Saving Beck

MERCY HOSPITAL

  8:59 A.M.

  MY BRAIN ISN’T WORKING RIGHT. It’s fuzzy. Am I high?

  I am poked and prodded. Am I being stepped on? Am I hiding up in the slide again?

  I focus.

  No. I’m not there. I’m here.

  Something rubbery drags on my skin and fingers pause at my pulse point.

  “His pulse is strong,” a voice says—a nurse maybe? Because I’m not in the park; I’m in a hospital. “It’s uneven, but that’s to be expected. It’s better than it was before we sedated him.”

  I feel something cool poke at my chest, gauging my heart.

  It thumps against my chest, and it feels bigger than it should be, more powerful, stronger.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  I never realized how much I took that for granted before. That one lump of muscle, pounding in my chest, beating day in and day out every day of my life, tirelessly.

  I never had to think of it before.

  But now, it’s all I can hear.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Keep beating, I think to it. I focus all of my energy on that one thing.

  The nurse leaves and someone picks up my hand again. I can tell from the perfume that it’s Elin.

  “Did you say he thought you were an angel?” she asks.

  When did that happen? When did I think my mom was an angel?

  I focus on that, trying to pull all of my fragments of thought together, and then . . . I remember.

  An Angel.

  Angel!

  Where is she?

  She should be here. She would be here, if she could.

  Are they keeping her out? Did they ask her to leave?

  I can imagine what she would look like to them—a druggie. They wouldn’t want her here, but God. I need her. She kept me alive when I didn’t care about life at all.

  She would never leave me. Not of her own accord.

  Oddly, when I think about her, I get a panicky feeling in my gut. I’m afraid for her, and I don’t know why.

  That can’t be good.

  * * *

  I WOKE UP WITH someone watching me.

  My vision was a foggy product of coming down from a high. I shook my head, but it didn’t help. I shook it again anyway.

  I was alone when I’d passed out, but I definitely wasn’t now.

  Something rustled around in the dark, and then, and then, a dirty white Converse poked into the moonlight.

  “Hello?” someone said. A female voice. A girl. Maybe my age. Maybe a little older, or maybe a little younger. It was hard to say.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked the shape.

  “What are you doing here?” she answered.

  A question with a question. I fucking hated that.

  “I was here first,” I said, stating the obvious.

  She laughed and stepped into the shadowy light.

  “So?”

  I examined her. She was small, tightly compact, skinny, and I knew she was a user. I could see it on her, I could sense it, I could smell it. Her hair was short, dirty blond but also just flat-out dirty. Her shirt was tight and there was a hole near the collar. Just a tiny one, but it was there. The red hem was frayed. I could see all of this in the dark by the light of the dim streetlights shining in through broken windows.

  Her eyes were large and I thought they might be blue.

  “You got anything?” she asked. Her mouth was pink, although her lips were dry.

  “Maybe.”

  She stared at me.

  “I’m not going to fuck you for it.”

  “No?” That was unusual. She must not be as addicted as I thought. Or she had stronger principles than most. That made me laugh. An addict with principles.

  “No. I only fuck someone I like, and I don’t know you.”

  She sat down in the middle of the room, cross-legged, and waited.

  What the fuck was she waiting for?

  I waited for her to tell me, but she didn’t. She just pushed her elbows down onto her knees, like she was stretching her legs, and her fingers were bony.

  I pulled out my Bic and my spoon. Her blue eyes darted over my hands.

  My thumb shoved down the handle, and the flint ignited. I warmed the spoon with the flame. The girl watched me, her eyes hungry, her mouth set.

  I reached for my syringe and her pupils dilated in reaction.

  “I’ll blow you, though,” she said quickly. “If you share.”

  “I don’t even know your name,” I answered, and I didn’t know why I said that. It didn’t matter.

  “I don’t have one,” she said as she got up and came to me.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t even bother to deny it.

  “What can I call you?” I asked instead. She thought on that.

  “Angel,” she said. I eyed her.

  “Are you? An angel?”

  She laughed bitterly.

  “I wish. What do I call you?”

  “King,” I said immediately out of habit. They had called me King once, back when throwing a football the length of a field was all that mattered.

  “Well, my King,” she said. “Unzip and let’s do this.”

  I thought about it, and about the other times that girls said that to me—Let’s do this, King—and they were cheerleaders and student council leaders, but I never wanted any of that, because I wasn’t a cheater. Now, I’m technically free, but I still don’t want it.

  All I wanted was to plunge that needle into my vein and empty that fucking syringe so hard.

  “Maybe later,” I told her.

  I took the hit. Fuck, yeah. I felt the release of reality flow away, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. It was going, going, gone. My fingers tingled and nothing mattered anymore. I focused enough to look at Angel. “You got a needle?”

  Her hand thrust into her pocket and emerged with it. It was old, the barrel dirty. But that was her business. All that mattered was that I was still with it enough to know not to share mine.

  I handed her the spoon and the one crystal that sat in its belly.

  I closed my eyes as she was closing her own, as she pulled in a shuddering breath of ecstasy, as H took her pain.

