“CeCe. CeCe. Honey, can you hear me?”
The voice is somewhere above me. I try to lift myself toward it. The voice is Mama’s, tears attached to each word. I know how much she needs me to answer her.
I want to. Focus as hard as I can to push a response from my brain to my lips.
She continues to call. I try to respond. I have no idea how long it takes, but I finally manage to separate my eyelids just far enough that a slit of light seeps in. I try to open them wider. I can’t describe how hard it is, like trying to swim upward through thick mud. It pulls at me, the suction nearly too powerful to resist.
But Mama keeps calling, and I keep trying to get to the surface, until finally I manage to open my eyes wide enough to see her. She’s standing directly over me, looking down into my face, her light blue eyes tear-filled.
“That’s it, honey,” she says. “Come on back to us.”
Her voice breaks. I stare up at her, trying to find words. Her tears trigger my own. They slide down my face. I can taste the salt on my lips.
Mama wipes them away with a tissue, paying no attention to her own. She sits down on the side of the bed, leans in closer and slides her arms up under me, pulling me up from the mattress to hug me hard. I feel her sobs, even though they are silent.
“I’m… sorry… Mama,” I say, forcing the words out bit by bit, alarmed by how much energy it takes to voice them.
“Oh, baby, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m just so thankful that you’re–” She breaks off there, unable to finish, her crying eclipsing whatever else she had intended to say.
She holds me there against her for a long string of minutes, reluctant to let me go. But she finally eases me back against the pillow, pushing my hair away from my face in the same way she had when I was a little girl.
“You’re going to be okay, honey. It’s just going to take some time.”
It’s only then that I think to wonder what is wrong with me. I glance down at myself, see nothing unusual at first other than the thin hospital gown. I pat my chest and then my midsection and feel the bandages there.
“You were shot,” Mama explains, “in the abdomen.”
I feel the heavy tape wrapped around my torso and try to shift my body beneath it. Instantly, a pain stabs through me. I wince.
“Don’t try to do anymore,” Mama says.
The fog thickening my ability to think presses in on me, and I struggle to remember what it is that I need to know. It’s important, I know this much. I start to get frustrated, because the thought is at the tip of my reach, but I can’t quite get to it.
“Your friends,” Mama says, her voice ragged at the edges. “That’s what you want to know, I’m sure.”
Full awareness hits me then. It feels like running into a concrete wall. I am so filled with dread waiting for her response that I cannot make myself speak. I watch her struggle with the words, my heart pounding heavily against the wall of my chest.
“I know it’s not what you need to hear right now, but I can’t lie to you, baby. Holden, Thomas and Mr. Phillips, they’re still in critical condition.”
Even as I process this, I let myself feel a ray of hope. They aren’t dead. They are alive. Thank God, they are alive.
There’s something else though. I struggle to wrap my thoughts around it. The look on Mama’s face tells me there’s more, and then I remember she hasn’t said anything about Beck.
Her face crumples the moment she realizes I’ve noticed. Tears run down her cheeks, and she shakes her head a little saying, “I’m so sorry, honey. Your friend Beck, Mr. Phillips’s son, he didn’t make it.”
I hear what she says, except I’m detached from the words, as if I am again unconscious and have no way of knowing whether it is part of a terrible dream or, in truth, reality. I shake my head and manage to utter, “No. That can’t be. No.”
Mama takes my hand between the two of hers and squeezes it hard. “I’m so sorry.”
She starts to cry again then. I can’t look at her tears. Grief is an avalanche inside me. One move will trigger its release. I know in this moment I will never be able to survive its onslaught. I turn my head on the pillow and stare out the window of the hospital room. The sky is bright blue, the sun happy with its job today. I wonder how that can be, why the sky isn’t grey and the sun hidden from view?
Beck is gone. I can’t process it, can’t make sense of the three words clanging through my brain. It can’t be right. He’s only nineteen years old.
Maybe there’s been a mistake? Mama could have gotten it wrong. He’s probably in critical condition, the same as Holden and Thomas and Case. I don’t even realize that I’m shaking until Mama presses her hand against my face and says “CeCe, are you all right?”
I can’t answer her, my teeth are chattering so hard that I bite my tongue.
Mama pushes the nurse button, calling out in a panicky voice, “Could someone help us, please? Can you come now?”
It seems like only a blink before a nurse appears at the side of the bed. She takes one look at me. “Poor baby,” she says.
I’m not aware of her leaving until she returns. I feel the needle pierce my right arm. In a moment or two, oblivion rolls in from the edges of my grief, obliterating its rawness until it is a pinpoint at the center of me. I try to hang onto it, but it slips through my fingers. I drop straight down into nothingness.
