Saving Beck Page 13

  I don’t tell her that there’s no way my son will be eligible to play now. Not after this. And I certainly don’t tell her that football is the fucking least of Beck’s worries.

  Once upon a time, yes. Matt and I both worried about where Beck would go to college, where he would play. But now . . .

  It’s such an odd feeling. When you’re a parent, you’re always thinking about your kid’s future. Plotting it, planning it. But now, in a blink of an eye, I only want one thing.

  For him to live.

  Later, maybe he can reapply to Notre Dame. Maybe he can even get a scholarship. But first, he has to survive tonight. The door opens and Elin and I both look up from our vigil. Sam is there, her face grim.

  “How’s he doing?” she asks, and her voice seems loud in this silent room.

  “Hanging in there,” I say, and she positions herself by my shoulder.

  “Natalie,” she says, and her voice. It’s so grim.

  I’m afraid to answer, afraid to even look at her, but she continues.

  “I was just speaking with Dr. Grant.”

  She pauses and I wait, silently terrified.

  “Do you want to wait for Dr. Grant to come speak to you, or would you like me to explain what’s happening?” she asks softly.

  I can’t wait.

  “Please tell me,” I manage.

  “Beck is experiencing organ failure,” she says bluntly. “They say they expected it with the massive amounts of drugs that were in his system. His kidneys aren’t working. So Dr. Grant is ordering hemodialysis to cleanse his blood for him in the interim.”

  I exhale.

  Elin begins crying, her shoulders shaking gently, her hand over her mouth.

  “What does that mean?” I finally ask. “I mean, what is going to happen? What exactly did they say?”

  Sam is quiet, and she grasps my shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort me.

  It doesn’t.

  “It’s up to Beck,” she says finally, her voice gentle. “The doctors are doing everything medically possible. Beck will be the one who has to overcome this.”

  Or not.

  I don’t say it, and neither does she.

  “We should keep talking to him,” Sam says aloud. “I know the doctors say that patients can’t hear when they’re in a coma, but maybe the sound of our voices . . . I think it’ll get through to him.”

  Elin nods and whispers words that I can’t understand into Beck’s ear.

  I lift my eyes to my sister’s face and find that hers are wet.

  “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” she tells me sincerely.

  I nod, my throat full of emotion.

  “I’m sorry I got angry with you,” I answer. “When you tried to tell me to watch for Beck’s behavior. I was so angry with you . . . and you were right all along.”

  She straightens, all business now.

  “Well, I wish I hadn’t been right,” she says simply. “But none of that matters now. All that matters is Beck and you and this. Dr. Grant is going to stay. He’s not leaving until it’s time to bring Beck out from under the sedatives.”

  “That’s nice of him,” I acknowledge, because it really is.

  “Everyone is pulling for him,” Sam says. “The entire ICU staff.” She stands up. “I’m going to the chapel to say a prayer for Beck. It can’t hurt, right?”

  “No, it can’t,” I whisper.

  He needs all the help he can get.

  I’ve already failed him. But surely God won’t.

  * * *

  “HOW IS THE LAWSUIT going?” Sam asked me as she reached for the chips and salsa over the restaurant table. I was surprised because she’d never asked about that. We all tried to pretend that life was normal, at least as much as we could.

  I think she saw the confusion on my face, because she paused.

  “I only ask because I know you hate shit like that,” she explained. “It must be stressing you out.”

  “It would be,” I agreed, “if Kit weren’t handling most of it. I had to meet with the attorneys once or twice, but Kit is taking care of the paperwork and things. He says I have enough on my plate.”

  Sam lifted an eyebrow.

  “That’s very thoughtful of him,” she answered. “How do you feel about that? About him chipping in to help with things?”

  “I’m grateful,” I said immediately. Everything seemed so overwhelming, so when Kit offered to help, I was totally fine with it.

  “What is the main basis of the suit?” Sam asked.

