'The Driving Lesson' by Francesca Leader

Dad stopped the white Ford F-150 in the middle of the Arizona desert, and said, “Time you learned to drive.” Or maybe he was gentler, phrasing it as a question, such as, “How about you try driving?” Or maybe he just said, “Let’s switch places.” I really couldn’t tell you, not remembering what kind of mood he was in that day. We’d come all the way down from Montana to visit my stepmom’s snowbird parents, and Dad’s back used to hurt him on long car trips, messed up as it was from firewood-splitting, horseback-riding accidents and the like. So I’m guessing he might’ve been terse. Then again, I was his only child, from whom he’d been separated for most of the past five years, and we were together now—really together—on a family trip into the harshly beautiful landscape that inspired Georgia O’ Keefe, one of the painters he most tried to emulate. So I think it’s likely he was feeling reflective. Maybe pondering how soon I’d be leaving for college, and how unprepared I was for adult life. I remember the red and gold blade of the road out in front of me; the steering wheel juddering between my nervous hands; the F-150 swerving each time I struggled with the stick shift; the gears grinding, and the brakes jerking, in response to my inexpert movements. I know Dad snapped at me for nearly burying the truck up to the axle in sand; I know he soon apologized for snapping at me; I know I fell asleep that night in the truck bed under the camper top, nestled in blankets and sleeping bags, while Dad and my stepmom took turns driving, talking all night beneath the clear-aired, star-blazing sky. And I know I felt loved, and happy, and safe.