Free The Christmas Sweater by Glenn Beck Page A

church, the place where I felt the
     most connected to my father, was now just a dot in the fog. I thought how strangeit was that a person sitting just two feet away from me felt more distant than someone
     who wasn’t even alive.
    With the church now beyond the horizon, I turned back around and risked a quick glance
     up front. Mom’s eyes were waiting for me in the mirror—but they weren’t angry or hurt
     anymore, they were just tired. I knew that she was giving me an opening to apologize
     and all would be forgotten. But I still wasn’t ready. I was tired too.
    About ten minutes later, I fell asleep.
    So did Mom.
     
    I woke to the ticking sound the Ford’s engine made while it cooled. I looked up and
     saw the seat I’d just been sitting in. A mix of twisted metal and wires came at me
     from all angles, like angry, bony fingers. Shredded fabric from Mom’s headrest hung
     down. Something on the dashboard was blinking and lighting up a tiny spot on the floor
     every few seconds.
    A pair of strong, weathered hands reached in andpulled me through the partially opened, upside-down back door. I didn’t see the man’s
     face, but as he held me tight I noticed how filthy his hands were.
    “Mom!” I tried to scream but nothing came out of my mouth. I was shivering inside
     my sweater.
    I must have drifted off again, because when I awoke I was on the pavement about twenty
     yards from the now-burning car. Brilliant red and orange fingers reached up high into
     the eternal night sky. The heat was overwhelming. I heard the ominous echo of sirens
     and saw flashing lights reflect off of distant clouds.
    I fell asleep again.
     
    I opened my eyes to excruciatingly bright lights. Doctors and nurses buzzed all around,
     but none of them seemed to be paying much attention to me.
    “Where’s my mother?” I screamed. “How’s my mother? I want to see my mother!”
    The doctors only answered my questions with another question, just like Grandpa did whenever he was trying to avoid the truth: “How
     do we get in touch with your father?”
    “My father is…dead,” I remember whispering. Then I drifted off to sleep again.

Eight
    W hen I was ten years old my grandparents took me to the annual Puyallup Fair. It was
     no Disneyland, but after years of roller-skating on a level driveway for thrills,
     it was a welcome change. Grandma refused to go on any rides—she only liked the shows
     and the FFA exhibits—and Grandpa wouldn’t go on anything that went in a circle because
     it made him sick. That didn’t leave very many options; after the petting zoo, bobbing
     for apples, and a slow scenic train ride (that was still too fast for Grandma), I
     was ready for something bigger. I was ready for the roller coaster.
    “The Coaster Thrill Ride,” as it was officially known, must’ve been named by the engineer
     who’d built it. After all, what other explanation could there be for the best ride
     in the park having such a boring, generic name?
    Originally built in 1935 out of Douglas fir, the Coaster Thrill Ride wasn’t the biggest
     or fastest coaster in the country, but it still looked plenty scary to me. It had
     been destroyed by fire in the 1950s before being rebuilt, again out of wood, and it
     now towered over the fair as a beacon for thrill seekers everywhere.
    As Grandpa and I stood in line, we wondered out loud which train car we’d get: Or’nry
     Orange, Blaz’n Blue, or Ol’ Yeller. Grandpa talked a big game the whole time we waited.
     “Are you sure about this, Eddie?” he asked me. “It’s a fifty-foot drop and hits over
     50 miles an hour. I can handle it. Can you?”
    “Sure,” I told him, though truthfully I was anything but sure.
    After finally making it to the station, we stepped into our car and lowered the safety
     bar across our laps. I glancedup at Grandpa one last time and swore I caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes.
    The unmistakable clicking of the old wooden coaster’s pull chain