Chapter 22 Beck
BECK
The hospital comes into view before I’m ready for it.
White walls, flat roofs, manicured shrubs out front—everything neat and sterile in a way that makes my chest tighten. I ease my truck into the same visitor lot I used to pull into years ago, killing the engine as the afternoon sun bounces off the windshield.
My palms are slick against the steering wheel. I wipe them on my jeans, but it doesn’t help.
It’s been almost three years since the last time I was here. Since the last time I walked through those doors and saw her. Since everything went sideways.
The last visit ended badly—worse than any of the others before it. She’d been having a rough episode, and nothing I said could reach her. She didn’t recognize me at first. And when she did, that was almost worse.
I stare at the building, the muted blue letters spelling out the name of the psychiatric facility where my mom has lived for the past twelve years. Twelve years. More than half my life.
For a long time, I used to come every other month. It was hard, but it was manageable because I wasn’t alone. Angela used to come with me.
My chest twinges at the thought of her, and not in a good way.
Back then, before everything fell apart, she knew me better than anyone.
She understood what it felt like to grow up in a house full of chaos you couldn’t control.
She didn’t flinch when I told her the truth about my mom, and she was the one who sat next to me in these waiting rooms, squeezing my hand when I couldn’t breathe.
But that was before she started pulling away our senior year of high school. Before I started recognizing pieces of her I didn’t know. Before she turned into a stranger—and then, eventually, someone who cheated.
I grip the steering wheel again, knuckles whitening.
I don’t even know why I came today. I told myself it was because of the project. That if I’m going to present on schizophrenia, I need to face this part of my life instead of continuing to bury it.
But sitting here now, the truth settles in like an elephant on my chest.
I came because I miss her. Not the woman she is now, though I love her just the same, but the woman she was before the illness took everything from both of us. All of us.
And maybe, somewhere deep down, I’m hoping this time will be different, even though I know the chances of that are slim.
I force myself to open the door before I can talk myself out of it. The air outside is warm, but my hands are cold as I shove them into the front pocket of my hoodie and head toward the entrance.
The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss, and I’m hit with the familiar mix of disinfectant and something faintly floral—like the building is trying too hard to mask what it really is.
The reception area looks exactly the same. Pale blue walls. Neutral artwork that probably hasn’t changed in over a decade. A woman at the front desk gives me a polite, practiced smile.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m here to see Lynn Harrison.”
“Name?” she asks, fingers poised over the keyboard.
“Beck Harrison. I’m her son.”
She nods, typing quickly. “She’s in the rec room right now. You remember the sign-in process?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
I fill out the visitor form automatically, the motions burned into my memory even after all this time. She clips a visitor badge to my hoodie and gives me the same gentle, well-meaning smile I used to hate as a kid.
“She’ll be glad to see you,” the receptionist says softly.
I don’t know if that’s true anymore.
As I make my way down the hall toward the double doors that separate the visiting area from the residential wing, my chest tightens.
Lynn Harrison. My mom.
Before the illness, she was the brightest part of any room.
She used to sing while she cooked, spin me around the kitchen until we were both laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.
She’d tape my drawings on the fridge like they were masterpieces.
She was patient when I fumbled over homework, comforting when I got scared of thunderstorms, and the first one in the stands at every little league game—rain or shine.
Always smiling.
Until she wasn’t.
I can still pinpoint the shift like a crack in glass. First, little things—her forgetting appointments, misplacing objects, staying up all night convinced someone was outside the house. Then bigger things—paranoia, delusions, nights where her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore.
By the time the diagnosis came, I was old enough to understand that something irreversible had happened. And even now, twelve years later, walking down this hallway makes me feel like that scared kid again, hoping today will be one of her good days.
I pause at the end of the corridor, staring at the heavy doors leading into the common area.
One deep breath. Then another.
And I push them open.
The doors swing open into the rec room, sunlight spilling through wide windows onto mismatched couches and tables. A handful of residents are scattered around—some playing cards, others watching a muted TV.
And then I see her.
She’s sitting near the window, hair streaked with more gray than the last time I visited, but her posture is straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. When her eyes lift and meet mine, I freeze.
Because for a second, she looks…like Mom.
Her whole face lights up. “Beckett?”
My throat closes. “Hey, Mom.”
She stands, and I cross the room quickly, folding her into a hug before I can second-guess it. She feels smaller than I remember, but the way her arms tighten around me nearly knocks the air from my lungs with emotion.
“It’s really you,” she says, pulling back to study my face. “You look so grown up. Taller, broader…just like your father.”
I laugh softly, though it catches in my throat. “It’s been a while.”