♪
44
CeCe
The funeral takes place at the First Baptist Church in Nashville on an early winter day that will set temperature records at a high of seventy-six degrees.
It’s been twelve days since the shooting. I have gone against my doctor’s orders in attending. Even so, I’m surprised by my own weakness and grateful for Mama’s hand at my elbow as we walk through the doors.
I still don’t feel connected to myself, my perception and awareness of what is going on around me almost separate from my physical self. Maybe it’s just the pain medicine that I can’t do without.
Mama thinks it’s my body’s natural protection mechanism, my brain only allowing me to process what I can currently handle taking in. I guess I would have to agree with her, because I’m not capable of processing very much at all. Life still seems unreal, like something that could only have happened in a nightmare, and certainly this current piece of it.
My gaze falls across the casket at the front of the church, the large framed picture of Beck playing guitar sitting on an easel next to it.
The sanctuary is full, every pew filled with people shoulder-to-shoulder. There are a few seats left in the back. I let Mama lead me to the closest one. We sit down, me with the carefulness of someone four times my age. I notice then the piano and the song being played.
The music isn’t mournful. It’s one of Beck’s favorites, upbeat country, the kind of song he liked to drive to with the top down on his car.
Some of Case’s band members walk to the front, pick up guitars, and start to play along. It’s the music Beck would want. I know that, but it’s not successful at lessening the aura of tragedy lying thick and heavy over the sanctuary.
I don’t allow myself to look around, even though I feel gazes stray to me and snag in recognition. I don’t belong, and hurting Beck as I had is something I will forever wish I could take back.
Maybe I should have asked Case for permission to come today. He would have every right not to want me here. I didn’t ask because I was afraid he would say no, and honestly, I’m not sure if my need to be here is more for Beck or for myself.
I can’t seem to make sense of any of it, to begin accepting that it really happened. But the finality of that casket and the soft weeping going on around me make it an undeniable fact.
The weight of acceptance begins to settle into me, pushing down on my chest. I try to draw in air, shallow scoops of it, but it doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. I’m suddenly lightheaded, as if I’m going to pass out.
Mama takes my hand and laces her finge
rs through mine, squeezing gently. “Just close your eyes for a moment, honey. Take a deep breath.”
I do as she says because I’m desperate not to make a scene here where attention will be drawn to me.
John, Case’s drummer, walks down the center aisle and stops at the edge of the pew where Mama and I are sitting. He leans in and says in a low voice, “Case would like for y’all to come up front and sit with him if you would?”
I’m so surprised by the invitation that I panic a little, realizing I’ll have to face Case for the first time since the shooting. But just as quickly comes the awareness that I can’t say no.
Mama nods at me, stands, still holding my hand, and we follow John to the front where Case is sitting on the left side of the pew.
He looks up at me, and we both start to cry at the same time. He stands on shaky legs and hugs me hard. We cling to each other like shipwreck survivors to a lone flotation device. I can feel that we are actually clinging to the same things. Awareness of what has been lost, how it was taken, and complete bewilderment as to the fact we’re still here. I can feel his brokenness, too, as if his bones are only temporarily holding his body together.
Next to him, Lauren stands, kisses me on the cheek and helps Case back into his seat. He moves carefully, barely hiding his physical pain.
Mama and I sit down on the pew. I blink back an encroaching wave of dizziness, willing it away even as I wonder if I will inevitably succumb to it.
A white-haired man in a dark navy suit walks to the podium at the front. His face is heavy with the sorrow he makes no attempt to hide.
“Good morning,” he says. “I can’t pretend, dear friends, that I am anything other than heartbroken today. As are all of you, I know. I’ve known Beckley Phillips since the day he was born. His daddy, Case,” he nods in Case’s direction, “called me at five-thirty one morning to tell me Beck had made his entrance into this world. Case asked if I would come to the hospital then to meet the little fella. It wasn’t so much that he was so proud of his new son that he wanted to show him off, although there was that.”
This comment brings a slight smile to his face. “Case wanted me to pray with him over his new baby boy, to ask for God’s protection for Beck as well as wisdom for Case in knowing how to guide him through this often tangled and complicated world.”
He takes a visible moment to wrestle with his own emotions, before going on with, “And we did pray that morning, both of us. I expect there will be some of you today who wonder if God ever heard that prayer. As a fellow member of the human race, I understand why you would ask that question. Tragedy does this, you see, throws into question, throws into doubt everything we believe, every bit of faith we have for our purpose here and God’s love for us. I bet most of you could easily imagine Case coming to me with those questions over the past few days. But it might surprise you to know that I went to Case with those questions. I’m the one who asked him if he believes that God heard our prayers nineteen years ago, on the day Beckley Phillips was born. I’d like to tell you now what he said to me. And I have his permission to do so.”
