Dad didn’t relinquish the wheel readily
Driving him to the family cottage that last time an emotional ride
When I was a kid, there was never a question: if we went anywhere as a family, Dad drove. No matter how tired he was, no matter how crabby he was, Dad drove.
We only ever went to two places: his hometown in Saskatchewan or the cottage. Both were marathons with Dad earning bonus points for making good time. “Making good time” embraced many factors, from little girls not being able to pee, to running on fumes until we could make the only gas stations he trusted not to water the gas. As we reached the age we could legally stay home alone, one by one we abandoned the station wagon piloted by a man we loved but hated driving with.
Then a funny thing happened. I started taking him places myself.
We would argue on those rides. He would bark that I was going too slow, or too fast, or to watch for that idiot opening his door. He would bark at the idiot making a left, or the idiot on a bike, or the idiot jaywalking. He’d always been gruff. He knew he was dying and didn’t want to give an inch, let alone give up the wheel. Maybe I kept taking him because I thought I was giving him a measure of independence — or because he’d always taken me.
The spring before he died, he started making noises about heading up north. “I’ll take you,” I heard someone say. It was me. The family scattered before I could change my mind.
We had two cars, one a standard and one an automatic. I chose the one that would make Dad most comfortable. I showed up early and Mom and I got him settled, his oxygen tank tucked by his feet, and his ever-present baseball hat perched on his head.
The trip was a disaster. He’d insisted on bringing lunch — dry rye bread and dill pickles. Nothing else. I got a speeding ticket. We made it to the cottage, but got stuck at the base of an icy incline as we went to leave.
“Should have brought the standard!” he bellowed around his mask.
As the hill kept winning, his words got sharper. I finally put him out of the car, momentarily stunning him into silence. I got the car up on the next try, parked it and went back to get my father.
He leaned heavily on me as I tugged him up the incline, his voice rasping but still issuing instructions. I wanted to yell back, to scream that he wasn’t helping. I looked around at the calm of the forest, the sunlight weak yet still heralding what would be another year at his favourite place on Earth.
It was a quieter drive home. He never saw his cottage again. He had roared at me because he knew it, and I hadn’t roared back because I knew, too.