Chapter 10 Beck
Beck
Late Thursday night, reunion weekend
When they were teenagers and had sleepovers at Bitter Creek Farm, they all used to sleep in Audrey’s big, sunny bedroom, spreading blankets and pillows and a futon mattress on the floor.
Who wanted to be in a guest room if it meant missing late-night laughs and conversations?
Stephen would wander in and join in a game (he was always Team Audrey), and they’d tease him and ask him about school and his clubs and friends.
Tonight, Beck is grateful they all have their own rooms. Her leg is throbbing.
Her heart and head, too. She sets Mr. Littlejeans down and closes the door, then tosses back four Motrin—she never leaves home without a bottle.
Her cat jumps up on the bed and curls all seventeen pounds of himself in the exact center of the mattress.
The room is not one Beck remembers clearly.
Must’ve been redone. It’s pretty and comfortable, the queen-size bed covered by a homemade quilt.
Heavy curtains to block out the morning light, a black-and-white photo of the horses grazing in the field.
An oil painting of a street, possibly in Savannah, judging by the live oaks intertwining above the elegant buildings.
Beck’s been there a few times. Was Audrey in the same town at the same time?
For a second, she imagines an alternate world where she’d have texted Audrey and they would have met for a drink and caught up.
That’s the worst thing about time. You never get it back.
She unpacks her clothes and goes into the bathroom, which is appointed with fluffy blue towels and a set of Molton Brown toiletries, the same stuff used by some of the higher-end hotels Beck has stayed at over the years.
A candle with flowers pressed into the wax sits on the quartz vanity, along with a small vase of flowers and fresh rosemary.
Beck wonders whether it’s all for them, the Core Four, or if this is just how Audrey lives.
Thoughtfully, making things lovely, personal touches and pretty things. She guesses it’s the latter.
She takes a hot shower, spending a few minutes directing the pulsating spray at the ten-inch scar on her upper leg.
Then she gets into her pajamas and sits on the bed.
Mr. Littlejeans makes a rusty noise to express his displeasure at being disturbed, and Beck scoops him up against her cheek, so glad she brought him.
She didn’t actually contact a pet-sitter.
She thought she’d need a little emotional support this weekend, and she was right.
Audrey will be dead soon. And while Beck has lived more than half her life without her, she’s suddenly sobbing.
Mr. Littlejeans wriggles out of her arms, distressed, and begins licking his crotch to console himself.
Beck grabs a pillow and presses it against her face.
Funny, sweet, kindhearted Audrey, dying of dementia in her forties.
Dementia! Just . . . no. No. That’s not acceptable.
And God, the poor girl (woman, Beck corrects herself) hasn’t exactly won the life lotto, has she?
The death of her beloved mom, a tepid marriage, a shitty relationship with her stepdaughter.
Loneliness had seeped through Audrey’s words.
What if Beck had tried harder to stay in touch, to cross the giant chasm the accident had caused? Why didn’t she?
The answer is because she was in mourning herself.
Mourning for the future she never got to have, the joy of the sport that was a vital, inseparable part of her life.
Basketball helped her fit in at every military base, in every country she’d lived in.
Being on the court meant she knew exactly what she was doing and who she was.
The ease with which it came to her—shooting, pivoting, blocking, dribbling—was like flying.
It wasn’t just the lost scholarship or not playing for a Division 1 school.
Basketball was who she was. In the twenty-five years since the accident, no amount of physical therapy or yoga or acupuncture or meditation or narcotics has been able to give her back her sport.
Pain has replaced athleticism, a dull ache on a normal day, a white-hot burn if she overdoes it.
They all lost their innocence in some way that night. They lost Dr. Kate, and they lost each other, too.
And now, Audrey is looking at the end of her life. At ending her life. Soon.
Jasmine had a point—life doesn’t have to stay the same to be meaningful. But neither would Beck want to be in Audrey’s shoes. She’d probably opt for the same thing.
She wonders how Stephen is taking all this.
When she first got Audrey’s email, her initial reaction was to say no. And then, just hours later, she got another email from Audrey’s brother.
It would mean so much to Audrey if you could make it. Your decision, of course, but she really wants to see all three of you.
They all had a soft spot for Stephen. Especially her. How like him to back up his sister without revealing anything about her disease. No surprise there. The bond between those two has always been like iron. She couldn’t say no to that email.
