Saving Beck Page 15

  I gulped at the air and put it in the box.

  Matt had to go in the box.

  All of him.

  Because it was time and I was holding on to a past that would never come back. Looking at these things on a daily basis only served to make me sad. They weren’t comforting anymore; they were just a reminder of what I’d lost.

  Within an hour, I’d emptied Matt’s things out of the bathroom. I’d cleaned his sink, his whiskers from the porcelain. I ran my fingers around the edge. I used to get so mad at him for leaving toothpaste spatters or tiny hairs after he shaved. Now it was clean, and it would stay clean, and I’d never been so sad.

  And angry. All of a sudden, anger bubbled up in me.

  “How could you leave me?” I asked the empty air, but the question was directed at Matt. “How?” I whirled around, and the emptiness, the aloneness . . . it was infuriating. He should be here.

  I kicked the box and watched his belongings roll across the floor.

  “Fuck you!” I said, and then I screamed it. “Fuck you, Matt! How dare you do this to me. I wasn’t ready!”

  I paused, trying to sense his presence around me. Could he see me? Could he hear me?

  “I was supposed to have decades left with you!” I snapped, as though he were right next to me. “I was supposed to nag you for years. I was supposed to be able to hug you and talk to you and cry with you for years, Matthew Kingsley. You fucking left. You abandoned me. And I’m left with the pieces of this life, and I don’t want this. Do you hear me? I don’t want it!”

  He’d been the one to want a third baby. I was too tired, too overworked to consider it. I’d protested, and he’d talked me into it.

  And here I was now, alone. With three kids who counted on me, and I was falling apart.

  “I hate you for this,” I whispered. The words burned me as I realized that I felt them. A part of me hated him for leaving me. I felt betrayed. I felt abandoned. I felt empty. The weight of that was too heavy to bear. I collapsed into a heap by the dirty-clothes hamper. I hadn’t used it since Matt had died. Which meant his clothes were still inside, exactly as he had left them.

  I reached up and pulled out the T-shirt on top, the light blue Superman shirt the kids had given him for Father’s Day two years ago. With another gulp, I buried my face in it, and through the slight smell of mustiness, I smelled my husband.

  His skin, his scent, his sweat.

  A wall inside of me broke, tumbling piece by piece into my bones. He was mine. Was. He was gone.

  I wept.

  Tears fell and fell, streaking from my cheeks onto my shirt. My hands grew wet, and my nose grew snotty. I sucked in air, and I couldn’t lift my face from the shirt.

  “Please come back,” I whimpered. “God, I miss you. Please, please . . . don’t be gone.”

  I didn’t know how long I cried, but when I was exhausted and shaking, I thought about my rage and the traitorous thoughts that had just overwhelmed me.

  Had I really begrudged Annabelle’s life?

  Oh God. I was a terrible mother. I loved her. I did. No matter that Matt had been the one to push for the third baby. I loved her now, more than life.

  If anyone ever knew what I had just been thinking . . .

  I swallowed hard.

  They wouldn’t. I was safe here. I was alone. I’d broken down, but that was to be expected, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t everyone be allowed to break down in my situation?

  On shaky legs, I stood. I gripped the edge of the marble counter and felt the cool of the stone beneath my hand as I balanced myself. It grounded me, held me in place, reminded me that I existed.

  I was still here, even if he was gone.

  For the first time in a year, I felt in control. Like I was running this shit show of grief. By allowing my feelings to erupt, I felt like I purged them, that I could harness them now. At least for a minute.

  The box was heavy, and the flaps almost tore as I picked it up.

  I lugged it to the curb and got another cup of coffee. I sat on the porch steps, sipping my coffee, my sweater wrapped tightly around me, until the truck came rumbling down the street. The diesel engine pierced the silence.

  It stopped at my house, and the garbage man lifted the box onto the rack, and the panic set in. I jumped up and ran.

  “Wait,” I called out, skidding to a halt in front of the startled man. “Wait.”