  Fuck, yeah.

  We slumped together, shoulder to shoulder. My eyes were slits and I saw the needle still hanging out of her arm, but her mouth was slack and she was out of it now. So was I.

  I closed my eyes.

  I thought her hand curled around mine.

  I didn’t know.

  But it didn’t matter.

  twenty-one

  NATALIE

  WHEN MY PHONE BUZZED WITH a message, then two, then three, I shook my head thinking it was my sister. I finished folding shirts for the kids, fresh out of the dryer, then poured a glass of ice water before I heard one last text come through, so I picked up my phone.

  When I did, I instantly started to shake.

  Mom, I miss you.

  I’m so sorry for everything. You deserve better than me.

  I hope Annabelle and Devin turn out better. Forget about me.

  The fourth one was several minutes later, and it was different. The tone, the words. If I had to guess, he had gotten high then texted me again.

  Mommy, I hate it here. I hate myself. I want to die.

  My heart exploded, and I dialed his number as quickly as I could with fumbling fingers. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail. I tried again, then again. No answer.

  I texted him instead.

  Beck, you don’t want to die. You’re high. You can’t trust your thoughts, baby. Please, come home. I’ll help you. We’ll fix everything. I love you. Everyone misses you. You are worthy of help. Please, let me help.

  Please.

  God. My head dropped to the kitchen table, my skin against the wood, and I stared at the grain. If only I had known when he was still home how bad it was. If only I
had paid attention and allowed myself to believe.

  If only.

  If only.

  But ifs didn’t matter now.

  They were useless.

  The only thing that mattered was when.

  When he came home.

  If he came home.

  I cringed. I had to get rid of if from my vocabulary. It didn’t help anything.

  Fuck if.

  twenty-two

  BECK

  ANGEL CREPT BACK INTO THE warehouse through the morning light slanted across the dirty floor.

  When she saw my eyes open, she stopped short.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  She had something in her hands and offered it to me.

  “Breakfast.” She was apologetic. “It’s all I could get.”

  I took the crust of the McMuffin and the partially eaten sausage patty.

  “I’m not really hungry,” I said truthfully.

  “Eat it anyway,” she answered. “You’ll get too skinny if you don’t.”

  “You’re bossy.”

  “Yeah.”

  I couldn’t deny the truth in her logic—I would get too skinny if I didn’t eat. I ate the few mouthfuls, not thinking about (and not caring) whose mouth had been on the sandwich before it was discarded. I didn’t even ask if it came from a trash can.

  “Where are you from?” I asked Angel when I finished.

  She glanced at me, then looked away. “Nowhere.”

  “You’re not really a talker, are you?”

  She smiled ever so slightly.

  “I am. Just not about myself.”

  I examined her again. Her hair was short, really short, and sort of jagged and spiky.

  “Did you cut your hair yourself?”

  “Nah. I went to a spa yesterday and had it done, along with a mani and pedi.”

  “Sarcasm is lazy,” I told her, which was something my mother always told me. “It means you don’t want to go to the trouble of forming a good response.”

  Angel threw her head back and laughed, a barky noise in the cold, empty warehouse.

  “I like you,” she decided, cocking her head. In that position, with her short hair and her skinny arms, she reminded me of a bird with scraggly wings.

  “Thank you?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So, how did you start using?”

  “I borrowed my mom’s Xanax. I was stressed out, and it helped.”

  She nodded, like she totally got it. “Ah, yes. Good ol’ Xanax. It takes the edge off without making you feel like a user. I personally started with Percocet.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know why any of this mattered, but I didn’t ask.

  “Do you ever regret it?” she asked in a small voice. “Starting, I mean?”

  I glanced at her. “Yeah.”

  She nodded because she understood in a way most people wouldn’t. Then she shook her head, like she was shaking all the bad stuff away.

  “We should go get a shower. You smell.”

  I grabbed my bag, a tattered purple velveteen Crown Royal backpack. I’d picked it up outside of a liquor store a few weeks ago, and now it held everything important, everything I have. My ID, my pipe, my spoon, the lucky marble that Devin gave me. I’d never let it out of my sight. It was dumb to keep it, but it was home.

  Together, we stepped over the broken boarded-up side door of the warehouse and made our way down the street to the YMCA. We paused in the parking lot, watching the people go in and out.

  Contrary to popular opinion, the Y didn’t just allow people to come in and use their facilities. You had to be a member, and of course, we weren’t.

  So we waited, our breath puffing in the air like smoke.

  When a particularly large group of people went inside, we slipped in behind them, inconspicuously weaving our way down the yellowed hallway to the locker rooms. I ducked into the men’s while Angel disappeared into the women’s.

  Once inside, I acted like I belonged. I strode toward the showers, grabbing a pool towel on my way. No one even looked twice at me, and I stepped unnoticed inside the tiled stall, hanging my Crown bag on the faucet handle. It might get damp, but at least it wouldn’t get stolen.

  I showered as quickly as I could, although I did allow myself to revel in the hot water for a scant minute, as it thawed my skin and my flesh and my bones. I let the heat go bone-deep, my head bowed, the water beading off my skin and running down my neck.

