Page 40 of The Beachgoers
Lauren doesn’t move, at first. Anyone can see some fear locking her in place. Is it fear of seeing Jason so seriously injured? Or maybe fear of seeing him, but somehow picturing the crash and all that Neil experienced that day? Is it fear of being somehow to blame for where life brought them all?
“I’m just not sure,” she says, still not moving.
“It might help him.”
She looks directly at Mr. Barlow holding that door open. Looks at his tired eyes watching her. Maybe they’re eyes that don’t really have an appointment. Maybe they’re eyes that just need a little space, a little breather, from the darkness that fell on his life. Eyes that just need an hour to themselves—to close, or rest, or watch the distant sea.
So Lauren walks through the door. “Okay,” she whispers.
Inside, she stands in the paneled foyer. There’s a table there with a basket of keys on it, and a folded sweatshirt. A few pieces of mail.
“Let me just get my things,” Mr. Barlow says as he sets down the painted driftwood, digs in that basket and lifts out a key ring. “Jason’s sleeping right now. And shouldn’t need anything. He’s eaten, had his medication and is resting.”
“All right.” Lauren looks down the shadowy hallway. “Is he upstairs?”
“No. Oh, no. We rented a hospital bed and set it up in the living room. So he can get around more easily.” He nods to a doorway off the hall. “You’ll find him in there.”
“You’re not coming in with me?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll be okay.” Putting his keys in his pocket, he watches Lauren tear up again. “I know.” He reaches for her hand and squeezes it. “Neil told me some things. He really loved you.”
Choking on a slight gasp, Lauren swipes at an escaped tear. “I loved him, too,” she manages. “So much.”
“Maybe bring your painting in to Jason,” he says, giving Lauren the driftwood seascape then. “I’m sure he’d like to see it.”
Lauren silently takes it from him.
“I’ll be back soon.” And though Mr. Barlow walks past her now, to the front door, he stops and turns before leaving. The moment is somewhat awkward as he apparently deliberates something. He stands there, his dark hair graying at the sides; his face, shadowed; his eyes, black. “Life takes turns we never see coming, Lauren. And sometimes we need people more than we realize,” he finally tells her.
She gives a slow nod, as if waiting for more.
“It’s okay. Neil’s gone.” Mr. Barlow’s voice is low, and serious, when he whispers the rest. “Kyle’s not, sweetheart.”
* * *
Lauren looks at the closed front door long after Jason’s father leaves. When she does walk down the paneled hallway, it’s with careful steps. She clears her throat again, and looks ahead where she can see into the kitchen. The slider is open to the deck, and summer birdsong floats into the quiet house. Some robin, or chickadee, or mockingbird gives a solo performance from the big maple tree in the backyard.
But Lauren doesn’t go to the kitchen. She veers off into the living room. And her eyes never—not once—leave the patient lying on the hospital bed.
Never once leave Jason Barlow.
As she walks into the room, it’s obvious he’s sound asleep. His breathing is regular. He doesn’t turn at her footstep. Doesn’t open his eyes when she says his name.
“Jason?” she whispers when she stiffly sits in the upholstered chair beside the bed. When he doesn’t move, she glances around. A pushed-out-of-the-way sofa is visible in the dining room. A prescription pill bottle and glass of water are on a small table beside the bed. A cell phone is there, too, beside printed diagrams of leg-stretching exercises. There’s a wheelchair off to the side. And crutches are propped against that bedside table.
Lauren leans close and touches a lock of Jason’s hair. “So, Jason,” she softly says. “I brought a driftwood painting over. For your parents.” She lifts the painting to the bed. “Neil loved this picture, and I thought they might like to have it here.” She shifts the painting to an angle Jason would see if he opens his eyes. “I don’t know if you can hear me. But it’s Stony Point at night. When that big moon hangs over the water, and the waves just splash gently onshore.Whispering.”
Lauren waits, and looks at Jason’s face. Whiskers cover his jaw; a fresh raised scar runs along it—the removed stitches leaving behind a crisscrossed track of lines. A faded bruise heals on his cheekbone. Finally, she sets the driftwood on his bedside table. And sits straight. Her eyes take in the full sight of him now. The sight of him lying there in a tee and cargo shorts—the left leg’s fabric partially cut off to accommodate his below-the-knee amputation. The stump of the leg is covered in several layers of elastic tan bandages, each layer angled as if wrapped in a figure eight.
“Lauren,” she hears then. So she looks quickly to his face. “You’re here.”
“Oh, Jason,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. And not letting go as she leans closer. “I am.”
Children’s voices carry in through the open windows. And a neighbor’s screen door slams. There’s a lawn mower, too, crossing someone’s yard again and again. And a seagull cries, its call echoing as it swoops low over the nearby bluff.
All while Lauren raises the head of Jason’s motorized bed.
And talks softly.
And listens to Jason say it’s really nice to see her.
And watches him drag a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
And asks if he’s comfortable, or needs anything.
And touches her long side braid when he says she looks good.
And tells him, quietly, how glad she is that he’s alive.
