The author, right, driving her father’s old car, aka “Birdie," with her husband, left.

While my high school friends crammed into student driver cars together, barely braking in time to avoid Manhattan’s kamikaze cab drivers, I was in my bedroom reading or listening to the radio. I missed that teenage window to get a license. Then, in 2014, at 42, I turned on the ignition the morning of my New York State driver’s test.

“I’m wearing my dad’s socks,” I told my 60-something driving instructor.

“Why?” she said.

“For good luck.”

My learning to drive was nearly as important to my father as my graduation from a good college. One of his first jobs had been driving someone’s car across the United States. He held the freedom, independence, and power that a license brought as sacred.

My test was scheduled the day before my boyfriend and I were to leave for a two-week summer vacation in Europe. Our trip would begin with the elation of passing my test—or the cutting disappointment of failure. There was so much riding on this, I barely slept the night before.

My learning to drive was nearly as important to my father as my graduation from a good college. One of his first jobs had been driving someone’s car across the United States. He held the freedom, independence, and power that a license brought as sacred. A professional theater critic, my dad’s followers embraced his condemnation and praise. At home, Dad delivered both cutting analyses of what he saw as my flaws, and beaming suggestions for my future success. His style was fierce.

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“You’re stupid, just like your mother!” he yelled at me in his apartment. Mom had walked away from the explosive critiques, divorcing him years before.

Dad had strong opinions. As a teenager, I developed my own. I no longer wanted to go with him to the Broadway shows he was reviewing. They bored me. When he was cruel, I screamed back, cursing him. The distance separating us widened. I constantly rolled my eyes when he tried to advise me.

“I really want you to see Funny Girl,” he’d say. “Why don’t you watch it with me?”

“I don’t want to,” I’d snap back. “I have my own movies I like to watch. I’m not wasting two hours on something I’m not interested in.”

Dad had strong opinions. As a teenager, I developed my own. I no longer wanted to go with him to the Broadway shows he was reviewing. They bored me. When he was cruel, I screamed back, cursing him. The distance separating us widened.

“I’m your father and you have to respect me,” he’d announce to the space between us.

“You have to earn my respect!” I blared.

In quieter moments, Dad reminded me that when he died, he’d leave me his beloved sports car.

“Someday it will be yours,” he’d say. I pretended I didn’t care. But I wanted to learn to drive as much as he wanted it for me.

When I was a kid and couldn’t reach the pedals with my feet, Dad would sit me on his lap in our green Chrysler LeBaron and let me steer for the last mile. Later, he tried to teach me to drive a stick-shift in his candy-apple red Firebird. “This car is going to be yours. You need to know how to drive it,” he told me.

The author as a young girl, with her father.

I literally burned rubber in the parking lot of the recreation center near the house, leaving tell-tale black tracks behind me. Dad was so happy I was maneuvering a manual transmission car that he was blind to my shortcomings as a driver.

I didn’t go through with getting my license then, though. It turned into a “someday” thing—one of those important tasks you believe you’ll get to, but then never do.

When I was a kid and couldn’t reach the pedals with my feet, Dad would sit me on his lap in our green Chrysler LeBaron and let me steer for the last mile. Later, he tried to teach me to drive a stick-shift in his candy-apple red Firebird. “This car is going to be yours. You need to know how to drive it,” he told me.

Visiting him in my 30s, we argued viciously as we drove home from the diner in the white convertible that had replaced the Firebird. Our fights then often had to do with my mismanagement of money.

“You shouldn’t go to London if you’re behind on your bills,” he insisted.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Never travel?”

Once home, I hurled my handbag into the hood of the car, dimpling it with a dent. “I hate this car!” I yelled, stomping towards the house. I packed my things before sneaking to the train station and home to Brooklyn.

At 40, I moved upstate to Beacon, New York, with my boyfriend. In my new town, I could walk to the grocery store, but I couldn’t get to Home Depot or a doctor’s appointment without a ride. Dad offered to pay for driving lessons.

Taking the wheel of the driving school’s blue Toyota for the first time, I suspected I might never attain a license. The simple requirements of a driver’s test daunted me. Weeks later, after I’d used up all my lessons, I still wasn’t ready to take the exam. I’d let Dad down.

