. “Dude? You did it again! You and the Wee Marie are tied for first place.”

  After the practice, I hear nothing from Marie.

  Freddy and I run through safety practice, which of course seems to drag on forever.

  As soon as I get out of my suit, I text her that I want to see her, find out what’s going on.

  Half an hour goes by. No response.

  Freddy and I finish up in the garage bay and he takes off.

  With mounting concern, I text her again, saying I’m still at the track but leaving in fifteen minutes.

  Still no response.

  Mulling whether I should make my way back over to her car bay, I decide against it, not wanting to push it.

  I tidy up to pass some time.

  I try texting her one more time, simply saying I’m leaving and that I hope to hear from her soon.

  No response.

  Unable to imagine what’s going on, I drive myself home. A feeling of gloom settles over me, so different from the way I felt yesterday before Marie had to leave so abruptly.

  Okay, so they’re having problems, but why would Marie and her brother warn me away from Carson like that? We got along great when we met in person.

  When we talked on the phone last week, Marie said her father was stressed, paranoid. I don’t know what that means, and I don’t much care for the sound of it.

  What could be up the old man’s ass?

  What could have happened to turn him sour?

  I think back to the customers I’ve seen this week. I did see some prospects that are currently taking their business to Sinclair’s. Did Carson feel like I stepped on his toes, maybe?

  I don’t see how. None of the clients I spoke to have huge money and none of them seemed all that interested in switching. Most tell me to check back when I’m better equipped, which is fair enough.

  The only exception is old man DeSouza. He’s interested, and questioned me a lot, but he sure as hell isn’t big money. An ancient, retired accountant who was once a close friend of my dad’s, he has exactly one classic car that I know of, a Citroen that needs more money in repairs than it’s worth. DeSouza was happy to see me like always, chatty, and as usual, I spent way more time hanging out with him, just shooting the shit, than talking about cars. I really enjoyed reminiscing about my dad with him, too.

  Even if he heard about me seeing his clients, there’s no way Carson gives a shit about old Mr. DeSouza.

  The only other thing that’s changed is my entry into the race. He can’t be pissed about that…can he?

  I park behind my shop and let myself in. Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I debate texting Marie again. Or, calling her and leaving a message.

  Or ten.

  Instead, I make myself wait. What a weird situation this is! Do I even have the right to demand answers from her?

  What should I do?

  I shower and change, my mind flicking through possible scenarios until I’m exhausted with the effort to think.

  Flopping on the couch with a soda and the remote, I come to a decision.

  Okay, it’s not like we’re engaged or anything. But we are dating. That gives me the right to be concerned. Not to mention, the right to a return text at least.

  Damn straight. I hate all this waiting around.

  It could be that Marie is still busy at the track and hasn’t seen my messages. I’ll give her another hour or so to finish up whatever she’s doing and sort herself out.

  After that, I’m texting her again. If she doesn’t answer me, I’m going to go look for her.

  And if Carson doesn’t like it, he can damn well call the cops.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Marie

  I can hardly believe my ears.

  What a load of sexist bullshit! Not only is Dad once again insulting Mark, now he’s insulting me, as well.

  How can my own father think that I’m such a dumbass…?

  And, suddenly, it strikes me: What he’s really saying is something even worse than it sounds.

  What he’s really saying is that I’m a doormat.

  Worse…he’s also saying that all it takes is a bit of attention from a man to turn me into a liar and a cheat.

  Holy crap! I feel so crushed, it’s hard to breathe.

  It’s so hard to hear this…so hard to realize that my dad thinks that Mark’s manipulating me like…like he’s a cartoon villain and I’m some dim, loose airhead out of a seventies sitcom or something.

  It’s doubly hard to hear outlandish, bullshit accusations when it’s your own father, saying them to your face.

  Then, another possibility hits me like a sledgehammer: Given that it was his idea for me to drive in this race to begin with…in order to promote and garner attention for Sinclair’s… doesn’t it mean that…in a way, Dad is using me himself?

  Manipulating me?

  The thought makes a kind of hysterical panic flood my chest.

  Is my father himself so cartoonishly evil that he’d do that to his own daughter?

  “Dad…oh my God. Dad…you…” My voice cracks. “You’re calling me a cheater and a liar and an idio. But the truth is, you’re the one who’s using me. You!”

  He scowls, and opens his mouth to speak, curling his lip back in that way he does when he’s barking orders.

  “Marie…” he starts, but behind his scowl I see pain flash through his eyes. Pain at being caught out in his deception?

  Couldn’t possibly be as bad as my own heartache right now.

  “Yeah,” I say, speaking in a heated rush. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what’s really going on here. Not only am I a doormat in your eyes, I’m just a…means to an end…a way to forward the business. The precious business! You don’t believe in all that stuff you keep saying about women being an integral part of the twenty-first century automotive industry!” Hot tears rise in my eyes despite my mocking tone. “You don’t believe in equality or opportunities for women! To you, I’m just a…mascot with tits or something…a cheap, promotional stunt!”

  Thomas groans and lifts both hands to his head. “Marie! Stop! We need to call a truce, right now!”

