Rooms - James L. Rubart [75]
“Micah!” His dad leaped toward him and yanked a paper towel from his pocket. “Here, let’s take care of that.” He rubbed the boy’s back. “You okay?”
The boy nodded as his dad wiped the blood off his knees.
The scene faded but the screen didn’t go black.
Sounds of hammering rang out before a scene of a boy building a tree house came into focus. The floor was done and one of the walls was in place. A twelve-year-old Micah jumped down from the eight-foot-high floor and walked over to a second wall lying on the grass.
The sun glinted off his father’s pitching wedge as he chipped foam golf balls at a bucket ten yards in front of him.
Micah hoisted the wall and strained to shove it up the side of the tree into his brother’s wanting hands.
As it wobbled, Micah said, “Dad, some help here maybe?”
His father kept chipping as he said, “You get hurt, son, and you’ll have to find your own way to the emergency room. Stupid idea, building that thing. Once again you’ve proven you need a microscope to find anything going on inside that brain of yours.”
As the scene faded to black, Micah’s face went cold. His long-buried pain rushed to the surface as more memories like the one he’d just relived filled his mind. The screen shifted again.
A 1985 Toyota Celica screeched around a corner and sent autumn leaves swirling into the air. The car pulled into the driveway of a modest house too fast, but the man standing with his arms folded didn’t budge as the driver screeched to a halt, then popped out of the car.
“Hey, Dad, I got it. Whaddya think?”
“How much did you pay, son?”
“Seventeen hundred. He asked for $1,950 so I think I got a pretty good deal. And, man, does this thing move!”
“No, son, $1,575, maybe even $1,625 would have been a fine price. But $1,700 for this car is overpriced. I studied the blue book value and local ads and that is the truth.”
“But it’s my first—”
“Son, you made a stupid mistake. Again. But not much harm done. You’ll have other chances.”
The scene faded and lit up with a new scene for the fifth time.
On-screen rain blanketed a stadium filled with blue and red umbrellas. Athletes huddled in small bunches around the track, white towels over their heads. Small numbers pulled sweat suits off or on, getting ready for their race or having just finished.
Around the far corner of the track came nine runners: the three in front synchronized stride for stride, the rest scattered in behind. Two of the leaders started their kick at the same time. The third waited an instant longer. Micah knew who would win: the one who started his kick last. It was himself, at the Washington state high school track finals, in the eight hundred meters. The finish would be excruciatingly close. They went to the photo in the end to be sure. But he had won. State title in the eight hundred meters.
Dread hit him like a sledgehammer. He knew what came next. The scene shifted, and he watched himself walk into his childhood home, Mick bouncing out from the kitchen with a big grin on his face. “Hey, bro. Not bad. You smoked ��em all.”
After giving Mick a high-five, Micah turned to his father.
His dad sat in his twenty-five-year-old beige Barcalounger with no shred of emotion on his face.
“I had it today, didn’t I, Dad?”
“It was good, yes. However since the state record remains unbroken, it is apparent that you did not have quite enough. Might even describe that as losing.”
Part of him regretted what happened next. Part didn’t. His eyes watered as he gave his dad the finger and stormed into his bedroom. It was the day he vowed to leave home as soon as possible and never look back.
Micah collapsed to his knees. The dam burst and pain poured out of him.
The Lord knelt beside him, strong arms pulling him in tight. “Let it out, all of it.”
Wracking sobs spilled over as the grief hit Micah full force.
“What have you longed to hear since the day your mom died, Micah?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you