365 Days Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
365 Days
Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
On a frigid morning in November, I wake to find that a pit has opened inside me.
I endure a shower. I leave my hair down to veil my face. I dress in dark jeans and a black sweater, modern teen meets Victorian widow. And, because I’m a masochist, I open my jewelry box and take out my most treasured possession, a ring with two stones, an aquamarine and a sapphire. I stopped wearing it after Beck’s wake; its pair of gems made me feel more alone than ever.
Today I need it with me.
I find Mom and Dad in the kitchen with Major, who’s already inhaled breakfast and sits before his bowl, wishing for more. As I pass, he lovingly snuffles my hand. A hot cocoa sits on the counter in a to-go cup, along with a chocolate croissant peeking out of a paper bag. A special breakfast, just for me. Dad’s wearing a fleece pullover and the ratty Sambas he’s had since college, so he must’ve ventured out to pick it up. Mom leaves her chair, abandoning a mug half-filled with tea, and comes toward me. She opens her arms, zombielike, expecting a hug. I duck away. Her face crumples and I’m sorry about that, but I want to be left alone.
“I’ve got to get to school,” I say in explanation.
She and I’ve barely spoken over the last couple months. I haven’t said anything about texting Bernie, about Friday Night Lights , though I’m sure Bernie told her we’re in contact. I wonder if Mom’s envious or sad, and then I decide it doesn’t matter— can’t matter.
Somehow it’s easier with Bernie.
Piercing me with a displeased look, Dad pulls Mom into an embrace.
She dissolves into silent tears.
Major lets out a long, low whine.
This is unbearable , I tell Beck.
I pull my backpack off its hook, take my keys from the counter, and my jacket from the closet. I put my hand on the door to the garage. I’ve nearly escaped when Dad says my name.
I expect him to attempt wisdom, to preach something profound. He’s used to sharing words of strength and stoicism. Instead, gravely, he says, “Don’t forget your breakfast.”
I pick up the cocoa and croissant, then leave.
Outside it’s dark and very cold. The most stubborn stars dot the sky although, distantly, the promise of daybreak smolders. I lean inside my car to turn over its engine, then crank the heat before walking down the driveway to dump my breakfast, untasted, in the trash bin at the curb.
There’s no way I can eat—not today.
Stalwart and effervescent, Beckett Byrne vibrated with life.
One year ago, he died alone, seized by a heart attack.
James, his roommate, found him.
God, poor James.
Bursting into their room, he was ready to drag Beck out for a night of boozing before they headed to their respective homes for Thanksgiving. He came in shouting, banging desks and bookshelves, carrying on like a fool.
Most of the time, Beck cracked up at James’s antics.
On November 22nd, he didn’t move.
James described that afternoon to me months later because I reached out to him, begging for details, sure they’d be cathartic. It was the unknowing that tormented me—at least, that’s what I thought. In fact, it was the loss, the utter senselessness of a boy snuffed out so early in his existence.
That, and the missing.
James indulged me, recounting a scene that features prominently in my nightmares still.
Beck was on his bed.
His eyes were closed.
He had one arm at his side, one crooked behind his head.
His desk looked as if he had every intention of waking up and carrying on. His textbooks were neatly stacked, bearing a rainbow of Post-it flags. His wallet rested next to his key ring. His phone was connected to its charger. I learned later that his laptop had been open to his email; he’d recently received a delivery notification for artisan ice cream he’d had shipped to Rosebell.
“I thought he was sleeping,” James told me, choking on tears.
He bumped Beck’s shoulder. Shook him hard. Went into the hallway and screamed for the RA. Called 911 as the RA performed CPR. Threw up in a wastebasket as seconds became minutes, as minutes became an eternity, as panic erupted, volcano-like, in his chest.
In Beck’s chest, all was still.