I don’t even want to adjust the rearview mirror; which is silly, because Whit’s driven it, has probably adjusted it, but still. I don’t want to disturb a single thing. I just want to sit here a moment. But a moment, the one thing I don’t have. I press the Start button, the engine growls to life. Whit’s still walking toward me, nearly at my window, but far enough away that I throw the car in reverse without fear of hurting her.

I just need to take my foot off the brake.

I just need to—

Suddenly, I’m in the passenger seat and I look over to my left and there is Mom, and she’s reaching across to pinch my cheek in that way that I absolutely hate, except she’s smiling her I love you no matter what even if you killed someone which I naturally wouldn’t condone but I’d certainly give you the benefit of the doubt I’d definitely hear you before rushing to judgment smile and who can resist that smile?

“Jamal, my love,” Mom says. “I’m proud of you. For doing this. For making it right.”

“Mama, I don’t know if . . . what if I can’t . . .”

She nods slightly, in that way she does when she’s assessing the situation, when she’s giving you all of her attention, funneling her energy into this singular moment in time with you.

“Baby, you are made for moments like this. Don’t you see?”

“Mama,” I say, softly. And then my hand is moving up to her still-cheek-pinching hand, except then my hand goes through hers and like the snake-shaped smoke that curls away when you blow out a candle, she disintegrates into a wisp.

“Mama,” I call out.

But she’s gone and I’m back in the driver’s seat.

And my hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and c’mon, J, get it together, Q needs you, just release the brake, man. Just lift your heel, your toes. Just—

“You got this, Jamal,” Dad says from the passenger seat.

And now I can’t stop the tears.

I can’t bring myself to look at him. Not straight on.

Not just to watch him dissolve, disappear into nothing.

“Jamal,” he says. And now his hand is on the radio. “Listen, I know Mom says you shouldn’t listen to music while you learn to drive. But it’s relaxing sometimes. Like, you want your mind on the road, but also you don’t want to overthink, overcompensate, okay? It’s important not to overreact, okay, son?”

I’m not going to look.

I can’t.

His heavy hand covers mine. “Son, you’re gonna be fine. Just lift your foot, okay?” A commercial ends, and a song slides into the car. “Jamal, why won’t you look at me, son?”

“Dad, you’re not there. It’s not really you.”