Chapter 14 - Rocco
Chapter 14
Rocco
Friday, December 31, 1999
Eight hours to Tucson sounds faster than I would’ve thought, but Bea swears by it.
Truth be told, I haven’t taken the 10 freeway anywhere past Joshua Tree. Mildly embarrassing to admit, my trips there . . . but that place, it’s magical. Lots of deep reflection, aided by a smidge of hallucinogens.
Basically, I know where I’m going. Roughly. No smartphone, so memory will have to do, at least until I snag an actual paper map somewhere along the way.
“You want to drive first, or you want to take a load off?” I ask, watching as Bea stuffs her recently acquired wardrobe into a large Aero bag. “I like driving Delilah, to be honest. I suspect it’s mutual. We have a bit of a rapport.”
“Let’s not go too far—she tolerates you. But sure, happy to split it up. You drive to Arizona, then I’ll take over. Sound like a fine compromise, Mr. I-got-the-hots-for-Delilah? Truly, who knew you could fall for such a plebian car?” She smiles at me, then stops what she’s doing to kiss me. Lingering, despite the urgency buzzing through the room.
Kissing Bea feels remarkably . . . normal. A good kind of normal—fucking great, really. Like it’s just how it should be. Should have always been, maybe, if I hadn’t blown it all up.
But I did, and that’s over, and it’s not what we were brought here to change.
Hopefully, anyway.
With her, it’s got to be about the future now.
We just have to get back there first.
“Alright,” I say, grinning when she pulls away, because no matter how anxious I might be, I can’t help but smile. “First stop is Frank’s for grub, right on our way out of town. Fair warning, the food is mediocre at best, gross at worst, but if it’s the last time we’re here, I insist. I need to have one more slab of blackened toast with too much butter and slimy eggs on a semi-clean plate thrown at me by an ornery waitress. For nostalgia purposes.” Rudy and I used to eat there sometimes after particularly long days on set at our Burbank studio. Just one of our things, no matter how shitty the food.
“Wow, Rocco, are you even an actor? Because you just did the most atrocious job of selling that place.”
“I promise, it’s worth it for the vibes. Quick breakfast, then we’re off. We need more than these muffins in our bellies for fuel.”
Bea gives one of her patented scowls, but it’s soft around the edges. “Fine. But only because I like you so much.”
My grin grows even wider, and that scowl of hers slips away altogether.
* * *
Frank’s is exactly what I’d hoped it would be.
The food isn’t even as bad as it was in my memories. The awful service, though—still very real.
“I can’t believe that waitress grumbled over me not drinking my coffee fast enough,” Bea says, rubbing her stomach as we settle back into Delilah for the long ride. “As if I wanted to be there any longer than necessary. Also, that sausage left a funny aftertaste. I’m feeling a little . . . intestinally bubbly, let’s say. I hope you’re pleased.”
I chuckle. “I’ve never heard such an eloquent way of referencing gas.” She gently whacks me on the arm. “Sorry, sorry. I take full responsibility. But we had to eat, didn’t we, or we’d pass out on the ride. Once we’re past Indio, it’s slim pickings. I remember well, since I was at the first-ever Coachella. October ’99. No big deal or anything.” Saying that brings back so many amazing memories. Rudy had just started college on the East Coast, but he’d flown back out for the festival. He’d been the one to make me go—he was a huge Tool and Rage Against the Machine fan. I was sold, mostly because I’d missed the hell out of him, and also because of Beck.
That trip was probably the last solid brotherly time I had with Rudy before . . . everything imploded. Before New Year’s Eve and Piper and a decade and a half of being too stubborn—too ashamed—to make things right.
If only we could rewrite time without consequences. If only it could be that simple. Because I would choose family, Rudy, every time.
I’d pick Trixie, too.
Bea.
I can’t imagine this journey with anyone else. I care about her, and not because of Murder in the Books—not out of misplaced guilt or empathy or obligation. It’s everything she is and isn’t. I’m grateful the universe gave us this reboot, but I’m terrified, too.
