Senior Driving Things

Just as my grandparents had ruined my mother’s last year in high school, my mother ruined mine. And now she was ruining my adult life.

“Don’t you see the irony of this?” I was indignant as my mother got all dressed up. “You didn’t want to chauffeur your mother, yet you want me to drive you?”

“This is different, darlin’. Please. For once. Don’t make a scene. Just give me—us—a ride.”

Mom told us forever about the day that Grammy came home early from a visit with her sister. Since she couldn’t reach Gramp, she got a taxi from the train station, and ran into Gramp and his secretary zipping up Main Street in his 1960 silver Mercedes Benz convertible.

That wouldn’t have been so bad, except that it was Gramp’s golf day and he wasn’t wearing his ugly argyle shirt. No, he was sporting a silk paisley ascot and uncommonly big aviators. Sophia wore matching sunglasses and her hair was wrapped in chiffon. They were so giddy with some secret that they blew through the red light smack dab in front of Grammy’s cab. Worlds collided.

Grammy was so humiliated that she didn’t even ask for an explanation. Just a divorce. She got everything except the car. She probably could have gotten that too, but the image of Gramp’s infidelity was enough of a souvenir. And besides, she didn’t drive.

To spite her ex-husband, Grammy refused him common courtesies, like driving his kids to sporting events and dances. Instead, Mom became the family chauffeur. She even drove Uncle Henry to his senior prom. I don’t know who was more embarrassed—Mom, who endured kissy faces in the rearview mirror, or Uncle Henry, who had flunked his driver’s test and was being driven by his younger sister, who had just passed hers.  

Then Grammy started dating guys from bingo.

“They all looked like Daddy,” Mom could laugh about it now. “Lime green golf shirts, baggy pants, and huge glasses.” She was only in high school, yet she drove Grammy and her dates to and from bingo, dances at the VFW, and matinees at the AMC. She refused to do anything with them—not even eat supper at Piccadilly’s. She’d sit outside with her homework, a snack, and a sulk.

Then she had to bring them home. Grammy would walk her beau to the door and kiss him goodnight while Mom buried her face. Then, with Grammy back in the front seat, she’d have to listen to a complete dissection of the date. That ended when Grammy broke her hip at a VFW dance. Then all the bingo guys got rides on their own. They all showed up. With flowers. But needed rides home.

When it came time for her own senior prom, Mom arranged a date with a guy a few years older who not only could drive, but owned his own car as well. That would be the man who eventually became her husband. When she found out she was pregnant. With me. Then ex-husband when she found out about his affair with his office manager. That would be Margie, a stunning, dictionary definition of a trophy wife.

Not only had Mom married her father, but she also became her mother—she refused my father the privilege of driving me to events, including my senior prom.

Knowing what happened on her prom night, she wouldn’t let me go with my friends in a hired limo, either. No. She dressed up like a chauffeur and rented a Lincoln. She watched my date and me the whole time in the rearview mirror. Then she waited outside—with a book and a thermos of coffee—to drive us to the post-prom party. And then home.

I gave up dating until I went to college, and lived on my own for several years with no more chauffeuring incidents. But when I decided to change careers and go to grad school last year, I moved back in with Mom. She was getting frail and I needed to trim my budget.

About a month ago, Dad lost his license. Not like he couldn’t find it. No, he blacked out while driving and totaled the car. He broke a few ribs and bruised his ego, but no one else was hurt.

“It was a senior-driving moment,” Dad explained from the hospital. “I was driving along one minute minding my own business and BAM, next thing I knew there were ambulances, medics, and flashing lights everywhere.”

At first they thought it was a stroke or brain tumor. Instead, he told my mother when he called to ask for a ride home, he had low blood pressure, low blood sugar, and a low tolerance for interacting drugs.

“I can’t drive until I get my meds all figured out.”

“Can’t Margie give you a ride?”

I watched her eyebrows knit together in rutted concern. Then lift in dismay, and finally, settle into a gleeful rest above her squinched eyes, grinning mouth, and tightly tucked chin. Her shoulders did a happy dance. She was positively gloating when she got off the phone.

“Your father’s okay. Seems, though, just last week, Margie dumped him for a younger—and richer and healthier—man.” She couldn’t hide the years of vindication. “I’m glad he’s not dying.” Concerned, however, that I might take that to mean she still had feelings for him, she quickly added, “For your sake. Speaking of which, would you come with me? I think he’d be glad to see you.”

That made sense. I was their only child. But the way Mom smiled and wagged her head, told me there was more going on—much more going on.

The ride to the hospital was uneventful. But when we left, she insisted I drive so she could sit in the back with Dad. I found it odd, but didn’t say anything.

Then it was to go with her so she could escort him to the doctor, then to take him grocery shopping. Now I was driving my Mom and Dad to their senior prom, Dad’s 50-year high-school reunion.

“Don’t you see the irony of this?” With eyes rolled to the ceiling, I zipped Mom into her best form-fitting black dress, which she accessorized with a red silk scarf and diamond brooch. I silently noted that Dad had given it to her years ago. “That you want me to chauffeur you?”

“This is different, darlin’. Please. For once. We’re seniors. At night. Your Dad can’t drive and I have … cataracts.” That was the first I heard of that. “It’s a safe-driving thing.”

When we picked up Dad, he reeked of Old Spice. I rolled my eyes again. I was driving my parents—on a date—to a freaking seniors’ prom.

They sat in the back seat of my Civic, close enough so that I could hear their giggles and cooing compliments, yet far enough away—thankfully—that I couldn’t see their fingers tentatively dancing on each other’s body. Mom’s eyes connected with mine in the rearview mirror.

“Just drive, darlin’. Be safe, keep your eyes on the road. It’s a senior-driving thing.”