Whirligig by Paul Fleischman Page B

height in the past few years. I let her rest.
    â€œNo hurry,” I said. It was a week since she’d been out of her room. Only a year before she’d lived in her own apartment, walked to the grocery, taken cabs to visit her friends. When my mother insisted she move in with us, her doctor visits increased but the rest of her world began shrinking—first to the house, then to her room, and finally to her bed. Leading her out the front door, I couldn’t help but think how little she resembled the woman who’d walked in the summer before.
    â€œGrandma, where are we going?” Judging by her clothes, it was someplace fancy.
    â€œI’ll show you.”
    The car was sitting out in the driveway and was hot as a sauna inside. I opened the doors to cool it off, got her seated, and turned the key. The engine gave a growl like a guard dog and died. It took two more tries to get it going. The air-conditioning didn’t work, naturally. I let the engine warm up a long time while I looked down at the gearshift knob, its handy shifting pattern worn away. For a full minute I searched for reverse. When I found it, it turned out to be fourth. I stalled, which saved us from ramming the garage door. I hunted some more, reminded myself of my excellent record in driver’s training, found reverse, and shot back out of the driveway at a speed that threw both of us forward. Thank God the car was too old to have airbags. I fiddled with the gearshift, found first, and proceeded down the street as nonchalantly as possible. I realized my grandmother was eyeing me.
    â€œMaybe it’s better I wait for—”
    â€œGrandma, I can drive. Just tell me where you need to go.”
    She knew San Diego well, which was good since I was giving all my attention to finding the clutch with my floppy sandals and getting into first without stalling. We drove a long way down Morena. The breeze from the open windows kept me cool, until my grandmother had me roll hers up. We drove along Mission Bay, then reached Old Town.
    â€œStop!” she called out.
    I slammed on the brakes. So did the ten cars behind me. There was honking. I was stopped in the middle of the street. I wanted to yell, “My grandmother told me to!” Cars zoomed around me. Mine had stalled and didn’t want to start again. I could feel the blood rise into my cheeks. I glanced furiously over at my grandmother and found her staring at a white-barked tree.
    â€œAll right, Jenny dear. Go on.”
    I was speechless. She was completely unaware of what was happening. I felt like getting mad at her, but then I saw that her face had that unfocused look it had more and more lately. She was often confused or lost in her thoughts. How could I blow up at her for that?
    I got the car going. I put it into first and took off, trying to forget the whole scene.
    â€œTurn right when you come to the furniture store.”
    She navigated by landmarks, in Old World fashion, not by blocks and street names. I turned. My bangs were damp on my forehead. We entered downtown. Too many cars and buses. My hands were sweaty both from heat and nervousness.
    â€œNext time you want me to stop, Grandma, give me a little warning,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    I was repeating myself at a higher volume when she suddenly called out, “Here it is!”
    I almost braked, then looked in the mirror. Nothing was behind me. I stopped.
    â€œGo back a little.”
    I rolled my eyes, fumbled with the gearshift, found reverse, and backed up. We were somewhere on Fourth. She was staring at a little Chinese restaurant. Cars were coming. I put on my turn signal, then the warning lights just to be safe.
    â€œAgain it’s changed,” she said. The wave of traffic washed around us. She sat and stared.
    â€œGrandma, there are restaurants closer to home. With good Jewish food—”
    â€œKeep going, kindelah. ”
    I don’t think she heard me. She looked back