🔹 PART 10 – Call Me Driver
It happened on a Tuesday.
The sky was clean and pale, the air still, the calendar quiet. One of those days that slips by without asking permission.
James didn’t come to breakfast.
Emily knocked gently. Called his name once. Then again, louder.
Inside his room, the curtains were half-drawn. Light filtered through them like the breath of morning.
James lay still in bed. Eyes closed. One hand resting over his heart. Peaceful. So terribly quiet.
Sammy whimpered before she did.
She sat beside him. Took his hand. It was cool, not cold. As if he’d just stepped off the last ride and was still catching his breath.
There was no note.
No farewell.
Just the cassette.
“If I Go First.”
She didn’t play it right away.
She couldn’t.
Instead, she wrapped the blanket tighter around him. Smoothed his hair. Sat in the stillness as long as the world would allow before the calls began.
The funeral was small but full.
Not fancy. No suits beyond the pastor’s.
Just regular folks. Dozens of them.
A man in a wheelchair with two carnations. A teenage girl in a purple jacket. Miss Della and her daughter, both in black. Marvin brought his harmonica and played “You Are My Sunshine” with tears running into his mustache.
Carla spoke.
“He didn’t ask much from this world,” she said. “But he gave more than most people twice his size. He drove us to where we needed to go. But more than that—he saw us.”
Emily spoke last.
She stood with the cassette in her hand but didn’t play it. Not yet.
Instead, she looked out over the gathered crowd, voice steady.
“My father once said his route wasn’t about streets. It was about people. That every seat held a story, and he considered it an honor to drive them for even part of the way.”
She paused. Looked down.
“I didn’t understand that until I rode with him again. Until I saw who showed up. Who remembered.”
She looked out at them all—young and old, poor and proud, some clinging to grief, some smiling through it.
“You were his route,” she said. “And now, you’re mine too.”
Two days later, she sat on the bench at Raynor Street.
Alone.
The birdhouse above her swayed gently. Sammy lay beside her, head on his paws, eyes cloudy but watchful.
Emily held the cassette in her hands.
She brought an old Walkman—his, of course. It still smelled faintly of leather and peppermint.
She slipped in the tape. Pressed PLAY.
Static.
Then his voice.
“Hey, kid. If you’re hearing this… well, looks like I took my stop.”
A soft chuckle.
“Don’t be sad. I got more miles than I expected. And you gave me the best detour of all.”
“I never wanted to be a hero. Just hoped I could help someone carry their bags a little lighter. Maybe give them enough time to breathe before the next stop.”
“You did more than that for me. You gave me my daughter back.”
Her breath hitched.
“I don’t need a big send-off. I don’t need a statue or a song. Just… remember me when it rains. When the wipers move slow and the road hums. That’s where I’ll be.”
“And Emily—when your road feels long and quiet, sit down for a minute. Someone’s always watching. Always waiting. Even if it’s just an old man behind a wheel.”
A pause.
Then, softly, singing.
“The Dutchman’s not the kind of man who keeps his thumb jammed in the dam…”
She closed her eyes and let it play.
Let it wash over her.
Let him say goodbye in the only way he knew how: gently. With rhythm. With grace.
Spring came slowly.
Sammy passed in late April, curled at the foot of her bed. She buried him beneath the maple tree and planted daisies over the grave.
The house was quiet after that.
But never empty.
She framed her father’s badge and hung it above the kitchen table.
Every Thursday, she drove the shuttle. Della still needed rides. So did others.
Sometimes they brought stories.
Sometimes they brought silence.
Emily carried them all.
She added her own names to a notebook.
Learned birthdays.
Left mints in the cupholder.
And once, when a young boy asked if she’d always wanted to drive a bus, she smiled and said:
“No. But I always wanted to go where people needed me.”
Years passed.
The bench aged well. Weathered, but strong. The brass plaque dulled, but the words remained.
“Sit Here If You’ve Ever Waited.
— J.F.”
Strangers still sat there. Some reading. Some crying. Some just watching the sky.
Emily visited every week.
Sometimes to remember.
Sometimes just to rest.
One day, a girl with a cast on her leg and a tear in her eye sat beside her.
Emily smiled.
“Long day?”
The girl nodded.
“You want to talk about it?” Emily asked.
“No,” the girl whispered. “But I want someone to sit with.”
Emily put her arm gently around her shoulder.
“I know the feeling,” she said.
They sat like that for a long while.
Not waiting for anything.
Just riding the quiet together.