Sleep isn’t going to come anytime soon. Maybe she’ll go back downstairs and take a more thorough look around the house where she once spent so much time. Mr. Littlejeans is now curled up on a pillow, snoring quietly.
Beck walks down the hall and down the stairs, her right leg stiff but not as sore, now that the Motrin’s kicked in.
Family photos line the walls—Dr. Kate and Mr. Porter on their wedding day, Audrey and Clay on theirs.
Mathilda; Mathilda and Clay. Stephen and Audrey as kids, arms around each other, in a tree, at the beach, on Christmas morning.
Audrey as a baby, Audrey on a horse wearing the stretchy pants and black helmet rich girls wore for riding.
Stephen holding up an award for winning a spelling bee, his two front teeth missing.
Stephen’s mom and Dr. Kate hugging at their college graduation.
Poor Stephen. His first mom died when he was in kindergarten, his second when he was sixteen. And now, his sister. Beck swallows more tears.
But despite the sadness of Audrey’s diagnosis, the house still emanates that magical feeling of safety, welcome and happiness.
It’s the comfy kind of upscale. So much of it is the same as it always was.
The wide oak floors, the beams that run across the ceiling, the coffered panels along the hallway, the Persian rugs.
Tasteful, warm, homey. Love is infused into these walls.
She hears murmurs in the family room and goes in. Jasmine and Micah are on opposite ends of the large leather couch. “Hey. Can I join you guys?” Beck asks.
“Absolutely. We’re hitting the hard stuff,” Micah says, holding up a tumbler.
“I’m drinking bourbon, Jasmine has a gin and tonic.
What can we get you? Jasmine brought all the booze, so we’re not raiding the Porters’ stuff.
Or the Joyces’, I guess.” At Beck’s blank look, she adds, “Audrey’s married name. ”
“I’ll have a G&T,” Beck says. “But I can make it.”
“No,” Jasmine says. “I’ve got it. You sit and rest your leg.”
Had she been limping? Either way, it’s kind of Jasmine to offer. Beck sinks into a soft green easy chair across from Micah. “You look good,” she says.
“Ah. Twenty pounds heavier, gray in my hair.”
Beck, used to dealing with the insecurities of actors, starts in with the No, no, you look amazing but then stops herself. She isn’t working now. She might never work again.
Jasmine comes back with the drink, complete with a lime wedge. “Micah and I have been crying our eyes out,” she admits.
“Same here.” Beck takes a sip of the drink. Good gin. “Thanks, Jasmine.”
They sit there a moment in the quiet. The dog went upstairs with Audrey. “So,” Beck says, “you guys are both moms. How many kids do you have, again?”
“Just the one,” Micah says. “Logan.”
“Cool name.”
“Thanks. James picked it.” Micah looks down at her drink and takes another sip.
“Amazing that you’re still together after all these years,” Jasmine says.
“Mm,” Micah says. “How about you, Jasmine? Three girls, you said?”
“Yes,” Jasmine says. “Three beautiful girls. I can bore you with pictures if you want.”
“That’s okay,” Micah says. “I won’t bore you with any, either.”
“You and Oscar good?” Beck asks.
“Oh, yes! Of course! We are.” She looks out the window into the blackness. “Very blessed.” Now that’s unconvincing.
“I hate that word,” Micah says. “So overused.” Clearly, this drink is not her first.
“Agreed,” Beck says. “But that’s great, Jasmine.”
“Tell us about your work,” Jasmine says brightly. “It sounds fascinating.”
Beck rolls her neck, hearing it crack. “It is. I’m also blessed,” she says with a half smile.
“Some of my clients have won Oscars and Emmys. I make a good living, have a ton of friends, and I love the city. It’s all good.
” Sure, she has good friends. Like, three—possibly four—and they all work in the business.
But she wouldn’t confide in them about, say, a fight with her mother.
“Tell us about how blessed you are, Micah.”
“Well, James and I got married about six years after Logan was born. We renovated a house on Elm Street. The hoarder’s house?
The one across from the McInernys? Anyway, we’re really good, really solid.
Logan is great. And while I didn’t plan on working in the family business, I really like it. ” She smiles hard.
So they’re all lying a little, Beck thinks.
She stands up and goes to the windows to stretch her leg.
The train ride caused it to stiffen considerably.
She gazes at the sky. It’s so clear here, no light pollution, and the Milky Way flows across the sky like a glittering river.
She hasn’t seen this many stars in years.