Driving Under an Influence​
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“I’m really sorry, Sis. It’s been crazy. I can’t believe no one called you—I figur—”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Look, there’s a lot to deal with here, Gloria. I mean, you knew he wasn’t getting better.”
I watch the phone drop from my hand to the carpet with a flat, muffled thump. I’m standing, biting down on my lip, might break skin. My nails pierce my palms making marks and my father is dead.
Out. I need out. I grab my wallet and keys from the kitchen island. Out of this room, this news, this air. A side glance at the hallway mirror, I glimpse my massive hair’s full force: ‘The electrocuted lion’s mane,’ Dad likes to tease. Dad isn’t a mean teaser. Wasn’t. I duck into the bathroom to grab my hair pick. It’s Saturday, March 12, 3:34 pm. I’ve just been informed by my brother that our father died in Winnipeg, my hometown, on Wednesday morning. The ninth? Tenth? Ninth. Denver’s an asshole. How could he do this to me? Turn off the lights. Leave the house. Lock the door. Reach the car. Did I turn everything off? Return to house. Unlock door, check stove’s off, heat’s off, dryer’s off, lock door. Hurry to little gray Honda.
Get in fast, chuck wallet and hair pick to the back seat. Slam door. Phone? Fuck the phone. Turn key in ignition, crank heat, fasten seat belt, unfasten seat belt, reach into back seat for pick. Launch sneak attack on hair. Scream with mouth tight shut as the pick’s trapped in the matty tangle. I wail on the steering wheel with both fists and do not recognize the bleating erupting from my throat. I press fingers hard into my eye sockets and breathe. Breathe again. It’s so shallow, my breath. Grip hair with my left hand, hold pick in right, force release. Open window, hurl pick. It clatters to the concrete, then gets run over by a big shitty gold Escalade. Fuck the pick.
Close window, turn radio on loud. Drive, left hand on the wheel, right hand over my mouth, head shaking left to right, left to right. The rain pelts a fevered staccato–I notice the rain now. “How’s the nest? Hiding any critters in there, Glory?” That’s what Dad calls me. Glory. Hot tears sear the back of my eyes. My skin tightens in this dry heat—I can feel it. I can’t even. What the fuck. How could I not know for three days? Did I have a feeling? Did I know but didn’t want to know? I’m usually so intuitive.
My laptop’s camera died eight months ago. After that, I couldn’t see him when we talked. It was easier not to bear witness to his body’s rapid decay. Dad’s hands went first early last year. He couldn’t grab things, and they bent weird. The first time we Skyped, I had video and couldn’t stop staring; they were like dwarf Arbutus trees. I vowed not to look next time.
But next time, Dad was wearing black gloves. “Why are you wearing black gloves? It’s summer!” I asked ‘cause I’m a big dummy who asks big dummy questions. Dad’s face tilted to the right like our old dog Boo did when you talked serious to him.
Dad leaned deep into the camera’s eye, into my eyes, into me when I was little and was bringing him the specialest secret just for us, like a baby bird’s sky blue eggshell, cradled in my little soft hands. “It’s okay, my Glory,” he whispered. “I want you to remember my real hands. No need to see what ALS is thieving from your old pop.”
My face flushed. I looked down fast. I wanted to snatch that word, shred it with my teeth, hurl it far away from Dad. He never thinks I’m dumb. He always keeps our secrets. The word “asshole” is not in his dictionary. He is always proud of me. Was. Oh, God. When he said, “Remember,” I had to grab a glass of water. I was so parched and bolted to the kitchen. We shared silence on that call for a really long time after that, and it wasn’t weird. It’s never weird with him. “You’ll have to move the cribbage pegs for me when you visit like I did when you were wee and learning,” he smiled. Then my oven timer went off because the lamb was done, but so were we for that day.
Dad continued wearing gloves; mittens, once I supposed the fingers couldn’t spread. I don’t know if he wore them outside our talks or even after my camera died. I wonder if he only did that for me. I like to think that because I’m his precious princess.
