Saving Beck

  twenty-nine

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  2:47 P.M.

  “HI, JESSICA,” MY MOM SAYS, greeting someone. Hands poke at me again in that medical way.

  Her voice is soothing and low, her gloved hands cool on my warm skin.

  “I’m just checking his vitals,” Jessica assures my mom.

  My mom grasps my hand now, and I know it’s her because she’s not wearing gloves. The touch is comforting. It makes me feel human.

  “How does his heart sound?” Mom asks anxiously.

  “It sounds good,” Jessica assures her. “It sounds steady.”

  The machines are still beeping and whooshing, so I know I’m okay. For a minute, I wasn’t sure. Everything sped up, and there were lots of voices and hands, and then everything went dark. When I came to, it was quiet again.

  “Everyone is pulling for him,” Jessica says. “So just know that you have a lot of support. I’m here until eleven tonight. But I might stay late . . . if necessary. If you need anything, let me know.”

  If necessary?

  Oh, right.

  They’re going to take me off the machines.

  Will I be ready?

  I don’t know.

  And I’m not afraid, for some reason.

  That, in itself, is a weird feeling because for the last three or four months, I’d been filled with so much anger. From grief and from using. The combination of Xanax, marijuana, heroin . . . all of it. It made my mood volatile.

  It’s nice to get some peace from that.

  Is that what dying is like?

  A descent into peacefulness?

  I can’t say that that would be a bad thing.

  * * *

  ANGEL LEFT HOURS AGO to refill our stash. She should’ve been back by now.

  I wondered for a second if she stopped somewhere and used it all herself.

  But that wouldn’t be like her. She shared her stuff. She played well with others.

  I moved around the warehouse and tried to make it feel like home. I piled empty boxes in different places to form makeshift walls for little living spaces. Our bedroom was smaller than the rest so that hopefully, between the two of us, we could generate some heat. It got cold at night.

  I thought about my room at home, with the big soft bed, the flat-screen television, the privacy. I’d taken it all for granted. But at least I had freedom here. Freedom from the condemning glances and the pity and living under a microscope.

  Freedom from always having to make excuses.

  Here it might be dirty, it might be empty, it might be cold, but I was free.

  I waited more, and I was antsy and my hands were shaking. I needed a hit. I needed it. My nerves were shot; my pulse was thready. My body was craving the toxin that was poisoning me. It was ironic, but I didn’t care.

  I tapped my finger against my leg as I waited and I didn’t know exactly how long it’d been. Time was immeasurable without a watch.

  I got up to pace, and I sat down to twitch, then I got up to pace again.

  That’s when I saw her.

  Through a dirty window, she was slumped into herself, her shoulders curled inward, and she was holding her stomach with one hand and Winston with the other. Her face was bloody.

  I don’t know how I got to her—all I know is the next moment I was by her side, holding her elbow and trying to help.

  “What happened?” I asked, and I saw her eyelid was swollen closed. “Who did this to you?”

  She couldn’t answer that since her lip was puffy and bleeding. All she did was limply hand me the dog. “Is Winston all right?” she asked hoarsely, like she had gravel in her throat. That’s when I noticed the red marks around her trachea. Fingerprints.

  “What the fuck?” I screamed, reaching out to touch them. “Who did this?”

  “Don’t yell. That doesn’t matter. Winston can’t breathe. Check on him.”

  I looked at the dog, and she was right. He was breathing in tiny labored pants, and I took him inside and put him on the ground. I felt around his little body with my hands, and he whimpered when I touched his ribs. I could feel sharp spikes beneath my fingers.

  “I think his ribs are broken,” I said, looking up at Angel. Her eyes were fire, and her tongue was pink.

  “Fuck that asshole,” she spit out and lowered herself carefully to the ground next to Winston. “Poor little baby,” she crooned to the dog. “Poor baby.”

  She didn’t dare pull him into her lap.

  “We have to get him help,” she said wildly, but we didn’t have the money and she knew that.

  I was helpless in this moment, and so was she as we stared down at the little dog.

  Winston whimpered now, a little yelp, and he stared up at me, begging me for help with his coal-black eyes.

  “Who did this?” I asked one last time. Angel glanced at me.

  “The fucking dealer. He kicked Winston for no reason and then he beat the shit out of me when I tried to stop him.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said, and I leapt to my feet. I ignored Angel’s cries of protest, and I headed for the bridge.

  Fuck that guy.

  Who the fuck did he think he was?

  I saw him from across the street before he saw me. I headed straight for him, taking long steps, and I didn’t hesitate.

  I grabbed him by the throat, in the same way he must’ve grabbed Angel.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he tried to say, and he struggled, but I was furious, so I was stronger. “What the fuck?”

  “You left a mark on my friend and my dog,” I said, and the words were like venom between my teeth. “You’re a fucking prick.”

  I slammed his head against the bridge, his skull a ripe watermelon against the stone. Addicts looked up from their trash can fires and makeshift beds, but no one came to his aid. They were all interested, but not concerned.