  “Matt’s seat belt and airbag were faulty. He always wore his seat belt without fail, and that night I have a picture with him wearing it. They’d . . .” My voice trails off, and I square my shoulders. “They’d taken a selfie when they left South Bend to come home, and Matt was buckled in. The mechanics said the sensors must’ve gone bad, since it unlatched upon impact. But that doesn’t make sense since the car was only two years old.”

  “So Matt was thrown from the car?” Sam asked hesitantly. She’d never wanted the details, and I’d never wanted to give them.

  “Yeah. When Beck woke up from the crash, he was alone in the car. He was disoriented and stumbling around, but he found Matt in the ditch.”

  “Jesus,” Sam breathed, and her hand shook. I nodded.

  “Like you know, Beck called me when he found him. He tried CPR, I tried to talk him through it, but Matt was . . . he was not responding. Beck did CPR, and the EMTs did CPR, but at the hospital they called it.”

  Matt’s injuries were insurmountable.

  “Attorneys contacted us afterward,” I continued. “I didn’t return any of their phone calls, but after I started getting all the hospital bills, I decided to call one of them back. The car company should pay for that. The car malfunctioned. It shouldn’t have.”

  Sam glanced at me. “Do you feel badly about filing suit? You sound like you feel guilty.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I hate lawsuits. I think America has become too trigger-happy with them.”

  “But sometimes they are warranted,” she said, looking at me thoughtfully. “You are right in this, Nat. When Matt died, you lost his income, his health benefits. Beck has suffered incredible emotional harm.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing,” I said. “Beck’s suffered. I worry all the time that he’ll never recover. That he’ll always hide from the pain and he’ll never really learn to handle it.”

  Sam nodded and grabbed my hand. “We’ll face this together. You’re not alone.”

  She paused for a minute.

  “I think Beck feels guilty,” Sam continued, and she was hesitant. I stared at her.

  “Of course he does. Anyone would.”

  “I know. But I think . . . I think he feels guilty for living,” Sam answered. “He doesn’t understand why his airbag deployed and Matt’s didn’t.”

  “That’s not logical,” I answered. “That wasn’t his fault. And God. If something worse had happened to Beck, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” My voice broke from the sheer thought.

  “I know that, and you know that, but grief can do strange things to a person’s logic,” she answered. “Beck is struggling.”

  The waitress came with our check, and I opened my wallet. It was empty.

  I stared at it for a minute because I specifically remembered getting cash from an ATM yesterday.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “I thought I had money.” I was uncertain.

  Sam eyed me again, almost knowingly, and I didn’t like the look on her face. “Maybe Beck took it.”

  My head snapped back, and I stared at her, not following.

  “Beck would never steal from me,” I said, surprised. “He’s so honest. All of my kids are. Why would he do that? If he needs money, he’d just ask me.”

  “He wouldn’t if he wants money for something you wouldn’t approve of,” Sam answered, and she seemed so knowing now. I wasn’t following.

  I stared at
her, trying to comprehend.

  “Something to help him cope,” she continued. “Have you noticed any other strange behavior? Mood changes, or has he gotten into trouble?”

  “You know dang well that he got caught drinking at prom, but they all did. That’s normal,” I told her slowly, as her words sunk in. “What are you insinuating?”

  The lunch bustle of the restaurant faded into a soft buzz around me as I waited for my sister to explain. She couldn’t possible mean what I think she meant.

  “He could be self-medicating, Nat,” Sam finally said bluntly. “Weed. Maybe worse.”

  I was already shaking my head. “Are you crazy? He would never. He’s got a football scholarship to worry about. He wouldn’t jeopardize that.”

  “Nat, I’ve seen his eyes bloodshot. I’ve seen him ‘out of it.’ I know you don’t want to think about it, but—”

  “Stop it,” I snapped at her. “How could you even say that? You know him, Sam. You know him better than anyone, other than me. You should know he’d never do that!”

