Nicholas Sparks - The Rescue

On the couch, a tear spilled out of the corner of his unblinking eye, though he didn’t seem to realize it. Denise felt sick to her stomach.

“My dad . . . my big strong dad came rushing across the lawn in a flash. By then, most of the house was on fire, and I could hear things crashing and exploding downstairs. It was coming up through the attic, and the smoke started getting really thick. My mom was screaming for my dad to do something, and he ran to the spot right beneath the window. I remember him screaming, ‘Jump, Taylor! I’ll catch you! I’ll catch you, I promise!’ But instead of jumping, I just started to cry all the harder. The window was at least twenty feet up, and it just seemed so high that I was sure I’d die if I tried. ‘Jump, Taylor! I’ll catch you!’ He just kept shouting it over and over: ‘Jump! Come on!’ My mom was screaming even louder, and I was crying until I finally shouted out that I was afraid.”

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 strength, her own tears falling unheeded onto his neck and back as she pressed her face into him. After a while she heard nothing but the beating of his heart, the creak of the sofa as he rocked himself into a rhythmic trance, and the words he kept whispering over and over-

“I didn’t mean to kill him. . . .”

Denise held Taylor until he finally fell silent, spent and exhausted. Then she released him and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a can of beer, something she’d splurged on when she’d bought her car.

She didn’t know what else to do, nor did she have any idea what to say. She’d heard terrible things in her life, but nothing like this. Taylor looked up from the couch as she handed him the beer; with an almost deadened expression, he opened the beer and took a drink, then lowered it to his lap, both hands wrapped around the can.

She reached over, resting her hand on his leg, and he took hold of it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” he answered earnestly, “but then maybe I never was.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Probably not,” she agreed. He smiled wanly. They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.

“Why tonight, Taylor?” Though she could have tried to talk him out of the guilt he still felt, she knew intuitively that now wasn’t the time. Neither of them was ready to face those demons.

He absently rotated the can in his hands. “I’ve been thinking about Mitch ever since he died, and with Melissa moving away . . . I don’t know . . . I felt like it was starting to eat me alive.”

It always was, Taylor.

“Why me, then? Why not someone else?”

He didn’t answer right away, but when he glanced up at her, his blue eyes registered nothing but regret.

“Because,” he said with unmistakable sincerity, “I care about you more than I ever cared about anyone.”

At his words, her breath caught in her throat. When she didn’t speak, Taylor reluctantly withdrew his hand the same way he once had at the carnival.

“You have every right not to believe me,” he admitted. “I probably wouldn’t, given the way I acted. I’m sorry for that-for everything. I was wrong.” He paused. With his thumbnail, he flicked the tab on the can in his hands. “I wish I could explain why I did the things I did, but I honestly don’t know. I’ve been lying to myself for so long that I’m not even sure I’d know the truth if I saw it. All I know for sure is that I screwed up the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Yeah, you did,” she agreed, prompting a nervous laugh from Taylor.

“I guess a second chance is out of the question, huh?”

Denise was silent, suddenly aware that at some point this evening, her anger toward Taylor had dissipated. The pain was still there, though, and so was the fear of what might come. In some ways she felt the same anxiety she’d felt when she was getting to know him for the first time. And in a way, she knew she was.

“You used that one a month ago,” she said calmly. “You’re probably somewhere in the twenties by now.”

He heard an unexpected glimmer of encouragement in her tone and looked up at her, his hope barely disguised.

“That bad?”

“Worse,” she said, smiling. “If I were the queen, I probably would have had you beheaded.”

“No hope, huh?”

Was there? That was what it all came down to, wasn’t it?

Denise hesitated. She could feel her stubborn resolve crumbling as his eyes held her gaze, speaking more eloquently than any words he might say. All at once she was flooded with memories of all the kind things he’d done for her and Kyle, reviving the feelings she had worked so hard to repress these past few weeks.

“I didn’t exactly say that,” she finally answered. “But we can’t just pick up where we left off. There’s a lot we have to figure out first, and it isn’t going to be easy.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when he realized that the possibility was still there-faint though it was-Taylor felt a wave of sudden relief wash over him. He smiled briefly before setting the can on the table.

“I’m sorry, Denise,” he repeated earnestly. “I’m sorry for what I did to Kyle, too.”

She simply nodded and took his hand.

For the next few hours they talked with a new openness. Taylor filled her in on the last few weeks: his conversations with Melissa and what his mother had said; the argument he’d had with Mitch the night he’d died. He spoke about how Mitch’s death had resurrected the memories of his father’s death and-despite everything-his lingering guilt about both deaths.

He talked steadily as Denise listened, offering support as he needed it, occasionally asking questions. It was nearly four in the morning when he rose to leave; Denise walked him to the door and watched him drive away.

While putting on her pajamas, she reflected that she still didn’t know where their relationship would go from here-talking about things didn’t always translate into actions, she cautioned herself. It might mean nothing, it might mean everything. But she knew it wasn’t simply up to her to give him another chance. As it had been from the beginning, it was-she thought as her eyelids drooped shut-still up to Taylor.

The following afternoon he called to ask if it would be all right for him to stop by.