Drive
fiction by Grace Gerhardt
I’m driving down Route 2 in Western Massachusetts with my dad in the passenger’s seat. The windows are down and the country station is blaring. The bass grumbles static over the speakers of our family’s beloved 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air Coupe. It’s morning, but it’s already hot—the hair on my arms sticks to my skin from the moisture in the air. The sweet smell of Dad’s cigar comes in waves with the highway breeze, and the sun is strong in my rearview mirror. His hair is still dirty blonde and curly, tucked behind his ears and resting above his collar. He’s grown out his beard—it’s a vibrant crimson with small patches of gray along his smile lines. His pale blue polo is unbuttoned and there are sweat stains in the creases of the folds of his stomach.
It’s the day before my younger sister’s wedding. I flew across the country last night to stand by her as her bridesmaid tomorrow. I haven’t been back home since before I left for college, some six or seven years ago. I didn’t have any reason to go back until now.
It’s the day before my younger sister’s wedding. I flew across the country last night to stand by her as her bridesmaid tomorrow. I haven’t been back home since before I left for college, some six or seven years ago. I didn’t have any reason to go back until now.
<><><>
When I was younger, Dad always drove us around in the Coupe. Whether we were running errands or retreating to safety from Mom’s drunken escapades, Dad’s vehicle of choice was the Coupe. It took us forever to get anywhere in that car, though—it attracted all kinds of people, oftentimes igniting long conversations with strangers in the parking lot of Market Basket. Honestly, I think that’s why Dad drove it all the time: so he didn’t have to spend so much time at home.
My mom hates that car; to this day she’s never been in it. She’s a drunk, and whenever she got violent my dad would take us for a drive in the Coupe. I’m the only one in my family that has no tolerance for her behavior. Dad, being the devoted man that he is, views his marriage as an unbreakable bond, and foolishly believes she will get better. My sister acts like a field medic when it comes to Mom. She purposely runs into the gunfire of my mother’s alcoholism to see if she can patch up the wounds it causes and ends up getting shot in the process. As for me, I steer clear of my mom. My patience for her moral instability vanished when I was a teenager.
My mom hates that car; to this day she’s never been in it. She’s a drunk, and whenever she got violent my dad would take us for a drive in the Coupe. I’m the only one in my family that has no tolerance for her behavior. Dad, being the devoted man that he is, views his marriage as an unbreakable bond, and foolishly believes she will get better. My sister acts like a field medic when it comes to Mom. She purposely runs into the gunfire of my mother’s alcoholism to see if she can patch up the wounds it causes and ends up getting shot in the process. As for me, I steer clear of my mom. My patience for her moral instability vanished when I was a teenager.
<><><>
Five years ago when I was in college and my sister was in junior high, she used to call me every week. Even if our conversations became repetitive, every Sunday night my cell phone would ring promptly at 7:00pm. If she didn’t call by 7:05pm, I called to make sure she was safe. Most of the time she was, but other times she would be sobbing about whatever incident my mom caused that day. Those times were the only times I wished I was home, so I could comfort her with more than my voice.
“How’s Dad? Has he given up on her yet?” I’d ask.
"Nope. Not yet,” she’d say. We’d pause and I could hear her shift in her seat.
“And how’s Mum?”
“The same,” she’d say.
Static would fill the silence between us for a few moments. We’d say “I love you,” and wish for each other to have a better week than the last.
“How’s Dad? Has he given up on her yet?” I’d ask.
"Nope. Not yet,” she’d say. We’d pause and I could hear her shift in her seat.
“And how’s Mum?”
“The same,” she’d say.
Static would fill the silence between us for a few moments. We’d say “I love you,” and wish for each other to have a better week than the last.
<><><>
Dad and I haven’t said a word to each other since we got in the car an hour ago. I know better than to ask if he’s okay, so I hum along to the southern accents of the country singers. Dad takes a long draw on his cigar, which is quickly becoming a tobacco nub no bigger than his thumb. He turns the radio down a few notches and the growling of the engine overpowers the stereo.
“I don’t get what’s so interesting about his tractor,” Dad says.
“It’s just a song, Dad,” I say, “Kenny Chesney’s not for everyone.”
