Six years after he took her into his home, I took her out. Some might have called the arrangement callous...

To My R.

I wasn’t strong enough to leave her, but I could not let her stay.  She waited in stony silence as I pleaded with her, cajoled, wheedled.  "I'm sorry, honey. You know how much I love you.  You've got to know that.  I just can't do it anymore."

My words flung themselves desperately from me, trying to wrap her in the embrace that my arms could not. She just stood there.

"I know there is someone out there who can take better care of you than I can," I whispered.  "Someone who can appreciate you, and give you all the things you deserve."

Perfect silence, the hush of an unspoken crescendo.  I couldn't stand to be with her and feel this way.

"Sweetie," I broke down, feeling the tears come, "how will I ever live without you?"

She would not, could not answer.

"Everything will work out for us, you'll see."  I turned and walked away.

Alone in my bed that night I tried to drown my guilt in memories. The first time I saw her I was dumbstruck by her beauty.  I was graduating from college in Iowa, in 1985, and she accompanied my father on his trip to the ceremony.  She was sleek, commanding… she was a wonder to behold.  Men stopped in the streets and watched her pass, mouths agape.  I blush to say this, but my reaction was no more articulate or sophisticated than theirs.  Nothing like her had ever graced our presence before.  I couldn't even think to envy my father, her proud escort.  I could never dream that she would be mine.

Back in Washington, which had only recently become our home,  I of course saw her more frequently.  I would not allow myself to think of her, even for a brief moment, and it felt dangerous to be anywhere near her.  Young women generally cannot compete with older men for such prizes, let alone afford them.  Not to mention that it is a pretty heinous sin to covet your father's most cherished possession.  That's what she was, too - the crowning achievement of all his hard work and success.  His trophy.  I didn't judge her for that - I couldn't.  Just to be safe, though, I gave her a wide berth.

But of course we were family, so our paths kept crossing.  And as I learned more about the new urban world around me, and more about others like her, my fascination with her grew.

One day, when my father was out of town, I went to her.  She was in full glory out in the yard, basking in the sun.  I stayed out of sight; I don't think she knew I was there.  I watched her for a long, long time.  Her graceful lines, her gentle curves captivated me.  She drank in the sun and seemed to reflect it back at me, so softly, so intimately.  As I snuck back into the house, I realized that the worst, most unspeakable thing had come to pass.  I had fallen in love.

When my father returned I decided I couldn't hide my feelings anymore, and I confessed all of my tortured passion to him.

He laughed, and rummaged in his briefcase.

"Here," he said, throwing me his keys.  "Why don't you take her out for a ride?"

Just like that, we were suddenly alone together, driving down the country roads of Maryland at 70 miles an hour, with the wind whipping up a frenzy around us and the radio blaring.  She didn’t ask me where we were going; she simply followed me along.  We toured for a full day, communing with the trees, terrorizing the slower drivers, drunk on the delight of our secret bond.  We didn’t talk then. The sound of the wind, the radio, the roar of the engine whispered our messages.  It would be months before I dared to actually speak to her, though of course once I did I couldn't believe it had taken me so long.

After that first ride I couldn’t help myself.  I started visiting as often as I could, and we whiled away months on those back roads.  Finally, I knew that I would never be happy without her in my life.  And although I was racked with guilt, I schemed on how I could possibly get her away from my father.

My father.  A practical man, a good man, a man who had earned the right to his spoils.  I didn't know what to do.  I could never do anything to hurt him.  But I had to have her.

He was shrewd, though, and he knew what had begun on that drive.  And he was kind.

"I guess we can work something out," he offered. “I could probably live without her.  Let’s see what you can do for me.”

I paid his price all too happily. Six years after he took her into his home, I took her out.   Some might have called the arrangement callous, but he let her go and never complained about his loss.  She was aging, and he wanted to be sure she was cared for.  I think he sensed that I would nurture her far beyond the limits of reason - or, at least, the limits he was prepared to meet.

I did, too.  I heaped praise and attention upon her; I plied her with all of the care and affection I could afford.  She flourished with me.  I got her out of the suburbs, showed her the city life, took her out every day and night. She seemed to appreciate the radical change in lifestyle.  We were so bold together, so willing to test limits, that we’d even go so far as to lure the occasional man to come home with us.  They could never resist.  Men were always ridiculously fascinated by our relationship.  But none of them ever came between us.

For my part, I never felt more alive or happy than I did when I was with her.  She always made me feel like the whole world was mine and she could take me right to it.  It was impossible for me to be sad or angry with her.   She fed my spirit.  She was my first, my last, and my only.

That was how things should have stayed…

It had started with a mild cough.  Then, as the cough deepened, she changed. For the first time, there were awkward pauses in our running dialog.   Gradually I noticed that she just couldn't move as smoothly.  I tended to her patiently and I did what I could, hoping against hope that her troubles were temporary and she would heal.  But matters only deteriorated.  Though I couldn't admit it, my eyes began to wander, and I worried secretly, that she was not the one after all.  She began to shudder constantly, as if she sensed my betrayal and was shrinking away from me in terror.   I tried to be as devoted as always, patiently praying for a miracle.

Suddenly, one day, when we were out and about, she just stopped dead in her tracks and could not move.  I was terrified.  I cried to her, and I tried to revive her... my efforts came to no avail.  I called for help, and they came and took her away. She was all right, as it turned out; just overworked.  So they kept her.  Just for a few days.

After that, though, she was never the same, and I began to fear that I could care for her no longer.  I talked with friends, relatives, experts, even my father.  But we all knew it was hopeless.  There was nothing left to do.

So I brought her home for the last time that night, and when she was safe for the night I had sat with her in the dark, desperate to make her understand. Desperate to understand this pain myself.

"Sweetie," I repeated to the darkness, feeling the tears come again, "how will I ever live without you?"

She would not, could not answer.  Not now.  Not ever.

These are the things that have to be done when you're an adult.  I don't want to be an adult.  I don't want to let her go.  I can't leave her.  I can't lose her.

She'll die with me.  I can't provide the care she needs.  I don't have the same resources as my father.  She was never a trophy for me, she was always so much more, and yet, I can't afford her anymore, as much as I'd love to believe that our love has no price tag.

So, I go to the desk, and pull out a piece of paper, and I do what must be done.  I begin to write.   I whisper a prayer for her with every broken word.

FOR SALE.  1988 Buick Reatta, 2 seater, white, 1 owner, 160,000 miles, good shape, great car, call.

© Melissa Cross 2005.  All rights reserved.  No part of this story may be reprinted without permission.