Page 98 of Play Fake
Beck’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. I can see him slipping into that familiar, quiet mode—bracing himself like he’s done this before.
I lean forward slightly, hands resting loosely on my knees. “That sounds scary,” I say softly. “But you’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you.”
She blinks at me, almost surprised by my tone. “Safe?” she echoes, like she’s testing the word.
“Yes,” I say. “You’re safe. Beck’s here. I’m here. And the nurses are just down the hall.”
For a moment, her breathing eases. But then her eyes flick back to the corner of the room, and her fingers start to tremble. “They’re getting closer,” she whispers. Her voice rises a notch.“You don’t understand. They haveplans. They’re waiting for me to slip up. They talk when the lights go off. I hear them.”
Beck reaches for her hand, his voice quiet but firm. “Mom?—”
She jerks back slightly, her movements suddenly sharper. “No, no, no. You have to listen!” she insists, her voice climbing with each word. “You can’t just sit there. Youhaveto believe me.”
The intensity in her eyes makes the room feel smaller, the air tighter. But I stay where I am, keeping my voice calm and low. “Mrs. Harrison, I believe that it feels very real to you. I do. But you’re safe. You’re here with us.”
For a heartbeat, it seems like she might come back down. Her eyes flicker between us—her son and the stranger sitting beside him. But then her voice spikes again, louder, more panicked. “No, no, they’re outside right now, they’reoutside right now?—”
The door opens quietly, and the nurse from the front desk slips in, her presence calm and practiced. “Hi, Lynn,” she says gently. “It sounds like you’re having a hard time right now.”
Lynn’s eyes dart to her, then back to the window. “They’re here,” she whispers hoarsely.
The nurse crouches beside her, speaking in soft, rhythmic tones I recognize from clinical rotations. “Let’s take a deep breath together, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it…”
It takes a few minutes, but slowly Lynn’s breathing starts to calm. Her hands unclench from the blanket, though her gaze stays fixed on the window.
The nurse glances up at Beck and me with an apologetic smile. “She’s been a bit more agitated this week. I think it might be best to keep the visit short today.”
Beck’s expression is tight, controlled, but I can see the hurt flickering beneath it. He nods. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll come back another day.”
Lynn looks at him, confusion replacing the panic for just a second. “You’ll come back?” she asks softly.
He leans forward, brushing his hand gently over hers. “Always,” he says.
She gives the smallest nod, like a child needing reassurance, and the nurse gently guides us toward the door.
Out in the hallway, the air feels cooler. Beck drags a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that’s more like a quiet collapse.
I slip my hand back into his. “You handled that so well,” I say softly.
He shakes his head. “I’m used to it.” But his voice wavers, just a fraction.
I squeeze his hand tighter. “Still. It’s not easy.”
He finally looks at me then—really looks. And in his eyes, I see the weight of years of visits like this, of loving someone whose reality keeps shifting beneath her feet. And I hope, silently, that he knows he doesn’t have to carry that weight alone anymore.
The late afternoon sun is dipping lower by the time we step out of the building, and Beck lets go of my hand only long enough to unlock the truck.
Once we’re inside, he leans back against the headrest and blows out a long, frustrated breath.
“I feel bad saying it,” he mutters, voice low, “but…it’s hard to make myself want to come here often.”
I turn toward him, silent but listening.
“She’s my mom. I know that.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel, not starting the engine yet. “And I love her. But every time I walk in, it’s like…” He shakes his head, jawflexing. “Like I have to brace myself to lose her all over again. And I guess…I’ve got a lot to work through before I can be okay coming here more and more.”
My chest aches for him, but I don’t fill the silence with platitudes. He doesn’t need someone to fix it—he just needs someone to hear it.
I reach over and rest my hand lightly over his. “That makes sense, Beck. It’s okay to feel that way.”