She tuts, squeezing my hand as we sit together by the window. “Too long. You’re still playing football?”
“Yeah,” I say, managing a smile. “Senior year.”
Her eyes glisten with pride, the kind I used to see every Friday night under stadium lights when she sat in the stands.
For the next half hour, it feels almost normal.
She asks about school, my siblings, whether I’m eating enough.
I tell her about Alyssa bossing me around, and Joey following me with a football.
She laughs, the sound so familiar it hurts.
I don’t realize how much time has passed until a nurse approaches, voice gentle. “Lynn, it’s almost dinner. Let’s wrap up for today.”
Her smile falters, but she nods obediently. “Of course.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to stand. “I’ll come back soon,” I promise.
She squeezes my hand once more, her eyes soft. “You better. Don’t leave me waiting another three years, Beckett.”
The words hit harder than I expect, but I force a smile, pressing a kiss to her temple before stepping back.
As I walk out, my chest aches with a mix of relief and grief. Because for thirty minutes, I had my mom back. Those moments are rare and never guaranteed.
But now she’s gone again.
By Thursday afternoon, the rhythm of campus life has pulled me back in whether I want it to or not.
Sophie had been running a few minutes late to psych yesterday, and I was grateful for it.
I’d needed that buffer—time to get my head on straight before facing her.
Professor Nelson spent most of the class lecturing on dissociative disorders—dense enough material to keep everyone’s attention and, thankfully, far enough from our project topic that I could keep my walls up without drawing hers in.
Now it’s just me, Logan, and the clang of iron.
Music’s pounding from the speakers overhead while Logan’s spotting me as I rack the bar after my last set, sweat sliding down my spine. My muscles burn in that good, head clearing way.
It’s the first time in over a week that my body feels like it’s firing on all cylinders again. No lingering brain fog. No nausea. Just strength.
“You’re finally not lifting like a grandma,” Logan says, smirking as he steps back.
I grab my water bottle and take a long drink. “Yeah, well, being poisoned will slow a guy down.”
He barks a laugh. “You and your gluten thing, man. Still can’t believe how bad that messes you up.”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, wiping my face with a towel. “Me too.”
We move through the rest of the workout together, trading sets and occasional trash talk. Logan’s always been good at filling the silence, which works out fine because I’m not exactly eager to dig into my head right now.
By the time we finish, my muscles are wrecked in the best way. I roll my shoulders as we walk toward the exit, the late-afternoon sun spilling through the glass doors.
Logan pushes the door open with his shoulder, and we step into the hallway.
“So,” he says, slinging his towel around his neck. “Are you ever going to decide about the draft, or you just gonna keep pretending it’s not coming?”
I let out a slow breath. “You always this subtle?”
He smirks. “I try.”
“I’ve got time,” I say, even though I know how weak it sounds.
He gives me a look but lets it slide, taking a long drink from the water fountain. When he straightens, his grin sharpens in that way that always means trouble. “All right, fine. Let’s talk about something else. I heard a very interesting rumor.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Something about you and a certain blonde cheerleader.”
I groan. “Logan.”
He laughs, leaning against the wall. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.
People like to talk, especially pretty ones.
Word is you two are more than friends. Showing up to class together.
Walking across campus like a couple. Sophie hanging around your truck after practice.
” He raises his brows. “You gonna tell me there’s nothing going on? ”
“There’s nothing going on,” I say flatly.
“Uh-huh.”
I give him a look. “I’m serious. It’s just fake dating. She needed Zach off her back, and I offered to help. That’s it.”
His grin doesn’t fade. “Sure. Totally normal to fake date someone you walk across campus with every day.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing my bag from the bench. “You done?”
“For now,” he says, still grinning as we head toward the locker room. “But if this turns into a rom-com, I want royalties.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the faint smile tugging at my mouth.
Logan bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “For the record,” he says, tone a little less teasing now, “I don’t think Sophie’s the type to mess with your head. She seems like a sweet girl.”
I glance at him, surprised at the shift.
He shrugs, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I’m just saying—don’t keep the walls up so high that you miss something good. Not every girl’s like Angela, man. Maybe it wouldn’t kill you to get back out there, eventually.”
I tighten my grip on the strap. “You sound like Caroline.”
“Yeah, well, she’s usually right.” He shoots me a grin. “Think about it. Sophie’s smart, she’s easy to talk to, and you clearly trust her enough to fake date. That’s not nothing.”
I let the silence stretch as we walk up the steps toward the locker room. He doesn’t push further, just lets the words hang there like he always does when he knows I need time to chew on something.
But even after we take our seats and the first clips start rolling, his words stick.