Somebody’s watching

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Published:

Story by Delores Liesner

I was Daddy’s third child and second daughter to turn 16 and receive a driver’s license. The cool keys in my hand made me heady with excitement for my first solo drive. I knew he was watching though and carefully pulled out of the family driveway. The burgundy Buick’s highly curved bumpers eased around the corner, then gradually picked up speed heading toward three girlfriends’ homes for a promised ride.

Each mother’s warning faded when, finally, we pulled away, all talking at once with laughter the only punctuation. We were celebrating our official senior status with a time-of-our-lives attitude.

Each girl shared their driving stories and congratulated me on reaching the momentous occasion of commanding the wheel without the presence of a parent. At first I felt the responsibility and cautiously stopped and turned as we passed through town. The warmth of fresh air flowed through the partially rolled-down windows — just enough to let in the elixir of schools-out-summer’s-here and leave room to stick an arm out to wave back at any friendly boys. Overconfident and giddy by the time we approached the sprawling farmsteads a few miles north of town, I swung the car to my right onto a gravel road, barely reducing speed as we turned.

The rocks shifted beneath us. The car slid, then wobbled. The girls screamed, and I panicked, slamming the brakes. Daddy’s Buick hesitated as if making up its mind, and then began tipping to the right. Our screaming escalated as the car leaned until Pam in the front passenger seat, was almost sideways. Then miraculously the car’s movement stopped. Pam’s surprised eyes met my fearful ones. Precariously, The car hung there rocking unsteadily before dropping back down on the rock-strewn road, springs squeaking and metal clanging.

Shocked into silence, we assessed one another, and unsteadily climbed out of the car, testing our limbs. We met on the passenger side to examine our salvation. A recently plowed berm ran along the edge of the farm property, and we realized the huge dirt pile had stopped the tilting car. Guilty laughter edged our conversation then as we circled the very dusty Buick to assess any reportable damage. None? None! Eyes sparkled now with conspiracy as we mutually agreed to wash the car and spare my father the anxiety of hearing the details. We pooled our funds, and a subdued band of conspirators drove through the car wash. No longer interested in driving, we went to a nearby lake, using the remaining time until we were supposed to be home, synching our story and swearing one another to secrecy.

I could see Mom and Dad in the kitchen as I parked the car. Smiling, they asked how the first drive went. “The girls loved it,” I said, dropping the keys on the square white Formica table. “We went to Lake Antoine and walked around a bit. It sure is pretty there.” Heart racing, I dashed up to my room and turned on the radio.

The next weeks dragged as I anticipated being caught. The girlfriends’ raised eyebrows and whispered questions as we passed in the school hall, were all answered in the negative. Neither parent said anything. Apparently no one knew, and feeling safe, we put it behind us to focus on the excitement of preparing for graduation. The day after, as planned, I was packed and about to leave home.

Mom handed me a lunch for the train ride that would take me to my sister in Racine, and Dad slipped some extra money in my pocket. His arms around me, I whispered, “Thank you, Daddy, for everything.” His answering whisper, though, was a surprise.

“How come you never told me about tipping the Buick your first day out?”

Shamed, I moved to step out of his arms, but he held me gently, and I confessed. “I didn’t think you knew.”

I told how it happened and he smiled gently. “I know. The farmer living there saw the whole thing. He recognized our car and called me to see if everyone was OK. I hoped you would tell me … trust me with the truth …” He paused as a tear slipped down my cheek, “but,” he finished, wiping away the salty proof of my guilt, “I hope you have learned that I only want to know to help you, to know you are OK.”

“You’ll have many new adventures,” he chuckled, “and you might want to keep in mind that Someone (he pointed upward) is always watching.”

Smiling through my tears, I hugged him fiercely and promised to remember.

I went out of my way to teach our kids that lesson, and then today, generations later, a new kind of fear gripped me when a grandchild needed to borrow the car.

They’d heard this story many times, and I also made sure they heard stories of how years of working across the school district brought friendship with many area police officers.

Twinkling eyes told me they “got” the double meaning to my message, so I dropped the keys onto the waiting hand and said it again: Drive carefully; Someone is always watching.