Chapter 16 Beck
Beck
After the accident
Mercifully, Beck didn’t have too many clear memories of the accident. The cracking and crunching and Christina Aguilera. Screams (her own). Audrey’s weirdly calm voice. Blue and red lights. The warm blood gushing from her mangled leg.
And pain. Pain clamping on to her like a spring-loaded bear trap, like medieval torture. Coming to, screaming before she was fully conscious. The white nothingness of anesthesia.
Later, there were loud noises and tinny voices, pain so alive and searing she thought someone was tearing off her leg.
A hospital room, then another hospital room, with maybe a helicopter in between.
Doctors and nurses coming and going, talking to her.
She remembered drooling, vomiting and whimpering for help from the pain.
She had dreams that were indiscernible from reality, because reality was a nightmare now.
A shot into the IV bag made her float above the pain, looking down at herself, not sure whether she still had two legs.
When she woke up for real, her mother was sitting by the bed. Beck was unsure of where she was, what day it was and why she was lying in a strange bed.
“You were in an accident,” her mom said in her straightforward, military way.
“You broke your femur in two places, dislocated your hip and tore your femoral artery. You lost a lot of blood and have had a few transfusions, so you’ll be okay.
You’ve already had two surgeries, and I’m sorry to say, you’ll have to have more. ”
No My poor baby, thank God you’re okay, I’m here. Not for Sergeant Major Tammy Morrow, combat veteran. “You’re recovering, but it will take some time.” Her mom paused. “Beck, I’m sorry to tell you that Dr. Kate died. She was in the other car.”
“What?” Beck whispered, her lips dry. Her head fell back against the pillow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know you were fond of her.”
Dr. Kate was dead? How? Why was she on the road that night? Oh, poor Audrey. Poor Stephen. And fond of her? Beck, like the rest of them, revered Dr. Kate.
“Can I get out for the funeral?” Beck asked, tears leaking into her hair.
“It was five days ago,” her mom said. “You’ve been in and out about a week and a half, but you wouldn’t have been able to go, anyway. You’re at Mass General, and walking is out of the question for a while. But you’re going to be fine.”
Walking was out? Fine? The funeral had already happened?
Beck began to sob in earnest. Dr. Kate, gone. It couldn’t be true. A nurse came in, injected something into her IV bag, and Beck’s eyes instantly closed. When she woke up, her mom was gathering up her stuff.
“I’ll be back in a day or so, but I do have work. I’ve been here since you were admitted. Besides, I’m not doing you any good by just sitting here, am I?” she said, patting Beck’s good leg.
Dr. Kate. How would the family get by without her?
How was Audrey? Stephen? How would the town cope?
Beck called the house, but when Mr. Porter picked up the phone and said hello, his voice barely a whisper, her throat had clamped shut, and she hung up.
She asked a nurse to bring her a card and later couldn’t remember if she’d signed it or sent it.
The pain was the only thing that was real, gnashing at her with serrated steel teeth, so huge it made her hearing shut down.
Sweat poured from her body, dampening her hair.
She tried not to look at her leg, which was wrapped in bandages, giant metal pins sticking out from everywhere, a metal brace keeping her still.
This was her life now. The pain was a living creature, cruel and relentless, becoming resistant to the highest doses of analgesics.
She couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to eat.
She got another infection, had another surgery.
She had compartment syndrome. Another surgery.
She had a hip replacement. She was eighteen years old, and she’d had a hip replacement.
A fat embolism, whatever that was. A debridement, which was Satan’s favorite.
Coach came to visit, bringing homemade cookies.
“I’m so sorry, Beck,” she said. “But if anyone can handle this, it’s you.
” Coach said the team would visit later that summer, which sent a cold river of fear through Beck.
She’d still be here later this summer? Ché Anderson came by, but she was groggy and only remembered that he’d cried.
The Core Four did not come. Then again, Dr. Kate was dead. But still. She’d have thought Micah and Jasmine might call. And maybe . . . maybe Stephen. That wasn’t fair, though. He was only sixteen. For the second time in his life, he’d lost his mom.
Was the accident her fault? She had a flash of memory—her, holding the hairbrush in front of Jasmine’s face.
Did they think it was her fault and that’s why no one had called?