  “You fucking prick,” I said again. I pounded my knuckles into his nose and I didn’t feel it as my fists said more than my words ever could. My rage was red, my vision was blurred, and I didn’t know how long I beat him. I only knew that when I was done, he was limp and he was bloody, and my knuckles were mush.

  “Fuck you, dude,” I told him again, and I kicked him hard in the ribs, once, twice, three times. “That’s for Winston.”

  Winston.

  He needed help.

  I knelt and took everything I could from this asshole’s pockets. A wad of cash and tiny baggies full of drugs. His eyes glazed over and he struggled just a bit more.

  “Don’t be dumb,” he cautioned me.

  “Fuck you.”

  “My name is Pete. Remember that,” he said as the blood filled up his teeth.

  I paused. “I won’t.”

  “Yes,” he gurgled. “You will.”

  I strode away and no one tried to stop me. But they’d all seen my face, and I could never go back to that bridge.

  I hurried back to the warehouse, and when I arrived, I was almost afraid to go inside. If Winston had died, Angel would be inconsolable. But I pushed through the door, and she looked up at me, her eyes red.

  I lifted my eyebrows, and she nodded.

  “He’s still alive.”

  I picked him up and went outside. Angel limped behind me.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, and her eyes grazed over my knuckles. “What did you do?”

  “We’re finding a vet,” I said simply. I walked straight to the nearest convenience store and asked the clerk for a phone book. My hands were bloody, but she gave it to me anyway, and I rested Winston on the counter as I looked. He whined but didn’t lift his head.

  “Three blocks away,” I told Angel. “Can you make it?”

  She nodded and I carried Winston and we looked pathetic as we walked the three longest blocks of our lives.

  The lady behind the counter looked up when we came in, then she stood, her eyes on our dog.

  “What happened?” she asked, coming around from
the back. She stretched her arms out for Winston and I handed him over. He didn’t open his eyes.

  “He got kicked,” I told her.

  “A lot,” Angel added. “Hard.”

  “Can you help?” I asked, and produced a fistful of cash. “We can pay.”

  Angel’s eyes got wide, but she didn’t say anything and the woman didn’t even look.

  “I’ll take him straight back. You can wait out here.”

  She disappeared with Winston, and Angel and I sat in the empty waiting room where it smelled like dog food.

  I was unable to sit still. I felt ants on me, only there weren’t any. It was my imagination, and I scratched at my arm. It was the effects of coming down, of craving hard, of wanting what I couldn’t have right now, of knowing that I had what I needed in my pocket.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Angel, and her face was more swollen than ever.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine.”

  “We should get you some ice,” I told her, and the woman was coming back around the corner so I asked for some.

  “Of course,” she said, and disappeared again. She came back a minute later with an ice pack.

  “Here, honey.” She pressed it to Angel’s face. “Use this. Can you come with me into the back and we can clean you up?”

  Angel had dried blood all over her face, and she tried to say no but I urged her to go. Finally, she nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  When they were gone, I was alone. I waited, and I tapped my foot on the floor, taptaptap. And when they didn’t emerge, I went into the bathroom. It was right off the waiting room, and I assumed it was for customers.

  I was a customer.

  Once in there, behind the locked door, I took out the baggies and found pills among the rocks and lumps. I didn’t know what they were, but anything would help. I took several and the room started to waver in and out, the shapes outlined by brighter lights than normal. I saw spots and lines where there shouldn’t be, but the shaking in my hands stopped. The ants stopped crawling up my legs.

  I sighed a breath of relief and stuffed the baggies back into my pocket.

  I went back out and sat down, and I leaned my head back.

  I closed my eyes and I waited.

  They came out eventually, and Angel was cleaned up now, and she had a beatific smile on her face.

  “He’s going to be okay,” she told me happily. “Winston. He’s okay.”

  I looked at the lady, and she nodded. “The vet is taping him up now. His ribs are broken, but they aren’t penetrating any organs or his lungs. He’ll need to be sedated and kept still, but he’s fine.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, although I didn’t know why. He was Angel’s dog, not mine. But he was small and he was sort of under my protection, so I was glad he was okay.

  “Thank you so much,” she told the lady. “Thank you. He means the world to me.”

  The lady dug in her purse and handed us a bottle of ibuprofen. “Take that,” she told Angel. “Since you can’t go to the doctor. It’ll help.”

  “Thank you.”

  I got up to pay and she only charged me fifty dollars.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, because I thought it would be more.

  “Absolutely. I’m going to get the bottle of sedatives for Winston, and then he’ll be out shortly.”

  She left again, and I counted the rest of the money. There was $185 in my hand. Angel’s eyes narrowed.

  “Where did you get that?” She was suspicious, and she eyed my knuckles again. “Did you go see the dealer?”

  “His name is Pete,” I told her in answer. “And we can’t go to the bridge anymore.”

  “Did he pay for what he did to Winston?” Angel asked, and there was hope gleaming in her eyes.

  I nodded. “And for what he did to you.”

  Angel laid her head on my shoulder and her hand slipped into mine. We waited and waited, and finally the lady came back out with Winston.