  My father’s eyes are fixed on me, now raw with pain. “That’s not true, and you know it! All I care about…all I want… is to secure Sinclair’s for the future…for your future and whatever grandchildren I might have….if any of you ever goddamn well give me any!”

  Ignoring both of them, I say, “And you’re projecting your bullshit onto Mark and punishing us for your delusions!”

  The tears overflow now and spill down my cheeks.

  Used and betrayed by my own father!

  “Okay, enough’s enough! Jesus!” Tommy says, his own heartache plain on his face. “You’re both offside with all this…” he waves his hand around, “…shite. Look…if either one of you wanna win this race, you need to stop arguing and calm down.”

  “I’m not the one causing the problem.” I swipe at my eyes angrily.

  “I don’t care who’s causing it. The race is only a few weeks away. Either the two of you get your act together, or you can find someone else to crew for you!”

  “Fine,” I say, fresh tears flowing with my words. “You can find another driver, too. And someone else to do your shitty audit. I quit!”

  “Marie…” Tommy says, his expression stricken.

  “You can’t just quit the audit,” Dad says. “You work for me, you’ll carry out the tasks you’re told t
o do.”

  “I mean, I quit Sinclair’s. I…I quit Sinclair’s and I’ll…I’ll move out, too. Maybe I’ll call Bryce and go live with him!”

  Even as I say it, I regret it, but it’s too late to call the words back.

  “Shit!” Tommy hisses, slamming his hand down on the hood of the car. “Marie! Shut the hell up!”

  My father’s shoulders slump. The fire goes out of him, his gaze goes dead.

  “Get out of my sight,” Dad says to me.

  Frozen with anguish, I can only stare at him with dismay.

  “Get out,” he says, “I can’t stand to look at you.”

  Blinded by tears, I stumble to the parking lot, ignoring the curious glances of people as I pass them by.

  Still dressed in my racing suit, stifling in the heat, I find Tommy’s car and lean against it, fumbling in my purse for a tissue.

  What am I going to do now?

  Checking my phone, I see that Mark texted me half an hour ago. Too upset to text him back and not knowing what to say anyway, I pace around the car, my panicking mind screaming at me that everything’s ruined; went too far; I can never go home now; I’ll be disowned… cast out…abandoned.

  A few minutes pass as I calm down slowly. I receive another text from Mark, saying he’s about to leave the track.

  I want so bad to ask him to take me home with him!

  But then he’ll see all this craziness and drama…and some of it involves him, and I just…can’t.

  I’m afraid.

  What if he…what if it turns him off? Men hate drama, they run away from it like it’s leprosy…and never look back.

  Don’t they?

  I’m pretty sure they do. Or, at least, I’m afraid that Mark will.

  Regretfully, I ignore that text too, and then realize that he might see me standing here by Tommy’s car when he comes out to his truck. Quickly I move to the shady side of the car and hunker down, crouching on the tarmac like a fugitive.

  Feeling like an idiot, I consider my options.

  I can go home with Tommy, shut myself in my room and hide like a little kid, hoping everything blows over.

  Or, I can go somewhere for the night, maybe, and sneak home after everyone’s gone to work tomorrow, and…then what?

  Show up for work like nothing’s happened?

  What if everyone’s mad at me for throwing Bryce in Dad’s face? Not that I could blame them.

  What if I really am fired, and abandoned and kicked out of the house?

  Oh God, I need a shoulder so bad right now!

  Time to call in the Big Guns.

  Trembling, I dial Brenda’s number.

  “Shh-mell-oh,” her chipper voice answers.

  “Bren? It’s me, Marie.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” she says cheerfully. “I’ve got call display just like you, yanno.”

  “I’m sorry to be a pain,” and as I start to speak, fresh tears come, “but I could really use an ear right now…”

  “You’re not a pain! What’s wrong?” She’s instantly serious.

  “I…I’m at the track…we had practice laps…and I had a really bad fight with my Dad!”

  “Aww, sweetie! I’m so sorry…”

  A text from Tommy comes through.

  “Hang on, Bren, Tommy’s texting me…”

  Tommy: Can you get a cab and go somewhere for the night? Take tomorrow off work too. Dad’s in a bad way, better stay out of sight for a while.

  Shit! Shit shit shit!

  Me: Okay.

  Tommy: Let me know where you end up. I’ll try to deal with this and keep you posted.

  Me: Okay. Sorry you’re stuck with him! Thanks xoxo.

  Tommy: Yah, you owe me.

  “Bren? Tommy says not to come home! I better call a cab and get a hotel room…”

  “What? Like hell! I’ll be right there. You can come home with me and we’ll figure something out.”

  Thank God for Brenda!

  “Aw, shit,” Brenda says. “Sweetie…damn! I think you misunderstood your dad! He’s not using you, come on! He’s hot-headed and says shit he shouldn’t, but he wasn’t calling you a liar and a cheat. Come on! And…I’m sorry to say it…but you shouldn’t have brought up Bryce, either. Especially since your mom and dad had such a bad fight about that when it happened, too.”

  Brenda sure doesn’t pull punches when she thinks you’re wrong.