Terrified to screw it up a second time.
Bea sits silently as I drive along the 10 freeway, probably doing her own mental cycling. Staring out the window at the Inland Empire. We’ve officially moved out of LA, heading toward the end of civilization as we know it.
“You want to talk about anything, Bea?” I ask gently. “I know this felt like a good idea in theory, while securely in the confines of a Los Angeles hotel room, but I want to make sure you’re still okay.” I put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze.
“I’m just . . . replaying everything. My escape to LA, tuning out all the ugly noise. With Sylvie and the movie. With you. Even after he got released from jail. As he lay in a hospital bed dying.” Her voice cracks on that last part, and I turn to see tears streaming down her face. My hand moves from her shoulder to her cheek, wiping gently. “I’m scared to upset him, showing up like this. Scared to say the wrong thing. I just want to give him some comfort, you know? Peace. I want him to feel loved in the end.” She pulls my hand from her cheek and holds on tight.
“I can’t imagine, Bea. What you’re working through. I’ve had my moments with my family, Rudy especially, but none of it compares. So while I might not have anything especially eloquent to say, just know I’m here. I care. I want you to have this closure, for both of you. And I’m so damn sorry I took it from you the first time around.”
“No.” She shakes her head, firmly. “We’ve covered this. It’s on me. I could have gone. But I chose you.” She squeezes my hand even more tightly. “I might be quiet for a while. I hope you don’t mind. Feel free to put on some tapes—in the center console.” She reaches over to open it with her free hand, and I glance down at the stash.
“No worries, I can sit in silence, too . . . though, hold up, is that You’d Prefer an Astronaut I see in there? Man, I love that album. Come to think of it, I remember listening to that one together. And wait, you liked Hum, too? Whoa, and the Toadies’ Rubberneck? Who are you, my little brother?!”
Bea laughs. An earnest one, despite everything. “And Tragic Kingdom, which rounds out the tape collection I bought once I realized Delilah had no CD player because I didn’t pay the premium. Classics, no doubt. Get it?”
It’s a relief, hearing her make a bad pun. “Oh, I get it. And I’ll be as quiet as I can be. No promises on some big chorus sing-alongs, but I’ll try my darndest.”
She gives a small smile, then looks off, out the window, her face going slack. I put in the Hum cassette to distract myself. Let Bea have her time. She rightly deserves it.
She deserves everything I can give her, and so much more.
* * *
“Is it okay if we take a quick detour?” My words break her silence rule. Bea looks slightly confused, dazed. “We’ll still be in Tucson well before midnight.”
She nods. “I need to stretch my legs. Walk off that god-awful breakfast you forced me to consume.”
“Ha. Perfect, because this detour is a mini hike. A dip into Joshua Tree. I’m hoping it’ll give us some clarity and calm. At the very least, a short walk to get the blood flowing. It’s so beautiful here. Have you ever been?”
I pull off the highway, turning into the south entrance of the park.
“No way. Too hipster for me. Besides, I was never that into Jim Morrison.” She winks at that last bit, her lips giving a light, smirky twitch.
“Hey, I’m no hipster either! And even without any enhancements, legal or otherwise, it really is ridiculously beautiful, and this trail is short but nice. Good desert views. No heavy hiking, just a breezy walk. The quick leg stretch you’re looking for.”
I glance over as her expression changes again. A somber glaze slides over her face.
“My dad, he was a big Doors guy. That’s how I knew Jim Morrison was a fan. Drove his ’67 Shelby through the desert, didn’t he, manifesting his poems and connecting with the Mojave? My dad always said he wanted to bring me here someday, when I was older. I haven’t thought about that in years.”
I pull into a spot and shut Delilah off. Her fan continues to whir. Even a time-traveling beast of a car needs a break, especially when cruising through the desert at high speed.
We climb out and set off together in silence. The walk is just as I’d remembered. Tan. Lots of tan. Tiny spots of green, yellow, purple littering the dry, dusty soil. The overall effect is stunning in its austere simplicity. And the air, it just hits different here, so cool and fresh, at least this time of year.
