I knew … I knew it was coming. The pauses between the breaths were longer.
In all terminal illnesses and brain deterioration cases, right before the end the dying often experience a lucid moment.
You think, ‘wow, they’re getting better’ but they aren’t.
No one in town ever mentioned the ‘lucid’ moments, they didn’t happen with the ARC reaction.
Beau never really got too far into his sickness, and Maranda she moved slowly through every stage with an illness that was savoring every moment, and at the end, she cried out, screaming as if she was fighting a physical manifestation of death and it grabbed her dragging her, trying to take her, but Maranda wouldn’t let go.
Daisy was leaving me quietly.
I held her in my arms, music playing, and knowing her favorite thing to do was dance, I slowly swayed, dancing with my daughter. It was the dance that would encompass it all, her first prom, the father and daughter dance I would never get at her wedding, a life she would never have.
She grew weaker in my arms, my cheek to her head, my chest feeling the fading breaths.
But in all that pain, all that sadness, my tiny baby girl gave me a gift.
I felt the grip of her frail fingers against my shoulder. Hands that hadn’t moved all day and were lifeless, held on to me. I thought it was my imagination and believed it was until she lifted her head and weakly said, “Daddy.”
I got that moment. She knew me, she knew I had her and then she left.
For one brief moment, in her own way, my daughter came back to say goodbye.
I don’t believe I cried when she passed, not right then. It was peaceful and shocking at the same time. I was still in the absorption of the moment.
Even though I knew my little girl was gone, I just kept dancing with her.
In the cab of my truck, that final moment played like a movie in my mind. Every detail, even the scent of the lilac soap I used to wash her that last day.
I just wanted to pass out, get away from the torment of the memories of my losses. It hurt far too much. Eventually, I would fall asleep, like I did every other night. Tired, intoxicated and a broken man.
SIXTEEN – ROLL ME OVER
It’s a rarity to dream of events that had happened and dream of them exactly how they occurred. The mind has a way of filling in blanks and creating better or worse parts, mostly including something ridiculous, like running around naked.
Usually though, it’s our subconscious dumping the true feelings or fears out.
I did some research once about how outside sounds and smells can make their way into and part of your dream. Your body is dead to the world outside, and the noise or smell isn’t strong enough to wake you.
That research was after I had the weirdest dream where I was having dinner with my father-in-law and he sounded exactly like the character Peter Griffin, all the while in the dream Maranda just laughed and laughed. Here I fell asleep on the couch while Maranda watched Family Guy.
I never forgot that.
Peter Griffin in my dream didn’t make sense until I woke. Just like the dream I had when I passed out in my truck outside the Costco Distribution.
None of it made sense, of course, at the time I didn’t even know I was dreaming.
The fires at the Municipal Building and funeral home were the catalysts without a doubt. In the dream I was grilling hot dogs with Joe Randal. He said it was burning, he could smell it.
“That’s because I lit the buildings on fire,” I told him. “Maybe it wasn’t right, but heck, here we are having a barbecue.”
Oddly, the Chief and Pastor started yelling something in the background.
“Well, where the hell did they go?” Fisher shouted.
“I don’t know. Maybe they were sick,” Pastor Monroe replied.
“Both of them?”
I waved my hand. “We’re right here. Me and Joe.”
They didn’t seem to care.
“Fucking asshole,” the Pastor said.
“Whoa now, Pastor that is some awfully strong language coming from a man of the cloth,” I said.
Chief Fisher shook his head with this angry look marching toward me. “All part of that Franklin group. Bet this asshole is and was too drunk so they left him.”
“I’m not drunk,” I said. “I’m grilling hotdogs.”
Then they both just grabbed for me, rough too and they threw me. It felt real.
It was real.
I realized that when I woke up seconds before slamming to the concrete.
I rolled onto my side, several pairs of legs surrounding me, I lifted my head and I saw the boot coming. It came at me fast and hard, nailing me in the jaw and spinning me on to my back.
A man’s voice yelled out, “Get him up!”, the same voice that came from Pastor Monroe in my dream.
Peter Griffin syndrome.
Hands grabbed onto me yanking me to my feet by two men. They held me firm, locked onto and under my arms. I couldn’t move. I was being humanly strung up to face something.
Everything was slightly blurry and I was in this strange daze, if it wasn’t for the pain I would have doubted it was real. I could see the outlines of people, a large group, they were shadows with the outdoor distribution spotlights behind them.
Men and women.
A larger man stepped toward me. He was taller than me, bulkier, too. An older guy maybe fifty, but intimidating. There was no doubt he was rough, he looked it. He stepped to me, then swung out, nailing me in the same spot I took the boot.
My knees buckled and head dropped.
I wasn’t awake enough, or emotionally ready to deal with that.
When he struck me, I heard a woman yell out, “Ray! No.”
Head down, I saw my baseball cap on the ground, and this ‘Ray’ guy, I guessed that was his name, grabbed my hair and lifted my head. His fingers gripped the front of my hair as a means to hold up my head. I could feel the skin pulling on my forehead.
“Who you with?” he asked. His face close to mine. I could smell his odd, sewer breath coming from him, it made me cringe.
