Headlights(2)

She comes and stands in front of me, bends down and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I … made a Bad Decision. Trying to keep your dad in our lives. I … I’m so sorry, Danny. But you and me, we’re gonna go somewhere he can’t find us, okay? Somewhere safe and happy where he’ll never get us again. It’s all gonna be just fine.”

I want to cry, but I nod instead. It’s 4:59. One minute until I can pick up the phone and put in the number for the pizza place. Maybe the Feeling will go away, maybe I’m just being a baby. John sings “Annie’s Song” to Annie, and Mom hums along in the bathroom, swaying back and forth, putting her makeup and jewelry in cases. She moves the root beer bottles over to the side. Outside the closed blinds, the dark.

Mom says “Annie’s Song” makes you feel like the whole world will be okay. Normally I agree, I think it sounds like there’s nothing to be scared of and no whispers in the night or Bad Feelings or shadows, and there’s only Rocky Mountains and clean air and flying and cowboy dancing and horses. That’s how the movie makes me feel, and every John Denver song. Pine trees and airplanes and John’s leather hat. We live in the part of Colorado with packed dirt and buildings, the mountains far off. But John and Annie in Take Me Home are all the way in the mountains, in the trees, beside big rushing water.

“Are we really gonna go to Aspen?” I ask. “Like John and Annie?”

She turns and smiles, nods her head, and I almost think I see a tear on her face.

The musty mold smell comes up from the carpet like it does every night, there’s the brown spots on the popcorn ceiling and the smoke detector we always take off the wall because it never stops beeping. I love it here. Mom and me, Danny. The Happy Inn. My mom in blue jeans and a jean jacket and a white halter top. Her turquoise jewelry and big belt buckle. I’m sad to leave, even if it is to go to Aspen. I still have the Bad Feeling.

Five o’clock. I pause the movie, and I pick up and dial the phone.

Someone pounds on the door.

The phone slips in my hand.

Hello? the person says through the receiver.

The pounding comes again. My heart thumps, and I turn to my mom.

Mom is frozen, in the dressing area, holding her brush tight in her hand.

I know where the Bad Feeling came from now. We both do.

She looks at the door, then me, then around the room. There are no other doors here, only the one that goes out front. And we both know who’s standing out there.

She takes a step. I shake my head, beg her not to open it. He keeps pounding. It doesn’t stop. She takes another step. I shake my head, please, please, no. She stops beside me.

“I love you, my shining boy. I’d sing and write and play all the songs for you, you know that, right? You know that you’re my everything?” She’s scared. Mom is scared. I shake my head again, my whole body is shaking.

“Don’t open it,” I say. “Please.”

But she just whispers, “You’re my Danny boy.” She kisses me on the head.

The voice on the phone says Hello? one more time, and then a dial tone comes through.

The pounding on the door gets louder, Dad yelling.

Mom goes to it, reaches for the chain.

John Denver is frozen on the screen, looking into Annie’s eyes, playing his guitar.

Mom slides the chain from the lock.





2


Now

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

I open my eyes, sit up. Utah sun rising outside the window. Pink, orange through the blinds, glowing lines of light across the sheets, over my legs. My neck is stiff. Pain in my right leg, same as always. Shrapnel from an IED, my first tour. Pain in my chest …

Which happens any time I think of her.

Today is—

John Denver’s voice lingers in my ears, floats around me in the room. Why did I dream of her? I haven’t, in so long. I haven’t thought of that song, any of his songs, in … I don’t know. I’ve pretty fucking stridently avoided John Denver for the whole of my adult life.

But … today is the day, so I guess … or … I don’t know. Fuck.

I breathe, close my eyes. At least there are no shadows.

I get out of bed, turn on the fan for new noise, drown out the music that isn’t there. In the bathroom, I take a piss, splash cold water on my face. Step back into the bedroom, drop down, and do what I always do. But today it’s different, new almost. Today, my last day.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Diamond push-ups, box jumps on the crate. My body knows. Feet on the floor, back on the floor, forearms on the floor. Feet on the floor, then the crate. Pain in my leg. In my back. Pain in my left Achilles. Box jumps, jump lunges, jump squats. The heat before the sweat breaks through. The split second of relief when it comes. The drip of it down the skin, to the floor. My muscles push and flex. Contract, extend. I catch the pull-up bar, start my count.

I look around, breathe through my nose. White walls, white carpet. Mattress on a box spring. White sheets, workout equipment, bookshelf. Four years here, in Salt Lake City. A feeling grabs my chest. But it’s not a Bad Feeling, and it’s not a buried memory.

I think … It’s gratitude. To this place, for giving me a fresh start. Any kind of reason to live. This apartment complex, brand new. No shadows, no past of mine or anyone else’s.