“Keep an ear out for rattlesnakes,” I say, my first words since we left the car. “I’ve seen them on this trail before.”
Bea grabs a stray stick from the ground and waves it near my face. “As an Arizona girl, I assure you I’m highly tuned into that particular sound. We used to find them in the garage all the time.” She pokes the stick into my chest, relatively gently at least, and smiles. “This is gorgeous, Rocco. A-plus detour. Glorious place to stretch my legs.”
I wrap my arm around her as we continue this half-mile loop showcasing the desert flora. I read that on a sign—there are a lot of them peppering the trail. But this place really does reconnect me to the world at large. The sharp colors, the wide sky, and the scorched earth that somehow still has enough nutrients to sustain life for others? Magic.
Enough of the vision quest, Rocco. That was last October . . . seventeen years removed.
Mostly I just hope it’s doing the same thing for Bea. The calm before the storm of everything coming for her.
We’re silent again for the rest of the walk, taking in the views, occasionally stealing glances at one another. That feeling of magic is doing something funky to me, because there’s a word that drifts into my mind out here on the trail.
Love.
It’s too soon.
I haven’t dropped that word on any romantic partner since Piper. Too loaded. Too intense. Too much, period.
It’s this air, this place, this time that shouldn’t be possible but somehow is.
Whatever this feeling is or isn’t, I shove it down.
Because today is about Bea. Adding anything else to the already complex hot pot on her stove would be too much. We’ll have plenty of time to figure us out another day—maybe in another decade—hopefully.
We wind our way back to the parking lot and I open the passenger door, helping Bea settle into Delilah. And then I lean in and kiss her on the lips. She’s caught by surprise, letting out a low gasp. But then her warm palms are pressed against the back of my neck, tugging me in closer.
When I finally pull away, there’s a grin on those soft, pouty lips of hers. She moves the seat back and gets cozy, sighing contentedly. Her eyes close as I settle into the driver’s seat, but she reaches over to grab my thigh. Squeezes.
Against all odds, we are here, now, for one another. This connection—it’s real.
And despite the bizarre circumstances, it’s somehow the most real I’ve ever felt.
* * *
I watch the digital clock on the dashboard tick ahead.
Counting us down to midnight, to Y2K. To William’s death tomorrow.
We’re close to the Colorado River now, the state line. Delilah’s doing admirably well, though she does require sustenance. The Exxon station I land on is extremely Route 66. Kitschy placards of all sizes adorn the front, complete with an “E-Z Stop Food Mart” sign. A bold lie; there’s nothing easy about gas station food bubble gut. But Frank’s was hours ago now, so I might take my chances. As soon as I turn the car off, Bea wakes up. She stretches and blinks her doe eyes in this sweet, dreamy way, like all is right in her world. It takes a minute for that wave of calm to leave her face, replaced by the hour at hand.
“How long have I been out?” she asks through a yawn.
“Well, I’ve listened to all your cassettes twice. I forgot how good Tragic Kingdom is. Really hit the spot once we got going through the desert.”
“Good thing you liked it so much, because a third listen once I get behind the wheel is nonnegotiable.”
I laugh. “Fine by me. Now should we just grab some snacks to hold us over until we get closer to Phoenix, then find a real restaurant? Or do we power through on whatever E-Z meals they have?”
“Rocco, please.” She lifts her brows, serving up some side-eye. “I might be an anxious mess, but I still require proper fuel, especially now that the breakfast grease has evaporated. Nothing would pain me more than eating a premade gas station sandwich when there’s some of the best Mexican food in the country just a short drive away. So go grab some Doritos and a Gatorade to tide yourself over.”
“Yes, m’lady. As you wish.” I get out, snack up—with Taco Bell and Pizza Hut Doritos, a real score—and map up, too, and fill Delilah with gas.
Back on the road.
So close now.
* * *
“My god, Bea,” I moan. “These tamales are out of control. Best decision in the world to make this pit stop. Though I do wish I’d grabbed the bigger bag of chips.”
