My cell phone rings, announcing that John Baumgart, my brother, is calling. It’s six a.m. here, and I answer “Hi” with a froggy voice.
“Hi to you too. I’m calling about Dad. The doctors at the Veteran’s Hospital brought him out of his induced coma this morning. Just letting you know that Dad is awake and alert.”
I sit up, hugging the blankets around my shoulders, and reply, “I’m afraid to ask, but how is he doing?
John takes a breath saying, “Well….”
“I bet he’s pissed,” I interrupt quickly.
“Got that right. He wants to go home. He threw his lunch tray at breakfast and….” My mind fixates on the image of a gray cafeteria tray flying silently through the air, red Jell-O shaking and breaking into small sticky pieces, clinging to walls and bedding, followed by an explosive clang as it lands. “Oh boy, should I fly in now or just wait?”
“Listen, he’s yelling at everyone. I doubt it would help for you to come. It’s Mom that needs you. Could you call Mom? She walked out after the breakfast toss and is at home. She’s too embarrassed to return.”
“I will call Mom. Keep me posted on Dad, okay? And John, thanks for calling.”
We say our goodbyes, and I make spicy herbal tea. Dad’s been in and out of Veteran hospitals with COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) for ten-plus years. He has cohabitated with alcohol and cigarettes for too long. Sipping my tea, I feel the warmth ease the tightness in my throat and chest, softening a scream still lodged there. Rubbing my hands on my thighs, I replay the phone conversation, and there it is, that statement that Dad wants to go home. I hear my thoughts: yes, he wants to go home, all right, to his liquor cabinet. He knows he’ll get no alcohol in the Veterans Hospital. I clench my hands, berating myself for thinking so poorly of Dad, and slowly expel my breath. I feel glued in place, unwilling to go home, and miserable and guilty for not going.
I sit with my feelings, gently stroking my cat Kali’s silky-soft, luxurious hair as she sits on my lap. Sitting and acknowledging my feelings and stroking my cat is doing something. A space opens inside, and a memory about my Dad being my mentor, and an image of fifteen-year-old me, Dad, and a motorcycle emerges. The memory unfolds as if it is happening now.
***
I hear Dad calling my name from the back hall. What now, I think, as I rush from my bedroom, maneuverings the old, curved, winding wooden staircase to the back door.
Seeing me approach, Dad asks, “Still want that horse?”
“What? A horse?” My eyes widen, and I sense my feet leaving the ground. “Yes, of course, yes.”
“Well, she’s white and in the pick-up waiting for you,” he grins.
I push open the screen door, tripping down the back stairs in my rush to see my horse, listening for whinnies or foot stomping. Hurry, Diane, your horse might leave the pick-up if you take too long. But when I reach the pick-up, there is no horse. Instead, a white Honda 50 motorcycle stands patiently waiting for me. Tears flow down my face, and I utter, “This is what I get?” I feel tricked, manipulated, and on the brink of screaming that I don’t want a machine when I hear Dad’s booming voice call out, “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, I guess so. White is nice,” I reply, wiping tears from my face.
Dad rests a hand on my shoulder and says, “Diane, you know Mom was dead set against getting you a horse, right? Let’s get this steed down and check her out.”
I nod and back the bike out. Gads, will I be called a girl biker because I’m the wrong gender for a motorcycle? I don’t want to be called a “girlie biker” because I’m not driving a real bike. Does Dad understand this? Is Mom OK with me driving a motorcycle? I doubt it.
“Diane, start her up, and I’ll show you how to brake and accelerate here in the driveway. With motorcycles, there are only knowledgeable, safe riders or the opposite. You will be the former.” I stall once, then drive with Dad shouting encouragement.
“Dad,” I say, “this is fun! Can I take her for a spin around the block?”
Dad smiles, saying. “First things first. Let’s get you a helmet and license to drive a motorcycle. Then we’ll find a gravel road and ride. Gravel is tricky.”
Gretchen, my cycle, was a ticket to freedom and my new best friend. I would hit the road when feeling like a moth caught in an outdoor light shade. Riding brings the texture of the wind to my face and offers intimacy with the scenery. The teasing was easy to brush off. As Dad said, I know my bike’s engine and am a safe rider. I travel alone and handle the unknown and disappointing adventures that arise.
This memory fades as my reactions to the phone conversation transform into awe, gratitude, and compassion for Dad, an intimate feeling I call our sweet spot. I’m eager to share this memory and realize that I never expressed how much I loved my bike or my gratitude for the gift. I rush to write this to Dad in a card.
Hi Dad,
Remember the White Honda 50 motorcycle you gave me at age 15? Dad, I never told you how much that motorcycle meant to me and how it influenced me. I so loved that bike and all you taught me.
Dad, I was on a panel two weeks ago to discuss teachers mentoring me to go to college. My reply was, “… a teacher did not mentor me. My mentor was my Dad. He gave me a motorcycle and freedom to explore.”
Riding a motorcycle helped me shake off the bias of being a “girl biker” and, in college, the bias of being a female majoring in chemistry. I learned to travel independently, set goals, and become comfortable with unknown routes and outcomes, all excellent college skills.
Thank you, Dad, for being my mentor and for that motorcycle.
***
John called a week later, reporting that Dad read the card and shouted to all the nurses, “Come and read the card from my daughter. Read what she said about me.” He was exuberant and, I hope, felt appreciated. We’d found our sweet spot again.
Author: Diane Baumgart
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