He doesn’t respond, preferring to study the thick green foliage. We continue down Route 2 for a few minutes listening solely to the purr of the Chevy. I’m driving around aimlessly until I feel enough time has passed and it’s safe to go home.
“What time is the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I ask.
“I think six,” he says. “We should pick up your sister from her apartment on our way back home to help her get ready.”
“Sure, no problem.”
He takes the final draw on his cigar before gently dropping it out the window.
“And stop by the grocery store to get cream,” Dad says in a puff of smoke.
My throat tightens. He sighs, returning to studying the dense oaks that line the highway. Beads of sweat slowly roll down my cheek, tickling my collarbone as they fall. I peek over at my dad. Tears are streaming down his face, dampening in his beard.
“Let’s see if I can find some Springsteen,” I say. I keep my left hand on the wheel and reach over to the knob closest to my dad and start fiddling with it. I move back and forth between the knobs, adjusting the station and the volume, trying to find something my Dad likes. My head swivels between the radio display and the road.
Suddenly, he takes a sharp breath in and his feet slam into the floor below the glove box as if to hit the brakes. I look up and the last thing I see before darkness is the hood of the car looking to kiss the stopped traffic in front of it.
“I don’t get what’s so interesting about his tractor,” Dad says.
“It’s just a song, Dad,” I say, “Kenny Chesney’s not for everyone.”
He doesn’t respond, preferring to study the thick green foliage. We continue down Route 2 for a few minutes listening solely to the purr of the Chevy. I’m driving around aimlessly until I feel enough time has passed and it’s safe to go home.
“What time is the rehearsal dinner tonight?” I ask.
“I think six,” he says. “We should pick up your sister from her apartment on our way back home to help her get ready.”
“Sure, no problem.”
He takes the final draw on his cigar before gently dropping it out the window.
“And stop by the grocery store to get cream,” Dad says in a puff of smoke.
My throat tightens. He sighs, returning to studying the dense oaks that line the highway. Beads of sweat slowly roll down my cheek, tickling my collarbone as they fall. I peek over at my dad. Tears are streaming down his face, dampening in his beard.
“Let’s see if I can find some Springsteen,” I say. I keep my left hand on the wheel and reach over to the knob closest to my dad and start fiddling with it. I move back and forth between the knobs, adjusting the station and the volume, trying to find something my Dad likes. My head swivels between the radio display and the road.
Suddenly, he takes a sharp breath in and his feet slam into the floor below the glove box as if to hit the brakes. I look up and the last thing I see before darkness is the hood of the car looking to kiss the stopped traffic in front of it.
<><><>
Two hours earlier, the day started out as a lazy summer Saturday morning. I stumbled out of my room, following the smell of French vanilla coffee. Dad was already in the kitchen, sitting with his cup of coffee watching the dew form on the grass outside.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he said.
I opened the cabinet door and smiled. After all these years, my mug still perched at the front of the ceramic sea. The mug, currently off-white and blank, used to be pristine with The Legend of Zelda triforce symbol in glittering gold adorning the side. I opened the refrigerator to grab the cream, blue light reflecting off the stacks of beer inside. The carton was lighter than I anticipated.
I used up the rest of the cream and placed the carton on the counter. I joined my dad at the island, watching the dew drops.
We heard footsteps coming from the living room. I didn’t recognize the woman walking into the kitchen; her hair was a tangled blonde mane of stress and oil and her clothes hung off her hips and shoulders like curtains. She went straight for the coffee, wafting toxically high levels of alcohol as she swayed. I didn’t realize that my mother had gotten this bad.
“Good morning, hon,” Dad said. “Don’t you want to say hello to your daughter? I picked her up from the airport last night while you were sleeping to surprise you.”
My mother mumbled under her breath. It sounded like incantations to a demonic deity. Dad repeated himself, a little louder this time. His voice trembled.
“Where’s the cream?” she snapped.
“What?”
“Where’s the cream?” she repeated.
“I was going to get more this afternoon,” he said.
“How am I supposed to have coffee without any cream?!”
“Well, there’s milk in the fridge.”
“I don’t care about your fucking milk!” She threw the mug across the kitchen, missing my dad’s head by inches. It shattered against the white cabinets. Dad and I stayed still, terrified to land in her crosshairs.
