To Town and Back

A memory from childhood written as a story.

“I feel like life is a culmination of dream for me,” said Howard Stern from the radio, which was playing quietly in the car.

I’m five. I’m sitting in the backseat of my parents old white Acura listening to the man on the radio speak. My mom and dad are in the front seats, my moms driving again, dad never seems to want to. My brother is sitting behind the driver’s seat, busy playing Mario on his Gameboy, leaning back and forth with the controls. I look into the front seat to my parents who are sitting in silence, my mom looks bored as my dad bounces his leg anxiously. I smile and push up in my car seat to look out the window.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Just to town and back, that’s all for today,” replies my mom. I hear my dad let out a sigh from beside her. “Can we stop here? I need a smoke.” Without replying, my mom carefully pulls over onto the side of our old forest road and my dad opens the door to step out for a bit. I lean back in my seat to watch him pull out a white and blue box from his jacket pocket and take out a small white stick. He places it between his lips and raises his lighter to it before crossing his arms over the roof of the car.

My mom shakes her head and turns back to us with a small smile. “Want to listen to your music now?” I jump up and cheer. “Yes please!” My brother flips his Gameboy shut and nods along. We giggle, excited to listen to the Disney Channel and hear songs we actually like instead of an old man talk. I sing and hop up and down in my seat, knocking on the window. “Daddy! Come sing!” He coughs and signals to give him a minute. I continue singing, I’m happy.

Halfway through our second song my dad gets back into the car, immediately changing the channel back to Howard Stern and groans, adjusting back into his seat. I reach up and tap his shoulder.

“Can I wear your jacket daddy?” He takes it off and holds it into the backseat for me to take. I grab it and wrap my little body up in it, hugging myself and burying my face into the sleeves to smell. “Yummy…” I whisper. It smells like him! Like coffee and those things and those things he smokes! I cuddle up into it closing my eyes, I feel happy. I’m so happy.

“Hey fresh,” I hear my dad say my nickname from the front seat. “Open your eyes fresh. Wake up for me.”

I blink hard, keeping my eyes shut for a minute before opening them. I’m 13. My eyes are burning, and the car is filled with smoke. It’s only my dad and I now. I don’t feel so happy. There he is in the drivers’ seat beside me, a cigarette between his fingers as he’s leaning on the wheel crying. How did I get here?

“I’m so sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry I was never there for your life, I’m so sorry. I’m a bad dad, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I look out the window to see where we are. We’re no longer on the old forest road, we’re an hour away in nova scotia. He continues to speak but I can’t seem to focus on what he’s saying. I feel lightheaded from all the smoke. I didn’t have this problem when I was five. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Home,” he says. I nod. I wish it was just to town and back.