  I stood on my tiptoes and peered into the box, digging through it and pulling out the cologne bottle.

  Not yet.

  “You can take everything else.”

  “Sure, lady,” he said in confusion. “You sure you want the rest of this to go?”

  No.

  But I nodded firmly and the box moved again, dumping into the truck bed. All of Matt’s things tumbled out into the trash, into the used Kleenexes and rotting potato skins, and I felt numb.

  But I did it.

  I did it.

  I tightened my grip on the glass bottle in my hand.

  Almost.

  I went back inside and put the cologne bottle in my purse for safekeeping. I could keep this one thing. I wasn’t Superwoman, for God’s sake.

  twenty-seven

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  12:54 P.M.

  BIRDS, BLACK ONES, AS BLACK as night, as black as ink, fly at my face and I try to get away from them. I swat at them, and I hear the flutter and rustle of their wings and then then then . . .

  I wake up.

  Only I still can’t open my eyes.

  Son of a bitch.

  On the inside, it feels like I’m heaving, that I’m blowing, that I can’t breathe, but on the outside, I’m still and quiet. The ventilator still whooshes as it breathes for me, as it fills my lungs up.

  As I think on that, I realize that blackbirds must be in my mind for a reason—they were too vivid not to mean something.

  I see them, flying at me, claws outstretched, beaks sharp, eyes beady.

  What the hell?

  What do they mean?

  Is my brain telling me that I’m going to die?

  Shouldn’t I be more afraid?

  I’m actually a little worried because I don’t feel anything. My legs, my arms, my hands. They’re numb. They feel washed-out, like any second I might fade from the page like old ink.

  That can’t be good.

  * * *

  ANGEL AND I WALKED along the block, our glances flitting in and around the corners, waiting, watching. It was then that Angel saw the shoes, high above us, tossed over the electric line.

  Ahhhh. The universal signal of a dealer.

  I felt a rush of relief.

  We stood under them until someone showed his face. He was jittery, nervous. He looked this way and that before he stepped out of the shadows.

  “Whaddya want?” he asked quickly.

  “H,” I answered. “We’ve got eight bucks.”

  “I need ten,” he said firmly.

  “We don’t have it,” Angel answered. “But we can bring it back later. I promise.” Winston stuck his head out of her coat.

  “Nope. Now or never. Your word means nothing to me,” the dealer answered. He appraised her. “But we can trade.” He eyed her up and down.

  “No,” I said firmly. “Not gonna happen.”

  “Suit yourself,” the dealer said, shrugging, and turned to leave. Angel’s face went desperate. My veins were already pumping in anticipation, and I’m sure hers were too.

  “I won’t fuck you,” she told him. “But I’ll blow you.”

  “Angel, no,” I argued, but she pulled away.

  “King, I need it.” Her eyes were hollow and dead, and she was already detaching herself from what she was about to do.

  I needed it too. She thrust Winston into my arms, and I said nothing as she disappeared into the shadows with the dealer.

  I’d never felt so low.

  I’d never felt so subhuman.

  But even still, I waited for them t
o return, because I needed what they had more than I needed pride. More than I even needed to breathe.

  twenty-eight

  NATALIE

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  1:35 P.M.

  BECK’S FOOT TWITCHES, AND FOR a split second I think he’s going to wake up. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help it. His pulse is quickening, racing, and I’m confused.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” I whisper, trying to soothe him by stroking his hand. Is he fighting for his life in there? “Please fight,” I add.

  “He is, Natalie,” my sister assures me. “Go take a break. Please. You look horrible.”

  “Um, thanks?” I grimace. She shakes her head.

  “No, you look like you’re going to fall over. You can’t help him if you’re passed out.”

  She’s right. I’m not even doing this right.

  Feeling like an utter failure, I walk down the hall to get ice chips. As my heavy feet drag me one step farther away from my son, a giant shadow appears behind me. I know who it is before I even look.

