Winter Wheels
By
Pia Newman
"Mummy, what are we
doing here?" The little girl hangs on her mother's arm. She lets herself
be dragged into the auto-repair shop like an oversized shopping bag, the toes
of her small yellow Wellies dangling on the ground. She's four or five years
old and has the most explosive blonde curls George has ever seen. He’s sitting
in the waiting area of the shop, with a great view of the door and all who
enter.
"We're getting our
tires changed, honey," the mother replies as the door slides closed behind
them, shutting out the frigid December air. In her free hand she holds a baby
seat, one of those that also function as a baby carrier and easily clinks in
and out of seatbelts. A tiny pink hand sticks over the edge. The mother looks
down at the baby, a smile in her eyes that doesn't touch her lips. Her face is
pale and her eyes are red with fatigue, or maybe sadness. It's hard to tell.
The girl doesn't like
sharing her mummy's attention. "What are tires?" she asks, louder
than necessary.
"They're the wheels on
our car," the mother explains.
"But we have
wheels," the girl points out, confused.
"We need winter
wheels."
"Why?"
Oh, the curiosity of a
young mind; George remembers it well.
"Remember how I almost
hit that tree three days ago, because the road was icy?" the mother says.
"In winter, ice and snow make the roads slippery. Winter tires stop the
car from slipping and having accidents."
"Accidents are not
good," the girl knows.
"You’re so right,
Merry. Now let me drop the keys off at the reception so they can change the
tires, and then we’ll sit down over there and do some coloring while we wait,
okay?"
"Okay." The
little girl nods as if granting a boon. George feels first like laughing, then
like crying; the little girl reminds him of Tommy.
The mother goes up to the
reception desk and drops off her car keys. "The winter tires are in the
boot," she tells Miss Little, the receptionist, who promises it won’t take
longer than half an hour. Then the family joins George in the waiting area. The
mother nods at George without really looking at him. He can tell she's tied up
with her own thoughts. She puts the baby seat down on a chair across from him
and sits down next to it, then helps her daughter out of her winter coat. When
she has rid herself of her own, she pulls a coloring book and crayons out of
her backpack. She lays them out on the table in front of her daughter, who
plunks herself down on the ground, grabs the purple crayon and leafs through
the book. With her daughter occupied, the mother takes her baby out of the
safety seat and peels it out of a tiny jacket.
George can’t tell whether
it’s a boy or a girl, only that it’s about half a year old and beginning to
explore the world. It bares toothless gums at its mother in a baby-grin, then
turns its head around like an owl and catches sight of George. Curious blue
eyes regard him as if trying to read his mind. For some absurd reason, George
feels like he should apologize. When Tommy was a baby, he gave George the same
soulful look sometimes. As if he knew exactly that George would fail him one
day. Then the mother begins to jiggle her knees, bouncing the baby around. It
turns back to her with a shriek of delight, breaking the spell.
"Mommy?" the
little girl says. Her mind isn’t on coloring; the roaring cartoon lion on the
page in front of her is still blank. "Why don’t we have winter wheels yet
if there was snow already?"
George is wondering the
same thing. It’s the middle of December after all, almost Christmas, and
there's been snow on the roads for weeks. He got his tires changed on the last
weekend of October, like he does every year. He learned the hard way that car
safety really can make a difference. It’s irresponsible for a mother of two
young children to wait so long to get her winter tires put on and... he reigns
in that thought; he's the last person who can allow himself to judge.
The mother’s chin wobbles
as if she’s about to cry, but it’s gone so fast that George wonders if he
imagined it.
"That costs money,
too, Merry," she says.
"Like a
dollhouse?" Merry asks. Apparently they’ve had this conversation before.
"Yes, honey, like a
dollhouse."
"Do you think Santa
will get me a dollhouse for Christmas, like I wished in my letter?"
"I told you, don’t get
your hopes up," the mother says. Her chin definitely wobbles this time.
"Santa’s very busy."
"But I’ve been very
good," Merry says with conviction. "I get dressed on my own, I don’t
need diapers anymore, and I stopped asking when daddy will be back, like you
asked. Santa will get me a dollhouse." To her, it's the most logical
conclusion in the world.
