by Jay McLean
Josh: Hey Becs. I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you know where your grams is? I came home yesterday and knocked on her door, she wasn’t home but her car was. I left her a present at the door and when I woke up this morning it was still there. She’s still not home.
My heart skips, my thumbs shaking as I try to reply. I attempt to type the same word five times, failing each time, before I realize I’m holding my breath. I force an exhale and push back the panic creeping in my chest.
Becca: I don’t know where she is. She sent me a text a week ago. That was the last I heard from her.
Josh: I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s probably with Mavis or something. Don’t panic, okay?
Becca: You have a key, right? Go in the house.
Josh: I just did. She’s not home. TV’s on.
Becca: Did you try calling her?
Josh: Yeah. She left the phone on the kitchen counter.
I try to reply, but the shaking of my hands makes it impossible, so I run into the center, phone gripped tight in my hand. The second I see Sandra in her office, I call Josh’s number, set it to speaker, and sign to Sandra to translate for me.
With wide eyes, she nods, all while the sound of the phone dialing fills the room. “What’s going on?” Sandra asks, and all I can do is shake my head, tears filling my eyes. There’s a lump in my throat, threatening to escape in a silent sob, and the panic escalates with each continuous ring. I feel like I’m back in the hospital, Tommy in a room with a broken arm, and me pacing the waiting room trying to call Josh. The call cuts off, and I hit redial, tears falling, streaking down my cheeks. Finally, the call connects, and I can hear his fear in a single word, “Becs.”
“Uh. Hi,” Sandra says, her eyes on my hands—hands too weak to move. “I’m Sandra. I work with Becca, and I guess I’m going to translate for her…”
Josh doesn’t speak, but I can hear his rushed breaths, hear the sound of his footsteps as he moves around my grandmother’s house. Doors open. Doors close. “Ma’am!” he shouts.
In the background, I hear Tommy call out, “Ma’am. Where are you?”
“Hey, buddy,” Josh says. “It’s okay. She’s probably just playing hide-and-seek. Yeah. That’s what she’s doing.” He exhales loudly. “You stay in the house in case she comes out, all right? I’m going to look in the yard for her.”
What’s happening? I sign, and Sandra repeats it.
“I don’t know. I’ve searched the entire house. She’s not home.” The background noise changes, letting me know he’s outside. I hear the creaking of the gate to the back yard.
“Is she there?” Sandra asks for me.
“No. Look, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Josh says, his voice cracking, revealing his fear.
Sandra’s eyes focus on my hands before she says, “Josh, maybe you need to call the police, hospitals…”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that. Shit. Hang on.”
“What’s happening? Did you find her?” Sandra asks without my prompting, her fear matching mine.
“A cop car just pulled up. Hang on.”
The worst possible scenarios infiltrate my mind, and the only thing I can do is stand here and listen, my heart aching, my pulse shattering every nerve.
“She’s here,” he breathes out. “She’s in the car.”
He seems to cover the phone, because all I can hear are muffled voices as he speaks to the cops. The seconds feel like an eternity before he says my name, his tone calmer. “So apparently they found her walking the streets. I’m going to take her to the hospital and get her checked out. I’ll take care of everything, okay? I promise.”
“Who are you talking to?” Grams asks him, her tone gentle.
“It’s Becca,” Josh tells her.
“Who?”
My eyes snap to Sandra’s while Josh says, “We’re going to take you to the hospital. Just to get you checked out and make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Joshua. You always worry too much.”
His loud exhale crackles the speakers on my phone. “Then humor me, okay? Let me take care of you for once.”
Sandra smiles.
I can’t.
“Tell him I’m going to catch the next flight out,” I sign, and Sandra relays it for me.
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Don’t go anywhere yet.”
I shake my head and stomp my foot.
Sandra tells him, “She doesn’t seem too happy about that.”
“Two minutes,” he says, and then he hangs up.