She wiped the drunken slobber from her chin and stumbled over to the fridge. She pulled a Michelob Light from it, cracked it open, and headed back to the living room.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he said.
I opened the cabinet door and smiled. After all these years, my mug still perched at the front of the ceramic sea. The mug, currently off-white and blank, used to be pristine with The Legend of Zelda triforce symbol in glittering gold adorning the side. I opened the refrigerator to grab the cream, blue light reflecting off the stacks of beer inside. The carton was lighter than I anticipated.
I used up the rest of the cream and placed the carton on the counter. I joined my dad at the island, watching the dew drops.
We heard footsteps coming from the living room. I didn’t recognize the woman walking into the kitchen; her hair was a tangled blonde mane of stress and oil and her clothes hung off her hips and shoulders like curtains. She went straight for the coffee, wafting toxically high levels of alcohol as she swayed. I didn’t realize that my mother had gotten this bad.
“Good morning, hon,” Dad said. “Don’t you want to say hello to your daughter? I picked her up from the airport last night while you were sleeping to surprise you.”
My mother mumbled under her breath. It sounded like incantations to a demonic deity. Dad repeated himself, a little louder this time. His voice trembled.
“Where’s the cream?” she snapped.
“What?”
“Where’s the cream?” she repeated.
“I was going to get more this afternoon,” he said.
“How am I supposed to have coffee without any cream?!”
“Well, there’s milk in the fridge.”
“I don’t care about your fucking milk!” She threw the mug across the kitchen, missing my dad’s head by inches. It shattered against the white cabinets. Dad and I stayed still, terrified to land in her crosshairs.
She wiped the drunken slobber from her chin and stumbled over to the fridge. She pulled a Michelob Light from it, cracked it open, and headed back to the living room.
<><><>
When I was a sophomore in high school, I drove the Coupe for the first time. I had only recently gotten my learner’s permit and was only allowed to drive my Dad’s Toyota Corolla. One evening, with Dad away on business and Mom too incapacitated to drive, I stole the Coupe.
Raindrops pounded on the crimson red hood and ricocheted on the windshield so I could barely see the road. The wipers batted at the rain so fast I thought they were going to break off. Fortunately, I knew this road like the back of my hand.
I was driving to pick up my sister from theater rehearsal. The elementary school was putting on The Wizard of Oz for the winter play—she’s the Tin Man—and oftentimes she had to stay late after school to practice. Usually, Dad picked her up on his way home from work, but with him gone it was up to my mom.
I had gotten back from track practice about fifteen minutes ago after getting a ride home from a teammate. I looked around for my sister, but there wasn’t any sign of her. I walked into the living room, illuminated solely by the television set, and kicked the couch my mom slept on. An empty can of Michelob Light rolled out from under the blanket. She smelled worse than I did.
“Hey,” I said, “Where’s Julie?”
“What?”
“Where’s Julie? You were supposed to pick her up from rehearsal.”
My mom rubbed her eyes and looked up at me angrily. She released a wet, vocally straining burp.
“Must still be at the school,” she said. “You better get a move on.”
She stared at me, almost lifelessly, with her dark brown bloodshot eyes. My jaw clenched and my teeth grinded back and forth as I searched my emotional catacombs for something sharp and witty to fire back. Instead, I grabbed the keys to the Coupe, and bolted through the front door.
When I slid into the parking lot of Parker Elementary School, my sister was standing by the lone streetlight. She wasn’t dressed for the storm: she wore low-top Chuck Taylor’s, jeans, and a pink windbreaker. The rain was flooding the sidewalk up to her ankles, and she shivered so hard she looked like she was vibrating. I threw open the door and ran around the front of the car to lift her up.
I heard the pellets drumming on her thin windbreaker as I enveloped her in my arms. She buried her face in my neck while I buckled her in. The tip of her freezing cold nose burned my neck. I turned up the heat as high as it would go and jumped back into the driver’s seat. I apologized endlessly as I drove out of the parking lot, but she didn’t respond.
I drove slower on the way home, now that Julie was in the car. After a few minutes she seemed to thaw and instead of shivering she was sniffling.
“Did Mum forget about me?” she asked.
