Saving Beck

by Courtney Cole

  My dad laughed, a loud guffaw that echoed against the rock.

  “Lord, you remind me of me,” he said, and I took that as a compliment. “But trust me. It took me at least twenty years to figure out that taking help when you need it isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

  I didn’t answer; instead, I turned my attention to whatever it was we were standing in.

  “What the heck is this?” I asked.

  My dad turned slowly in a circle, taking it in.

  “This is the grotto,” he said with reverence. “It’s a replica of Our Lady of Lourdes in France. People come here to pray and for quiet moments.”

  I stared at the flickering candles and realized that each of them had been lit during a prayer.

  “We’re not Catholic,” I reminded my father. “In fact, we’re not even religious. I’d be so out of place here, Dad.”

  “Nah,” he answered. “I wasn’t Catholic either. Lots of kids aren’t, and they come here anyway.”

  “Yeah, but most of them probably go to church at least,” I argued. “We never have. I don’t know the first thing about religion.”

  My dad studied me.

  “You know, I’ve wondered before if your mom and I failed you kids in that area,” he said slowly. “I don’t personally like organized religion, but I do believe in God. I think there’s something bigger than us, smarter than us. And I think there’s a grand plan.”

  He waited and I realized he wanted me to speak.

  “Well, me too,” I told him. “It’d be dumb otherwise. There has to be something pulling us all together. A reason for everything. Otherwise, it would be kinda pointless.”

  “Right,” my dad said. “And I don’t want to live like that. I want to live in a place where I think things happen for a reason, where they have a point.”

  He bent down and picked up a lighter. With one stroke, he lit a nearby candle, then put his arm around my shoulders.

  “God, if you’re there, and I know you are, please guide my son. Let him choose the right path for himself. He doesn’t have to come to Notre Dame, even though I did and it’s the best school in the country.” I gave him side-eye and he chuckled. “Let him know that he’ll be okay no matter where he goes or what he does, even when his mom and I aren’t there. Let him know that he’s going to shine. Thank you.”

  I couldn’t deny that the beauty in this grotto was incredible as the light lapped at the rocks, the shadows of the flames flickering into the night.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I told him, even though he was being pretty corny. He meant well, and I knew that. He only wanted me to come here because he thought it was best. But he wouldn’t try to strong-arm me. He just wasn’t like that.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “You want to skip the last part of the tour and go home? It’s a long drive.”

  I rolled my eyes now because he emphasized that it was a long drive to make me think that Notre Dame was far enough away, and he laughed because he knew that I knew.

  We found his car easily and when we reached it, Dad turned to me.

  “Do you want to drive?”

  I was startled. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I think you can do it.”

  “Sweet!”

  We got in, buckled up, and hit the road.

  Once we were sailing toward Chicago, Dad started digging in the console. “I forgot,” he told me. “I made something for you a while back. You’ve been getting up so early to work out in the mornings, and I know some days it must be hard.”

  He produced a CD and I laughed, keeping both hands on the wheel.

  “Dad, no one uses CDs anymore.”

  “Well, I didn’t know how else to record myself. I’m a dinosaur.”

  He slipped the CD in the player, and his voice came on, loud and firm.

  I know you want to sleep in, Beck. But before you reach for the snooze button, remember this:

  You want to be the best, and the other players do too. They won’t press snooze. The best players are already up, and they’re already running, their feet on the floor.

  I want you to get out of bed and remember that you are the best of the best. You breathe in challenges, and you spit out wins. You do not accept failure, and you fight for what is yours.

  I looked at my dad. “Seriously?”

  He laughed and pushed the eject button, interrupting whatever he was saying on the CD, and put it back in the console.

  “Fine. Laugh at it now. But if you download it to your phone, or whatever you kids do, and set it as your alarm, it might help you get out of bed and get to the weight room on the challenging mornings—the mornings when you’re feeling too tired to go. There’s some good stuff on there, kid.”

  “I bet,” I said, and there probably was, because my dad always knew just how to motivate me. But not tonight. Tonight, I needed music.

  I turned up the volume and Dad settled into the seat next to me, reclining just a bit.

  He yawned. “If I fall asleep and you need me, just holler. But it’s an easy drive from here.”

  “I know,” I told him. “I’m fine, Dad.”

  He nodded. “Wake me up when we hit the second rest stop. I’ll have to pee by then. I’ve got the bladder of an old man now.”

  He was only thirty-eight.

  He closed his eyes and I absorbed the music, letting the stress of the day fade away. I’d choose my college another day. For now, I’d revel in the rare treat of driving my dad’s sports car on the highway at night. Normally he said it was too much car for me, which was so annoying. I’d been driving for a year already. I could handle it.

  The road noise was soothing and hummed us toward Chicago, and my dad started snoring within twenty minutes. Maybe he was old, after all. I laughed to myself.

  Whenever I stepped on the accelerator, the V-8 engine roared in response and that was so fucking cool. I got a surge of adrenaline each time. I kept finding myself speeding, and each time, I’d purposely slow down.

  But if Dad woke up and I was doing ninety, he’d make me pull over and switch places with him.

