Empty parking lot. We are in the Colt. It’s May, so the heat isn’t enough to bake us.
I’m in the driver’s seat. Hands at 10 and 2. Beside me, mom uses her hands to show me how I should work the pedals. Palms forward, as if against a wall. She pushes the left hand down and then slowly moves it up, pushing the right hand down. There’s a spot where the gears engage and the gas kicks in and voila! We should be moving.
I lurch us across the parking lot for several minutes. I hear the patience leave her voice. She’s searching for the words that will help me feel this machine. Somehow I have to learn to control this as if it is a part of me. Despite having done this with three older kids, this eludes her.
Four more stalls and she tosses her hand up. “Get out. Let me do it!” We switch seats and she takes the wheel, turns the key. Slowly, slowly she goes through the motions: clutch in, then lifting while pressing on the gas. The car starts to roll, ever so slightly. So slightly it’s hardly noticeable, so slightly even someone watching might not see it yet, but that is the sweet spot. “Now,” she says, “I give it the gas” and like that we are driving. She shifts to second and pulls over again.
I try again, lifting my left foot slower and slower until I feel the car move, then gas. No lurching! No stalling! I drive and shift to second, circling the lot. I stop and start again. Again, I find the spot, get us moving. Again, we circle.
Mom sits back in the seat for the first time in the afternoon. I shift to second, to third. We take a tour de lot. I can feel the car. She rolls her window down, the breeze.
Yikes, I need to hire someone to teach Ben to feel the car...maybe Meme
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