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Authors: Daleen Berry
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stool sipping a soda, the door opened and Bruce entered.
I ran over, hugging him. “Uncle Bruce! What are you doing here?” He smiled and returned my hug, before shaking hands with Dad. “Hi there, Dale. How was the sale?” It dawned on me then they had arranged to meet in advance. I picked up the stack of quarters my father had left on the counter and walked over to the skee ball machine.
“Dad, why don’t you play a game with me?” I asked, thinking maybe I could get him interested in something else, so he wouldn’t be tempted to drink as much.
“In a few minutes, Honey,” he said. “Let me talk to Bruce first.”
I played alone, until Bruce came over and put his hands on my shoulders. “Hey there, it looks like you’re having fun. Can I join you?” he asked.
I beamed, but couldn’t help but notice my father, his back to us, ordering another beer. “Yeah,” I said, handing him a quarter for the machine. “Mom’s going to really be mad at him,” I muttered.
He raised his eyebrows, and then smiled conspiratorially. “She sure is.”
It was hours later when we finally told Bruce goodbye and left. I made sure I fastened my seatbelt, because Dad was really drunk. I was terrified we would wreck, and had visions of dying in some horrible accident. But we hadn’t been on the highway for long when my father pulled off the road.
“Daleen, do you think you could drive? I’m having trouble seeing.”
“What?” I had never driven before, but it suddenly made up for all the hours I’d been forced to spend in the bar.
I get to drive! The idea was so exciting my anger evaporated.
He was already out the door and staggering around the car when I scrambled over into his empty seat, which I slid forward until my feet rested against the gas pedal and brake. Then I put on my seatbelt and after a few minutes of instruction from him, I hesitantly pulled onto the highway. The drive home usually took about an hour, but with me at the wheel, it took much longer.
Nervous exhilaration combined with an odd sense of being older than I really was, but I was also terrified I’d do something wrong. When we were two miles from home, I felt fresh exhilaration. We’re still alive! Dad had somehow managed to navigate me from the Beltway to a two-lane road, to the narrow country lane we took to reach our house. Together we managed to escape any major mishaps.
But then he yelled at me.
“Daleen, slow down!” Dad yelled. “You’re going to miss the bridge!”
The bridge. A large, rusty, metal bridge. I braked too quickly, jerking us both, and the Pinto spun to a stop near the middle of the narrow road, just inches from the edge of the bridge and the steep embankment next to it. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst and my palms were instantly wet from sweat.
“Okay, now back up a little,” he said, not quite as loud.
If you think you can do a better job, then you get behind the wheel, I wanted so badly to tell him. But after we got home and Mom found out—she always did—she told Dad unequivocally that if he ever pulled such a stunt again, she would return to our red brick home in Independence. Like a child caught doing something wrong, Dad looked suitably remorseful and made her yet another promise I knew he couldn’t keep.
Some of my best Martinsburg memories came from my monthly flights accompanying my flight-instructor father as we flew to the orthodontist in Clarksburg, West Virginia. Pastel-blue skies punctuated by soft, cotton candy clouds made for a fairytale experience. To a twelve-year-old, climbing into a two-seat Cessna 152 and flying into the wild blue yonder was the most exciting thing ever.
Dad taught me how to scan for other air traffic, and while I watched him skillfully handle the controls of an airplane, I found I actually enjoyed being with Dad because he was completely sober. Each flight, I pestered him to teach me to fly, much like I had years earlier about taking
I ran over, hugging him. “Uncle Bruce! What are you doing here?” He smiled and returned my hug, before shaking hands with Dad. “Hi there, Dale. How was the sale?” It dawned on me then they had arranged to meet in advance. I picked up the stack of quarters my father had left on the counter and walked over to the skee ball machine.
“Dad, why don’t you play a game with me?” I asked, thinking maybe I could get him interested in something else, so he wouldn’t be tempted to drink as much.
“In a few minutes, Honey,” he said. “Let me talk to Bruce first.”
I played alone, until Bruce came over and put his hands on my shoulders. “Hey there, it looks like you’re having fun. Can I join you?” he asked.
I beamed, but couldn’t help but notice my father, his back to us, ordering another beer. “Yeah,” I said, handing him a quarter for the machine. “Mom’s going to really be mad at him,” I muttered.
He raised his eyebrows, and then smiled conspiratorially. “She sure is.”
It was hours later when we finally told Bruce goodbye and left. I made sure I fastened my seatbelt, because Dad was really drunk. I was terrified we would wreck, and had visions of dying in some horrible accident. But we hadn’t been on the highway for long when my father pulled off the road.
“Daleen, do you think you could drive? I’m having trouble seeing.”
“What?” I had never driven before, but it suddenly made up for all the hours I’d been forced to spend in the bar.
I get to drive! The idea was so exciting my anger evaporated.
He was already out the door and staggering around the car when I scrambled over into his empty seat, which I slid forward until my feet rested against the gas pedal and brake. Then I put on my seatbelt and after a few minutes of instruction from him, I hesitantly pulled onto the highway. The drive home usually took about an hour, but with me at the wheel, it took much longer.
Nervous exhilaration combined with an odd sense of being older than I really was, but I was also terrified I’d do something wrong. When we were two miles from home, I felt fresh exhilaration. We’re still alive! Dad had somehow managed to navigate me from the Beltway to a two-lane road, to the narrow country lane we took to reach our house. Together we managed to escape any major mishaps.
But then he yelled at me.
“Daleen, slow down!” Dad yelled. “You’re going to miss the bridge!”
The bridge. A large, rusty, metal bridge. I braked too quickly, jerking us both, and the Pinto spun to a stop near the middle of the narrow road, just inches from the edge of the bridge and the steep embankment next to it. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst and my palms were instantly wet from sweat.
“Okay, now back up a little,” he said, not quite as loud.
If you think you can do a better job, then you get behind the wheel, I wanted so badly to tell him. But after we got home and Mom found out—she always did—she told Dad unequivocally that if he ever pulled such a stunt again, she would return to our red brick home in Independence. Like a child caught doing something wrong, Dad looked suitably remorseful and made her yet another promise I knew he couldn’t keep.
Some of my best Martinsburg memories came from my monthly flights accompanying my flight-instructor father as we flew to the orthodontist in Clarksburg, West Virginia. Pastel-blue skies punctuated by soft, cotton candy clouds made for a fairytale experience. To a twelve-year-old, climbing into a two-seat Cessna 152 and flying into the wild blue yonder was the most exciting thing ever.
Dad taught me how to scan for other air traffic, and while I watched him skillfully handle the controls of an airplane, I found I actually enjoyed being with Dad because he was completely sober. Each flight, I pestered him to teach me to fly, much like I had years earlier about taking
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