“And right off the highway! El Norteno was always a stopping point if we were heading west. My road trip chilaquiles and tamales of choice. My dad’s, too, which made this feel especially appropriate. It’s still here in the present time, but . . . I don’t get back much. You had Frank’s, I had this. My ’90s core food memory beats the heck out of yours, I gotta say.” She smiles, then pops the last bit of tamale in her mouth.
“I’ll give you a win on the food, but I do enjoy a curmudgeonly waitstaff every now and again. Everyone here was a smidge too nice. Like, in a vaguely creepy way. The makings of serial killers, if you ask me.”
Bea tosses a crumpled paper napkin at my head, then stands up from our small roadside table, lit from above by a strand of white twinkly lights hung along the storefront. I get up, too, gathering my trash.
It’s getting dark now. Time to go.
“I can assure you,” she says, “there are no serial killers here. Yet. I don’t think. But c’mon, let’s get going. The hospital probably doesn’t allow visitors in too late. We’re about two hours and change away.” She takes a second to consider, and then a look of painful realization sets in. “Shit.”
“What’s up?”
“Mountain time. We crossed into Arizona, and I miscalculated. We lost an hour.”
Damn. “We still got this. I’ll keep the Gatorade bottle in the car for emergencies. No more stops.”
“Emergency for who? You think I can pee into that tiny hole while I’m driving?”
“Er. Right. Valid point. Just looking for time-savers.”
“It was hard enough to watch you get bright-red Dorito crumbs on her seats and floor, but I’ll be damned if anyone attempts a piss in Delilah. She’s a lady chariot!”
I’m not going to argue with her; I wouldn’t ordinarily choose to, and I especially wouldn’t now. This drive, inching closer to the hospital, her dad, this goodbye that shouldn’t even be possible. It’s heavy and hard, and being silly right now feels both outrageous and necessary at the same time.
As we approach Delilah, I wrap the bottle in my arms like a baby. “I’m sorry, tiny toilet, but we must let you go. I know you could’ve been helpful, but it’s about respect. Our fine-ass lady chariot is not a bathroom. Even for emergencies.”
Bea claps effusively, a smile on her face. I’d make all the potty jokes in the world to help add a little levity to Bea’s hard moments. Or I’d be dead silent if that’s what she needed more. I’d do anything, for her. “Now you’re getting it. A time-traveling, fine-ass lady chariot! A true wonder of a vehicle. Next stop, Tucson.”
We settle into the car, Bea at the helm, and, like it’s old habit, we lean across the console and kiss. She grabs for my hand, and we cruise back onto the highway.
* * *
It’s 10:05 mountain time when we pull into the hospital lot.
And according to the large sign posted by the parking garage entrance, visiting hours were over at 9:00 sharp.
We should never have stopped at Joshua Tree. Though even without it, we likely would’ve missed our window. The clock was against us, no matter what.
Bea quietly climbs out of the car. Stands on the curb, hugging herself as she stares out at the sprawling hospital. I follow behind, stand close without touching. Giving all the space she needs.
“I’m so sorry, Bea. I should have driven straight through. Maybe disregarded the speed limit more. Delilah’s a four-cylinder engine, though. I didn’t want to push it. Or risk a cop pulling us over and seeing our plates, checking our futuristic licenses. But still. Would have been worth the consequences if it meant you seeing your dad.”
“I was born here,” she says, eyes still fixed on the building ahead. “Haven’t been back since. Anyway. I’m not worried about visiting hours being over. It’s New Year’s Eve. People are probably too bitter about working tonight to care about rules. Or too busy worrying the whole system will implode at the stroke of midnight. Y2K fear was no joke.”
Her optimism is almost alarming. Is she starting to crack?
“Besides, I have you, Rocco. You’re a sweet talker. The king of sweet talking, really. I know you’ll get someone to let us up. Give them a good holiday sob story.”
Damn, she’s right.