“No, sweetie,” I said calmly. “Mum didn’t forget about you...there was just a miscommunication.”
Julie brought her knees to her chest and stuffed her face in them. She sobbed softly. I put my hand out for her to hold, and she gently grasped my thumb. Within a few minutes her grip loosened and she was snoring lightly, her breath fogging up the window.
Raindrops pounded on the crimson red hood and ricocheted on the windshield so I could barely see the road. The wipers batted at the rain so fast I thought they were going to break off. Fortunately, I knew this road like the back of my hand.
I was driving to pick up my sister from theater rehearsal. The elementary school was putting on The Wizard of Oz for the winter play—she’s the Tin Man—and oftentimes she had to stay late after school to practice. Usually, Dad picked her up on his way home from work, but with him gone it was up to my mom.
I had gotten back from track practice about fifteen minutes ago after getting a ride home from a teammate. I looked around for my sister, but there wasn’t any sign of her. I walked into the living room, illuminated solely by the television set, and kicked the couch my mom slept on. An empty can of Michelob Light rolled out from under the blanket. She smelled worse than I did.
“Hey,” I said, “Where’s Julie?”
“What?”
“Where’s Julie? You were supposed to pick her up from rehearsal.”
My mom rubbed her eyes and looked up at me angrily. She released a wet, vocally straining burp.
“Must still be at the school,” she said. “You better get a move on.”
She stared at me, almost lifelessly, with her dark brown bloodshot eyes. My jaw clenched and my teeth grinded back and forth as I searched my emotional catacombs for something sharp and witty to fire back. Instead, I grabbed the keys to the Coupe, and bolted through the front door.
When I slid into the parking lot of Parker Elementary School, my sister was standing by the lone streetlight. She wasn’t dressed for the storm: she wore low-top Chuck Taylor’s, jeans, and a pink windbreaker. The rain was flooding the sidewalk up to her ankles, and she shivered so hard she looked like she was vibrating. I threw open the door and ran around the front of the car to lift her up.
I heard the pellets drumming on her thin windbreaker as I enveloped her in my arms. She buried her face in my neck while I buckled her in. The tip of her freezing cold nose burned my neck. I turned up the heat as high as it would go and jumped back into the driver’s seat. I apologized endlessly as I drove out of the parking lot, but she didn’t respond.
I drove slower on the way home, now that Julie was in the car. After a few minutes she seemed to thaw and instead of shivering she was sniffling.
“Did Mum forget about me?” she asked.
“No, sweetie,” I said calmly. “Mum didn’t forget about you...there was just a miscommunication.”
Julie brought her knees to her chest and stuffed her face in them. She sobbed softly. I put my hand out for her to hold, and she gently grasped my thumb. Within a few minutes her grip loosened and she was snoring lightly, her breath fogging up the window.
<><><>
After Mom retreated to the living room, Dad and I sat in silence for what felt like hours. Without moving my body, I peered over at my dad. He sat with his head in his hands, seemingly still.
“She must just be nervous about the wedding,” he said. He scratched his beard and got up to get the dustpan from the closet. I watched him gently sweep the remnants of the mug. He was careful not to make a lot of noise. I grabbed the paper towels and started soaking up the evidence.
In an attempt to comfort him, I put my hand on top of his and squeezed gently. He looked up at me, his bloodshot veins contrasting the vibrant blue of his eyes.
“Wanna go for a drive?” I asked.
“She must just be nervous about the wedding,” he said. He scratched his beard and got up to get the dustpan from the closet. I watched him gently sweep the remnants of the mug. He was careful not to make a lot of noise. I grabbed the paper towels and started soaking up the evidence.
In an attempt to comfort him, I put my hand on top of his and squeezed gently. He looked up at me, his bloodshot veins contrasting the vibrant blue of his eyes.
“Wanna go for a drive?” I asked.
About the writer
Grace Gerhardt is currently an engineer at Pratt & Whitney in East Hartford, Connecticut. She graduated from Worcester Polytechnic Institute in 2019 with a degree in Aerospace Engineering and a minor in English. She believes writing connects diverse groups of people by creating empathetic experiences through storytelling. Her writing consists mostly of poetry and short stories, and she writes to share her experience, strength, and hope.
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