  She put him, all taped up, in my arms.

  “Here are the sedatives,” she said. “Make sure to give them to him, per the instructions on the bottle.”

  “Thank you,” Angel said, and her eyes welled up, and the lady hugged her, carefully.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said, and her eyes were kind. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  We waited.

  “Those aren’t for human consumption,” she said. “The pills.”

  Angel’s cheeks flared red, and the lady was uncomfortable.

  I nodded and we left.

  Angel didn’t say a word as we walked, even though her hands were clenched into fists. It was humiliating; it was degrading.

  But the lady wasn’t rude. She was matter-of-fact. Medical.

  We were users, and it was obvious, and there was nothing else to say about that.

  We walked slowly back down the three long city blocks, waiting at each pedestrian light. The cold licked at our faces, and Angel’s nose turned red.

  “Is it safe to go back to the warehouse?” she asked, and even through her swollen cheeks, I could see the circles under her eyes.

  “I think so,” I said. “They don’t know where we live.”

  “Okay.” She trusted me. If I said something, she took it as the truth, and after months of having my mom doubt me, that was a good feeling.

  When Winston was laid down on the floor in front of a small trash can fire, Angel turned to me.

  “Is money the only thing you got from him?”

  I knew what she was asking. I shook my head and pulled out the baggies.

  Angel’s eyes widened again, because it was a lot.

  I kept out a rock of heroin and put the rest of it in my purple bag.

  We sat on the dirty floor and shot up the H, and in a few minutes, it took all of our pain. We floated on a sea of tranquility and darkness, and nothing mattered but this.

  thirty

  BECK

  MERCY HOSPITAL

  4:28 P.M.

  THE BIRDS ARE SITTING ON the windowsill now, watching me. One cocks its head, another caws, and then they all fly off in a mass flutter of wings.

  I startle awake at the beeping of my machines.

  Fuck.

  I’d been asleep again, and the birds were back.

  What the hell is the deal with those birds?

  I’m quickly distracted, though, because someone is stroking my hand, and the perfume is Elin’s.

  “Beck,” she murmurs. “Come back to me. Please.”

  I want to tell her to run away from me, that I’m messed up and not worth her time. But I know she’d roll her eyes and tell me I’m worth everything, that she loves me no matter what.

  She used to be the only thing I thought of. She was the first thing on my mind in the morning and the last thing on it at night. But that was then.

  Now I have a tube down my throat, pinching the sides of my mouth, and she’s in the chair next to me, whispering words she doesn’t think I can hear.

  I don’t deserve her.

  I wish she’d just realize it.

  * * *

  ANGEL SAT IN THE wintry sun, waiting for me to wake. I knew this was true because she was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes, once the blurriness faded and I could focus.

  “How long have I been sleeping?” I mumbled. It was daylight, so it was hard to say.

  “A day, I think,” she answered. Winston was in her lap and he stared at me soulfully. “Maybe two. I don’t really know.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked as I sat up. Her face was heavily bruised and still swollen, and she looked like a bus had smashed into her.

  “Eh,” she said, waving off my concern. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Yeah?” Someone had beat her worse than this?

  She shrugged. “Don’t be a drama queen.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked, and I tried to be casual as I rubbed my eyes.

  “Not here,” she
answered, and she was evasive and it was annoying.

  “Angel, seriously. I want to know about you.”

  She groaned. “Fine. Here’s something. I’m an only child, thank God,” she said. “So I’m the only opportunity they had to fuck up.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “But I’m not that fucked up,” she argued in defense, and I nodded at that too.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Well, which is it?” she demanded. “Am I fucked up or not?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “Sometimes it seems like it, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “Well, you’re not perfect either,” she said pluckily, and I wondered how I managed to insult her when all I was trying to do was agree.

  “I know,” I said, nodding. “Far from it, actually.”

  “That’s probably why we get along.”

  Maybe, although I doubt she’d done anything wrong. Her name might be Angel, and she might not be one, but from what I’d seen, she was a pretty damn good person. Only good people rescued dogs.

  “My parents aren’t in my life,” she said eventually. “My father left when I was a baby. My mom kicked me out last year. Her boyfriend hated me.”

  She fidgeted now, twirling the hair on Winston’s chin, and it seemed like she was waiting for me to judge her on something that wasn’t her fault.

  “She chose him over you?”

  “Yes.”

  I was appalled and didn’t even know what to say. Angel shook her head and waved her hand.

  “It’s okay, King. It makes my life easier. All I have to worry about is myself and Winston now. And you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I like taking care of you,” she admitted like it was a deep, dark secret. But it made me feel a little sick, down in the pit of my belly.

  “Don’t,” I told her. “Don’t get attached to me. Trust me, I’m not good for anyone.”

  “Yes, you are,” she argued, but I held up my hand.

  “I’m not. End of conversation.”

  “Whatever, King.”

  “Have you finished high school?” I asked, and I knew I was pressing my luck now.

  “No. I’m close, though. I could finish in a semester.”