“No… no one.”
Whap!
“Ray!”
“You with Ryan and Phelps?” he asked. “Huh? Sell them out, they left you.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play stupid.”
“I’m alone. I came … alone.”
“To steal our food.”
“Your food?” I asked. “It’s Costco, how is it yours?”
It was a sincere question, not one meant to be sarcastic, but I guess it came off that way and he didn’t like it.
“Fucking thief,” he said, then Ray hit me again, this time square in the nose. He followed it with a gut punch and I dropped to the ground again.
My God, it wasn’t happening, was it? It was nothing less than a lynching.
I was not a fighter. I had been in two scuffles my entire life and both times it was a draw, I held my own. But I was a teenager. As a grown man, I wasn’t going to survive what I knew was coming.
There wasn’t time to even try to defend myself. The kicks came hard and fast, one after another. My back, legs, hip and head. Nowhere was safe.
I tried to block them, lifting my arms defensively, attempting to get up, only to be knocked back down.
“Ray!” the woman screamed. “Stop it. You’re killing him.”
“Get back.”
“We got our stuff back Ray,” she cried out. “Stop it.”
Then they did.
The hard tip of the boot or shoe pushed into my shoulder, rolling me on my back.
I tried to open my eyes, they burned and were heavy. Even blurry, I saw Ray crouch down above me.
“Tell your people, this is their warning. Stay away from our stuff.” He stood. “Next time we won’t be so nice.”
Nice? I thought, then saw it. The bottom of his shoe as it came barreling down.
I was certain he slammed into me, but I didn’t feel it.
At least I don’t remember feeling the pain of that hit. That shoe was the last thing I remembered because it was lights out.
Black.
No dreaming.
No pain.
Out.
I came to feeling the cold air on my face, the sound of an engine, and the sharp pain in my ribs and back aggravated by the vibration of the moving vehicle.
I opened my eyes to see the clear dark skies, the multitudes of stars above me. Looking to my left and right, no one was around, I was alone in the back of a truck.
Every part of my body hurt, and I couldn’t move. Even when we stopped, I couldn’t sit up. That didn’t mean I didn’t try, I did. If it was possible to have gained fifty pounds instantly, I did. At least it felt that way.
A squeak of the opening tailgate rang out. My ankles were grabbed and whoever it was pulled me some, not much.
The bed of the truck shook some, with the clomping of feet. He climbed. I thought it was one man until I looked up and saw two.
One at my head, the other at my side.
They didn’t say anything, and before I could ask what was going on. They not only lifted me, they threw me out of the truck.
I didn’t know what part of me landed first, I swore I bounced to my stomach when I struck the pavement.
Belly down, I lifted my head to see the taillights of the truck.
My truck.
I lowered my head back to the ground, I figured they were going to run me down. I waited for it, prepared for it.
Finish it. End this.
But they didn’t.
They did a fast squealing U-turn and sped away.
It was dark, the moon gave some light, but not enough for me to see anything.
I could feel the pebbles of the black top under my hands and face. The cool road felt soothing on my beaten body.
I managed to roll onto my back, and when I did, I heard the crinkling sound. My hand reached for my chest and that was when I felt the paper there. I gripped it and pulled it from me. It was a full sheet and I raised it to my eye level.
It was a note, but it was too dark for me to read and my eyesight was far to blurry to even try.
I didn’t know where I was. On a back road or highway.
One thing I did know, I was somewhere they wanted me found.
SEVENTEEN – WANDER
I had rolled into Nashville shortly after five PM, and passed out in my truck sometime after eight. I remembered seeing the clock in the truck when I turned off the music. How long I was out before I took my beating I didn’t know, nor did I know how long I was passed out on the road. Long enough to get some strength back, but not long enough for it to be daylight.
There were no sounds, no birds and I managed to stand, not well, but I did.
I was stiff as well as in pain, I couldn’t breathe through my nose and my jaw barely opened.
I was definitely on a highway with no signs or anything as far as I could see.
My sense of direction was lost. I had no idea where the truck came from, which way was home or even if I would survive to make it home.
If my recent experiences were a country song it would have been called, ‘The Tragic Life of Travis Grady’. But I wouldn’t be the only one that song was about.
I was one of many suffering every pain imaginable. Although I was sure my encounter with the Nashville country boy version of a Mad Max gang was pretty unique.
I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, I just felt incompetent.
So I just started walking, not very good and not very fast. A pathetic limp that took everything I had to move a few feet.
Then I felt it. At first, I thought I had some large hematoma on my thigh until I realized it was my phone in my pocket.
Because I worked in that print shop and had a young child, when I got my phone I paid a lot of money for one of those cases that were supposedly destruction proof.
How it was even still in my pocket was beyond me, and if it survived I would be surprised. It hurt to slip my hand into my pocket. Using only the very tips of my fingers I slid it out.
I was thrown to the ground, kicked the crap out of and tossed from a truck, and my phone still lit up. There was a crack on the screen, but it still worked. Almost out of battery and with barely a signal, I thought about sending a message asking for help. Then I wondered who I would call. What would I say? I didn’t know where I was and did I even have the right to ask the chief or anyone to help me?
