An emotional ride to the cottage with Dad
LORRAINE SOMMERFELD If my Dad were alive he’d be 88, and I often wonder which 18 years, like notes on a piano keyboard, he would have willingly surrendered. Actually, I already know: none. He surrendered nothing willingly, ever, including the wheel.
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. Mom was a good driver, but Dad would slot himself behind the wheel, crank up CFRB, jam a piece of Wrigley’s in his mouth and get ready to make sure nobody passed him. Mom would mash on her imaginary brake pedal and say, “Oh, Al,” at intersections.
We only ever went to two places: his hometown in Saskatchewan or the cottage, a humble affair we’d had since I was eight years old. Both were marathons with Dad earning bonus points for making good time, a phrase I thought had capital letters when I was a child. 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 with whom we hated driving.
Then a funny thing happened. I started taking him places myself. At first my mother would use the excuse that I needed the practice, and he should let me drive. As he got sicker, we finally had to explain to him that other drivers were becoming alarmed when someone pulled up in the lane next to theirs with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He would grumble and acquiesce, a word that sounds more elegant than the action really was.
We would argue on those rides. He would tell me I was going too slow, or too fast, or to watch for that idiot opening his door. He would bark at me the same way he would bark at the idiot making a left, or the idiot on a bike, or the idiot jaywalking. He’d always been gruff and I refused to let myself believe this was more than that, that this was anger from pain. 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; maybe I kept taking him because nobody else would; maybe I kept taking him because he’d always taken me.
The year before he died, he started making noises about heading up north. He liked to check out the cottage each spring. “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. I pretended I couldn’t see the Velcro on his shoes — the only way he could do them up.
The trip was a disaster from start to finish. He’d insisted on bringing lunch — he’d packed dry rye bread and dill pickles. Nothing else. I got a speeding ticket. In front of my father. 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. I gritted my teeth, and tried another angle. “I told you! You need lower gears! What were you thinking?”
I looked at him through tears of frustration, wondering why I’d ever volunteered for this. 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, that I was the only one who would even bring him. I looked around at the calm of the forest, the snow receding in the shadows, the sunlight weak yet still heralding what would be another year at his favourite place on earth. My favourite place.
It was a quieter drive home, both of us scared to stir up the détente. I’ve always told my sons that you push the hardest against the one you know will never leave you. My Dad and I knew we would never leave each other, though I’m reminded every day of the cliffs from which we narrowly pulled back.
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.