"Yes, honey," the
mother says, "you’ve been incredible this year." Her eyes gleam with
tears and she has to look away from her daughter. Her gaze locks with George’s
and he recognizes the agonized look of a parent who knows her child will be
disappointed. It was the same look he must have worn the day the doctor
informed him of Tommy's final diagnosis. How do you tell your sixteen year old
son that he will never walk again? How do you ask him to forgive you for not
investing the money in a safer car? How do you forgive yourself?
Tommy is forty now and used
to life in a wheel chair, but George still doesn’t know the answer.
A mechanic enters the
waiting area and drops something off with the receptionist. They talk to each
other in low voices, glancing at the mother. She is oblivious, jiggling her
baby and looking down at the top of Merry’s head with eyes still shining. The
mechanic heads back outside to continue his work. Miss Little organizes some
papers, then comes over to the waiting area.
"Mr. Henson, your car
is ready," she says to George. "I’ll be with you in just a
moment."
As George gets to his feet,
Miss Little turns to the mother.
"Missus Alderman, I’m
sorry—" she begins, but is interrupted.
"It’s Miss Hart
now." Merry's mother's voice is low, but resolute.
"I’m sorry, Miss
Hart." The receptionist is flustered. "I didn’t mean to—"
"Don’t worry about
it," Miss Hart says. "It’s new to me, too. Or new again." She
takes a deep breath and turns to other matters. "Is my car ready?"
Miss Little looks like she
wants to flee. "I’m afraid there’s a problem with the tires you
brought," she says. "They're worn below the allowed profile. We’re
sorry, but we can’t legally put them on your car. You need to buy new
ones."
Miss Hart pales. She hugs
her baby to her chest and swallows. "All four tires?"
Miss Little shakes her
head. "The two rear ones. Although our mechanic said the front ones won’t
last the winter, either. They won’t be safe to drive for long. We strongly
recommend you buy front and rear tires now."
If she can't afford a
dollhouse for her daughter at Christmas, new winter tires are probably
completely out of the budget.
"How much for a whole
set?" Miss Hart whispers.
"Around three hundred
pounds."
Miss Hart’s lips press
together. Her chin wobbles again. George has seen that look, too; on his wife
when she broke down after the doctor told them about Tommy. George senses that
Miss Hart is close to her breaking point.
"You also have the
option of looking for used tires yourself," Miss Little says quickly. “They’re
usually cheaper and will tie you over for a couple of years."
"But that will take a
few days and I need the car in drivable condition today," Miss Hart says.
"Can I buy new rear tires now, and get back to you with used front ones in
a couple of months?"
She means when she’s
scraped together enough money to buy them.
"Of course," Miss
Little says. She looks relieved. To her it sounds like a good compromise, but
George knows that if a mother’s back is so far against the wall that she has to
scrimp on her children’s safety, her financial situation isn’t just bad. What
she spends now on these tires, she’ll have to save in other areas. Rent,
possibly, or heating. Maybe even food.
George remembers what it
was like. Tommy’s medical bills put them so deep in debt that they had to turn
every penny over twice. Like Miss Hart, they hid it well. People unaware of
their situation would never have guessed it, and yet George often wished they'd
somehow miraculously get it and just do
something about it without making a fuss. Though he has no clue what anyone
could have done.
Miss Little returns to her
desk and makes a phone call for two new tires. Miss Hart doesn’t notice when
George leaves the waiting area. She's still fighting the tears, trying not to
let her children know that something is wrong. Parents always want to protect
their innocent children from the bad things. A girl barely out of diapers
shouldn't experience the burden of worry.
Miss Little commands
George's attention when he reaches her desk. "We attached a new exhaust
pipe," she tells him, "and took it for a test run. The rattling has
stopped."
"Thanks," George
says, but his mind is on Miss Hart and her children, especially Merry, who
reminds him so much of Tommy at that age, when he was still whole. Sadness
overcomes him.
George pulls his wallet out
of his pocket. "What do I owe you?” he says.
*********
Karen Hart fights the
tears. She doesn’t want to upset Merry by breaking down. Her daughter has been
such a good, helpful girl. She doesn’t deserve to be worried. She does,
however, deserve a dollhouse for Christmas. And to keep her belief in Santa
Clause for just a while longer. And to ride in a safe vehicle.
