Saving Beck Page 4

  I wait, and his hand is lifeless in mine.

  My soul folds in on itself, the fear too heavy to carry.

  I try to think of the last time I’d held his hand when he was healthy, and it takes me a minute. At his age, he didn’t let me do it often.

  * * *

  THERE HAS NEVER BEEN anywhere more peaceful than here.

  I sat on my husband’s grave, my back against his headstone, and stared around me. The trees were always rustling here, as though an unseen hand were moving them. It was quiet, it was serene, and here, in this place, I could just be.

  I didn’t have to pretend that I was okay, because I wasn’t. A part of me was missing, and it was never coming back.

  I let my head rest against the stone and I stared at the sky. The evening clouds swirled and I wondered where Matt was.

  Idly, I pulled at the newly growing grass around me. Surprisingly, grass takes a while to grow on new graves. It had been months now, and it was just starting to sprout through the mound of dirt. I hated that, though. It was just an emphasis on how much time was passing, how long it had been since I’d seen my husband.

  I was just glad I had the flexibility to come here when I wanted. As a Realtor, I could make my own schedule. This morning, I’d gotten up, updated my listings, and since I didn’t have any showings today, I had the rest of the day free.

  Like always when that happened, I came here.

  “I gotta say,” I told Matt aloud. “I don’t think this is prime real estate. I’m sure the noise level is fine, but I bet the nightlife sucks.”

  God, I missed making jokes for someone who could laugh at them.

  I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to think about the fact that Matt was literally a few feet below me, down where the ground was cool and dark. Unbidden, though, I started wondering what he looked like now, today. Was his skin turning gray? Had the smooth texture begun to get eaten away by decomposition? Was my husband rotting? My stomach lurched at the thought, and my eyes popped open.

  That’s when I saw someone walking toward me, over the graves.

  My son, tall and lanky.

  Behind him, his black car sat parked, with Devin and Annabelle in the back seat. Confused, I reached for my phone to check the time, only to realize that I’d left it in my car.

  “Mom!” Beck called. In a few more strides, he reached me.

  “You shouldn’t walk on the graves,” I told him. “It’s disrespectful.”

  He was quiet.

  “Do you know what time it is?” he asked me quietly, and he knelt down next to me. The sun was starting to dip lower into the sky, almost at the horizon, and I swallowed hard.

  “It’s later than I thought,” I answered. “I’m sorry. Time got away from me.”

  He sighed, and he smelled. He was in sweaty workout clothes.

  “You weren’t home when the bus got there,” he said now. “Annabelle was scared, Mom. She thought something happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and he grasped my hand, holding it. His fingers were getting so long, like a man’s. When did that happen?

  “I understand,” he said, and he was so sympathetic. “I do. But can you . . . maybe . . . make sure you come home by the time the bus does? Maybe come here in the mornings instead?”

  I didn’t tell him that I’d been here since this morning.

  I nodded instead. “Of course I will.”

  “You’re okay,” he insisted, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me, or himself.

  “Have you eaten?” I asked, and the guilt was creeping up.

  “Not yet. There wasn’t anything at home.”

  “Okay.” I squared my shoulders and got to my feet, releasing his hand. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  “Annabelle wants waffles,” he said as we made our way back to the cars. He was careful this time not to step on the graves.

  Dev and Annabelle waved at me happily from Beck’s back seat. They loved riding with him. It was a rare treat—he seldom let them. Beck waited until I got into my car, then he followed me to the restaurant.

  When we arrived, Annabelle bounded out into my arms. Her pigtails were uneven because she’d been practicing them herself. One was ear level, and the other at the nape of her neck. At eight, she was still bouncy and happy, loving and unconcerned by who knew it. Devin, my solemn twelve-year-old, followed at a cooler pace.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, greeting me. He was wary because he knew that something wasn’t right with me. The hostess showed us to a table and gave Annabelle crayons.

  “Mommy, why didn’t you answer your phone?” Annabelle asked curiously while she drew a picture of a bunny. “We tried and tried to call.”

  Beck’s eyes met my own. He hadn’t mentioned that part. Son of a bitch. What kind of mother was I?

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I answered, guiding her hand to help her with the ears. As I did, I remembered when Matt taught Annabelle how to tie her shoes. Bunny ears, bunny ears, playing by a tree. Crisscrossed the tree, trying to catch me. Bunny ears, bunny ears, jumped into the hole, popped out the other side, beautiful and bold. I swallowed. “I left my phone in the car on accident.”

  “Ohhhhh,” she answered in her singsong voice. “How was Daddy today?”

  My chest constricted. “He’s fine, baby.”

  Devin looked away. He never liked it when we talked about “visiting” Matt. He thought it was delusional, and maybe it was.

  Beck sat across from me, the scruff on his jaw a testament to how old he was getting. It made me uncomfortable that time was passing so quickly when Matt wasn’t here to see it. Thank God, though, he was still here when Beck needed to learn how to shave. I wouldn’t have had the first clue. Quickly I glanced at Devin. He didn’t have peach fuzz yet, but he would soon. I’d get Beck to show him.

  We ordered and our meal came shortly after.

