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No Right Turn

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

I heard the gunshot and I knew what had happened. Even before I made it downstairs to Dad's office, I knew what he'd done.

The last time I ever talked to my dad, I didn't know it was going to be the last time, and I've wondered a million times since then if he knew.

I'd just gotten home from school; I was thirteen years old. Mom was still at work, and Dad was sitting in his office at our house, moving some papers around on his desk.

"Hey, Jordan," he said.

I answered, "Hi, Dad."

Then, out of the blue, Dad said, "I'm sorry."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I didn't know what to say back.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Nothing," Dad said, and kind of smiled.

He took a couple deep slow breaths and then said, in a low, calm voice, "It's all such bullshit."

I've thought about that a hundred times. It's so ironic that my dad, who was always so careful about not swearing in front of me, would leave me with that word; the last word he ever said to me: bullshit. It was only the second time I'd ever heard him say it.

A couple hours after we'd talked, I was in my room and he was still in his office. The shot wasn't that loud, really, just one pop, not even as loud as a bigfirecracker, but I knew instantly what it was, and I ran downstairs.

My father was there in his same chair, at his desk, slumped over, the gun still in his hand.

I could smell the gunpowder, a stink in the air, and see a haze of smoke over the top of Dad, like a little blue cloud.

I ran over to him. His face had a quiet look. I could see where he'd put the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a little black-and-red hole, small and horrible. I wanted to be sick.

I grabbed the phone on his desk and looked away from him so I could concentrate. I dialed for help.

"Nine-one-one. Please state your emergency."

"My dad shot himself."

"What is your location and who am I speaking to?"

It was like a TV show or a movie. We went back and forth, and it didn't even seem real until I looked at Dad again. "He's not breathing. I want to try CPR."

The lady on the phone said, "That's fine -- you go ahead and I'll send help right away. Leave the phone off the hook, and if you need me I'll be right here, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

I set the phone down and stood close to Dad. I honestly don't remember how I managed to get him out of the chair and onto the floor, but I did it. There was a lot of blood, but the bullet hole had stopped bleeding already; I wiped some blood away, but there was no blood on the front of his face or around his mouth.

I hadn't ever had any CPR training, but I'd seen it done on TV before, so I pinched Dad's nose and blew air into his mouth. I just kept blowing over and over again. His chest and belly kept rising and falling. I tried not to think about what I was doing. I tried to pretend that he was going to be all right, but the truth was that he'd shot himself in the head.

I knew my dad was dead, and that what I was doing couldn't save him, but I kept blowing air into his mouth anyway. It was like I was trying to keep him from leaving, even though he was already gone.

It's hard to remember it all now -- hard because it was so horrible. I was shaking and crying, trying not to throw up. Not wanting to look at Dad, hating him for what he'd done but wishing I could save him. . . . I don't know. You try to forget something like that, you hate remembering it, but it keeps coming back in nightmares; it keeps coming back other times too; it never really leaves your mind.

It felt like a long time before I finally heard sirens and then a lot longer before the firemen and the cops all came running into our house.

Lots of kids at school didn't have a dad in their lives anymore. That wasn't what you'd call a real exclusive club -- but having your old man blow his brains out in the den when he knew you were the only other person in the house -- having him not care enough about you to wait until some other time or maybe not even do it at all -- well, I wasn't going to find anybody else whose dad hated them enough to do something like that. I know that sounds harsh, but that's how I see it -- Dad waited until I was there, all alone with him, then shot himself -- great, huh?

I left the football team the week after Dad died. I didn't say anything to the coach or anybody else -- I just stopped going to practice, then I quit. I couldn't face my teammates. Football is a game for tough guys, and I'd been a pretty good first-string wide receiver, but I wasn't tough anymore. Somehow, I wasn't . . . anything . . . just a loser with a dead father. I felt embarrassed and humiliated.

"Hey, James." Our team captain, Joey Mender, called to me in the hallway; we always called each other by our last names. I was trying to look invisible, standing at my locker.

I ignored him, and he called to me again as he walked toward me. "Jordan, hey man, what's up?"

I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders.

"Sorry about your dad," he said more softly. "Really, I'm sorry." He hesitated a second and kept standing there. I glanced at him, then away, real quick. What else was there to say? Nothing . . .

Continues...

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Excerpted from No Right Turn by Terry Trueman Copyright ©2006 by Terry Trueman. Excerpted by permission.
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