All of those together are
beyond Karen to grant. The last one is the most important, but it will render
the others impossible. Buying new tires will make even a tiny, lopsided
Christmas tree a luxury expense, not to mention a dollhouse. New winter tires
just ate Merry’s Christmas present, for which Karen has been saving up these
last four months.
It’s another thing Daniel
has left her alone to deal with. He swam for dry land like a rat, leaving the
rest of his crew – his family – behind on the sinking ship that he ran into the
iceberg himself. Karen knew they weren‘t doing great, that he was gambling away
a lot of the money, but it wasn’t until after Daniel disappeared that she found
out exactly how not-great it was.
What enrages her most is
that she isn’t the only one to suffer. What kind of low-life father abandons
his children like that? And yet it’s partly her fault, too. She was the one to
marry the low-life after all. But, hey, hindsight, right?
Her rage helps Karen get
the tears under control. It’s been like that ever since Daniel left; an up and
down of emotions that she tries to hide from her children. They need stability
now more than ever. Karen has managed to stay strong for almost a year, to keep
a positive attitude, but right now she can’t remember what that feels like. Not
even with her baby boy grinning up at her, his tiny fingers fisting around the
neckline of her shirt.
She wonders how long her
beautiful son will keep his sunny attitude. Or how much longer Merry will want
to be a good girl if Santa doesn’t reward her with a dollhouse.
The receptionist approaches, a wide smile on her face. A spear of loathing shoots through Karen, that this woman can be so happy when Karen can't even remember what such a genuine smile feels like on her face. She promised herself she wouldn't turn into a bitter old woman, but even that is slipping through her fingers.
The receptionist approaches, a wide smile on her face. A spear of loathing shoots through Karen, that this woman can be so happy when Karen can't even remember what such a genuine smile feels like on her face. She promised herself she wouldn't turn into a bitter old woman, but even that is slipping through her fingers.
"Miss Hart, your car
is ready," the receptionist says.
Karen nods, unable to
muster any enthusiasm. Merry, though, her beautiful Merry, has enough for both
of them.
"We have winter
wheels?" she asks the receptionist, showing off her newly acquired
knowledge.
"Yes," the
receptionist says with a laugh, "four brand new winter wheels."
Wait! Four?
"We won’t have an
accident now?" Merry presses on. The almost-crash with the tree three days
ago scared her. Almost as much as it scared Karen.
"No, you won’t,"
the receptionist says. She crouches down in front of Merry. "We gave the
car a full check, you know. It now not only has new winter wheels, but new
breaks, and the heating should work better, too."
Karen gets the feeling the
receptionist isn’t saying all that only to make her daughter feel better. She
stands up, cradling the baby against her chest.
"Merry, wait here for
a sec while I go pay," she says. She catches the receptionist’s eye and
nods towards her desk. The two women walk over there.
"Did you really get
all that done on my car?" Karen asks.
The receptionist beams.
"Yes. All taken care of."
"I can’t afford
it," Karen says, panic bubbling up inside her. "I thought I made that
clear."
"You did," the
receptionist says. "That’s why Mr. Henson covered all your expenses."
Karen blinks.
"Who?"
"The elderly gentleman
who left half an hour ago. He sat opposite you in the waiting area."
Karen shifts the baby to
her other hip, embarrassed. She barely remembers the man. She was so deep in
her own gloomy thoughts, especially when the new-tire issue came up. She
doesn’t even remember saying hello. Why would a perfect stranger whom she
wasn’t civil to pay anything for her?
"Is this a joke?"
she asks. "If so, it’s not funny."
Instead of an answer, the
receptionist hands her a folded piece of paper. Her little man grabs for it,
too, but Karen keeps it out of his reach. She unfolds it one-handed.
Dear Miss Hart,
I may never forgive myself for jeopardizing my son’s life, but I can
make sure that other children have a safe car to drive in. In this case, your
children. Thank you for this opportunity to right a wrong that I ignored years
ago.
In the name of my own wonderful son: Merry Christmas.
Now go buy your Merry her dollhouse.
Karen breaks out in tears
when she gets to the end of the letter. She doesn’t try to hold them back
anymore. Instead she revels in them; for the first time in a long while, they are
good tears.