  I watched the scenery blurring past, and the city got closer and closer. We roared past the first rest stop, and I sang along with the radio. My dad was sleeping so hard that it didn’t seem to bother him a bit.

  As we approached the second rest stop, I looked over at him. His mouth was open ever so slightly and he was dead asleep. Home was only another twenty minutes or so from here, so he probably wouldn’t actually need to stop. I was contemplating what to do, when my phone rang.

  I could hear it, but it was under the seat belt, tucked into my pocket. It rang again, and I dug under the belt to get it.

  Then I dropped it between the console and the seat.

  “Damn it,” I cursed, reaching to get it. The car swerved over the line, and I yanked it back. “Son of a bitch.”

  My fingers grasped the rubbery corner of my phone case, fishing it up and out of the crevice. When it was firmly in my hand, I glanced down to push the Accept button.

  thirty-three

  NATALIE

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  8:36 P.M.

  I LOOK OVER AT ELIN AND she is so worn out. Her face is pale from exhaustion, and she has barely left Beck’s side.

  “Sweetheart, you should really at least go splash some water on your face, or get some juice,” I tell her. “You’re going to collapse on your feet in a second.”

  She sighs, a long exhale. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” she answers. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m not,” I argue. “Beck is here. And my sister and Kit are right outside. It’ll be fine. Really. I want you to take care of yourself too.”

  Elin smiles tremulously. “You’re so good to me,” she says. “I’ve missed you so much these past few months. You’re like my second mom and I feel like this whole part of my life has been snatched away from me.”

  She cries now, and I rub her back and I don’t really know what to say,
because what can I say? Beck broke her heart, and nothing can heal that except time. It’s something I know all too well.

  “Beck will wake up, and he’ll remember how much he loves you,” I reassure her.

  I don’t know if any of that is true, and Elin knows it. She nods through her tears.

  “The worst part is that we should never have broken up. If we hadn’t . . . if we hadn’t, maybe he wouldn’t be here right now. Maybe I could’ve talked him out of going down this road, and he wouldn’t be in this bed.”

  “Don’t do the ‘what if’ thing. You couldn’t have stopped him, Elin. He made his own choices. None of this is your fault.”

  “If only that were true,” she sniffs again, and she cries and I should be comforting her, but something about the way she said that gives me pause, and then she says something under her breath, something that sounds like it was all my fault.

  “What do you mean?” I ask her slowly. “How in the world could any of this be your fault?”

  Elin looks at me, and her gaze is pointed like a spear and it pins my heart. Heavy unease hangs between us, and I feel something with gravity getting ready to emerge.

  “Beck didn’t tell you?” Her words are slow and deliberate. She is shocked, and this can’t be good.

  “Tell me what?” I fight to remain calm, because we’re just having a conversation.

  “About the phone call?”

  Her voice is empty now, but sad, and it’s hiding something awful. I feel it, and I’m afraid of it.

  “What phone call, honey?”

  My hands shake and my intuition knows. It knows.

  “I called him the night of the accident,” she says simply. “Everything is my fault.”

  The world crashes down in this moment.

  I had built castles in the air around me, a fortress to protect my heart and it was invisible, but now I know it’s coming down and the walls will crush me with the weight of the stones.

  “You called,” I say slowly, to clarify. “That night.”

  She nods and it’s painful and everything is in slow motion.

  “I didn’t know he was driving,” she whispers. “I swear. When he picked up, all I could hear was noise. Then metal crunching.” Her eyes squeeze closed. “He was screaming . . .”

  She’d called that night.

  Beck had answered, and then he’d crashed into an oncoming car.

  “I thought he’d dozed off,” I say, my words like sharp razors on my tongue.

  “That’s what he said,” Elin says, nodding. “I don’t know why. Maybe he didn’t want everyone to hate me. Maybe he didn’t want to hate me. But now he does. He says it’s our fault and he can’t get past it. He was hunting for his phone, Mrs. K. That’s why he crashed.”

  “Because you called,” I say, and I’m not blaming her—I’m not.

  She nods again, and the reason my whole world ended is sitting here in front of me.

  I can’t quite catch my breath, and everything makes sense now, all of it.

  “Beck broke up with you because he can’t forgive himself . . . or you,” I murmur.

  She nods.

  “Because you called, and he answered.”

  She nods again.

  “I . . . I need a minute.”

  I walk out of the room, and I go out into the hallway, and I still can’t breathe. I lean against the wall and I try to inhale, but the breath won’t come and my husband is dead and my heart is pounding and Elin called and Beck answered and Matt is dead.

  My thoughts swirl and blend, and I can’t stay in here. I rush down the halls and burst outside into the ambulance bay. The cool air hits my face but it doesn’t help. I still can’t focus and I still can’t breathe.

  I realize with a start that my Xanax is back in the room.

  Far from me.

  My heart pounds.

  There are sirens in the distance, but I don’t know where they are. Lights flash against the wall, against my skin, red and blue, then blue and red, and back again. People rush past, and no one notices me, and no one cares.

  No one cares my world is crashing.

