Renata behind the wheel

Renata turned sixteen in February, and since then every conversation with her, whatever the subject, ends the same way. I ask how her chemistry exam went and she says fine, and when am I going to teach her to drive. I ask if she wants pozole and she says yes, and when. Her mom, very wisely, decided this one was mine because I'm "more patient". It's the first time in twenty years anyone has accused me of that.

So last Sunday, after my bike ride, we got into the Versa and drove to the parking lot of a mall off the Periférico ring road, which is nearly empty on Sunday mornings. Ximena wanted to come "to watch". She sat in the back with a bag of chips and the attitude of someone who got to the movies early.

The first lap

I explained everything like a manual: mirrors, seat, seatbelt, brake. Renata listened with the face teenagers make when they already know everything and are being generous with you. She pulled the seat so close to the wheel she looked ready to hug it. She started the car. Put it in drive. And nothing happened, because her foot was on the brake with a strength I didn't know she had.

"Ease off a little," I said.

She eased off completely. The Versa lurched about five feet and I made a sound that Ximena imitated all through lunch. A sound like a duck being stepped on. I won't describe it any better because I don't want to.

What I didn't tell her

We drove in circles for almost an hour. Between the painted spaces, around the light poles, stopping at every arrow even though there was nobody around. She got better fast, faster than I did at her age, and at some point I let go of the handle above the door, the one my family always called "the fear handle".

What I didn't tell her is that on her fifth lap I remembered my dad teaching me in a Datsun on a dirt street in Tlaquepaque, and that he never raised his voice, not even when I hit the neighbor's trash can. He smoked with the window down and said "go on, like that, like that". I don't smoke and I don't have his calm, but I caught myself saying "like that, like that" in the same tone, and I had to look out the window for a moment.

I also didn't tell her I was scared, and not of the car. I was scared of what comes after the car: that one day she'll grab the keys and go somewhere without me, which is exactly what's supposed to happen and what you want, and still.

Ximena's report

I drove home. Renata rode shotgun texting someone, smiling at her phone, and she didn't say thank you, but she put on my song, the Caifanes one she always tells me to turn down, and let it play all the way through. Those are the books I keep.

From the back seat, Ximena delivered her report with the gravity of a sports commentator: Renata drives "well but crooked" and I "scream like a duck". She asked for her turn next time, and I reminded her she's thirteen. She said just in the parking lot. I said in three years. She said two. We agreed to talk about it, which is how parents lose slowly.

We're going again next Sunday. Renata has already asked to try a real street. I said not yet. I plan to say not yet for at least two more Sundays, not because she isn't ready, but because I like the empty lot, the laps, and having both my daughters in the same car for an hour without either of them in a hurry to get out.