I watch the seconds of the clock in the office tick by. One minute turns to two while Sandra consoles me, her words meant to comfort only cause more pain. Two minutes turn to three. Four. Five. Ten. Finally, my phone rings, and I jump to answer it.
“Becca?” Josh says. I can tell he’s in his car now, the wind whooshing in the background.
“She’s here,” Sandra tells him.
“A private plane will pick you up. The pilot’s going to send through the details of which airport, and I’ll forward them on to you. He says he can be there within five hours. There’s a big Check and Deck logo on the side of the plane. You can’t miss it. Just give the desk your name. Message me when you get here, okay?”
I nod.
“Okay,” Sandra says.
“Good. Drive safe. And Becca, please don’t worry. I’m not going to leave her side. I promise.”
I let his words sink in while I wipe at my tears, my heart slowing just enough to stop the ache in my chest. I take the phone off speaker and hold it to my ear, my eyes drifting shut as I force a swallow and prepare my throat to whisper, “I’m scared.”
12
—Becca—
The second I land in Wilmington I text Josh and let him know. He replies immediately, telling me there’s a car waiting for me just outside the exit. When I find the driver, he asks if I have any bags, and I realize I don’t. I don’t have anything. I went straight from the Say Something warehouse to the airport without even stopping to think.
It seems to take forever to get to the hospital, and as soon as I see the signs from afar, the driver makes a call to Josh. “We’re pulling in now, Mr. Warden.”
Josh is already waiting outside when we arrive at the hospital entrance. I open the door, not bothering to wait for the car to come to a complete stop. Then I’m in his arms, my cheek pressed to his chest. “She’s okay,” he says, his hand rubbing my back. “She’s okay,” he repeats, and I sense his need in the tightness of his embrace. It’s only now that I realize how hard this must’ve been for him. How being the one to find her missing must’ve made him feel. I pull away, just far enough to look him in his eyes—eyes red and worn—evidence of the tears he’s shed. “She’s being examined at the moment for any physical—” He chokes on a breath, and I guide him with one hand around his waist into the waiting room of the hospital. He sits on a chair and I do the same, our fears and panic merging into one. I feel the warmth of his hand on my leg, and I don’t remove it. Instead, I cover it with mine and squeeze once. “It’s my fault,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t be leaving her alone for weeks at a time. I should’ve had Kim check in on her, but she hated it, you know? She hated me worrying about her and God, what if something happened to her? What if she was hit by a car, or attacked, or…” His words are rushed, admissions of regret pouring out of him and I wish I could tell him that he’s wrong, that none of this is his fault. But I can’t say a word. So I do the only thing I know to do. I release his hand and cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. His eyes meet mine, then drop to my lips when I mouth, “Stop.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Becs. When she wasn’t there, I thought she was—”
“Stop,” I mouth again. “Please.” I’m begging now, my head moving from side to side.
“I’m sorry. I’m making it worse.” His hands rise to circle my wrists, holding me to him as his eyes drift shut. I watch his shoulders rise and fall while he takes a few calmin
g breaths. He looks up, his eyes clear, his cheeks flushed. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “You?” I mouth.
He exhales loudly. “I am now.” His lips twitch with a smile, though I know he’s trying to hide it. “Hi. You look good. I mean… you know… under the circumstances and all.”
I return his smile.
“Was the flight and the car and everything okay?”
I stare, unblinking, and wonder how almost two and a half years have passed since we’ve been a we, yet the feelings are still there, still filling my heart and making it weak.
He releases my wrists to cup my jaw, his thumb skimming my bottom lip. “I’m glad you’re here, Becs.”
His voice, his touch, his entire presence has my heart hammering in my chest. I drop my hands and turn away quickly to look straight ahead, hoping he can’t read my reaction to him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, but I ignore him and reach for my phone.
Do you know anything?
He runs his hand through his hair, watching me with a look in his eyes I can’t decipher. “The nurse came in about half an hour ago and said that they were probably going to run some tests for dementia. I guess it’s common for people your grams’s age and considering how the police found her…”
With another nod and another breath, I type, So, we just wait for results?
