So far, my stepmother Susanne has done all the driving. “Jake,” she announces—he is “Jake” now, not “your father,” a change of possession that I have accepted if not acceded to—“had a seizure last month,” she says. “Epilepsy. He can’t drive until we know more.”

I have skipped my last few every-other-weekends at their house, otherwise I would know this. I stare out the window. The tarmac ahead of us appears wobbly and wet in the white-hot sun.

My father has brought me with him on a work trip to the Arizona desert—his friends on the reservation have asked him to write a book. Here, the Hopi plant each kernel of blue corn six feet apart to minimize competition for the few precious drops that passing thunderheads deign to part with. This land—so expansive—holds its secrets close to its chest: outwardly desolate but teeming with life if you know where to look.

We stop at a bar just over the reservation border where my father orders beers for himself and Susanne. I decline his offer to buy me something to eat. The manager at the restaurant where I work told me I have a “buffalo butt.” Uncertain if this is a compliment or an insult and with no one to ask, I have determined that it is time to divest myself of this feature. No lunch for me.

Back outside in the concussive heat, my father suggests that Susanne take a break. “You’ve got your license now,” he says to me. “Let’s see what kind of driver you are.” He folds his rangy body into the front passenger seat, only buckling his seatbelt—still invincible—when prompted by Susanne. He looks at me, eyebrows raised as if to say, Go on: impress me.

I start the engine and fumble the gear shift even though the rental is an automatic. I learned to drive in my mother’s standard VW Bug, which would fit into this car’s trunk. The steering wheel is larger than I am used to, too, and—I discover after turning back toward the reservation—it is quite loose.

I have not impressed my father in a long time, not since fourth grade when the magazine he wrote for put out a call for kid’s essays about their favorite books. Mine was The Fairweather Duck, a story of loss. My essay didn’t win, but he seemed proud when I gave it to him to send in.

I am dull, he believes, as formless and flat as the hardpan on which this highway has been laid. The last time he saw me, he called me a “goody-goody” because I don’t carry on in the usual ways of teenagers—smoking, stealing, drugs, boys. He doesn’t know that when I can’t sleep at night, I walk miles around the city until I find an open coffee shop. I order water, and when, inevitably, a man sits at my table and asks questions, I make up stories—I work with wolves at the zoo. I study linguistics. I’m a nanny for a rich Russian diplomat. I paint murals. Then I walk home alone through the quiet, humid night.

Now, driving, I can’t manage to stay in the middle of my lane. The car pulls to the left, and I turn the wheel just a hair, then a little more before I feel it engage, but then I’ve over-corrected. I haven’t learned yet to focus on the road farther ahead, on that shimmery mirage.

Despite the weaving and wallowing, we arrive safely at my father’s friend’s house.    “Steering could use work,” he says as I hand him the keys. Inside, my father and stepmother and their friend settle in the living room, the bare walls painted a cool blue.

“My mother is making frybread,” the friend says. “Why don’t you go help.”

Her mother—short, round and reassuring—is unperturbed by my sudden appearance in her kitchen. She motions for me to pull up a stool, and then, with exaggerated gestures, a language we share, she measures ingredients. Flour first, like so, then a generous heap of dry milk. A pinch of salt. Then she takes my hand—hold it like this—and taps baking powder into my palm. She holds my hand for an extra moment.

Do you see?  she seems to be asking.

I lift my eyes to meet hers.

You’ll get a feel for it, she nods. For all of it.

Lea Page’s work, nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, has appeared in The Guardian, The Washington Post, The Rumpus, River Teeth, Sweet, North Dakota Quarterly, and more. She is also the author of Parenting in the Here and Now (Floris Books, 2015). She is an Assistant Editor for creative nonfiction at Pithead Chapel and lives in rural Montana with her husband and a small circus of semi-domesticated animals.