The first time I met you was the summer before I was gaining my independence, and my dad had just lost his. I was trapped in your 1989 Lincoln Town taxi-car, which had the faintest odor of cigarettes, as though the smell had clung to your car even though you insisted you’d quit decades ago. 

My sister sat across from me in the backseat, sleeping, which was normal during car rides. What wasn’t were the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, the slight frown at the corner of her mouth, and the wrinkles in her forehead that I smoothed away. My mom was in the passenger seat trying not to break down. She held herself together with your kindness and inane chatter, pulling away from the worry that was wracking through her, if only for that moment. I watched as we passed through our nothing-bad-ever-happens town, eased our way across state lines into Massachusetts, stopping and going until we reached Mass General Hospital. 

When you pulled up to the hospital doors, my mom started to rifle through her purse for cash she didn’t have. I pulled out my phone ready to transfer more of the money I’d been saving for college to cover another unexpected expense. Our eyes connected through the rearview mirror, in between me opening up my banking app and unlocking it with my fingerprint. I never had a chance to glance at my balance. 

Maybe you could see it in the way my mom’s head was buried in her purse, refusing to meet your eyes, knowing that if she didn’t have money to feed us the past week, there was no way she could afford a two-hour taxi. Maybe you saw it when our eyes connected, my reluctance to continually be the provider, to give my everything so my family of three would continue to survive. Maybe you were going to offer all along. But something made you put your hand on my mom’s shoulder and shake your head.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. “You go look after your husband.”

My mom started to lose what little was holding her together. “It’s too much. That’s too much,” she said. 

“It’s not enough. If I can do this one thing, to lessen what you must be going through, then why shouldn’t I?”

I was the only one who watched your car drive away, partly to avoid being at the bedside of a man I hated, and partly because I was sure I’d never see you again. Your car blended into the night, indistinguishable between the cars that were before you and that came after you. My mom was already inside inquiring about her husband, my sister trailed a few steps behind her, unprepared for the reality that awaited. I stayed outside for a heartbeat more just staring, unsure how to operate in a world where someone could be so kind to strangers. 

In a way your presence would’ve been welcomed inside the hospital as well. A calming force that had no stake in the matter. Watching as our mom lost herself in worry and premature grief over her husband’s touch-and-go conditions, while I looked out for Marisah. Maybe then I would’ve had someone looking out for me too.

It wasn’t until the following summer that I saw you again. I’d been away at college but you’d become a permanent fixture in my family’s life - taking my mom to work, driving my sister to orthodontist appointments, and eventually spending the weekends carting them both to Crotched Mountain Rehabilitation Center once my dad was moved from Mass Gen. Crawling behind my sister into your back seat for the second time, was the first time I really saw you. Your shocking white hair, the way the collar of your button down was tucked in the back, how if I leaned towards the middle I could see your white wrinkled hands wrapped around the beige leather of the steering wheel. 

You already knew information about me that I had never willingly given, while I knew nothing about you. I wasn’t even sure if I knew your name, yet mine was echoed in your Lincoln frequently. You asked me how I liked Seton Hall, what I planned to do with Journalism and Creative Writing degrees, what kind of stories I tended to write. I was expecting to answer questions about whether I was excited about seeing my dad again - I wasn’t. I was expecting to have to sit through silence, which I wouldn’t have minded. But you were curious about me, wanted to know more about the only one of us that was still a mystery. 

Along the way I learned about you too. I learned about your twenty-year marriage to a wife who liked to know what time you’d make it home each night. I found out about your other job as an engineer, even though the specifics always seemed to be just slightly out of my grasp of understanding. You told me about your stepson and his years in college, the struggles he had picking a major, and the even bigger troubles he had trying to find a job once he graduated. We talked about traveling, movies, and books. Eventually, I even knew your name.

Every weekend that summer, I watched as my dad relearned an abundance of things. He went to speech therapy, only able to form half words trailing off into whispers and sounds. I had to remind him to clear his throat every time he swallowed, whether it was spit, food, or water, otherwise he’d choke. He spent his days regaining strength in the arm and leg that he had mobility in, trying to semi-walk with the help of a cane, and coming to terms with the fact that he would mostly be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. I sat there as my dad charmed every nurse that walked into his room with jokes, and then as his jokes turned vicious as soon as they were out of the room. Each visit was filled with tension, tongue holding, and reminders of why I decided to go to school so far from home. 

Getting into your car at the end of those visits was a relief. I was stuck there until you came for us, and some days I couldn’t wait for your black Lincoln to pull up. Your cigarette-smelling car was the most relaxing thing about my summer. I felt safe and comforted. There were less expectations and no obligations. I could just be. And you filled every moment with your kindness and curiosity, which never bordered on prying.

The last time I saw you, it was just you and I in the car. My dad had spent the hour before ranting about how selfish I was for going to college, how dumb I was for wasting money on useless degrees, and how ungrateful I was for everything he’d done for this family, despite all the things he’d done to rip this family apart. When I got into your car that final time, I think you saw the defeat in my eyes. You didn’t say anything for a while, so long that I thought our last ride was going to be in silence. 

Then you said, “You shouldn’t have to suffer through being there for someone just because they’re family. Sometimes, K, blood isn’t everything.”

You were the first person outside of my sister who had validated my feelings of not wanting to be there for my dad. And it was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, even if it was only in the back of your Lincoln.