His hands are gripping the steering wheel like it’s a life preserver, and one of his live jazz CDs is on the stereo. “It’s one lonely degree out there tonight,” a woman says, introducing the next song. “So let’s keep the atmosphere warm.” Her voice hangs on the last word, melting it into honey. There’s a smattering of applause as I buckle my seatbelt and watch Dad back expertly out of Audrey’s drive. My eyes smart and I’m sure I look like shit, but Dad is silent, concentrating on the route he’s taken a zillion times. I wait for him to ask how it went or tell me I’ll be fine, but he just keeps staring out the window like he’s drugged. “I can’t believe she’s really going,” I say finally. “Now I have all summer alone at that stupid toy store.” Dad gives me two seconds of his full attention and then fixes his stare back on the road. “And we were gonna take the train to Toronto this summer and walk around Chinatown and Queen Street and check out cool secondhand record stores.”