Then again, wasn’t her leg a big enough price to pay?
Wait. Had she told Audrey not to call her parents for a ride?
Shit! Had she? The memories were jumbled.
“So listen,” Mom said, some number of days or weeks after the crash. Time had no meaning. “About UCONN. Since you hadn’t started there yet, they’re within their rights to cancel your scholarship.”
Beck felt suddenly ice cold. “Did they?” she whispered.
Mom finally looked sympathetic. “They did. I’m sorry. But you’re free to try out again after you’re fully healed.”
With a nine-inch titanium rod, two plates, thirteen screws and an artificial hip now part of her anatomy, Beck knew that fully healed was not a real option. Her femur had broken just below the hip and again closer to the knee. The soft tissue damage had been extensive.
She wouldn’t play college basketball. Her future was over before it even started. No stadium full of screaming fans. No WNBA draft. Would she even be able to walk again? If so, would she ever walk without pain?
“I’m afraid I have to get back,” her mom said. “I’ll come down again on the weekend.” Mom was leaving? After dropping that bomb and annihilating Beck’s future? Yes. She was.
If Dr. Kate hadn’t been dead, she would have visited and hugged Beck and cried for the loss of her dreams. She would’ve brought Ben & Jerry’s and flowers and a soft pillow.
If Dr. Kate hadn’t died, the other three girls would be here in her room right now, the Porters paying for a hotel room so the girls could be close by.
Stephen would probably visit, too, and they’d all hang out, and she’d feel so much better.
Jasmine called after a month. Too late, in other words. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“Shitty. My leg is shattered, more or less. I’m in agony. I lost my scholarship because of this.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Beck.” Her voice was defensive. “I am. But I wasn’t supposed to drive that night. Everyone knew I didn’t know how to drive a stick. If Micah hadn’t been drunk and Audrey hadn’t been high and maybe if you hadn’t been singing at the top of your lungs—”
Beck hung up on her.
She didn’t hear from Micah. She figured it was clear to everyone that Micah was the one most at fault. She was supposed to have stayed sober and been the driver, and she got shit-faced drunk instead. It wasn’t Beck’s fault. (Was it?)
She wondered how Stephen was. He did send a get-well card. I was so sorry to hear about your leg, Rebecca. Heal fast. —Stephen. Polite only. Guess that was the end of whatever had flickered between them.
After nine weeks in the hospital, Beck was finally transferred to a residential rehab center nearby, thanks to Mom’s excellent health care benefits.
This was just another circle of the inferno, filled with agony, sweat, pleading and tears.
After a month and a half of that, she was out of the wheelchair and could use crutches, though her leg and hip burned with a hellish ache.
She was discharged but still required daily therapy if she wanted to walk on her own.
Her mom found her a room near rehab—an old army friend, Irene, who cooked for the two of them every night. They ate dinner while watching New England Cable News, then Jeopardy!, and then Beck would go to her room, since Irene liked her space.
She had never been so lonely. Not on all the bases where she’d lived for short spans of time, not in the other countries where military kids were side-eyed by locals, not when her mom had left her alone for two weeks when she was twelve.
She missed being part of the Core Four, missed Audrey, Jasmine and Micah .
. . and hated them, too. Everyone but Beck had had something to drink or smoke that night, yet she was the one with the ruined leg and uncertain future.
Samantha, her physical therapist, was only six years older than Beck and met her for coffee a few times.
There was a friendly girl about her own age, Annie, who’d broken both arms and always said a cheery hello when she and Beck intersected.
A few of her teammates emailed, their notes trickling off as they left for college.
In the fall, she watched Ché every time a Notre Dame game was televised, cheering when he scored, crying a little, too.
Mom visited twice a month. They went to lunch, Mom always striding ahead, forgetting that Beck needed crutches or, for a while, couldn’t bend her knee or limped.
By the end of the first year, Beck could get through a day without crying in pain.
She got a job as an administrative assistant.
Irene let her stay for a pittance, and Beck was grateful.
She volunteered with Big Brothers Big Sisters as a tutor, looking longingly at the basketball courts.
But even walking caused her leg to burn and throb.
Most nights, she woke up with a bone-deep ache that no amount of Advil or Tiger Balm or massaging could stanch. Running? Jumping? Forget about it.