No Right Turn

This one's for
George and Pauly—great, great men,
but bad, bad boys!!
And for my father,
Sydney McDaniel Trueman

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Three Years ago …

Now, Three Years Later

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Q&A with Terry Trueman

Excerpt from
Life Happens Next

Other Works

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

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 big firecracker, 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 …

Joey finally tried, “The truth is, we could sure use your help against Salk this Friday.”

He meant our upcoming game. I spoke softly. “I'm off the team.”

“I know. I was just saying—”

I interrupted him. “I'm off. Period.”

I slammed my locker and turned my back on him, walking away. Joey was a good guy, but there was nothing left to talk about. There was nothing left to say to anybody. All I wanted was to be alone. What could anybody say to me that would make anything any better? Nothing! What could I say to anybody that would make up for what had happened? Less than nothing.

My mom wanted to help me—she tried to get me to talk to her, but I refused. She had enough to deal with. After all, I'd lost my dad, but she'd lost her husband! There was nothing we could say to each other that would change what had happened, so I didn't see any point in talking about it.

At school I never spoke to anybody unless I had to, and then I always used the fewest words I could manage. It's amazing how easy it is to lose all your friends when you don't return their phone calls and you just ignore them. If you never look anyone in the eyes, if you never speak unless spoken to and then only in the quickest, most uninterested way, the fact is that you
can
become invisible, you
can
eventually be all alone, which was what I wanted.

I actually started to feel that maybe I
was
invisible until one morning when a couple kids from seventh grade walked by me. I didn't even know them, but whenever I had to be around other kids, like in the hallway between classes, I'd go to my locker and stand facing the metal door. At first I'd pretend I was trying to work the combination lock, like maybe I'd forgotten the numbers. But after a while I'd just stand there facing the locker and being real quiet as all the other kids walked behind me, not knowing or caring that I was even there.

“What's with him?” one of the seventh grade guys asked the other kid, kind of whispering.

The second kid answered, not even bothering to lower his voice, “His dad killed himself and he got all messed up.”

“How?”

The louder kid laughed. “Whaddya mean, how? Look at him.... He's a freakin' zombie!”

They both laughed and kept on walking.

Even though they were just seventh graders, I felt scared to look up at them, ashamed, I guess. I felt my face get red and closed my eyes and tried to take a couple deep breaths. This was exactly what I knew everybody must be thinking: Hey, there's that loser whose old man killed himself.... Hey, there's the zombie!

When I finally got the guts to open my eyes and turn slowly around, the hallway was filled with kids rushing past to get to their next classes—nobody was looking at me, nobody cared at all. The longer I stood there and looked at all the kids' faces as they walked by, the more invisible I felt.

Yep, I felt totally alone. But that was what I wanted.

I walk into the house after school and drop my junk by the door and start moving toward the kitchen.

“Hi, sweetie,” I hear from the hallway that leads back to the bedrooms.

I about jump out of my skin.

“Mom, what are you doing home?” My mom's a swing-shift nurse at St. Thomas Hospital, two in the afternoon till midnight, Monday through Thursday; she's
never
home at this time of day.

She laughs, walking into the hallway from her bedroom. “Well, it's nice to see you, too.”

I say, “I'm just surprised you're here—of course, now I'll have to tell all the guys on the way over with the babes and drugs that the rave is off for today, but, you know, it's your house, too....”

“Babes and drugs, huh?” Mom laughs. “Good, at least you're not wasting your time on any foolishness like studying.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “you got that right.”