  For just a little while, we felt almost normal. We ate, I listened about their days, and if anyone had looked at us without knowing us, they’d have thought we were a regular family. They wouldn’t know that I felt like wood inside, that my smile was fake, that my emotions were frozen.

  They wouldn’t know any of that.

  Even when we got home a while later and I walked in through the front door, I marveled at how normal our home seemed. A cozy Cape Cod, with an updated kitchen and built-in shelves, and stacks of books and nice rugs.

  Anyone would think a normal family lived here. People who were untouched by tragedy, people who didn’t have a care in the world.

  It just went to show that perception isn’t anything but a lie.

  I managed to help Annabelle with her bath and put her to bed for the first time in a week or so. She was delighted when I read her a story, and closed her door behind me.

  I poked my head into Devin’s room to say good night, and he was studying at his desk.

  “Good night, honey,” I told him. “Don’t stay up too late.”

  He nodded, and I continued to Beck’s room. I knocked, but there was no answer. I eased his door open to find that he was already sound asleep.

  He was hanging over the side of the bed, his dark blond hair unruly. He slept like he did everything else, all sprawled out. One of his long legs was kicked up against the wall, his toes enclosed in a sock. His other foot was bare. His hands were long and manly, and sometimes I had to do a double take. He wasn’t a little boy anymore. It continually surprised me.

  I pulled a blanket up over him, and as I did, his phone buzzed. Glancing down, I saw a text from his girlfriend.

  What do you mean everything?

  Curious, I scrolled upward just a little.

  Beck had texted, I’m sorry.

  She had answered, For what?

  He had replied, For everything.

  With a small grimace, I put it back down. I was too exhausted for teenage drama. Quietly, I made my way out of his room and down the hall to my own.

  For now, our home—and my bed
room in particular—was a mausoleum. My husband’s clothing still hung in the closet, his dirty clothing still sat in the hamper, his razor lay next to his sink. I couldn’t move it. I literally couldn’t.

  My heart constricted like it always did when I thought of him, and I swallowed hard. A lump had been in my throat for months, and maybe, just maybe, one of these days I’d be able to swallow it.

  But today wasn’t that day.

  My phone rang on the desk beside me, vibrating against the wood, and I jumped. It seemed so loud in the stillness. My sister’s picture was flashing on the screen, like it had every night since the accident.

  “Hey, sis,” she said. “What was going on earlier?”

  “What do you mean?” I played innocent as I pulled off my shirt and stepped out of my yoga pants.

  “The kids couldn’t find you,” she answered, and there was a little judgment there, barely masked.

  “I forgot my phone,” I replied. “It’s okay. Beck found me and we went to IHOP. What’s up in La-La Land?”

  Sam had married into an Italian family, last name LaRosa. It was so much more colorful than my own.

  She talked just a little bit about her day and then announced, “You sound tired. You should get some sleep.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” I answered. We hung up, and my room was quiet once again.

  The bed was too big; the room was too dark.

  I reached out a hand to feel Matt’s empty side of the bed, where his body should be, where his head should be indenting the pillow.

  Don’t do it today, I encouraged myself. Be strong. Take a step forward. Don’t do it.

  For a while I didn’t.

  But then . . . when the silence and quiet and solitude became too much, I caved.

  I dialed my husband’s number just to hear his voice. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to cancel his service yet. If his phone was still on, then it was almost like he was coming back someday.

  “Hey, this is Matt. I can’t get to my phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  I paused, reveling in the husky, deep voice that I loved so much.

  “I miss you,” I whispered before I hung up. I was exhausted now, physically and mentally. My bed called to me, and I went straight to it, dropping onto the softness eagerly, into the bed I’d shared with my husband for so many years. I covered myself with a blanket, blocking out the real world.

  I missed Matt so much that I didn’t think I could stand it. I didn’t know if I could continue to move through each day. But I had to.

  I had three kids who needed me.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, immediately regretting the split-second thought that sometimes I wished I didn’t have anyone else relying on me.

  six

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  3:59 A.M.

  “BECK, JUST MOVE YOUR FINGERS,” my mom whispers, and her voice is right in my ear. I can smell her perfume.

  I try to move. I really do.

  I focus on my index finger, my pinkie, and my thumb.

  None of them will even twitch.

  They don’t even feel like a part of my body anymore. They aren’t attached.

  I’m a shell.

  Everything I was before seems to be gone.

  I’m fading away.

  I feel it. My energy, my thoughts, everything is dimming dimming dimming. I’m going to fade away into nothing. And all of a sudden, I’m not sure that’s so bad.

  What did this life ever do for me? I mean, really?

  “Where were you, baby?” my mom whispers, and I think I’ve broken her. Her voice has something in it I’ve never heard before . . . absolute fear. She’s afraid for me. She knows she can’t protect me.

  I can hear all of that in her voice.

  I can’t open my eyes, so I have to listen.

  They were right—all of those people who said that when you lose one sense, your others get heightened. I’m hearing everything now. I hear the bustle in the hall outside of the room, and I hear the low hum of machines. I hear my mother’s raspy breaths; I hear her when she quietly cries. I hear my mother’s pain, and I know I did that to her.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  But I don’t know where I should be.