“I guess.”
His breath is hot and heavy on my neck as he leans over me, reading as I type, Where’s Tommy?
“My mom met us here and took him back to her place.”
A solid minute passes, neither of us saying a word, even when my mind is racing with them.
He breaks the silence. “I hate this place so much.”
The hospital?
“Yeah… it just reminds me of Tommy and my dad and you. It’s so fucking miserable.”
I frown.
He smiles. It’s a sad one, though, one caused by pure pain and heartache. His hand runs down my arm, toward my fingers, where they lace through mine, gripping gently as he pulls it to his mouth. He releases a shaky exhale, right before his lips, soft and wet, make contact with my skin. He kisses me once and then settles our joined hands on his lap. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, eyes focused on our hands. “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
A nurse calls Grams’s name, cutting off my response, and Josh and I stand, our hands still connected. We make our way over to her. “How is she?” Josh asks her.
“She’s physically stable. There’s a little build-up in her lungs, most likely from walking around in the cold.”
Josh’s grip on my hand loosens. “So that’s good, right?”
“That’s just based on the initial tests,” the nurse says. “We need to admit her for a few days.”
Now my hand squeezes his and he looks down at the phone in my hand. Days?
“This is her granddaughter Becca Owens,” Josh tells the nurse. “Do you know when it might be possible to see her?”
“She’s back in her room, but she’s still a little out of it.” The nurse looks at what I assume is Grams’s chart. “Does she have any other family?”
I let go of Josh’s hand and start typing on my phone. I messaged Dad when I was waiting for the plane. He’s going to fly in as soon as possible but it might take a day or so.
Josh lifts his gaze to the nurse. “Just her son, but he works offshore so he might take a couple days. We can take care of her until then, right?”
The nurse nods, but her eyes are on me, squinted and confused.
“Becca’s speech impaired,” Josh informs her, bouncing on his toes, his patience fading. “Can we see her now?”
“Sure.” The nurse speaks to me this time. “I just… I feel like I should warn you that she may not react to you as you’d expect. She may not be the grandmother you know, and she may not remember certain things. And at this stage, it’s best if you don’t force her.”
* * *
Grams is lying on her side sleeping peacefully, the covers bunched under her chin. The monitors beep, a steady rhythm echoing off the walls of the small, sterile room. Josh takes my hand and leads me toward her bed. We stand side by side, looking down at her for seconds, minutes, hours. I have no idea. Josh squeezes my hand, and I look up at him. “She looks so tiny,” he whispers.
“Josh?” Grams calls out, and our focus darts to her.
She has one eye open, almost like a kid afraid of a horror movie. “Oh, thank God. I thought you were one of the nurses, poking and prodding…” She throws the covers off her. “You’re here to take me home, right?”
Josh releases my hand to stop her from getting out of bed. “I can’t yet, ma’am. Soon, though, okay?”
Grams rolls her eyes. “More poking and prodding?”
Josh gives her a half-hearted grin. “Just a little.”
She gets back into bed, smiling fondly at Josh who covers her with the blankets. “Where’s Tommy?” she asks, looking around the room. She doesn’t see me standing behind Josh, my hands grasping his shirt. I don’t know why I’m hiding from her, why I’m suddenly so afraid, but it’s taking everything I have to not break down and right now, Josh is the only thing I have to prevent that.
He says, “Tommy’s with my mom. He’s fine.”
Grams sighs, relieved. “I can’t even imagine how scared you boys must’ve been. Oh, Joshua, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop it, ma’am. I’m fine. You’re fine.” He runs a finger across her forehead, shifting the hair from her eyes. “Everything’s good, okay?”
She grasps his hand with both of hers. “Did you win the tournament?”
“I did.”
“Oh, I’m so proud of you.”
“I know you are.” He starts to step aside, but I fist his shirt tighter, so he reaches behind him, grasping my wrist gently and encouraging me forward. “I got a surprise for you,” he tells her. He’s talking to her like he talks to Tommy, a tone I was once so envious of. Josh tugs on my arm, and I finally find the courage to reveal myself.