No.
After seeing it was only three in the morning, I activated the low power feature and continued my staggering walk.
I didn’t make it far, each step felt like it had to be my last. Cold, weak and shivering, I was pushing it to go even further. My legs were like jelly, wobbling and unstable.
Just when I was ready to collapse, find a place to roll over and die through hypothermia, I saw it not far ahead in the distance. It looked like a car on the side of the road. I could see the back end of it.
Of course, it was dark and it could have been my imagination. But it fueled me enough to keep moving. Sure enough, it was real.
An abandoned car on the side of the road.
The driver’s door was wide open and there weren’t any interior lights on, which meant that car long had since died.
It was one of those big older cars like my Uncle Ralph had. He was proud of his old New Yorker with the turbo jet engine, crushed velour fabric seats and box body that was built like a tank. A gas guzzling machine from an era gone by. The car was probably driven by a senior citizen like my Uncle Ralph, who sadly, like so many others, pulled over in confusion and just abandoned the car.
At the point I made it to the car, I was all but dragging my right leg like some sort of zombie. I could see as I approached the vehicle from behind that no one was in it, nor did I expect there to me.
I wouldn’t be able to drive it, but it would be shelter for the night. A safe place to rest, get out of the cold and be out of sight.
After shutting the driver’s door, I opened up the back. Sure enough, like with Uncle Ralph’s car, there was a big soft back seat. To me, as exhausted and bad as I felt, it was a bed in a luxury hotel. I slid inside, closed the door, and before I collapsed over, my foot caught it on the floor.
I reached down, it was cloth and I lifted it.
In the dark it was hard to tell, but I thought it was one of those old seat covers. That didn’t matter, it was a blanket of sorts. In one motion I brought it over my body as I just dropped sideways onto the seat.
Having been outside for so long, beaten and cold, it felt warm in that car. I was tired, emotionally spent and physically beaten.
I wasn’t sure that I would even live through the night, but I was certain I would fall asleep.
And I did. I was out the moment I closed my eyes.
EIGHTEEN – LOST AND FOUND
March 28
It was bright, and I fluttered my eyelids a few times before opening them. For some reason I expected them to hurt or be heavy and swollen. I could feel they were, however not as bad as I thought.
It was warm, that seat cover did the trick, but when I finally opened my eyes, the brightness around me blinded more and it took a second to adjust.
With a ‘huh’ of confusion, I tried to sit up.
Why wasn’t I in the car? Where was I?
A man about my age, maybe a little younger, rushed over to me. A thin guy, he wore a baseball cap and a blue Family Guy tee shirt. Which made me think it was a dream. “Whoa, easy there Buttercup,” he said with a really thick southern drawl. “You can’t be jumping out of bed.”
I rested back and my head sunk into a pillow. I looked around, the room was bright, a blue night stand was next to me, behind that a folded room divider which was also blue.
“Bed? How did I get into a bed?”
“Whoa, wow, this is awesome.” He pulled up a chair.
“What is?”
“You’re talking. Well, normal like, like yo
u understand what’s going on.”
“I think I do. I’m confused at how I got here.”
He raised his hand. “That would be me. Pete. I brought you. I come in a couple times a day to check on you. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts. Not as bad as I thought it would. My body aches some. My throat hurts. Weird,” I cleared it and tried to swallow.
“You need water.” Pete reached for the cup on the night stand. He aimed the straw toward my mouth, and I sipped slowly as he talked. “Your throat hurts because they removed the vent yesterday. They didn’t want you on it too long. I remember my pap was on one too long…”
I nearly choked. “A vent. You mean ventilator?”
Pete nodded. “More?” he asked in reference to the water.
I took one more drink then indicated I was done. “Ventilator?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, you were pretty bad there. Ribs broken, lungs filled up. Whole bunch of stuff. That skull of yours was cracked too. Not sure how you lived.”
I finally came to enough to take in my surroundings other than it being blue. Glancing down my hand was in a cast, I had an IV going into my other arm.
“How long was I out?” I asked.
“You mean how long were out or how long have you been here?” Pete questioned.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, sort of. You were out, like coma out for four days, then you been waking up and fighting the vent, but you were out of it. You’d get sedated. All and all it’s been ten days.”
“Ten days?” I asked shocked.
“You were pretty bad, bud.”
“I feel pretty good for being in a coma. I mean I’m hurting but, I would think I’d be feeling bad. Then again, I haven’t gotten up.”
Pete shrugged. “Technically though you were in the coma like state a couple days. You were sedated up until yesterday. Your body had some time to heal.”
“Are you a doctor?”
He laughed. “Am I a doctor?” he chuckled. “Now, do I look like a doctor. No, I’m the guy that brought you here.”
I shook my head, confused.
“I was coming back from searching for my brother in Jersey, I pulled over to stop and rest. Because it was dark and I was tired. Funny thing, maybe it wasn’t funny, you were laying on the road. I thought you were a dead body when I passed you. Good thing I didn’t run over you.”
Last Dance at the End of the World Page 12
