Fiction by Kelly Murashige

Driving Faith

when you were young, you forgot every car has a driver.

you have asked countless people if they forget too. every time, they reply, no. what the hell is wrong with you?

in your defense, you were in desperate need of glasses. once you got them, thin wire frames that glinted red in the sun, you realized there were faces behind all those windshields.

this is what you are thinking as you stand in the kitchen.

not yours. not your kitchen. yours is nowhere this nice.

this is hope’s. your older cousin’s. you two hardly ever speak.

you told your parents you don’t need a babysitter. you’re old enough to stay home on your own.

really, faith? your mom said. you’re going to fight a woman already battling cancer?

you hate when your mom plays the stupid cancer card. she claims she can, since your aunt, her older sister, did it first.

you got mad when she did that, you pointed out to her once.

yes, your mom replied, but now i have cancer, so i can.

“faith,” hope calls out.

you turn, your fingers tangled behind your back.

you never like your name but hate it most when you’re with hope. you’re like the parson’s daughters who preach love yet exude hate.

“your mom and dad just left the hospital.” hope grabs her keys. “ready to go?”

no. no, you’re not. you don’t ever want to go home.

you follow hope out of her house, then into her new car. you wish you could switch places. your mom always liked hope better.

hope starts the car, then guides it out of the driveway and down the street. you watch her house disappear in the rearview mirror.

“so,” hope begins.

you instantly wince.

“how’s your grandpa?” she asks.

the muscles in your neck spasm involuntarily.

you picture frog legs. salted frog legs. when they move, the children scream.

“my… grandpa?” you echo. “like, as in my dad’s dad?”

last week, you met up with your old childhood friend. he moved away for a while and came back all wrong. it took until now for him to seem like himself, and though your dad didn’t want you hanging out with him, convinced you would come back engaged and six months pregnant, you agreed to meet up for a while, by the beach.

how’s your grandpa doing? your friend asked at one point.

you turned to him, chilled, and said, loudly, what?

he shrugged. this didn’t really seem like an occasion on which one should shrug, but he was never the most socially aware person. it’s why you got along so well.

i remember your mom telling mine about him, he said. i was just wondering how he’s doing now. that’s all.

he died, you replied.

he blinked, caught off guard.

i—he paused; you found yourself oddly reassured to know you weren’t the only one who left gaps in each conversation—i’m sorry. i didn’t know. i thought he was still in… i mean, in—

hospice.

this, you’d discovered, was how to tell if a person had ever loved someone who had gone into hospice. those unfamiliar shied away from the word. those who’d had to see it knew it wasn’t the word that evoked fear. it was the smell, or the stare, or the wide, gaping mouth.

i’m sorry, he said again.

then it was your turn to shrug.

it was a while ago, you said, as if that made it better.

maybe it did. you wouldn’t have even remembered exactly when it had happened if you hadn’t been the one to design the funeral program.

“no,” hope says now. “your mother’s dad. how’s he doing?”

you lick your lips, wishing you could just disappear.

in your mind, you have one grandpa, now kept captive in an urn. the other is called jiji, a shortened, slightly incorrect version of the japanese word for grandpa.

“he’s okay,” you reply. “he’s tired but okay.”

tired because his two children are living with cancer.

okay because he must be. you all have to be okay.

at least, you tell yourself, your mom is still in good spirits. the last time she was on the phone with a friend, she claimed her upcoming mastectomy wouldn’t be all that bad.

on the bright side, she said, i could lose up to one whole pound.

you hate being a woman. you wish you were a car. then again, how many men act like their cars are women?

“he’s okay,” you say again, if only to yourself.

“good,” faith replies. “that’s good. i’m glad to hear.”

she pauses. you know, now, what she is going to ask next.

she spits it out: “how are you?”

you’re tired, and you do not want to talk.

you take the tissue she’s offering without understanding why.

then, once the tears start dripping down your neck, you smash her gift against your face.

when you were growing up, in addition to believing most cars drove themselves, you also thought you and your cousin had to be two separate species. she was everything you knew you could never, ever be: pretty, popular, prom queen two years running.

yet here, in her car, you see she knows you better than you’ve ever known yourself.

“thank you,” you say. then, later: “sorry.”

“don’t be sorry,” hope says. “just rest. you’ll be home soon enough.”

when you turn to the window, you find a familiar scene. if you squint—as you have to; you left your good contacts at home—you think you can see your apartment building.

“just rest,” hope repeats, her voice smoother than the road.

you force yourself to relax. the car seat embraces you.

you lean back, exhale slowly, and let hope guide you home.