I Spy a Red Jeep
Cars can be powerful reminders of past loves.
(Illustration by Kim Rosen)Speeding along the Mass. Pike toward my new life, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw my old life following me. A flaming-red Jeep hovered closely. I was driving to a lawyer's office for a real estate transaction that would unload 3,500 square feet of angst. I had lobbied hard for this deal, but now I was looking back. The past blurred my vision, obscuring a promise of healing and hope.
The Jeep was just like my husband's. Jerry called his "Lucy" - "Lucifer," when paying a mechanic's bill - in the tradition of naming all his cars. They were sleek and sporty until joining my ready-made family of three little girls. Once comfortable behind the wheel of a
Any red Jeep became an emotional trigger after Jerry died. I cannot pass one without assigning it meaning. If I'm mulling a decision, a sighting affirms or dissuades. If I'm despondent, it cajoles, as Jerry himself did for our two decades together. I admit to craning my neck for a closer look at each driver, as if by some miracle, it would be Jerry. Then, we would both laugh heartily at the absurdity of him ever leaving me, and I would have so much news to share. First, I would tell him about our daughters: Erin's baby, Caitlin's marriage, and Alison's graduate program. These thoughts come in a flash, just long enough to avert my eyes from the road, see a driver who is not my husband, and quickly return my attention ahead.
My journey on the Pike was leading me to formalize a house swap with my daughter Caitlin and son-in-law Dan. Their tiny North End condo promised a memory-free zone and minimal maintenance. Into their capable hands I would entrust my suburban home, the material evidence of my marriage, and a to-do list of emergencies about to happen. As misgivings undermined my bravado, the sight of the red Jeep could have easily scrapped the deal. I'm addicted to symbolism, deriving inspiration, connection, and direction from inanimate objects of all kinds. Cars are particularly evocative.
I'll never again see my father's baby- blue Mercury, a '60s model with fins fit for aeronautical duty. Yet, I still scan five-digit license plates, hoping for a glimpse of 60192, a prize that accidentally reverted to the Registry after his death.
It's not that I'm a car enthusiast; I scarcely notice when someone buys a new one. I'm more apt to ask about color than horsepower. This is my version of mobile communication. My children are into texting; for me, it's vehicular messaging.
Six months after Jerry died, I was driving to a wedding, an unwilling guest braced for a crowd where I knew only the bride. I expected the cocktail hour to be a killer. As I considered a U-turn, a red Jeep sailed by me. The wedding was fun.
Now, on the Pike, I was traveling another highway of apprehension. Shifting my gaze from the Jeep in my wake, I could not see the lane ahead. A tractor-trailer blocked the view. "Over- sized load," it warned. Memories behind, uncertainty ahead, I was trapped. Except in the presence of my granddaughter, Casey, I rarely feel myself attuned to the here and now. Jerry was an in-the-moment guy - attentive to the past and aware of the future, but held captive by neither. Without his calming presence and witty banter, once so accessible they resembled background music, I've avoided the present, pressing forward as if propelled by a malfunctioning GPS. I watched the Jeep pull alongside me. Briefly, we drove next to each other. I heard Jerry saying, "Hey, I'm right here with you, babe. No worries!" Then the trailer moved toward an exit, clearing my view. With sudden clarity, I knew Jerry was endorsing my move, encouraging me to find peace in my heart as well as in my new home.
I settled into an urban cocoon, creating a wall of family photos to bridge my two lives. At the center, Jerry grins, glass held high in jubilant toast. "To your new home!"
Donna Milmore lives in Boston. Send comments to coupling@globe.com
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