On the last day of that particulary hot summer, as the crickets chirped and the dust swirled in the distance and the bullfrogs croaked on, a power shortage and a heart attack took place at the same time. And it then occurred to me that I was terrified.

  Terrified. I didn't use that word often, unlike the girls at school. They would shriek at any silly horror movie and cling desperately to the arms of some equally silly boys. Gosh, how terrifying, the girls claimed, in identical emphasized tones. The only time I had ever been terrified was the time in first grade when Ponchito, Mrs. Hendricks's Chihuahua, had chased me up a tree. Just that one time.

  And now, I added. I was definitely terrified now.

  I was terrified because I had no working phone and no parents to hold my hand. I was terrified because panic had never been more evident in her face. I was terrified because confusion and pain flitted through her eyes as she grasped desperately at my own unsteady fingers. "Come on, Nana, we have to go," I said to her. Strong voice, brave smile. Breathe. Don't forget to breathe.

  "Where's John?" she asked hoarsely, her eyes squinting with pain. John, John my grandfather, John who died before I was even born.

  I choked down some panicked tears and said, "I have to drive you to the hospital, Nana. Come on."

  Carefully I lifted her into the seat of the beat-up station wagon. It only took the metallic click of a safety belt sliding into place for a calm to blanket and soften her features. I started the engine and backed out the driveway. My hands looked pale and helpless against the gray of the steering wheel. Oh God, I thought. Oh God oh God oh God. I had to do something but drive mindlessly- I- I had to keep Nana talking. Wasn't that what they did in movies? And eventually help would come in the nick of time and everyone would be fine. There would be cheers, a fade to black, then the credits would roll.

  I moistened my lips and croaked, "How are you doing, Nana?" A stupid question, but the only thing I could manage to spit out of my dry tongue.

  Through the corner of my eyes, I saw that she was facing the other way. After a lengthy silence, she spoke weakly, "You know," she whispered, "I've always loved riding in a car. Staring out the window. Seeing all the people breezing by as they live their lives. It's so nice, Clare."

  I wanted to say that I was Bridget, not Clare, that Clare was my great-aunt, but I was afraid that she'd stop talking. Silently I turned onto the main road, pressing on the pedal furiously, willing everything to turn out all right.

  She took a deep, rattling breath. "I- I like watching them and just guessing at their lives. Pretend I know them. Like that couple- that young couple with their arms around each other over there. They're newly married and live in a yellow house with bougainvillea on the sides."

  Stoplight. I cursed the red light and shivered, even though it was a hot day.

  She stopped and winced a little in pain, but continued. "The little boy walking his dog- he spent a whole summer mowing lawns to save enough money for it. And that girl over there, sitting on the park bench- she's reading a fairy tale she thought she outgrew."

  I took a turn. Just two blocks from the hospital now.

  Her voice grew fainter, but she managed a short gasp of a laugh. "You may think I'm crazy, Clare. Maybe I am. But it's lovely. Because when you know these things, or think you know them, then you know the people. And you're not alone. A car's the most wonderful place in the world because you can never be alone in a car, Clare."

  I pulled into the parking space and screamed into the lot for help. She's dying, she's dying, I don't know what to do. My yells sounded weak and shrill in the lot, but someone must have heard them. Stretchers came, voices, a hand on my shoulder. I can't remember much except for her face. Pale, but peaceful. She gave me a trembling half-smile.

  "Thanks for the ride, Bridget."

  As they wheeled her into the emergency room, I wondered if she really knew that I wasn't my great aunt through the entire ride. I still wonder. I guess it doesn't really matter, just like it doesn't really matter that she didn't know those people- the ones she saw from the car. As long as she wasn't alone.

~~~

  Five days later, after her funeral, I got into the beat-up station wagon and drove. I drove and drove and drove blindly, endlessly. I didn't care if the gas dial was tipping dangerously towards the brightly-lit red E. It was better if it did; this way, something else could feel empty for a change.

  I noticed with some surprise that tears, wet and sticky, were streaming down my face. I didn't usually cry, unlike the girls at school. They cried anywhere and everywhere, in class, in the bathrooms, through the halls. I'd always thought I was saving my tears for something more deserving. The only time I cried in public was in second grade when Macy Gray told me my new shoes looked like something the cat dragged in. Just that one time.

  And now, I added. I was definitely crying now.

  I was crying because I had no one to catch fireflies with anymore. No one to watch old black and white movies like Bringing up Baby. No one to laugh hysterically over the scene where Cary Grant follows the dog round and round the dinner table.

  I cried and I cried and I cried until my nice black shirt grew sticky and soaked and my eyes puffed into miserable little slits. I cursed the red lights, the cars, the world around me. My hands beat wildly at everything, the dashboard, the steering wheel, the seat.

  And then I saw them. The people, walking past the car, walking like it was any other day. The man in the suit clutching a suitcase and a precariously wobbling cup of Starbucks. The jogger who was practically dancing to the music playing on his walkman. The young lady with a clipped gait and red, teetering high heels. And - I drew in a long, rattling breath- an elderly woman and a little girl with brown hair, walking hand in hand and laughing.

  All of a sudden I knew. I knew that all around me there were people- people just like me, people who laughed and cried and felt terrified. People being born, people growing up, people dying. I was a part of them too; I was human and alive; I spilled coffee on myself and I danced when I thought no one was watching and I stumbled in high heels. And, years ago, I had walked down the street, hand in hand with my laughing grandmother.

  My grandmother. For five days, they had put her in a small white hospital room that smelled of disinfectant. It had, I recalled, no windows.

  I decided that when I grew up I was going to make a hospital on wheels. A roaming hospital with gigantic glass sides, where all the patients would be able to stare outside at the beautiful, moving lives and feel that they were a part of it, that they were connected to everyone around them. They would see and know the Starbucks guy, the dancing jogger, the high heel girl. They would know the young couple with bougainvillea, the boy walking his dog, the girl who believed in fairy tales. Because you can never be alone in a car.

  I drove home and edged onto the driveway. As I slammed the car door closed, I caught sight of my reflection in the car window. Pale, but peaceful. I gave a trembling half-smile to no one in particular.

  "Thanks for the ride, Nana."