Page 83 of Nineteen Letters
“Don’t I know it,” I say with a snicker.
As I clear away the breakfast dishes and stack the dishwasher, I slide my next letter into my back pocket, to give her when I drop her off. I was inspired to write it after our conversation in the car yesterday morning. I ducked out yesterday when I was at work, picking up a tiny car charm to accompany it.
Letter ten…
Dearest Jemma,
Late August, 2005. I’m not sure of the exact date, but this was the month you got your learner’s permit. It was a time when I not only worried for your safety, but that of everyone else on the road … including the pedestrians. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but let’s just say you didn’t get off to the best start.
We both sat on your front steps as you waited for your dad to arrive home from work. You and I had caught the bus into town after school so you could sit your theory test at the motor registry. You hadn’t expected to pass on your first attempt, but you did. As we would find out later that day, the actual driving wasn’t so easy.
The moment your father pulled into the driveway, you leapt up and ran to him. “I got my learner’s!” you screamed, waving your L-plates around in the air.
“That’s wonderful, pumpkin,” he said, pulling you into an embrace and kissing your forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Can you take me for a drive … please?” You held your hands up in a prayer position for added effect.
He laughed at your antics. “After dinner.”
“Oh please, Daddy,” you begged. Like me, your father was powerless to your pleas. “Just one lap around the block.”
“Okay, one lap.”
“I love you, Daddy,” you squealed, leaping into his arms.
He went inside to drop off his briefcase and say hello to your mum before showing you how to secure your L-plates to the front and back of the vehicle.
“Come on, Brax,” you called out when it was time to get into the car.
We sat in the driveway for a good twenty minutes while your father went over all the gadgets with you. Finally, you turned the key in the ignition and shrieked with excitement as the car roared to life.
“Place your foot down firmly on the brake pedal,” your dad said, “and release the handbrake. Good girl. Leave your foot on the brake, and move the gearstick into reverse …Right, now remove your foot from the brake and place it down lightly on the accelerator.”
I’m not sure if you didn’t hear the light part, or whether you had lead in your shoes that day, but the car went flying backwards so fast it catapulted our bodies forward. Luckily we were buckled in, or I’m certain we all would have flown through the windscreen.
“Braaake! Jesus Christ! I said lightly,” your father scolded.
You did as he asked, but you slammed your foot down on the brake so hard that we were all pushed back into our seats.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Your father pinched the bridge of his nose while releasing a long, drawn-out breath. “It’s okay, pumpkin. Let’s try this again. Put the car in reverse and ease out gently. Gently!” He stressed the word ‘gently’ this time. “Use the mirrors to guide you.”
The car moved about a metre, and then jerked when you put your foot back on the brake. You did this all the way down the driveway. By this stage I was pretty certain I was going to end up with whiplash.
“Watch the letterbox,” your father warned, but it was too late. There was a sickening crunch as you ran straight over the top of it.
“Shit,” you said as you continued backward. I placed my hand over my mouth to muffle my laugh.
You missed the driveway completely, and our bodies were thrown around when the car drove over the gutter one wheel at a time. From the street, I could now see the poor flattened letterbox in a crumpled mess on the footpath.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you said again. I’m pretty sure you muttered those exact words a hundred times over the coming days.
“I hated that letterbox anyway,” he replied, but you could tell by the tone of his voice he wasn’t impressed. Your mum had bought it at a craft fair. It was shaped like a bird house, and had fake birds sitting on top. “Go back a little further,” he instructed. “Then straighten up.”
You went back further all right, but a little too much. It was garbage night and bins lined the footpath on both sides of the street. You reversed straight into Mr Drake’s bin, knocking it over and spilling rubbish all over the place.
“Put the car in park,” your father said with frustration, before removing his seatbelt and exiting thevehicle. You and I both followed. “I think that’s enough driving for one day.” I again had to stifle my laugh, but I immediately felt bad for finding this situation humorous when I saw you were on the verge of tears. “We need to clean this mess up.”
