Chapter Forty-two

TO SOME, MEMORIES ARE like a dream you wake from and it feels like it was the real thing. For me, this memory was a nightmare I’d never forget. I was lying in my bed in the second-story bedroom of our old house, feeling pretty good. I had begun to relax, believing the night had grown too late and Dad had drunk himself to sleep in front of the TV again. The band Muse was playing in my ear buds. With my attention lost elsewhere, I didn’t hear him coming. I only noticed his presence when a dark shadow pierced the light from the hallway into my room like a knife. Dad wasn’t a big guy, nor was he muscular. But then again, size doesn’t matter when someone’s beating on you. Suddenly my hope for an easy night fled.

But this night was different.

Dad threw back the remains of the bottle in his fist, and like all the other times, I didn’t react. My body went numb. I was frozen like a cheerleader in a horror film. Then, before I knew it, his hand was around my neck instead of the bottle’s. His sandpaper fingers dug into my flesh. The breath choked out of me as he jerked me up from my bed, into the hallway, and then shoved me down the stairs.

There’s no graceful way to fall down stairs, let me tell you. You’ve just got to keep on rolling and rolling, and I did. When I finally hit the bottom, I felt something crack inside me. A burst of pain erupted, urging me to throw up, but I held myself together. Usually the barfing didn’t come till later.

Dad met me at the bottom of the stairs. His finger pointed over me as if he were commanding an army.

“Nolan, you little punk, I’ve told you time and time again to clean up your messes.”

The words were like spits of gunfire. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Then, from my vantage point on the floor, I saw dirty dishes, spilled beer, and garbage spread throughout the entire length of the living room and into the kitchen. He’d gone ballistic this time.

“Get off your butt and clean this crap up!”

It was no use to argue with him; it would only make things worse. So I attempted to move. Bad idea. A sharp pain in my gut seared my insides as salty sweat broke out down my temples and across my upper lip. My ribs were on fire.

Dad wiped the back of his hand across his face, clearing his own sweat, and used his boot to nudge me forward down the hall. I fell forward on my face.

“Get moving, worthless!”

On the second attempt to get up, my arms shook and I barely made it to my knees. On the third try, I knew it was no use when the pain in my side knocked me back down flat. I flopped around, just trying to get mobile in any way that I could.

Dad reached into the adjoining den. My focus blurred with sweat and tears.

I couldn’t make the object out.

A wicked smashing sound exploded in the wall next to me, and I immediately knew what it was.

Dad worked a little over fifty hours a week doing concrete. In the concrete business, the crew had to break up old driveways using jackhammers or other machines, but sometimes there would be a tricky spot, and for that they used a sledgehammer. It was twelve pounds of pure, solid steel. Like I said, Dad wasn’t a huge guy, but it didn’t take much to swing a sledge—just a little bit of gravity.

That first swing had crashed into the wall beside me and I scooted back the best I could, changing from fish to crab. Plaster dust and bits of wall guts rained down on me as I scrambled. I’d been scared before, but nothing like this. The intent and passion in Dad’s eyes alone were enough to terrify me. My mouth ran dry as I tried to scream.

Then came the next big swing. It slammed through the hardwood floor, missing my left shin by inches. Dad’s knuckles blared white as his fingers tightened around for a better grip. Shock took hold of my body, the pounding pain in my ribcage intensifying with every breath. Dad was poised to splatter me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to escape, disappear, go anywhere.

He raised the sledgehammer over his head. All I could do was stare into his wide, bloodshot eyes as they bugged out in an uncontrollable rage I would never understand.

That’s when it happened—the Event. Within those few seconds before Dad swung, I did escape, but I was transported to the last place I ever could have imagined: Dad’s mind.