The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [131]
Taylor swallowed hard.
“The more my dad called for me to jump, the more paralyzed I became. I could hear the terror in his voice and my mom was losing it and I just kept screaming back that I couldn’t, that I was afraid. And I was, even though I’m sure now he would have caught me.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched rhythmically, his eyes were hooded, opaque. He slammed his fist into his leg.
“I can still see my father’s face when he realized I wasn’t going to jump—we both came to the realization at exactly the same time. There was fear there, but not for himself. He just stopped shouting and he lowered his arms, and I remember that his eyes never left mine. It was like time stopped right then—it was just the two of us. I couldn’t hear my mom anymore, I couldn’t feel the heat, I couldn’t smell the smoke. All I could think about was my father. Then, he nodded ever so slightly and we both knew what he was going to do. He finally turned away and started running for the front door.
“He moved so fast that my mom didn’t have time to stop him. By then, the house was completely in flames. The fire was closing in around me, and I just stood in the window, too shocked to scream anymore.”
Taylor pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, applying pressure. When he dropped his hands into his lap, he leaned back into the far corner of the couch, as if unwilling to finish the story. With great effort he went on.
“It must have been less than a minute before he got to me, but it seemed like forever. Even with my head out the window, I could barely breathe. Smoke was everywhere. The fire was deafening. People think they’re quiet, but they’re not. It sounds like devils screaming in agony when things are consumed by flames. Despite that, I could hear my father’s voice in the house, calling that he was coming.”
Here Taylor’s voice broke, and he turned away to hide the tears that began to spill down his face.
“I remember turning around and seeing him rushing toward me. He was on fire. His skin, his arms, his face, his hair—everything. Just this human fireball rushing at me, being eaten away, bursting through the flames. But he wasn’t screaming. He just barreled into me, pushing me toward the window, saying, ‘Go, son.’ He forced me out the window, holding on to my wrist. When the entire weight of my body was dangling, he finally let go. I landed hard enough to crack a bone in my ankle—I heard the snap as I fell onto my back, looking upward. It was like God wanted me to see what I’d done. I watched my father pull his flaming arm back inside. . . .”
Taylor stopped there, unable to go on. Denise sat frozen in her chair, tears in her own eyes, a lump in her throat. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible and he was shivering as if the effort of choking back sobs were tearing his body apart.
“He never came back out. I remember my mom pulling me away from the house, still screaming, and by then I was screaming, too.”
His eyes closed tightly, he lifted his chin to the ceiling.
“Daddy . . . no—” he called out hoarsely.
The sound of his voice echoed like a shot in the room.
“Get out, Daddy!”
As Taylor seemed to crumple into himself, Denise moved instinctively to his side, wrapping her arms around him as he rocked back and forth, his broken cries almost incoherent.
“Please, God . . . let me do it over . . . please . . . I’ll jump . . . please, God . . . I’ll do it this time . . . please let him come out . . .”
Denise hugged him with all her