  My sister remained calm, her voice steady. “Nat, he’s been through so much. We don’t know what exactly he might do to cope.”

  I practically roared at her, loud enough that the couple at the next table stopped eating and stared at me. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do it to me, and it just isn’t him. If you loved him at all, you’d know that.”

  I grabbed my purse and stood up while my sister watched. “Nat, I do love him. I’m just saying maybe we should keep an eye out.”

  “Fuck you, Sam,” I spit. “You’re believing the worst of a kid who has only ever tried to do everything right. You don’t know how much he’s been doing around the house to make up for my slack. If you did, you’d never accuse him like this. You’re crazy.”

  Sam remained unfazed. “You’ve told me that you’re going through your Xanax much faster than you realized, that you don’t remember taking so much. You’ve been missing money from your wallet. Those two things are enough to make us keep an eye on him. Natalie, sit back down. I’ll pay for lunch today.”

  She’s annoyed, but so am I. How dare she.

  “I told you those things because I was concerned about myself,” I hissed at her. “Because I’m losing snippets of time, and that’s scary. Beck hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m the one losing my mind. Don’t you dare say something like this about my son again. Not ever. He has enough to deal with without his aunt thinking he’s on drugs.”

  I stormed out and stomped to my car, and Sam didn’t follow.

  twenty-four

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  10:03 A.M.

  SOMETHING NAGS AT ME, SOMETHING I can’t place right now. I know something. Something about Angel. I focus, but the memory doesn’t come.

  I strain to listen to the conversation around me, hoping to put the pieces together.

  “How do you think he survived?” Aunt Sam asks out of nowhere. “You said his bank account was empty.”

  “Yeah,” my mom tells her. “I have no idea what he did for money after he emptied his account the night he left.”

  My mom sniffs like she’s crying.

  “I should’ve tried harder to find him. I should’ve done something. Somehow he transitioned from weed to heroin, and now the doctor says he was using meth. How does this happen? A good mother would’ve known. A good mother would’ve stopped it.”

  “You are a good mother,” Elin says, speaking up, and I wish I could hug her for that. “I’ve always told Beck he’s lucky to have you. He knows that, Mrs. K. He knows he’s lucky. He loves you.”

  “But he hid so much from me,” Mom says limply, and I want to tell her that it wasn’t personal. I hid things from everyone. I had to.

  “Addicts lie,” Aunt Sam says stoutly. “I was talking to his nurse in the hall earlier, and she was telling me about how the chemicals in hard drugs literally alter a user’s brain. Finding another high becomes all that is important. They’ll lie, steal, do anything to get high. It’s just the way it is. Nothing about it is your fault.”

  “Beck didn’t steal,” my mom answers, and she sounds so sure of herself, yet so uncertain. “He didn’t.”

  I die a little on the inside. She has no idea what I’ve done.

  * * *

  “I HATE DOING THIS,” Angel complained. “People look at me like I’m a bug they want to squash.”

  Our cardboard sign read: HOMELESS. ANYTHING WILL HELP. THANK YOU.

  “I know.” I never thought I’d do something like this. Ever. But I was doing it now and what was more, I didn’t care. I was far from my house, far from anyone who knew me.

  “We aren’t lying,” she pointed out. “We are homeless.”

  Three cars passed because the light was green. It was when it turned red that we might get something. People found it uncomfortable to sit next to us without giving, especially if we made eye contact.

  “Where do your parents live?” I asked. “I know you don’t like to talk about it, but . . .”

  Angel stared at me with hard eyes. “But what? I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “But maybe I should know. Just in case.”

  She laughed, one quick, sharp sound. “In case of what? Something happens to me? Trust me, no one back home will care. They’d probably laugh and I don’t want to give them that satisfaction.”

  “They wouldn’t laugh,” I protested, but clearly I didn’t really know. I didn’t know anything about her.

  “They would,” she assured me. “They’re pathetic excuses for human life.”