I am a legendary sweet talker, aren’t I? I knew I was here for a reason. “I’m always down for a challenge. Plus, I’m here for you—I would do anything you needed.” She shivers in the brisk night air, and I wrap my arms around her shoulders.
She swivels around, slowly, and kisses me. A kiss that’s both sweet and full of electricity at the same time. It slow burns its way through my veins.
“That means so much,” she whispers, lips brushing against my neck, sending a trail of shivers down my spine.
It’s hard to pull away, but I do—mind on the time, the heavy task at hand. “I’ll go see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” She leans back in, gives me another kiss, a quick one this time. “I’ll wait out here while you go work those charms of yours. I need a minute to compose myself.”
I salute her and start off for the main entrance.
There are three people stationed at the lobby desk when I step inside. Two of them staring at monitors, one of them staring me down. Christina Diaz, according to her nametag. Can’t be more than early twenties.
“Hey, Ms. Diaz! Happy New Year’s Eve!”
“Christina’s fine. And hold on one freaking minute! Do you know how much you look like Rocco Riziero? But like if he was a dad, all white-haired and whatnot. Andrea! Your hall pass’s father is here!”
Oh shit. A hall pass is an honor. Not many celebrity accolades do much for me, at least not after this many years in the biz, but a hall pass? That’s commitment. Even if it’s partly just a joke and not a true “pause the relationship for a night” kind of deal, it certainly does wonders for my confidence. Even if I am relegated to “hall pass’s father” in this go-around of ’99. There are worse fates.
But before I can decide on an appropriate risk-free response, Andrea herself cuts in, now studying me instead of her computer screen. “Yup, definitely not our Rocco, but I can see the resemblance! I’m gonna have to keep this precious hall pass of mine for the real Rocco. Though he’d be lucky to look like you in twenty years.” She gives me another once over, then turns back to her work.
Christina examines me further, eyes narrowed, then shakes her head. “Ha. Nice try, handsome. I bet you get away with that a lot. Not here, though.”
“To be fair, I never claimed any Rocco connection. I just wasn’t necessarily going to deny it either. I’m not below pretending I’m his foxy father, at least for the right cause.” I flash what I happen to know is definitively my most charming grin. “Look, I’m just trying to get my friend in to see her fa . . .” I cough. “Uncle.” Wouldn’t do to have Bea’s mom hear her wayward daughter visited overnight. Let her be confused about a niece. “I know visiting hours are over, but we drove a long way to be here. If playing the Rocco card would’ve given me a better chance at getting in, how could I have resisted?”
Christina chuckles. “You got me good for a second. Your face, plus something about the way you said hello . . . you could definitely be a Riziero.” She shakes her head at me. Stares up at the ceiling. Sighs. “Listen. It’s well after visiting hours and I’m really not supposed to let you in. But since you would’ve been willing to use such a sad little bar trick for this ‘friend’ of yours, you must really care about her. I respect the gesture, so . . .” She puts a finger to her lips and winks, then slips two visiting passes onto the counter.
“Thank you,” I whisper, fighting the urge to jump the desk and kiss her on the cheek.
“Hey, it’s a holiday. Plus, I did always think Rocco was pretty darn cute. At least until I developed a thing for redheads. Now if you only had a much younger friend who looked like Rudy, my god . . . I’d let him rock my world at the stroke of midnight.”
Wow. Quite a departing line.
“Ha-ha, great idea, maybe I should do a casting call, ‘Looking for wingman, must be a twentysomething with flaming red hair!’ Anyway, er . . .” Move it the hell along, Rocco. “Could you tell me where William Noel’s room is?”
She eyes her screen, clicks a few times. “Third floor. Room 312. If anyone hassles you, tell them to give Christina a ring. And let me know if you find him. The redhead, not your friend’s uncle.” She giggles again, then turns back to her computer.
We’re in.
This is happening.
I walk to the nearest window and flash the passes for Bea, who’s made her way up the sidewalk, closer to the entrance.
“Alright then,” I mutter, bolstering myself. “Let’s go rewrite history.”