Grams’s eyes light up, her smile matching mine. Then I wave, and her grin spreads. She looks from me to Josh. “Oh my,” she says to him. “It’s about time you got yourself a lady. Who’s this beautiful girl?”
13
—Joshua—
try
trʌɪ/
verb
1. make an attempt or effort to do something.
I sit with Chaz, holding her hand until she falls asleep. When Becca left the room after Chazarae showed no signs of recognition, I was torn on whether to go after her or stay with Chaz. Obviously, I decided to stay. I didn’t want to, but I felt it more important that Chaz not feel overwhelmed. Like the nurse said, it was best we not push her. But now I’m sitting here wondering how it’s possible for her to remember my stupid skate tournament but not remember her own granddaughter.
I release her hand, making sure not to wake her, and kiss her forehead. Then I leave the room, phone in hand, ready to message Becca. But I don’t need to. She’s standing just outside the room, her back leaning against the wall.
“Hey, Becs,”
She fails at trying to force a smile. Then she’s in my arms, her tears soaking my chest, her arms wrapped tightly around me. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, because I don’t know what else to say and I don’t even really know what I’m apologizing for. For Chaz not knowing who she is? For not realizing something was wrong? For not finding her earlier? I don’t know. All I know is I’m sorry. But it doesn’t seem to matter because she’s crying harder now, silent sobs wracking her entire body. “Becs…” I rear back and hold her face in my hands. Her cheeks are wet, her eyes wetter. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
She chews on her lip to fight the trembling while her sad, desperate eyes meet mine. Then she shakes her head, her hand reaching for her phone. There’s nothing we can do. She has no idea who I am.
I read her text, again and again, hoping it gives me time to come up with
a response that will take away some of her pain. “I understand you’re hurting. Trust me, I do. And she might not know you now, but it’s just… she’s been through a lot.”
She knows you!
I swallow the knot in my throat and whisper, “She’s just known me longer. That’s all.”
But she’s my family.
Her eyes plead, begging for a response to somehow take away her pain, but the only thing I can think to say only elevates mine. “She’s my family, too, Becs.”
Her eyes drift shut, her hand covering her mouth.
I take a chance and step forward, tugging lightly on her top to get her attention. She opens her eyes, but she doesn’t look at me. “I know it’s hard,” I whisper, my mouth an inch from her ear. She drops her arm to her side, allowing me to come closer. My hand’s on her waist now, my thumb grazing the bare skin between her top and her jeans. I push aside the memories, the longing, the desire to have her this close always, and I swallow my nerves. “But as hard as it may be for us, it’s worse for her. She’s not going to understand what’s happening, so we need to be there for her, in any way we can.”
* * *
We sit next to each other in the moonlit room on a small couch beneath a window—a couch similar to the one I slept in while my father lay in a bed just like the one Chazarae’s in now. Chazarae—a woman who saved me when I needed saving. I try hard not to think about it, not to remember the moments of despair caused by a man who’s no longer around. I try not to compare them—try not to choose which pain would be worse because she’s not close to death. She can’t be. And all of a sudden I’m crying. Again. Revealing tears I’d tried to keep hidden from Becca. It’s all I’ve been doing since I found Chazarae missing—trying. Trying to keep it together, trying to say and do all the right things at all the right times. Trying to justify why she’s here when she’s the last person who deserves it. Trying to ignore my feelings for Becca—now a million times more painful because she’s here. And no amount of trying in the past year since I’ve spoken to her has helped me shake my feelings for her. I try to keep my breaths even so she can’t hear my pain. But her hand on my arm proves she can hear it. I don’t acknowledge her touch because I’m supposed to be the strong one, and I don’t want her to see me fading, to see me cracking under the weight. Becca’s hand moves up my arm, the darkness hiding the motion, until she finds the back of my neck. “Josh,” she whispers and my breath catches, her lack of voice only making it worse.