The Quiet

The Impala

I heard my mom walk into the house, talking to someone on the phone. I couldn't quite make out what she was saying, but I could tell she was crying. I hate it when she cries.

I heard a knock on my door and stood to open it. Mom was standing there with red eyes and tears messing up her makeup. "You're turning eighteen in two days. Your father wanted me to give this to you if... if he wasn't here." Her eyes started to tear up again. I wanted to tell her to stop, to say anything, but I couldn't. I ached to talk, but my mind wouldn't let me. I took the envelope from her hand and she walked into my room behind me. I sat on my bed. Mom sat too close, but I let her. "Go ahead and open it." She told me. I nodded and tore it open. The first thing my eyes hit were the keys sitting in the envelope. I let the out a whimper. They were the keys to my dad's '67 Chevy Impala. Tears filled my eyes, too. My mom took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm. I was shaking as my hand wrapped around the keys and pulled them out. The vintage car had been sitting in the garage for a year since my dad died. When I was younger, I would help him fix it. At that time, it was in an old lot that my dad rented before it was fixed. I would sit on the tailgate of his truck and hand him things that he needed. Everything in the car was original, from the seats to the radio. It was mine now.

I looked down into the envelope. There was a folded piece of paper. I could see my dad's messy writing in pen through the paper. "Do you want to read it?" Mom asked. I nodded and pulled it out, setting the keys beside me.

"Happy 18th, Tara." Was the first thing I saw at the top of the page.
"So I'm going to say the obvious thing first. The Impala is yours. I remember how you used to sneak into the garage to look at it. It's all yours. Happy birthday. Next, if you're reading this, I've passed. I told your mother to give this to you, and I know she will. Tell her that I love her. I need you to know something, Tara. Your mother and I didn't tell you. I had cancer. Lung cancer to be specific. That's why I didn't swim with you, and why we couldn't ride bikes anymore. That's most likely why I passed. We wanted to tell you, but we just couldn't. I love you, Tara. My little moon.
-Dad."

Mom had been reading over my shoulder. She had a hand pressed over her mouth. I was trembling. "Tara, sweetie..." Mom put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off and picked up the keys. "Tara, we didn't tell you for your sake." She told me.

For my sake? You didn't tell my that Dad would have died anyway for my own good?

I stood and walked down the stairs, then out into the garage. My whole body was trembling as I got into the Impala and started it. The old engine hummed and roared, a noise like music in my ears. The second I did, an 8-track tape started playing. A Beetles song started playing, taking me back to when I was young. Dad had just gotten the radio working. He found a box of 8-tracks at a thrift store.

Here comes the sun,
Here come the-
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the-
It's alright...
It's alright...

He sang to me as he worked under the hood. His voice was soft and sweet. He was smiling. Oil stained his hands as I sat on the tailgate of his truck.
"You're my sun." He said to me.
"But I don't like the sun. It's too bright. Hurts my eyes." I replied.
"Then you're my moon."
I thought for a minute, and then nodded.
"The moon is cool. I'd be the moon."
My dad laughed quietly, asking me for a wrench. I handed it to him as the song changed.

My eyes filled with tears and Mom walked out into the garage. She saw me sitting behind the wheel, crying. I sobbed loud, ugly sobs and hit the steering wheel with my palms. Mom opened the door and sat in beside me. "Tara, you need to breath..." she said quietly. I couldn't breathe. My entire body felt like it was shutting down. I cried and cried. Mom just sat next to me and sighed. It was such a contradiction, the happy Beetles music to me, sobbing and shaking and yelling. My whole body hurt. My vision started blurring from lack of air. "Tara, please. Calm down, okay? Just breathe." Mom was crying now, too. I shook my head. Telling someone with anxiety to calm down is like telling someone with ADHD to "just pay attention."

I couldn't breathe air evaded my lungs. I just couldn't breathe.

Mom pulled out her phone, calling 911. I felt like I was going to throw up.

"Hello. My daughter is having a panic attack. Please send help."

My mom nodded a few times and then hung up. I let her wrap her arms around me as I shut down. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't do anything. It all hurt. Mom held me until there was the sound of sirens outside. She opened the garage door and two paramedics came in. One of them opened the drivers side door of the Impala. He asked me questions that I couldn't answer. My mom answered for me.

"Ma'am, she needs to try to speak." He told her.

"She's mute. She can't." My mom replied.

The man looked back to me and nodded. "Can you walk?" He asked. I shook my head. The man called for a wheelchair, and a woman brought it over. They helped me into it and wheeled me over to the ambulance. My mom followed. I knew the fear in her eyes. I had never had a panic attack this bad before. She was always able to talk me down somehow, but she couldn't this time. Her fear was that I was getting worse. After that letter, I was.

Somewhere on the way to the hospital, I went unconscious.