  I lost any sense I had of myself two months ago when I left home.

  I’m a stranger now. I don’t know who I am.

  * * *

  “WHERE’S MOMMY?” ANNABELLE ASKED me, her lips caked in thick layers of lipstick. Mom was gonna flip out when she saw that my sister had raided her makeup. I was supposed to be watching, but I had my own homework to do, and how could I watch them every single second?

  “She had an open house.” Which I was happy about. It meant she had to get dressed and leave the house for once.

  “But why are you watching me?” she asked as she stripped off her pink striped T-shirt.

  “I told you. Mom’s got an open house.”

  Annabelle wrinkled her nose. “I hate her job.”

  “She’s just doing what she has to do,” I told my sister as she climbed into the tub. “I’m sure she doesn’t like it much either. She’d rather be here with you.”

  Or in bed.

  “Want to play unicorn with me?” Anna asked hopefully, already thinking about something else. I rolled my eyes and said no, but then dipped my hand into the bubbles, putting them into a horn-shaped mound on my forehead.

  “Look at me,” I demanded. “I’m Sprinkles, and I grant wishes and piss dreams.”

  Annabelle giggled, then paused, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s piss mean?”

  Oops.

  “It means to pee, but don’t tell Mom I said that,” I told her. “It’s a bad word.”

  She started to sing it then, of course.

  “Piss, pissing, pissing, piss.” She was cheerful, and I was annoyed.

  “Stop,” I told her. “Before you get us both into trouble.”

  “You shouldn’t have said a bad word,” she told me indignantly.

  “That’s true. But you shouldn’t be saying it either. Santa won’t come at Christmas.”

  That shut her right up and I didn’t even feel guilty. I shouldn’t have been the one in here doing this. I should have been studying for the Spanish test I had the next day, and instead, I was putting kids to bed and then hunting for the utility bill to make sure our power didn’t get turned off.

  It was ridiculous.

  But as soon as the anger started to bubble, I remembered a key thing.

  This was all my fault.

  That was sobering enough to extinguish the fire of resentment and stoke the flames of my patience.

  I deserved this. I knew it.

  I sat on the toilet lid and messed around on my phone, trying to think of anything but that, while Annabelle played with her dolls in the tub. Eventually, I got a text.

  Dude, where are you?

  Son of a bitch. I was supposed to meet Tray at eight.

  It was 8:39.

  I’ll be late, I answered. Babysitting.

  Sucker, he replied.

  He’d been getting annoying lately, because all he wanted to do was smoke weed, when he should be worried about his scholarship. But at the same time, he was the only one who didn’t judge me when I had meltdowns. His parents divorced last year, and while it was different from my situation, it was close enough.

  He understood me.

  That alone was priceless.

  Want me to save some for ya?

  No thanks, I answered.

  I slid my phone into my pocket.

  “Come on, get out,” I told Annabelle, standing up and holding out her towel. She puckered her lip.

  “No. I haven’t had enough time.” Her curly blond hair was twirled on top of her head, and I couldn’t imagine what she still needed to do.

  “Time for what?”

  She stuck her chin out. “Time to talk to Daddy. I talk to him in here so
it doesn’t make Mommy sad.”

  I stood frozen. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  She dropped down onto her little knees in the middle of the water and clasped her sudsy hands, squeezing her eyes closed. She moved her mouth silently, and she was praying . . . to God, to our dad, to God about Dad?

  I sucked in a breath and it was like rats were chewing on my trachea and the holes were letting out the air. I couldn’t get enough in.

  I dropped heavily back onto the toilet and the bathroom was spinning, my face hot.

  “Beck?” Annabelle asked me from somewhere outside of the fog. “Becky? What’s wrong?”

  She was alarmed, and so was I. This had never happened before.

  I thought my heart might be exploding. Was I too young to have a heart attack?

  “Becky!” I heard my sister shrieking, and I tried to act calm, I really did, but it was impossible because the world was closing in on me. I gasped and clawed at my neck, and then . . .

  Nothing.

  Just blackness.

  I woke up and Annabelle was kneeling over me, crying. Devin was with her, slapping at my face.

  I’d passed out.

  Shakily, I pushed up onto my elbows. “I’m all right,” I told them, although I couldn’t be sure. I could breathe now, and nothing was broken when I’d tumbled from the toilet to the tile floor.

  “Are you sure?” Dev asked, like he didn’t believe me.

  “Hey, Mom has a bottle of medicine on her nightstand,” I told him, and it was still a little hard to speak. I had the baggie in my other pocket, but I didn’t want Devin to know that. “Go get me two of the pills inside.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He ran.

  When he came back, he handed me the pills and I swallowed them immediately, slumping against the toilet.

  They were bitter.

  And then . . . I lay back against the tiles and waited. Within a couple of minutes, a warm, safe feeling flooded my body. It was subtle, not obvious. It felt a little like when I fell asleep on the couch, and my mother would cover me up with a blanket. A little bit comforting, and it sort of covered up the anger seething in my belly. It didn’t take it away, but it soothed it a little bit.