Rules of the Road (21 page)

I pointed to Faith’s smiling face. “Faith and I are going to come together next week to see you Grandma, but I wanted to spend some time with you alone.”

Grandma walked out the door with me like a little child. It took a few tries to get her in the car, but once we got moving, she started smiling.

“I know you don’t remember everything like you wished,” I said as I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, “but I promised you when I got my car I’d take you on a picnic.”

“Picnic,” said my grandmother.

I drove to the Belmont Harbor exit, got off by the boats,
parked near the water, and helped my grandmother out of the car. She walked with me slowly. I found a park bench, put a blanket down. Her face lit up for a minute.

“Jenna?” she said.

I smiled. She remembered. “Yeah, Grandma, it’s me.”

“You never liked keeping your underpants on,” she announced.

I laughed. “That’s not true!”

“You were always running buck naked around the yard.”

I opened the picnic basket, laughing. Of all the things about me to remember. “I got over it,” I said and handed her a plate.

“I don’t remember things like I used to,” she said sadly.

“I know.”

“I can see you as a child sometimes, but not . . .”

“I know.”

“I would like to remember you more,” she said, looking off as a pigeon swooped down and ate a piece off her cookie.

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

She ate a little bit and didn’t say much; she fed the squirrels, though.

So I talked.

About shoes and Harry Bender.

About Mrs. Gladstone and Cadillacs.

About driving and earning money and buying my car and what happens to a person when they’ve been to Texas.

“I think Texas makes you think about things in a bigger way,” I said. “I’ve never been anywhere that changed me so much.”

Grandma was picking at her shoelaces.

“Tight,” she said.

I bent down to check them, loosened the laces, made sure the tongues lay flat; relaced them. She was silent as I helped.

The grass was scorched and brown from the hot summer sun. We headed toward the car, Grandma and me.

I said, “I remember when I was a little girl and we’d make that grape jam from the grapes in your yard and I’d get it all over everything . . .”

“Including the cat,” she said softly.

I opened the car door. She got inside and grabbed my hand like it was a life raft. I crouched down, held her hand for the longest time.

So much sadness.

So much pain.

But remembering the good things—that’s what keeps anyone going.

I sat on the rock in the Rookery of the Lincoln Park Zoo waiting for my father. I always liked the Rookery because it was a little haven tucked away from the noise of the city. It had a small pond and rocks and moss and plants surrounding it. Ducks swam and birds sang and butterflies fluttered overhead. I always felt at peace here, even if things were going wrong other places.

A mother duck and her babies swam by. Funny, how in nature you see so many single female parents. Lions, bears, dogs, cats. The mother always gets the kids, the father goes off somewhere to start another litter. I mentioned this to my mother once. She said anyone who gets the kids gets the deal.

I threw a piece of bread into the water. The mother duck let the lead baby get it. Then another piece of bread hit the water; it wasn’t mine. I turned to look.

My father was standing there holding a bag of bread.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said.

He threw another hunk of bread into the pool. “I didn’t either.”

I tried not to study him to see if he was drunk. He looked okay, but . . .

“I’m not drunk,” he said, sounding normal.

“Okay.”

“You wanted to talk.”

“Yeah.”

Dad sat down on the rock that was higher than mine. He was wearing clean jeans and a golf shirt.

“I don’t apologize for what happened with your license,” I started.

He let out a long sigh.

“I would do it again, Dad, to save your life . . .and mine. I had a good friend who—”

“I was handling it, Jenna.”

“
No.
” This was going down the toilet fast.

“I lost my license, Jenna! I’ve got to do six weeks of community service!”

Good.

“Just listen,” I pleaded.

I threw up my hands and the words poured out of me.

“I remember the smells mostly, Dad—the drinks with the half-eaten olives—the aroma of my childhood was gin, bourbon, and scotch. I’d sniff the glasses in the house; took a lick off a bottle once. It was awful. Something’s wrong with us, I kept thinking. This doesn’t happen at my friends’ houses.

“I’d go to liquor stores with you, Dad—all the store owners
knew you. You were happy in those shops and I tried to be happy, too, but I knew that in just a few hours things were going to change.

“After the divorce I used to sit on your side of the bed and pretend you were still there. I’d wrap myself up in the bathrobe you left behind and curl up like you were going to drop through the ceiling all healed. I’d look for you around every corner. I’d try so hard to be perfect so you’d come back. I tried to protect everyone—help Faith, be no problem to Mom. I thought if things were easier you might stop drinking.”

I slapped the rock, shaking. “I took your drinking on my shoulders, Dad! But I can’t keep it there anymore.
I’ve changed.
I love you, but I can’t be with you unless
you
change because seeing you so out of control, seeing you wasting your life is too hard for me. I can’t pretend like you don’t have a problem. You need help, Dad! You’re an alcoholic. There’s help everywhere for what you’ve got. But you’ve got to want to get it.”

“
I know,
” he hissed, “
how to handle my liquor.
”

“No,” I said back to him. “That’s a lie. You don’t.”

He got up slowly, glared at his bag of bread, and hurled the whole thing into the pond, scaring the ducks that scattered quacking in every direction.

I stood up, too—stood tall. “Please hear me, Dad. If you keep drinking I won’t see you, I won’t talk to you on the phone. I need a sober father. Faith does too.”

“That’s pretty rough, Jenna.”

“I know it.”

Dad walked heavily across the stepping stones toward the
gate, then turned back to look at me—anger, hurt, and love carved on his face.

I looked at him, too, but not the old way with guilt and fear. I didn’t know what would happen now, later, or ever. All I knew is that I’d said it finally—spoke the truth—and saying it was like losing five hundred miserable pounds that I’d been lugging around for most of my life.

He stood there for the longest time, then shrugged finally and headed out. It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d been crying.

I always wondered why I had a father who was an alcoholic.

Now I knew.

It made me strong.

It made me different.

It showed me how to say no to the darkness.

I looked at the pond. A few ducks were back swimming around Dad’s plastic bag.

It wasn’t right, throwing that bag in there. This was a bird sanctuary.

I found a long stick and fished it out of the pond. “It’s okay,” I said to the ducks, tore up the bread, and tossed it in the water. I folded the wet plastic, put it in my pocket.

I was always cleaning up after him.

I sat on a rock, aching for my father. But with the ache, I felt lighter and older. I always thought I’d have a permanent broken part in me because of the problems with my dad. Now I see that it isn’t the problems along the way that make us or
break us. It’s how we learn to stand and face them that makes the difference.

I squared my shoulders; heard a rustle in the bushes. A scared baby duck stuck his head out, gave a little quack.

I had one piece of bread left. I held it out for him.

He waddled out, unsure.

“Go for it,” I said. “Make me proud.”

I threw the bread in the water. He dove in after it, raced past the other ducklings, gobbled it up.

Daring Duck Beats Odds to Win.

Another true survivor.

Like me.

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Books by
JOAN BAUER

Backwater

Best Foot Forward

Hope Was Here

Rules of the Road

Squashed

Stand Tall

Sticks

Thwonk