“So why didn’t you go home to visit? Why, if you love him so goddamn much?” I yell at myself in this little gray Honda on my precious Vancouver Island. I turn off the radio because REM really isn’t cutting it. “Why?” I holler. “You just wanted to keep it pretty. Denver’s right; you wouldn’t understand because you never make a fucking effort.” I’m downtown now, car a safe shell, the rain shielding me from others who might look. I’m hot, too hot. I’m grinding my teeth. Cut heat, open window. Sharp cold current flows in; a child’s handfuls of soft rain land on my lap. Tears flock but don’t fall—eyes baggy with saltwater, like long-gone Boo with a very bad cold.
I clench my teeth, evicting thought. Just drive. Down Pandora, along Government, up Johnson. Buses demanding passage lumber from curbs, rejecting frantic latecomers running, cursing, banging at the doors. “You knew he wasn’t getting better.” Why did Denver have to say that? Of course, I knew. I talked to Dad on Skype twice a week usually. Well, not recently. His voice got so, ugh. It was so hard, and work was so busy. He couldn’t shield me from that raspy, higher-pitched voice—no black gloves for that. Fuck, my throat is dry. I forgot my water bottle, damn it. I begin to shake, hands trembling, clutching the wheel, life ring in the ocean all by myself. I want to tell you a secret, Dad. You’ll bend down so I can whisper. I need to show you something. I want to feel close. I want to hear your grizzly-bear-honey voice reassuring me it’s okay—I’m okay. I’m going to be okay, aren’t I?
Two brown oak leaves curled up like an infant’s fists are still flap-flap-flapping in the windshield wipers. The rain has stopped. Tears falling too fast. I slam the heel of my right hand against my forehead. “I didn’t go. I couldn’t go. I wouldn’t go. I couldn’t do it, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Little Glory let you down.” Snot mixes with the tears cascading down my front. The windshield wipers thwack like slow punches on the speed bag that is me. That creaky moan is from this mouth. My eyes blur, squinting through these tears. Why the fuck am I driving?
A bus lunges out in front of me. I gasp and slam on the brakes. As the bus takes my lane, a black-gloved hand emerges from the driver’s window. My breath catches.
The black-gloved hand gives a small wave. It’s waving just to me. I strain against the wheel to get as close as possible to him. I am here, Dad. I can see you. I knew you’d come. You’d tell me it was okay. I feel that hand on my head, smoothing my hair. In that wave, my heart dislodges from my throat and I’m not thirsty anymore.
The hand retracts into the window, and the bus carries on. The car behind me honks because I stopped dead. I shut off the wipers, close the window and drag my sleeve across my face to sop up the mess. I turn onto Cormorant and pull over, rest my head on the wheel, stroke my hair for a while, listen to my breath.
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The busy city is still buzzing, but the hive of me has settled. I drive home with the windows all steamed up, pull into my driveway, cut the ignition and unbuckle. I sit back. Pressing my hand against the driver's window, condensation trickles down my wrist into my sleeve. I stare out through the imprint. It’s time to book a flight back home.
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By Gillie Easdon
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Gillie Easdon (she/her) is an author and professional writer based on the unceded Coast Salish Territory of the Lekwungen nation in Victoria BC Canada. Human, daughter, mother, partner, coparent, dog mum, friend. She is currently seeking publication of her interconnected short fiction collection of short fiction, Little Always Big. Her completed YA novel manuscript, Helen and the Prawn, is currently on a backburner. In Fall, 2023, Gillie’s short story, Slippery Mind Allegiance was published in The New Quarterley’s issue 169. She was shortlisted for The Literary Quarterly’s Gloria Vanderbilt’s 2013 short story contest and The Writers Union Canada Writing for Children Competitions. Driving Under an Influence was inspired by a simple wave of thanks, this habitual and kind connection.