  God, that felt good.

  It’s amazing the little things that I once took for granted that are really such a pleasure in life. I never would’ve thought of a hot shower as a luxury before. I was low now, and because of that, my emotions swung heavy and hard, razor sharp from the absence of heroin. A wave of sadness swept over me, sadness that I couldn’t control.

  I missed my home. I missed my mom. I missed my life.

  I grabbed my phone, even here under the water, and texted my mom. She deserved to know.

  When I had sent the message, I finished washing off the best I could without soap, scrubbing at my hair and my face with my hands. Plain water was better than no water at all.

  After five minutes or so, I turned off the water and toweled off. I needed to get out before I was detected.

  I put my dirty clothes back on because I didn’t have a choice, but at least my body was clean. I was melancholy and sad, and that’s when I saw it.

  My saving grace.

  Down the bench, just a little ways away, someone had left a duffel bag unattended while he was in the shower. I could see him through the flimsy shower curtain, so I acted fast and didn’t allow myself to feel guilty.

  I rifled through the bag, quickly and efficiently.

  There was a brown wallet at the bottom.

  I pulled it open and found three twenties and two ones.

  I took a twenty and walked away, because Jesus, I couldn’t not.

  When I stepped out into the hall, Angel was already there.

  “God, princess,” she said. “Took you long enough.”

  Her hair was still wet and was plastered to her forehead. It made her look even smaller. Sort of like a drowned rat, but a pretty one.

  She was pretty, in a user kind of way. She would definitely be pretty if she were clean and her cheeks weren’t so hollow.

  I decided I liked her, though. She was like me. She did what she had to do, and she understood the need we both had. I didn’t have to worry about hurting her feelings, or misrepresenting myself. She already knew what my priorities were, because she shared them.

  Commonality was a great thing.

  When we were a block away, I pulled the twenty out of my bag.

  “Look what I got!”

  “Someone left their stuff unattended?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dumbass.”

  “Yeah.”

  I used to feel guilty about this shit. I really did. But now . . . it was like I didn’t have feelings anymore. Or at least, they weren’t vibrant and real like they used to be. They were muted now, dull and cloudy, and in many ways, that was a very good thing.

  “Do you want to eat, or . . .” Her voice trailed off and I knew what she meant, and I knew that it really wasn’t even a question.

  “Or,” I confirmed. “Definitely or.”

  She nodded in satisfaction and we headed to the bridge, to the dirty underpass where the dregs of society lived, where they met, where they dealt.

  We waited on the edge, our feet sinking into the cold mud, until we saw someone who looked like a dealer.

  When he looked over at us, I nodded, and he approached us.

  “Whatchoo got?” he asked, his eyes flitting around the perimeter.

  “Twenty,” Angel told him.

  I wasn’t even nervous anymore. I used to be. I used to be terrified of getting caught. Now it didn’t matter. It was like a broken record, an endless cycle. Get high, crash, get high, crash. Everything in between was mean
ingless. It was almost funny how fast that happened.

  The dealer mumbled something I didn’t understand, took the money, then shoved something into Angel’s hand. The plastic crinkled when she grasped it. The mere sound made my blood pulse in trained response. She shoved it into her pocket and we left without another word.

  “See you soon,” he called after us.

  We knew.

  twenty-three

  NATALIE

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  9:31 A.M.

  I AM NUMB NOW.

  I sit with my feet on the cold floor, my hand intertwined in Beck’s. His IV line is draped over his arm, and I’m careful not to pull on it. He’s got a plastic thing on his finger, a pulse oximeter. The nurses call it a pulse ox. It monitors the amount of oxygen in his bloodstream. I watch the results on the screen, a tiny blinking heart.

  The beeps, though. They’re enough to drive a person insane. Constant and unrelenting.

  The ventilator on the other hand . . . it’s soothing. A rhythmic whoooooosh. In . . . then out . . . One breath in, then out. Another in, then out. It keeps my son alive, bit by bit. I listen to it gratefully. As long as it’s going, my son breathes.

  It’s just me and Elin in here now.

  Sam and Kit are pacing outside, nagging the nurses, harping on the doctors. I’m not going to waste my time with that. My time is better spent in here, with my son. Time is so precious now. I check my watch. It’s been about nine hours since Beck collapsed on my porch.

  The doctors said the first twenty-four hours are the most critical. If he’s going to make it, we’ll know at the end of that period.

  I have fifteen left.

  But then I start to worry . . . Are they really going to bring him out in the middle of the night? What if he’s not ready?

  My heart starts to race, and I can’t think like that.

  We have fifteen hours left.

  That’s what I focus on.

  “His fingers are cold,” Elin says, and she rubs his hand to warm it. I nod because I’d noticed it too. And he’s so very pale but for the dark blue smudges beneath his eyes. “His knuckles are so beat-up. I hope he didn’t damage his hands. I mean, for football next year.”

  I look at her, startled, and find that she’s in denial. She’s so young and innocent, and she wants to focus on what Beck was going to do, not on what’s in front of us now.