When Pete, the editor at Student Life, heard about what I’d been doing at Say Something through one of the conversations I was having with a journalist major on the team, he pulled me aside and asked if I would be interested in writing my own weekly column in the Human Interests section. Besides that one article I wrote on Josh (where I chose to leave out certain parts), I’d never written anything before. I mean, I wrote in my journal but that was about it. “But you have heart, Becca. And that’s something most people lack these days,” Pete said. So I agreed, and now my column gets the third most hits on the Student Life website, right under Sports and Entertainment. I slip out of the stool and gather my coat and bag. “You’re leaving?” Pete shouts from the other side of the table.
I begin to pull out my phone, only to realize it’d be useless to have Cordy relay my message over the sound of drunken celebration. Instead, I nod, and once my coat is on I wave goodbye.
“You’re not driving, are you?”
I shake my head and mouth, “Cab.”
“I’ll share one.”
I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he lives on campus—across the road—and I don’t, so sharing a cab would be counterproductive. He laughs as he slips on his jacket. “Just entertain me, okay? You know the idea of you catching a cab alone at night gives me hives.” It’s true, it does, for absolutely no other reason than the fact that Pete was raised a gentleman. It’d be useless to decline his offer, so I wait until he’s said his goodbyes, and we exit the bar arm-in-arm. “Your dad home?” he asks, opening the door of the waiting cab for me.
I shake my head.
“Sigh.”
With a smile, I get in the back seat and watch him do the same. Once the door’s closed and he’s given the driver my address, he says, “Set the security alarm, and make sure to lock all the doors, okay?”
I pull out my phone, type out a message, and show it to him. I already have one dad. I don’t need another.
He rolls his eyes. “Smart ass.”
The moment I step foot in my house, I switch on the lights, lock all the doors, and set the alarm. Then I shoot off a text to my dad. A few months ago, he went back to working on the oil rigs—short contracts here and there to help cover the bills, but nothing that would keep him away from home for too long. I’ve offered to get a job, but he won’t allow it. At least not until he’s positive I’ll be okay on my own.
Becca: Finished exams. Had a couple drinks at a bar to celebrate. Met a tattooed junkie. It was love at first sight. Got married at the 24-hour chapel. Had unprotected sex. Caught syphilis. Good news: You’re going to be a grandpa!
Dad: That shit ain’t funny, Becca.
Becca: Who’s joking?
Dad: Well, I hope he has a job.
Becca: He’s a male stripper. But OMG, Dad, he’s soooooo dreamy.
Dad: Lock the damn doors and set the alarm. And STOP giving me anxiety.
Becca: Already done.
Dad: Congrats on killing the finals.
Becca: I don’t know if I killed them.
Dad: I know you did, and I’ve never been wrong.
Becca: I miss you.
Dad: I miss you, too.
Dad: And I love you.
I stare at his message, my heart sinking at the image of him looking down at his phone, waiting, wanting to see the words I’ve kept to myself.
Dad: Good night, sweetheart.
Becca: Good night, Dad.
Journal
My mother loved me. But love means nothing.
It’s an invisible, fleeting moment.
Somewhere between false adoration and pure hatred comes an emotion, a vulnerable need, a single desire.
It lives within the ones who miss it, who crave it, who know better than to expect it.
Love is relentless, even when the love turns to hate, turns to loathing, turns to death.
~ ~
I wake up early the next morning, my head clear from the alcohol consumed the night before, and get ready for my shift at Say Something. It’s a Saturday, which means it’s going to be packed with kids and scheduled activities. Dad finally taught me to drive without having constant panic attacks, and I barely scraped through my driver’s test. He celebrated his achievement by handing me keys to my very own car. It isn’t anything fancy, a silver Honda Accord the same age as me, but it’s enough to get me from A to B and to me, it’s perfect. I still catch the bus to WU because parking is a bitch, and so I really only use it to get to the center—a fifteen-minute drive away—and to get to therapy sessions when Dad’s not home. When he is, he likes to drive me around. He says it makes him feel needed.
I pull into a spot, just as my phone sounds with a text and I smile, knowing it’s either Pete or Dad checking in on me. My mind’s already reeling with smart-ass responses when I grab my phone from my bag. My breath catches when I see Josh’s name on the screen. I stare at the letters of his name, moving from one to the next, J, O… wondering what it is he could possibly have to say. He hasn’t communicated with me once since Grams’s birthday. Not a call. Not a text. Not a single e-mail. Nothing. And now… I inhale deeply, the cold air filling my lungs giving me the courage I need to open the message.
Josh: Hey Becs. I’m really sorry to bother you, but do you know where your grams is? I came home yesterday and knocked on her door, she wasn’t home but her car was. I left her a present at the door and when I woke up this morning it was still there. She’s still not home.
My heart skips, my thumbs shaking as I try to reply. I attempt to type the same word five times, failing each time, before I realize I’m holding my breath. I force an exhale and push back the panic creeping in my chest.
Becca: I don’t know where she is. She sent me a text a week ago. That was the last I heard from her.
Josh: I’m sure it’s nothing. She’s probably with Mavis or something. Don’t panic, okay?
Becca: You have a key, right? Go in the house.
Josh: I just did. She’s not home. TV’s on.
Becca: Did you try calling her?
Josh: Yeah. She left the phone on the kitchen counter.
I try to reply, but the shaking of my hands makes it impossible, so I run into the center, phone gripped tight in my hand. The second I see Sandra in her office, I call Josh’s number, set it to speaker, and sign to Sandra to translate for me.
With wide eyes, she nods, all while the sound of the phone dialing fills the room. “What’s going on?” Sandra asks, and all I can do is shake my head, tears filling my eyes. There’s a lump in my throat, threatening to escape in a silent sob, and the panic escalates with each continuous ring. I feel like I’m back in the hospital, Tommy in a room with a broken arm, and me pacing the waiting room trying to call Josh. The call cuts off, and I hit redial, tears falling, streaking down my cheeks. Finally, the call connects, and I can hear his fear in a single word, “Becs.”
“Uh. Hi,” Sandra says, her eyes on my hands—hands too weak to move. “I’m Sandra. I work with Becca, and I guess I’m going to translate for her…”
Josh doesn’t speak, but I can hear his rushed breaths, hear the sound of his footsteps as he moves around my grandmother’s house. Doors open. Doors close. “Ma’am!” he shouts.