  “I’m trying to give you space,” Kit tells me, taking the pink plastic cup from my hand, and scooping ice into it. “But if you need me, just say the word. I’m here for you, Nat. I’m here for all of you.”

  “You’re a good friend,” I tell him. And I mean it. He always has been. He hands the ice cup to me.

  “Beck’s teammates are still here in the waiting room,” he tells me. “I’m gonna run down the street and pick them up some hamburgers.”

  I’m grateful, and he knows. “You’re okay,” he whispers to me, then grabs my hand, squeezing it. “You’re strong.”

  I nod, even though I feel weak.

  “Thank you.”

  He’s turning to go when nurses rush past him toward Beck’s room. I freeze, and then a doctor comes through, and then a cart. They push and the door opens and then closes, and I’m suddenly able to move.

  I run past Kit, burst through the door, and everyone is surrounding my son. Sam and Elin stand against the wall, horrified and helpless.

  “Get me some Betapace,” the doctor snaps, and a nurse fills a syringe and hands it to him quickly.

  Beck is limp in the bed, although the monitors are shrieking. His heart rate is spiking over and over on the screen.

  “What is happening?” I cry out, and no one takes the time to look at me.

  “His heart . . .” Sam says, and then her words trail off. Obviously, I can see it’s his heart. Jesus.

  The noises and images blur together as my own heart pounds. Is this it? Is this where I lose him?

  I can’t take it.

  I can’t.

  The doctor says something else that I can’t understand, because I’m hearing everything through a roar in my ears now. He and the nurses move and speak, and I stand and wait.

  I’m a statue.

  It seems like hours pass before they finally step away.

  The doctor comes straight to me, and he’s got sweat on his brow.

  “He’s on very fragile ground,” he tells me. I’m actually thankful for his direct approach. “His heart is arrhythmic, meaning it’s got a very erratic and tachycardic beat. It’s too fast. I’ve given him further medication to ease the workload of the heart. All we can do now is continue to wait.”

  He walks out and I rush to Beck, grabbing his hand. It’s cold and clammy, and he doesn’t feel alive.

  “You’ve got to live,” I insist, and I hear Elin crying. “You’ve got to, Beck. You cannot leave me. You cannot.”

  Tears burst through the dam of my determination and shock, and instead of falling apart at his bedside, I rush out blindly. The ugly fluorescent lights are a blur above my head, and the tiles race past beneath my feet. Nurses step out of the way, and I don’t care who stares at me.

  I cry as I run, but I don’t stop until I am standing in front of the wooden chapel doors, breathing heavily.

  I push them open and step inside.

  I’m the only one here.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I rush to the front and kneel in front of the altar.

  “Please, God,” I beg, and I stare above me at the stained glass. “Please. Save him. Take me instead. I’ll do anything you want me to do. I’ll give you anything. Just strengthen his heart. Give him the will to live. Save my son.”

  God doesn’t answer.

  The chapel remains quiet.

  I pray and pray, aloud and silently.

  When I finally stand and turn, a man is watching me from a pew. I didn’t even hear the door open.

  “I’m a chaplain,” he tells me. “And I want you to know, God hears your prayers.”

  “But what will He do about them?” I ask. “Will He answer them?”

  The chaplain can’t answer that, and I know it.

  The only One who can stares down silently from the cross on the wall.

  * * *

  I SAT IN A pew at the back and stared at the stained glass.

  I was such a stranger in this church that no one approached me. I didn’t belong here, and they seemed to know it, but I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t go to the police station for help; Beck’s friends were no help. There was nothing left for me to do but beg a higher power.

  I folded my hands, my chin resting on my fingertips as I squeezed my eyes closed.

  “Please, God. Make Beck come home. Protect him from harm, shield him from danger. Be there when I can’t. Please, make him come home. Bring him home.”

  I slipped out the same way I came in, quietly, without drawing attention to myself. On the way home, I scanned the ditches, the sidewalks, the corners.

