by J.E. Teitsworth

The Mississippi River, feeding off of spring showers and upstream thawing, is all chaos
and churn. Civilization is eight miles of freshly laid gravel and twenty miles of rural byways
behind us. I stoop over by the bank, looking for a way to delay the inevitable. My daughter can
see right through the ploy.
“Can I drive now?” she asks, tapping her foot.
I finish digging a flat stone out of the muddy riverbank and toss it up a few times, testing
its weight. “Did you bring your permit?”
I throw the stone sidearm and count the rings left behind as it skips across the river’s
surface.
“Yep,” she says, pulling her wallet from her purse and shaking it in front of my face.
Of course. I wouldn’t be lucky enough to get off on a technicality. Anxious questions
ripple through my mind. Are we far enough from anything she could damage? Do I have enough insurance? What if she drives into the river? How in the hell do you teach someone to drive
anyway?
“Can you even see over the steering wheel? Maybe we should get you a booster seat
first.”
“Dad!” She slaps my arm and turns her head to hide the smile.
I’m sure only yesterday she was a ten-year-old with glasses too big for her face and
perpetually messy sand-colored hair. Nothing like the young woman with perfectly fitting glasses
and tidy, chestnut hair standing on the dusty road beside the river.
There must be a word or phrase for the warring emotions. For line between pride and
heartbreak. Ambivalent? Too generic. Bittersweet? Too cliche. Early onset empty nest
syndrome?
Trying to stop her is as pointless as trying to stop the swollen river from rushing toward
the Gulf of Mexico, so I make the only play I have: I hand her the keys.
After a period of adjusting the steering column, mirrors, and seats, the car lurches into
motion. I’m at peak tension now, trying my best to smile while my brain is screaming WHAT
ARE YOU DOING YOU FOOL WE’RE GOING TO DIE.
“Don’t forget your seat belt,” I say, gripping my own like the rope in a movie scene after
the villain cuts the swinging bridge and the hero clings on for dear life. Given the choice I’m not
sure I wouldn’t choose the bridge.
She slams on the brakes a little too hard to stop and buckle up and squeeze my eyes shut
and think about how I never got around to setting up that will.
I let her pick the direction at the first intersection. She drives south along the winding
roads that mirror the bends in the river. The windows are rolled down a crack letting in and the sensory reality outside is the tonic that finally calms my nerves: two parts gravel dust, one part
musk of Mississippi—inhale.
With my panic settling to mere dread, I’m finally in a position to address the jerky
protests of the SUV—clearly not happy with the inexperienced handling of its controls. I give
her gentle instructions, and she follows them without or taking her eyes from the road.
I can’t help but think that if I keep staring at everything she does, I might make things
worse, so I turn my head and watch the miles crawl past the passenger window instead. The
occasional farm house watches from a safe distance. Miles of corn and soybeans sway in the
breeze waving as we pass. Little creeks meander through the landscape toward the Mississippi
without paying us any attention. I cast my mind into one and imagine floating the 780 miles to
the river’s delta.
She pulls over at the stop sign that intersects the paved county road that will take us
home.
“You’re doing great kid. You can keep going if you want to,” I say. Truth be told, I am
not ready to take the wheel yet.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” she says. The quaver in her voice draws my attention. She is
staring at an old faded red and white pickup truck thundering down the byway beyond the stop
sign. Her shoulders are stone, her jaw is clenched, and her hands are shaking on the wheel.
I nod, and we switch places. 8 miles down, 772 to go.