  I picture that night. I picture Beck and Matt driving along. I picture Matt dozing off, and he never knew what hit him and Elin called.

  She called and Beck answered and his attention was away from the road for one second.

  One.

  Second.

  And now Matt is dead, and this is why Beck feels guilty. This is why he used drugs. To get away from this.

  Beck killed Matt.

  He’s been carrying this on his back, and it forced him to the breaking point. And I hadn’t even noticed. In fact, all I’d done was blame him too. To myself mostly, but that one time . . . that one time, I’d told him that if he hadn’t gone to the campus with his dad, Matt would still be alive.

  How could I have done that? It had been a faulty seat belt that killed Matt. Not Beck. Not Elin. And I hadn’t done a good enough job making sure that Beck knew it.

  Jesus God.

  I open my mouth and I’m like a fish on pavement. I can’t suck in air, and why can’t I breathe?

  I pull my phone out of my pocket because that is my only lifeline.

  I send a text.

  Help.

  My eyes close.

  My hand falls to the side.

  Images of the crash, of how I’ve always imagined it, are replaced with new ones. Did Matt open his eyes when the phone rang? Did he hear? Did he see? Did he know he was going to die?

  Did it hurt?

  Tears spill wildly and I can’t breathe, and then I’m drifting away and I never want to come up for air.

  thirty-four

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  9:12 P.M.

  “NATALIE’S HAVING AN ISSUE,” KIT says, and I think he’s standing now. “I’ll go get her. Be right back.”

  “What kind of issue?” Sam demands, but Kit is already gone.

  What’s wrong with my mom?

  There’s nothing for me to do but wait to find out.

  The whoosh of the ventilator is an odd feeling. It pulls the air in, and my lungs are just along for the ride. Years of innate response make them exhale the carbon dioxide. I feel a little proud that at least I can do that part on my own.

  I feel ashamed that I’m here.

  How did I let it get this far?

  My mom is a wreck because of Dad, and now she has to deal with this, and God, I’ve been a shit to her.

  She didn’t deserve this.

  Elin didn’t deserve this.

  No one deserved this.

  And where the fuck is Angel?

  For a second, I worry that something happened to her. She was okay on her own before she met me, and I’m sure she’s fine now.

  A flickering of a memory comes to me. Something . . . something is there. I grab at it and try to hold on.

  And there it is.

  She wanted to get clean.

  Maybe she’s clean now. Maybe that’s why she’s not here. She wanted to get clean, and I didn’t. Is that what happened?

  I curse at my faulty brain and try harder to remember but all I can see is blackness now.

  It’s frustrating as hell, but my theory makes the most sense.

  She must’ve gotten clean.

  Maybe she’s even in rehab. Maybe my mom paid for the rehab. That’d be something my mom might do. And maybe Mom isn’t talking about that because she doesn’t want to upset me.

  What she doesn’t understand is that it wouldn’t upset me.

  Angel deserves to be clean.

  She’s had a hard life, and she’s one of the best people I know.

  I relax a bit at the mere thought that she’s in a safe place, surrounded by people trained to help her.

  Thank you, God.

  * * *

  ANGEL AND I WERE high again.

  It was no surprise, of course, but what was startling was that our supply was getting low faster than I’d thoug
ht. We needed to find a new dealer, which wasn’t impossible, just annoying.

  I couldn’t feel my arms or legs, and Angel’s eyes were glassy. I put down the pipe and she leaned against me, and her back rested against my chest.

  “How did you kill your dad?” she asked, her voice thick from heroin. “Did he hurt you? Was it self-defense?”

  “God, no,” I said quickly, or as quickly as I could with a tongue made from wood. “He was the best father ever.”

  “Then why did you kill him?” Angel turned her big eyes up to me and I think they were bigger now than they used to be.

  “It was an accident,” I mumbled. Even as high as I was right now, it still hurt it hurt it hurt.

  “What kind of accident?” she asked, and her foot was tapping, slower, then slower as the hero worked itself into her heart.

  “A car accident.” I choked on the words and Angel’s hand tightened on my fingers.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” she crooned.

  “It’s not,” I told her, and I could see that night flash in front of my eyes. It was dark and the radio was on, and that song will be in my memory always. My dad was sleeping, and he trusted me, and I answered my goddamned phone.

  “My phone rang,” I said, and my voice was just fragmented pieces of guilt. “It was in my pocket and then I dropped it. I only looked down for a second.”

  Just for a second.

  “There were car lights when I looked up,” I admitted, and I’d never said this out loud before. “In my eyes. I think I was screaming, and it happened so fast. We hit head-on and my dad died. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help. The other driver died too, but they were impaired, so I didn’t get charged with anything. I could’ve been charged with involuntary manslaughter, and I probably should’ve been.”

  I was crying now, and my heart was splayed open and my rib cage was scooping out the feelings, scraping them out of my heart like a scalpel, and I didn’t want to feel this. I didn’t want to feel this.

  “I couldn’t take it,” I told her. “It was too much. I slipped and slipped. My friend gave me heroin pills. I wasn’t going to take them. Seriously. But everything spiraled, and all I wanted to do was escape.”