  No Beck.

  When I got home, I found my sister waiting for me on the porch, her jacket drawn around her shoulders.

  “Hey,” Sam said, greeting me. But she had that I want something from you voice, and I cringed.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently.

  “Uh-huh. Just tell me what you want.”

  “I don’t want to now,” she sniffed.

  “Because I know what you’re up to?”

  “No. Because I was going to do something nice for you and now you’ve ruined it.”

  I sighed. “What is it?”

  “Well, Vince has a company thing on Friday night. It’s a formal thing, very la-di-da, and I thought maybe you’d like to go. It’d give you a chance to dress up and get out of the house.”

  I was confused. “Why can’t you go with him?”

  My sister paused. “Um. You wouldn’t be going with Vince. You’d be going with one of his coworkers, Ezra.”

  I was stunned silent, and my heart pounded.

  “Nat?”

  “You’re trying to set me up on a . . . date,” I said slowly, and the mere words made my hands clammy. “I can’t,” I told her. “I can’t.”

  “Why?” she asked simply, and is she really that obtuse?

  “Can you really be asking me that?” I demanded. “It’s too soon!”

  “It’s been a year,” she said quietly. “I know no one can replace him, Nat. You don’t have to marry this guy, for God’s sake. I just want you to get out of the house. Get a change of pace. Rejoin the land of the living. Matt would want that.”

  “The land of the living?” I was incredulous now. “Are you freaking kidding me? You get to sleep in bed with your husband every night. I visit mine in a cemetery. You don’t get to tell me what is best for me. You don’t have the first clue!”

  I was pissed, and she knew it.

  “Okay, that wasn’t the right way to say it,” she said, backtracking quickly. “You know I loved Matt. And I love you. And I just want you to move forward. Just a little bit. Can you do that, Nat? For me?”

  She meant well.

  But I . . . I just couldn’t.

  “I am moving forward. In other ways.” My answer was firm. “I’m not ready to go on a date.”

  “Fine,” Sam said,
accepting without argument. “This time.”

  “Any time!” I snapped back. “Until I choose otherwise. This is my decision. Not yours. And you know what? I can’t leave the house that long. What if Beck comes home? Did you even think about that?”

  Sometimes I got so frustrated because it was like I was the only person who felt his absence so profoundly. The only one who thought I needed to bleed or to sacrifice for him to come home.

  Sam stared at me.

  “Do you think I don’t care about Beck?” she asked slowly. I didn’t know what to say, and her lips twisted into a scowl.

  “Are you freaking kidding me? I love that kid like my own,” she snapped.

  “I know,” I tried to interrupt, but she continued.

  “You think you’re the only one who is affected,” she went on. “But you’re not. We all are. I watch for him everywhere. Vinny and I . . . we go out and hunt. We’ve posted pictures of him on streetlights. Did you even know that?”

  No. I shook my head slowly. “You know I’m doing that already,” I told her. “Right? I’ve made progress. I spend all of the time I used to spend going to the cemetery on going out and hunting for Beck. I knock on doors, I talk to people.”

  Sam eyed me. “Nat, Vinny and I aren’t looking in this area. If he’s using, he’s not in all the upper-class places that you’ve been looking. He’s on the South Side. He’s on State Street or Archer Heights or somewhere.”

  That reality slammed into me hard and fast, and I stared at her.

  “I didn’t think of that,” I admitted, and I hated that thought. It was too vile, too scary.

  “And I didn’t want to say anything because I knew it would upset you even more,” she said, and her eyes were so kind.

  My shoulders slumped, and Sam wrapped her arms around them. “Let’s go in,” she urged. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate while we wait for the bus.”

  I allowed her to guide me into the kitchen and push me gently into a chair.

  “I love you, you know,” she said, less stern now. “I know you’re hurting, sis. I know.”

  I nodded, and she made hot chocolate, and I tried to focus on the present. Because I wasn’t in control of anything but this.