  It’s been about an hour since she picked me up from the track. We’re in her backyard now, sitting in the shade of a tree. Princess Poopypants is stretched out on the cool grass at my feet, her cream-colored, furry belly soft against my bare toes.

  “I know, I know,” I say, hanging my head. “I got carried away.”

  I’m much calmer now, and cooler as well. My sweaty racing suit and the bike shorts and sports bra I wore underneath, also sodden, are airing out on her laundry line. My shoes are on the grass, my socks stuffed inside them. I’m wearing a pair of her shorts and one of her t-shirts, and sipping a tall, icy lemonade.

  On the table next to me is a box of Kleenex and two plates, empty except for coffee cake crumbs and some used, balled-up tissues.

  She listens patiently as I convey to her all my anxieties… all the pressure of the race, and work, and trying to start a relationship with Mark, and Dad’s mysterious accusations the other night, and his refusal to explain himself.

  “And so you’re dealing with all of this, combined now this family drama, and besides that, school is starting soon again? No wonder you’re so stressed,” she says. “No wonder you’re all stressed”

  “Yeah,” I nod, but I’m still ashamed of myself.

  “Now, tell me this: Does your dad know yet how nervous you are about the race?” Once again, she cuts to the chase. “Because I think your crowd anxiety is spilling into everything as well. It’s making you batshit! I think it’s too much for you, frankly. And if your Dad knew, I bet he’d understand!”

  “I don’t know, Bren. Dad cares about presenting a united family front, especially after Bryce.”

  Jesus. It’s like, I’m screwed if I race… and screwed if I don’t.

  Her concern is plain in her fiery-brown eyes.

  “He cares more about you than the race, come on! But…okay, okay,” she says, patting my leg. “We don’t have to discuss that now. You said Mark texted a couple times, have you talked to him yet? He’s probably worried out of his mind.”

  “No! No. He knows we were fighting at home, but not about what. I don’t want to push him away with all this crap! It’s bad enough that we had that drama at the track earlier! He probably thinks my family’s all nuts and that I am too!”

  She’s looking at me like I am nuts.

  “Oh my God, you remind me of Amanda when she got preggers and was afraid to tell Nick.”

  All I can do is I look at her.

  She sighs and shakes her head. “Marie…look, I know you have a thing up your ass about your family and all, but you’re just wrong about driving Mark away. I’ve gotten to know him pretty well now, and he’s a lot like Rob. They’re both solid and reliable guys. Teflon when it comes to drama. In fact, I noticed that about most men, frankly. They say they hate drama, but they sure love to jump in and “save the day” when the shit hits the fan!”

  “I…well…huh.” I stop and consider this for a second. “Maybe…I suppose so,” I say, thinking about how my dad and brothers do say they hate it when women cry and carry on, yet…they’re never so concerned or solicitous than when me or my mother are crying.

  Hmmm.

  “Damn right. And maybe you should give your dad more credit too. He’s right about trust, y’know. Men need trust! Trust and respect! Same as we do, only even more so!”

  “I…you think so? My dad’s not just being a pain in the ass?”

  “Well, he can be a pain in the ass and still be right sometimes, can’t he? Even if it’s not this particular time.
” She smiles. “Trust, dude! Have more trust! Men are really not that bad, y’know?”

  I nod, feeling the truth in her words.

  Trust. Okay…well…maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

  “Call Mark back, ‘Ree,” she says, squeezing my hand.

  “I will. I just want to…”

  My text notification sounds. I check my phone and my heart leaps.

  “Speak of the devil,” I say, giving Brenda a rueful smile. “He says if I don’t call him, he’s gonna come looking for me!”

  “That sounds like Mark,” she says, grinning back. “Call him back right now. Don’t worry.” She gets up to leave. Princess perks her ears up but doesn’t move to go with her mistress. “That’s right, Miss P, you stay out here with our girl.” To me, she says, “She’s good company when you need a friend.”

  Stroking the dog’s silky-soft fur with my toes, I couldn’t agree more.

  Brenda pats me on the back and goes into the house.

  Taking a moment to breathe, I steady myself as best as I can.

  Trust, I tell myself.

  Trust.

  I call Mark’s number.

  “Thank God,” he says, answering on the first ring. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Ugh! Everything’s gone wrong,” I start. Tears threaten again, but I manage to keep talking. “My dad…we…after the laps, he said something, well… stupid about how you and I were tied for first place……and then, I said some stuff back…and…then, of course, he said stuff back…and…and…he told me to get out!”

  I let the sobs come. On the other end of the line, Mark makes soothing sounds.

  “Then I…I ran out of there crying. Tuh…Tommy said it’s better that I stay away tonight and not to go to work tomorrow! I don’t know what’s going on with him and I don’t know what to do!”

  “Aww…geez! Poor baby…I’m sorry, honey. Where are you now?”

  His sympathy makes me blubber even more.

  “I’m at buh…buh…Brenda’s.”

  “Alright. I’m coming to get you. You can stay with me.”

  “Oh God, Mark…I look a muh…mess! I’ve been cuh…crying…”

  “Like I care! I’m coming to get you right now.”

  “Okay,” I say, miserably, wanting and needing him, and not knowing what else to do. “Okay.”