Purchase

After three repairs in three months, car trouble seeps into the dark swamp of my worry. Hubby’s weekly cancer treatments are downtown, 14 white-knuckled miles each way. I need a dependable ride. I need to focus on measured breaths and hopeful banter. A new car it is. We’ve got the money. Years of cautious saving for any calamity. Except the one we’re living.
 
At the dealership, I go for what’s available on the lot: a battery hybrid model with a sunroof. I don’t want a stupid sunroof. But I can drive that Titan Grey baby home in a couple of days and tuck it in the garage, ready to tackle whatever grinding routes we might encounter.
 
A saleswoman with glossy nails shows me the marvels of the digital dashboard, the built-in safety features, the GPS navigation. It all seems so complicated. She chirps on and on about swiping left, then right on the screen, clicking and double-clicking the fob—while the pressure builds in my chest. Can I do this? Get a grip; it’s only a damn car.
 
A car I’m buying alone. He’s not sitting beside me in the showroom, affable and relaxed, haggling for free winter mats. Or brushing off the hard sell for an extended warranty. Which I end up getting, to keep our life as trouble free as possible. An almost laughable decision. Even with a new car, some kind of breakdown lies ahead—the moment when everything falls apart.