“Check this out, Daddy,” I said as I eased the car into fifth. “I’ve got overdrive!”

My father looked down at the gear shift between our two seats. He didn’t say anything in response, and I was too busy minding traffic on Capitol Boulevard to look over at his face. I had accelerated beyond the speed limit to push into overdrive.

“This Saab sure is speedier than your old car, isn’t it?”

Daddy nodded. He would turn 90 in another month. He didn’t talk much anymore. We assumed it was because he had grown so hard of hearing. Looking back, we now realize he was struggling with Alzheimer’s Disease.

I had driven to Raleigh, North Carolina from St. Louis, Missouri, where I lived. Normally I would fly down for the holidays to see my parents and avoid the thirteen-hour drive. But this time I drove, specifically to show my father my new car.

A 2006 Saab 9-3 four door in “Chili Red Metallic” with beige Italian leather seats. The power moon roof, which in fact I hardly ever used, was extra. The car was assembled in Sweden with an engine from Germany. I think it was probably the last of the true Saabs. I remember it took me several weeks before the manual shift the dealership ordered for me reached the lot.

“You want a manual?” the car salesman had asked me incredulously. “I’ve never met a girl who could drive stick.”

He went on to announce this rare discovery to all the other salesmen on the lot that afternoon.

I was determined to find a car with a manual transmission. And, I had my heart set on a Saab. It was personal.

My husband and I had separated, and he had driven off in the only decent car we owned, our Toyota 4-Runner. He left me with the Toyota pickup truck. A fun little ride, but he’d used it in his failed tree-cutting business and one half of the back window, smashed in by an errant limb, was covered in plywood. He always took our German Shepherds with him on jobs and the whole cab smelled of wet dog and chainsaw oil. I didn’t mind it that much, but occasionally I had to pick up guests at the airport and the truck was a bit inappropriate for a university professor. Besides, it had an automatic transmission.

I remember when I first met my husband he drove a flashy Toyota Supra. A slick little car with crazy acceleration. But it was an automatic! Who drives an automatic-transmission sports car?

That should have been a sign.

I had missed it—or ignored it—and now here I was twelve years later in a stinky Toyota truck with a broken back window.

I wanted a new car.

And I trained my sights on European engineering for a change. Before I’d met Rick, I had owned a sweet little Honda Civic (five speed, needless to say). I sold it to buy the Toyota 4-Runner that he wanted.

I was ready now for something different.

I remembered the fun I had had driving my father’s Saab in high school. I wanted that happiness back again.

I set my heart on a Saab.

“You’re getting a Saab?” My friend took a long, slow sip of her coffee, her brow darkening. “I’ll try to be on hand when you need a ride to the repair shop,” she continued. “Cause you’re going to be a regular.”

She was half serious. Saab had a reputation for breaking down. I remember watching my father on weekends working on his red, two-door 1967 Saab 93 with its two-stroke, three-cylinder engine. But that was years ago. Saabs had changed. At least, that’s what I’d read in recent automotive magazines.

I drove my Saab back and forth to North Carolina any number of times. It was still in excellent condition when I sold it in 2018.

I didn’t want to.

But I needed to make way for an AWD car to carry me up the mountain roads to my recently purchased house on Three Top. The Saab was a trooper and usually got me where I needed to go when the weather was good. I worried about the steep climb in the snow, though. And so the Saab went to a stylish young couple who lived down the street, and I bought a Subaru Crosstrek with a six-speed manual shift.

The change was a step down in luxury.

My Saab may have looked like a run-of-the mill sedan, but it drove like an Audi—smooth and quiet.

It was my pleasure to take my father out in my brand-new luxury Saab.

I showed him how to move the seat back. I pushed a hidden button, and a cup holder automatically glided out from the central console. Too bad he hadn’t brought a mug of coffee.

“Maybe some Johnny Cash?” I asked, sliding a disk into the CD player.

Daddy didn’t answer. He stared intently at the lights on the dashboard and the controls on the leather-braided steering wheel.

No need for a manual choke in my fancy, computer-monitored ride.

We drove all the way down Capitol Boulevard in silence, listening to Johnny.

When I pulled the car back into the narrow parking lot in front of his condo and took the key out of the ignition—which was oddly placed in the wood-paneled console between our seats—Daddy smiled.

“You’ve got a good car, Becky.”

That was all I needed to hear.