I couldn’t really concentrate on the scenery because I was too worried about the way Aunt Bailey was screaming and then swerving toward the edge of the road whenever a car came. The edge, too—it went straight down a sheer rocky cliff toward the sea, and I had visions of a happy trip turned film noir. The twisted metal of a pink moped, splayed daffodil limbs on the rocks. Jesus. I scooted up next to Ben. At five miles an hour, you could carry on an entire conversation on one of those things, as if you were sitting comfortably in a living room. “Reminds me of you learning to drive,” I said. I went along once when Mom was teaching him, and I wore the old 49ers football costume that Great-Grandma Shine had given him, helmet, pads, and all, which made Mom laugh and pissed him off. “And who ripped the side mirror off the Bermuda Honda?” he said. I shut up. Gram was getting too far ahead, and Ben was shouting at her to wait up, so obviously we were both worrying like parents whose toddler was walking too far ahead in a crowd.
