Rooms - James L. Rubart [11]
His body yelled run, and his mind joined the chorus. But where? Out onto the beach? The highway? Nothing was attacking him. Nothing was after him. So why was he trembling?
Get control!
He ground his teeth as he forced himself out into the hallway. He closed the door, and Micah stared at the knob as if the door might open and suck him back in. Make him face—no!
His breathing calmed but his hands still shook. He shoved them into his pockets. It helped. Slightly.
What was wrong with him?
Micah jogged into his living room and burst through the French doors onto the deck. As the ocean wind whipped through his hair, his dad’s comment about the precarious condition of Archie’s sanity came back to him. Which meant one of two things to his father—either Archie was consumed with God, or he had never made any money. The building of the house ruled out the latter, so Micah assumed Archie was, in his dad’s words, a Jesus-freak.
His dad believed all Christians had a serious crack in their psyche. He wasn’t vindictive about it. To Daniel Taylor it was fact. When Micah started following Jesus during his sophomore year of high school, his dad wanted to send him to a psychiatrist. In the end they agreed to make it a taboo subject, which pushed them even further apart if that was possible.
During college the world of software captured him, and the whole God-thing had faded. It wasn’t overt, just a slow slide onto the back burner of his life and then off the back of the stove to sit with the dust and grease spots where Micah didn’t miss it.
But obviously not missed by everyone. Archie had built two shrines. One to Micah’s worldly success, one to his God-stuff past. God was fine at one time. But that time was over. Whoever pulled off this stunt for Archie had stepped over the line. Micah grabbed one of the Adirondack chairs on his deck and tossed it against the railing. The idea of someone digging up his ancient history felt like someone had broken into his mind.
Micah stumbled down his deck stairs till his feet thudded onto the wet sand. He plopped down on a battered rain-soaked log, not caring about the dampness seeping through his pants.
In his mind he slapped a roll of crime-scene tape across the door of the shrine room. He’d slaved to create his software empire. He wasn’t going to let some crazy great-uncle slam him for it.
That night he had a double bacon cheeseburger at Bill’s Tavern & Brewhouse. Afterward he drove up to Astoria and plunked down money for a raunchy comedy he almost walked out on. Just like he’d done in Seattle the week before.
Why did he watch those things? He always felt like he wanted to take a shower afterward. Simple answer. They were the best way he’d found to keep from thinking—about the past, about the ever-pressurized world of software, and at the moment, the two rooms in Archie’s house. Both screaming at him. One screaming louder than the other.
He woke Monday morning as gray gave over to the light of day. Only a few lazy clouds hung over the ocean. Micah walked out to sit on his deck but his feet kept moving, and shortly the waves sent ice pricks into his feet and ankles. He stared at the ocean, and it stared back with no expectations, no pressure, no stress from frantic employees or clients pounding on his brain. Heaven.
So what if Archie was a little eccentric and had given him a blatant message from beyond the grave? He’d junk the stuff in both rooms, keep the door shut, and let the questions they asked die a quick death.
He turned back to Archie’s gift. A thread of light pushed over the mountain ridge to the east and lit up the top of his roof like gold. He faced the ocean and drew in its pungent smell. This had been his favorite place in the world before his mom died. Before his sand-castle world was washed away with one massive wave.
Maybe part of him did belong here.
No, it didn’t. Sorry, Archie. The past will stay there.