Getaway Car

 Augusto Andres

She asks me why I don’t look at her when we’re lying next to each other in bed. Stenosis, my dear, I say,

as always. I can’t turn my neck to the left anymore—but that won’t stop us from getting what we want

today. The car is in the driveway. He’ll be gone for two days and I have a spare key, the one he doesn't

know about. We can get where we’re going as long as I don’t have to make any left turns. She still has

one good eye, the right one, which is sharp enough. She could watch my side and call out when to slow

down or stop—she was always good at that. We’ll hit McDonald's first, Jack-in-the-Box next, In-N-Out

of course. Wendy's we’ll hit last because she loves it best, especially after our grandkids told us about

dipping the french fries in the frosty. Navigating the drive-thru will be tricky, even with her one good

eye. And, shit—the drive-thru windows are on the left, aren’t they. She asks me why he can’t take

us—our son. The one I handed control. Remember dear, he’s on vacation. He needs a break. We do,

too. A few days without his daily can’t do’s, no more of’s, and did you remember to’s because she wants a

cheeseburger and fries and so do I and we deserve it—her heart failure, my cancer be damned. She can

still recall our drives to go fishing on the Gulf, Engelbert Humperdink and Helen Reddy on the 8-track

player, windows rolled down, our fingers clasped together. We were just starting out and it was you and

me against the world. I thought we could have that again—one morning, four places, no caregiver, no

children, no rules. Just us, the way it was, once. Turns out he knows about the spare. It’s not where I

left it last. She’s sleeping now, her face gone some place I can't follow. When she wakes up later, she

won't remember this—us talking about the getaway car, the cheeseburgers, the fries, or the fishing.

That's alright, my dear. I'll remember for the both of us.