Page 23 of The Beachgoers
Kyle bows his head an hour later, listening to the priest’s final words of the Mass. The priest’s voice is calm. His words flow easily, like water in a stream—moving around and over the torn-up hearts of many here. More than the prayers, more than the lyrics of solemn hymns,theseare the lines that apparently hit Kyle hardest. Even though his friendship with Neil ended bitterly—or maybebecauseit did—these words get Kyle to close his eyes. As he presses his hand to his forehead, you might imagine two decades of summer memories with his beach friend are playing like a reel of film in Kyle’s mind now.
But these parting lines from the priest? Looking at Kyle, you can tell he knows. This is the end.
“Eternal rest, grant unto Neil, oh Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Kyle says under his breath when Neil’s casket is carried out of the church.
Row by row, the congregation follows behind. It is done. Beneath the light shining through those stained-glass windows, prayers had been recited, Scripture readings offered, Holy Communion given, holy water sprinkled on the coffin. Neil Barlow’s soul had been commended to God’s tender mercy.
* * *
Before they get to his truck, Kyle pulls Lauren toward the side of the parking lot. “You were right, Ell. Thisisso wrong,” he’s saying as they cross the pavement. “Wrong that Jason couldn’t say goodbye to his brother. Couldn’t hear the priest ask God to grant Neil everlasting peace. Wrong that Jason couldn’t bow his head and whisper,Amen.” Kyle looks over at the church still emptying out. “Man, those two brothers were close. And this isn’t right.”
Kyle stops with Lauren in the shade of a maple tree. The gauzy fabric of her skirt flutters in a breeze. The sun shines warm.
“It’s just a really hard day,” Lauren tells him. “For everyone.”
“Yep. And I’m going to do what I can to make something right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You go with Eva and Matt to the cemetery, okay? And to lunch afterward.”
“What about you?” Lauren looks up at him beside her. “You’re not coming?”
“No.” Kyle’s watching the people mingling in the parking lot on the way to their cars. “Everyone’s together here. Jason’s family. Friends. His sister and parents. No one will even miss me.”
“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”
“Someone has to.” Kyle kisses the side of Lauren’s head, whistles for Matt to hold up as he’s getting into his car, and sends Lauren off in that direction.
* * *
And so it is that a half hour later, instead of a long, steady stream of vehicles turning into a parking lot, one vehicle does.
Kyle’s pickup truck does. It turns into the hospital entrance, veers into a parking garage and pulls into one space.
One vehicle, one mourner.
One man in a black suit walking through the hospital doors and stopping at the front desk. One man holding a visitor pass, pressing an elevator button, walking down a busy hallway while looking at room numbers.
One man turning into Jason Barlow’s room.
* * *
Kyle can just tell—it’s apparent in the way his face drops. When he’d walked down the hospital corridor, nodding at a passing doctor, there was some hope in Kyle’s expression. Some thin shred of optimism about what he’d see. But not anymore.
Because, yes, as soon asanyoneturns into Jason’s room, they can tell. They can tell from the way Jason is bandaged head to toe. Or head to shin, rather, because the rest of his left leg is gone. They can tell by more bandages and scratches on the man’s bruised face. Can tell by the threaded stitches tight along his jawline. By the wires and tubes attached to his battered body. By the layers of white bandages covering his fresh amputation.
Jason can barely move.
Even worse? Lying partially covered by a light sheet on that bed, he looks utterly alone in his stillness.
After Kyle stops short and nearly turns away, he shakes it off and walks into the room. As he does, he watches Jason—who is obviously asleep. His eyes are closed; his breathing, regular. And Kyle can’t miss more bandages visible beneath Jason’s cotton hospital gown. They wrap around his back to his side, beneath an arm. Looking at the wreck of his body, all anyone might think is that he’s better off for it. For sleep.
But Kyle presses on.
“Hey, Barlow,” he quietly says. When he does, his voice cracks. “How you doing?” A pause, then, while Kyle squints in some disbelief at the condition of his friend. It’s as though he’s just aboutseeingthat violent motorcycle accident play out before him. “Just came from your brother’s funeral,” he goes on. “Wanted to tell you about it.” Kyle moves again, walking around the end of the bed, to the window, then back to the bed. There, he runs his hands through his hair. “They did all right by him. By Neil.” Again, Kyle stops talking. He looks at Jason asleep, then glances around the bed at each of the monitors there. Lights blip across them; numbers flash. “Everyone came,” Kyle says. As though trying to stay positive, he nods, too. Gives a real good nod, actually. After his attempt at being upbeat, he glances at a few get-well cards propped on a nearby tray. “Oh shit, man,” he whispers. “I don’t even know how to do this,” he says while dropping his face into his open hands.