“When are you going to get your license?” he’d ask, again and again.

“I’m trying, Dad,” I’d say. I wasn’t sure how I’d pay for more lessons.

Taking the wheel of the driving school’s blue Toyota for the first time, I suspected I might never attain a license. The simple requirements of a driver’s test daunted me. Weeks later, after I’d used up all my lessons, I still wasn’t ready to take the exam. I’d let Dad down.

We fell into our old routine of occasional dinners and regular calls.When he told me on the phone that he had a cold, I didn’t think much of it. At 80, he had just returned from Saint Martin with a tan, and was in his Manhattan apartment, reading the paper and listening to classical music. He just had a cold.

A few days later he was sicker.

“Do you want me to come in to take you to the doctor?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly,” he said.

The next night, he sounded desperate. “I can’t talk,” he whispered. “I’m too sick.”

“You’ll go to the doctor tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he promised “I can’t talk.”

The next call was from an emergency room doctor. Dad had pneumonia. He’d been intubated. “I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” I told the doctor.

Over two days I spent many hours with Dad, as he lay unconscious in the hospital. I stood by his bed and apologized to him, reading from a list I’d written.“I’m sorry I stole your credit card to go see my favorite band play. I’m sorry for all of the screaming. I’m sorry for cursing at you. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad,”

I turned on the television and put on Two and a Half Men, which I didn’t love, but he did. I read the newspaper to him.

And then he was gone.

Dad died five months and one day prior to my New York State road test.

I watched as the heart monitor slowed, and finally went flat. I screamed out, “I love you, Dad!”

The room went quiet. Seeing his still body on the bed, I regretted that we’d never found the peace between us that we’d both desperately wanted.

Later, as I cleaned out Dad’s apartment, I picked out a few pieces of his clothing to hold onto. I kept the sweatpants he’d worn to the hospital the last time he was conscious. I held onto the multi-colored loafers that embodied his love of fashion and his passion for theatrics. And I took a few pairs of his neatly-rolled socks.

Dad died five months and one day prior to my New York State road test.

When I’d called the driving school to book more lessons, I wasn’t sure I’d ever remember which mirror to look in during a three-point turn. I signed up for one batch of lessons. Then another. My instructor told me it was time to schedule my exam.

Anxiety kept me awake for nearly the entire night before my test. I put on a pair of Dad’s argyle socks for good luck before getting in the car with my instructor, letting the air conditioning blast me awake.

The exam took about fifteen minutes. When I tried to parallel park, the test-giver snorted as she opened the door. I was about two feet from the curb. I forgot to look behind me during my three-point turn. But I remembered to switch on the left turn signal. I slowed down at the right moment. Then I pulled into the same side road where the exam had begun. The tester printed my temporary license.

“You passed,” she said, handing it to me.

Later, as I cleaned out Dad’s apartment, I picked out a few pieces of his clothing to hold onto…I took a few pairs of his neatly-rolled socks.

I basked in the comfort of my cozy socks. I wanted to tell Dad I’d finally done it. For a moment I let go of the hefty guilt from years of fighting. I’d taken Dad’s acid words, lobbed at me during nasty fights, as roadblocks. But we both wanted me to have the freedom that a driver’s license brought.

Slipping behind the wheel of the convertible Dad had left me, I finally understood his unrelenting love for that inanimate object. I reveled in the fun of an adventure, even if it were only a drive to the local café. My heart raced as I guided the powerful machine, inhaling the music I loved on the stereo.

And then it became a relic.

Six years after falling in love with Dad’s car, I suddenly realized that it was time to let it go. I was clinging to a gas-guzzling object that no longer made sense to me. Without pause, I traded it in for an environment-friendly electric model. Just like my dad’s car, the new car is sporty; it’s fancy; it’s the same make as my father’s. But it reflects who I am, too.

When I let go of that artifact from my father’s life, he didn’t disappear. Instead, a part of him that I had pushed away—and finally appreciated—was reborn inside of me.

In the Driver's Seat