Page 86 of The Beachgoers
thirty-two
— Then —
10 Years Ago
The Prayer
IN THE DARKNESS, THE MAN pushes the wheelchair up the ramp to the house on the bluff. Once there, he maneuvers the chair through the front door. His passenger wears a black tux with the left leg fabric cut short and hemmed. So it’s easy to see that his leg was recently amputated below the knee, evidenced by the bandaged wrappings. The residual limb is prone on an amputee board attached to the wheelchair.
“Bring me to the kitchen, Dad,” the younger man sitting in the wheelchair says.
“The kitchen? It’s been a long day, Jason. Aren’t you ready to turn in?” the father asks while guiding the wheelchair down a paneled hallway. He slows near the living room, where a lamp throws light on a hospital bed set up there. A table beside it is covered with clean dressings, ointments, papers. Crutches lean on a chair; folded clothes are stacked there, too.
“Need something to drink, that’s all,” Jason answers, his voice low. “Shot of whiskey, maybe.”
“Yeah, well. Shake it off, son,” his father says, continuing on and pushing the wheelchair to the sliding glass door in the kitchen. He bends then and helps his son out of his tuxedo jacket—one sleeve first, then Jason leans forward and his father pulls off the other sleeve. “Whatever’s eatin’ you, let it go. You’re just tired.”
Jason looks out the slider toward the deck. “Open the door, would you?”
When his father unlatches the door and slides it open, damp sea air comes in through the screen. The man turns then, and hangs his son’s tux jacket over a chair at the table and drops his keys on the kitchen counter.
“And I’ll tell you what’s eating me,” Jason says with a glance back. Only the under-cabinet lights are on, leaving the room in shadow. “The whole day was a distraction. Everything. The wedding. The reception. The chatter, and people, and vows. Pictures. Memories. All of it was a God damn distraction from the truth.”
The older man loosens his tie and squints over at his son. Leans against that counter, too, and crosses his arms in front of him. “And what truth would that be?”
A moment passes. It’s how their talk has been going. Haltingly. To anyone listening, they might doubt that much more will be said in the dimly lit kitchen. Doubt that the talk will even continue in the still house.
But it does.
In the quiet now, there’s only the distant sound of waves breaking out on the bluff, over and over. The sea constantly moving in the night.
“The truth?” Jason looks back again at his waiting father. “That everyone’s life goes on with the new day. Kyle and Lauren will leave for their honeymoon. Matt and Eva? They’re a family, with their little girl, Taylor. Matt will put on his uniform and go to work on the force. Paige and Vinny? Hell, Vinny started a teaching job at the high school.Andthey’re looking for a house now. Something with a big kitchen for Paige’s cooking.” Jason’s voice is monotone; the words, not bitter. Not self-pitying. They’re just matter-of-fact. “They’ve all got it made in the shade. Jobs. Families. Hobbies. Chores.”
“Everyone except you?”
“That’s right, Dad. I’ve got no job to get to. My brother’s gone. There’s no wife. I’m missing a leg. Have no plans—except for a lousy calendar filled with medical appointments.”
The older man stands there watching his broken-down son. In a minute, he reaches for a tumbler and pours a splash of whiskey. “Here.” He walks to Jason sitting at the open slider and gives him the glass. “And you listen tomenow. Hard as it all was, the day wasgood, Jason.Good. Because it got you out.” He clasps his son’s shoulder. “Got you out of the house. Got you out of your own head.”
Jason silently raises that glass in agreement.
“You’ll feel better after getting some sleep. I’m going to hang my suit jacket upstairs, say goodnight to your mother. Then I’ll wait in the living room to help you out of your things and into bed.”
The man pats his son’s shoulder twice, turns and leaves him alone in the kitchen.
* * *
Minutes tick past. It’s so late, even the crickets have stopped chirping. The silence is almost muffled this late-September night. Jason drops his head back, eyes closed, and takes a long breath. The glass of whiskey is still in his hand.
More minutes pass, then.
Silence. Silence. A muted night.
Until Jason sets his glass on the floor and wheels himself to the kitchen table. He reaches over it from his wheelchair. Stretches an arm toward a bottle of prescription painkillers just out of reach on that table. So he leans way over, extends his fingers, leans more and swipes at the bottle—which falls just close enough for him to wince, stretch more and grab it. After he does, he seems winded from the effort and just sits there, holding the bottle. Finally he twists off the cap and taps out a few more pills than were no doubt prescribed. After putting the cap on again, he sets the bottle on the table and wheels himself backward, bumps into a chair there, wheels forward, then back until he heads to the open slider again.
Now he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t let minutes pass. He instead reaches to the floor for his tumbler of whiskey and holds that in one hand, the pills in the other. After blowing out a long breath, he whispers, “God help me,” right before tossing the pills in his mouth and washing them down with a good swallow of the liquor.
