Page 14 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Finn, my good man, I’d like to go back to a place we haven’t been to in eighteen years.”

“And where might that be, my lady?”

Mom turned, and I could see a small twinkle in her eyes, a mischievous smile on her face.

“1979.”

EIGHT

Dad rolled on the throttle, and the Harley roared to life.

He pulled out of the driveway, not at rocket speed, but with the measured grace and style of Morgan Freeman driving Miss Daisy to the market in her 1949 Hudson Commodore Custom Eight.

Mom sat up tall in the saddle, gazing out at the road ahead, then slowly turning her head to take in the homes on either side.

“Oh my God, she looks so regal,” Lizzie said as we followed them in the Acura. “Like the queen of bloody England.”

Evening was beginning to streak the sky with color. Some of our neighbors were out—having drinks on their porch, watering their lawns, playing ball in the street. They’d probably ignore a passing motorcycle, but when one is trundling along at fifteen miles an hour, and the biker chick in the driver’s seat is wearing a pink nightgown, people stop what they’re doing. They look. They smile. They wave.

And Mom, like the queen of bloody England, waved back.Noblesse oblige.

A mile from the house, Dad came to a roundabout, pulled the bike into the right lane, and turned onto Throop Avenue.

There was only one stop along Throop worth visiting: Heartstone High School.

Dad drove onto the campus and stopped at the edge of the four-hundred-meter oval track. It was a quiet Sunday summer evening, but there were still at least a dozen people out there jogging.

“Hallowed ground,” Lizzie said, gazing at the painted white lines and the rich brown cinder track.

Hallowed indeed. It’s where my parents met.

We’d heard the story a thousand times. They were teenagers. Heartstone High had their annual track-and-field meet against six other schools in the county, and one of the biggest events of the afternoon was the women’s sixteen-hundred-meter relay race.

The first runner for Heartstone stumbled out of the starting block, and the Hawks were dead last after the first lap. The second girl picked up some distance, and then the third did the same, but by the time the anchor got the baton, the Heartstone fans knew it would take a miracle to win.

Coach Williams had that miracle in her back pocket—Mary Katherine Donahue, a freshman in a field of juniors and seniors. Nobody knew the girl back then, but today her name is in the record books—one of the fastest runners ever to burn up a high school track in the state of New York. She had started that last leg a daunting twelve meters behind the leader, but she broke the tape half a step in front of the pack.

The Hawks fans went wild. One of them, a burly sophomore, climbed out of the stands, made his way down to the field, and waited for the school’s newest rock star to come over to the sidelines.

“You were amazing,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Finn McCormick.”

The poor girl was exhausted, dripping with sweat, her thick red hair twisted in a damp, limp knot behind her. “Mary Katherine Donahue,” she said. “Call me Kate.”

They’ve been inseparable ever since. And now they’d returned to the scene of that first handshake.

“Uh-oh,” Lizzie said.

There was a large green-and-white sign at the edge of the field spelling out the regulations for anyone using the facilities.No tobacco, alcohol, or other controlled substances allowed. No food or beverages allowed. No bicycles, skateboards, rollerblades, or strollers allowed.

Dad guided the bike up to the sign.

“If you want to get technical,” I said, “it doesn’t say anything about middle-aged couples on Harleys.”

Even if it had, I’m sure my father wouldn’t have cared. He pulled the bike onto the track.

“Wait a minute,” I yelled. I turned to my sister. “If they’re gonna do this right, they’re gonna need a soundtrack.”

I grabbed the box of CDs, dumped them all on the floor, and scrambled through them till I found the one I needed.

---