On our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family vacation in summer 2010, we had a slight detour. We were using instructions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from Eden, where our condo was located, we missed a crucial left turn. It had come up faster than Mapquest had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . .” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines of the map. That was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” I couldn’t decide whether to snicker or cower at the jab; Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate.
“So what now—we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and an even longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . .” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?” (I’d gotten into the habit of calling him that a month before because it tended to get me places.)
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered sulkily at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” he mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had lost after all. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden, where Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will.
I didn’t remember to be smug about the incident until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
“Well, we always knew she was her daddy’s girl,” Aunt Suzanne pointed out.
My head cocked at that; me, a daddy’s girl? Of course, I’d grown up hearing strangers say things such as, “You must be Jon’s daughter,” but I’d assumed that the comments referred to our physical appearances. The comment of Suzanne’s had piqued my curiosity. So when my aunts had all been coerced away by clingy children or the dinner dishes, I sat down across from my mom, trying to look casual.
“So . . .” I started, “Sorry I had to steal your glory earlier.”
She shrugged and gave a willing smile. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m just glad someone was able to change his mind. Heaven knows I can’t always do it.”
I spared her a hurried chuckle and hinted, “I’m surprised I was able to.”
“I’m not,” she said, and I leaned forward expectantly. “You’ve always had a way with your dad.”
“I have?”
“Yes. He doesn’t always show it, but he has a soft spot for you. Of course, he has one for each of you kids, but you and he have always shared a special connection.”
This was all news to me. “Why—are our personalities similar? Or is it because I’m the oldest child like him? What is it?”
“Those things are probably parts of it,” she mused, looking almost as pleased to be giving these revelations as I was to be listening. “But you’ve been a daddy’s girl almost from when you were born. He was your main caregiver for the first year of your life, you know.”
I didn’t know. This was getting more interesting by the minute. “He was?”
“Yes, he was. I went back to my job just a couple months after I’d given birth to you, and I had to travel out of town almost every week. Your dad stayed home and took care of you when I was gone, and you two got very, very close. So there was a special bond there from the very beginning.”
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