🔹 PART 9 – Call Me Driver
March melted into April, and Syracuse thawed slowly, like a body waking after a long sleep. Patches of brown grass peeked through old snow, and birds returned to the bare tree by the Raynor bench—nesting in the little house James had built.
Emily had started working part-time at the public library, shelving books and organizing community events while taking online classes. At night, she and her father still took their walks, Sammy hobbling alongside them like a shaggy metronome, slowing only when the wind got too strong.
It was a quiet life. A full one.
But not without weight.
One Thursday morning, James didn’t wake up at his usual hour.
Emily found him still in bed, eyes open, breathing shallow.
“Dad?”
His lips curved into a faint smile. “Just giving the sun a head start.”
But something in his eyes was different. Distant.
She called the doctor.
By afternoon, they were at the clinic.
The diagnosis wasn’t shocking—but it was still a blow.
Congestive heart failure. Moderate. Manageable with medication, rest, and diet.
Emily nodded through it all, asked the right questions, took the pamphlets.
James just sat there, quiet, hands folded on his lap.
On the ride home, he finally spoke. “Guess my engine’s running on the last tank.”
Emily forced a laugh. “Still enough for a few more loops.”
He reached over and patted her knee. “Only if you’re riding shotgun.”
The next few weeks shifted something between them.
James tired more easily. Some days, he didn’t leave the house. Other days, he insisted on making breakfast for her—even if it was just toast with too much butter.
He refused to stop driving his volunteer shuttle shifts, though they cut his route down to one trip a day. Emily worried, but didn’t argue.
She knew better now.
Driving wasn’t just what he did. It was how he belonged.
One evening, he came home late. Emily was pacing the porch.
“Where were you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
He smiled, slow and tired. “Gave someone their last ride.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Old fella named Walter. Stage four cancer. Hospice couldn’t come for another hour, and he didn’t want to die in his armchair. Said he always wanted to see the lake one last time.”
James looked off into the dark.
“So I drove him to Onondaga Park. We sat there for forty minutes. Didn’t say a word. Just listened to the water. Then I drove him home, and we shook hands like we were closing a deal.”
Emily didn’t know what to say.
“You okay?” she asked finally.
James exhaled. “I’ve never been more tired. Or more sure that today was the reason I had one more drive left in me.”
A week later, James had a bad spell. Dizzy. Short of breath.
Emily insisted on taking him back to the doctor.
After the check-up, he sat on the paper-covered exam table, legs dangling like a child’s, shirt open to show the EKG pads on his chest.
He looked down at his hands.
“Wasn’t scared of the end,” he said. “But I always wondered where my route ended.”
Emily looked up from her chair.
He met her eyes.
“I think I know now.”
“Where?” she whispered.
He pointed to his chest. Then to her.
“Right here.”
The following Sunday, they returned to the Raynor Street bench.
James moved slower. Emily brought an extra blanket. Sammy curled beside them, groaning as he lay down.
It was dusk.
The sky above the bakery was lit with soft pink and gold—like a memory that refused to fade.
James leaned back.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“Anything.”
“What’s your first memory of me?”
Emily smiled. “Easy. It was raining. You lifted me onto your lap in the driver’s seat. Let me pretend I was steering. I remember your hand over mine. And the windshield wipers moving like a lullaby.”
James chuckled. “I remember that.”
“You smelled like coffee and diesel.”
“Still do.”
She looked at him. “What’s your first memory of me?”
He smiled, soft and slow. “You were in the hospital crib, red-faced and loud. I walked in, and you stopped crying. Dead quiet. Just stared at me. I remember thinking, ‘She knows me.’”
Emily’s throat tightened.
He turned to her. “You still do, don’t you?”
She nodded, tears burning. “I always have.”
That night, she found another cassette on the kitchen table.
Labeled in his handwriting:
“If I Go First.”
She didn’t play it.
Not yet.
Just held it in her hands and watched him sleep in his chair, a blanket over his knees, Sammy snoring on the floor.
There was still time.
One more ride.
One more morning.
She’d hold onto that as long as she could.