Page 13 of Stopped

“I don't need no fucking babysitter!” He swatted again, his confusion and frustration causing his temper to flare.

“Not a babysitter. Just a kid and his old man taking a drive.” I kept my voice as calm and disarming as possible as we bobbed and weaved back and forth along the side of the lonely dirt road.

“Quit the bullshit, Willy!” He lunged at me, shoving at my chest with a deeper scowl. “Outta my way!”

My father was never a truly violent man. We’d had our issues before, and perhaps I was making excuses for him that Ishouldn't, but he came from a different generation where getting physical was normalized. That combined with the ravages of his dementia left him with little impulse control and a whole hell of a lot of frustration. I wish I could say the left hook that landed on my jaw was startling. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

“Move!”

“Dad, stop!” I grabbed his wrists and held him still as he roared and bellowed and shouted his protests to the sky. It became a back and forth tug of war as I all but dragged him to the passenger side and forced him to climb up into the seat before slamming the door with a growl. He bitched and moaned and smacked at the dash the entire time I jogged around the nose and climbed back behind the wheel.

“I'm gonna drive now. Don't you dare open that door,” I warned with a glare as he reached for the handle. “You're going to hurt yourself.”

“No, I ain't.” His pout would have been comical if this whole situation weren't so Goddamn heartbreaking.

With one eye on him and the other on the road, I executed a three-point turn and began the slow, bumpy trek to the main road. It was a good thing my adrenaline was pumping, because as soon as I pulled up to the asphalt and started turning toward home, his hand snapped out and pushed the steering wheel in the opposite direction. I slammed on the brakes so hard, we both flew forward in our seats before stopping short.

“What the fuck?!” My patience disappeared with the clouds of dust behind us. “Are you fucking insane?!”

I batted his hand off the steering wheel none too gently and continued shouting. “You're going to get one or both of us hurt! Sit down and keep your fucking hands to yourself!”

He muttered under his breath and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look at me for the torturously slow drive home. I didn't dare accelerate faster than a crawl lest he pull anotherstunt like that. By the time I was pulling into our driveway, my nerves were frayed. Before he could reach for the door, I slammed the button to lock it.

“Dad, you know I'm going to have to call your doctor about this, right?”

“Fuck him. And fuck you.” He narrowed his eyes and worked his jaw in a compulsive chewing motion that had become more and more frequent.

“Fine. Fuck everyone, but I'm calling anyway.” I sighed and let my head fall back against the headrest. “This is getting out of hand. I'm just trying to keep you safe—”

“I don't need you!”

“Yeah, you do—”

“No! No, no, no!”

“Dad, please—”

“Shut up!” His fist connected with the dashboard as he screamed. I felt the force of it as if he’d hit me straight in the sternum. I didn't stop him as he reached for the door and pressed the button to unlock it. I watched in utter defeat as he stormed up the walkway and into the house before slamming the door behind him so hard, a spiderweb of cracks appeared in the decorative glass pane. I felt those in my chest, too.

I stared at the door to my childhood home for a long time, unmoving and hollow inside, before I did the hardest thing I would likely ever have to do in my life.

Endless exchanges and switches and nurses and receptionists assaulted my ear before I finally got through to the man I was looking for.

“Hey, Dr. Gerrig. It's Will Doherty Jr. I need to discuss those assisted living arrangements we talked about. I think it's time.”

“I think so too. I'm really sorry, son. I know this is hard.”

An audible gulp was the only reply I could give as a tear escaped my lashes to trail hot as fire down my cheek. Hard?This wasn't just hard—it was absolutely, heart wrenchingly, devastatingly impossible.

Chapter Seven

Elijah

My parents’ inn wasalready starting to become crowded and the event wasn't set to start for about an hour and a half. Thompson’s House Inn and Restaurant had been a staple of the community since its founding in the late 1860s, and the architecture was a testament to its growth over the years. Located on a cobblestone Town Square surrounded by forests and manicured park land, the older central building had expanded with the times, adding the restaurant, numerous smaller buildings, and a large event space that spilled out onto the surrounding lawn and circular courtyard.

My family was crawling all over the place in anticipation. Siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents swarmed to help, along with my friends and their families. My nerves skyrocketed with the knowledge that, once the town descended, it would be absolute bedlam. Sally had held true to her promise of rainbow colors—the number of balloons, streamers, banners, and tablecloths in a veritable kaleidoscope of hues was enough to rival a birthday party hosted by Party City itself.

On top of that, Ashley's graphic designer must have worked overtime to provide all the assets I unearthed in my numerous sweeps of the venue. There were postcards and bookmarks, fans and stickers, ribbons and t-shirts. Much to my chagrin, I even discovered a life size cardboard stand-up of myself. Yes, I made it disappear. The last thing I wanted was to be replicated in glossy cardboard for everyone to poke fun at.

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