  “They brought you into the world,” I pointed out. “So they did at least one good thing.”

  She shrugged, and clearly she didn’t agree. Her hand shook against her leg, needing another hit after not having one since last night. “If I ever overdose, or get hit by a car or something,” she said, “don’t call the cops. Just carry me to the lake and let me float away. Will you do that for me, King?”

  I stared at her. “I don’t know.”

  The light turned red and I held up the sign again. A Lexus sat at the front and the elderly woman behind the wheel glanced at me, then studied her phone, purposely avoiding eye contact.

  Behind her, a Ford pickup with an old farmer at the wheel didn’t offer anything either. He studied us both with a glinting stare, a cowboy hat on his head and gnarled hands on the wheel.

  But behind him, a hand reached out of the window of a beat-up Toyota Camry waving a five-dollar bill. Angel hopped over to get it, and the man told her to have a good day.

  “It’s always the poor people who help,” she pointed out as she pocketed the money and stood back beside me.

  “Usually,” I agreed. “But not always. I think they know what it’s like to have nothing. And the rich people always think they’re getting taken advantage of.”

  I didn’t have to state the obvious. Today, we were taking advantage. We weren’t collecting money for food and we knew it. But we didn’t lie on the sign. All we said was that we were homeless, and that was true.

  It was cold out and you’d think people would have more pity. Some did. We collected a handful more dollars, and after a few hours, we had fourteen.

  Not a lot.

  But more than we had before.

  The cold wind bit our faces, but we didn’t have coats. I’d had one, but I didn’t know what had happened to it. It was probably in an alley somewhere.

  Things are a blur sometimes. Images and fragments, mostly.

  Angel shivered and I wondered how cold it was.

  Thirty? Thirty-five? The snow wasn’t melting, so it must be under thirty-two.

  “We’re going to get frostbite,” I mentioned. My fingers were purplish blue.

  Angel just grunted. “We should go back to the warehouse,” she suggested. “We can find something to build a fire.”

  There was a lot of trash to choose from there. We could pile it all together and light it.

 
“I know where we can get some coats,” I told her instead. “Come on.”

  We went to Ogilvie station and I bought a ticket for each of us. For both, it was seven bucks.

  “Dude,” Angel protested. “We’ve got to get back somehow.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “It’ll be fine.”

  We settled into a car in the back, and huddled together. The train was dingy and smelled a little like lemon air freshener and a lot like body odor. I stared out the window as the scenery passed, the snowy landscapes, the frozen trees.

  It was an hour before we reached Ravinia Park, and I’d had to wake Angel. She was crashing, so she was sluggish.

  “Where are we?” she mumbled as we got off the train. Her steps were shaky and unsure.

  “Close to my home,” I answered. “We’ve got to stay out of sight.” I didn’t want my mom to see us. This wasn’t her neighborhood, but it was close enough.

  We hiked the rest of the way, and it was so cold that my bones ached. By the time we reached Kit’s house, I couldn’t feel my face.

  “This is your home?” Angel asked as we stood on the sidewalk looking at Kit’s Cape Cod home. “Swanky.”

  It’s not overly fancy, so the fact that she thinks so tells me a little more about her. I store that away in my head for a time when I can put the pieces all together.

  “No, it’s a family friend’s.”

  The lights are off, as I figured they would be. Kit works late usually, since he doesn’t have a family to get home to.

  I knew what the door code was, and I punched it into the garage keypad. The door opened, creaking mechanically, and we stepped into the garage.

  We walked through, past his motorcycle that was covered up, waiting for warmer days. I opened the kitchen door, and the warmth was instantaneous. It flooded us, and I exhaled in relief. I didn’t necessarily care about dying, but freezing to death seemed like a painful way to go.

  “Is he out of town?” Angel asked hopefully. I knew what she was thinking. That we could stay here if he was gone.

  “Nah. He’s at work. He has a construction company. He works long hours.”