People shift in their seats. The pastor looks down and takes another moment to collect himself before he goes on.
“Case said that because we’ve never seen what is beyond this world, we mourn the loss of a young life taken too soon. Or at least what we can determine to be too soon. But Case believes, you see, that one day, we’ll understand that the leaving from this world was a cause for celebration and joy for the person who has gone on ahead of us. That we’ve actually had it wrong all along, and if there’s anyone to feel sorry for, it would be for ourselves and those left behind. Because, you see, that’s where the true cause for mourning lies, in the fact that we no longer have the presence of someone we loved so dearly in our lives. And until our day comes to depart this world, we have to live with that. If you believe as Case believes, it would be selfish to wish our loved ones back here but understandably human to look forward to the day when we will see them again.”
He pauses then, looks down at the podium in front of him, his struggle for composure clear. Behind me, I hear soft sobbing.
“This morning, dear friends,” he goes on, “I am with Case in the hope that when God is done with me here on this earth, I will see Beckley Phillips once again in a place far better than this.”
The pastor tips his head at Case and steps down from the podium.
Case stands, visibly weak, and walks to the chair placed next to the casket. John brings his guitar to him and, with gentle kindness, helps place the strap over his shoulder. He hands him a pick and then goes back to his seat to sit down.
Case doesn’t look up. I somehow know that if he does, he will never make it through this. He keeps his eyes on the guitar strings, his voice low and emotion-filled when he says, “Beck started playing this guitar at five years old. It was nearly bigger than he was then, but he was determined to master it, and he did. This was his favorite hymn, and if y’all don’t mind, I’d like to sing it to him today.”
He strums the chords to Just as I Am, the words coming out a little unsteady at first, building courage as he goes on. And by the time he reaches the chorus, it’s as if he’s singing to Beck and Beck alone, no one else in the room, a father to a son he will miss until the day he dies.
Tears fall down my cheeks.
I don’t wipe them away.
♪
45
Holden
I hear the voices calling my name. I’m at the end of a long tunnel. Ahead, far, far ahead, I see a pinpoint of light.
I start toward it, but just as I do, the light moves away. I feel a weight press into my chest, like a concrete wall that has settled just above my rib cage. I realize the wall is frustration, me reaching out to the voices, trying to tell them I’m here, just behind the light. I can’t get close enough to make them hear me.
Now I hear CeCe crying. A soft broken sound that rips my heart in half. I need to get to her. I feel like I will choke on my own urgency, her torment coursing through me like the blood in my veins.
I struggle to get out from beneath the wall, but it’s useless. I’m too weak, my voice not loud enough to project that far. It’s like drowning, looking up to see the surface so close above you and yet not able to push yourself up high enough to break through.
I don’t have the strength left to fight the descent.
♪
46
CeCe
The graveside service is simple and final. The sun smiles brightly at the crowd of people huddled together on a Tennessee hillside.
The cemetery is a private family spot on Case’s two hundred fifty acre farm. It’s enclosed with white board fencing and an enormous oak stands at the center of the spot. It has to be at least a century old. I’m grateful for the canopy of shade it drapes across us.
Mama is holding onto my elbow. For a moment, I wish I had taken her advice and let her get the wheelchair she’d rented for me out of the trunk of the car.
The pastor’s words here are brief and heartfelt. Case is sitting on the front row of chairs, bent over with his elbows on his knees, his shoulders visibly shaking with grief.
There is no music here, just the soft whistle of wind through the nearby trees. A cow lows for its calf in the distance. Other than that, silence.
Family members stand and drop flower petals across the top of the casket, each person filing out of the tent until only Case is left. I notice that Lauren isn’t here with him. I don’t know what to make of that.
Case lifts his head, his gaze locked on the petal-strewn casket, tears streaming silently down his face. He stands then, using a cane to right himself.
Next to me, Mama draws in a quick breath that sounds more like a sob. I’m afraid to look at her because I can barely contain my own sorrow.
Case reaches down to scoop a handful of petals from the pot next to the coffin. He gently scatters them in among the others. They fall like silent rain.
; I see his shoulders droop, and he starts to drop back onto the chair. Mama moves so quickly that it takes me a moment to realize she’s right there beside him, helping him to sit without falling.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Just lean on me.”
He looks at her then, and the grief in his eyes is more than any human being could possibly know how to bear.
Tears stream from Mama’s eyes as well, and she takes his hand and clasps it between her own like a rudder righting a ship on an ocean’s staggering waves of sorrow.
♪
I DON’T WANT TO go to the gathering at the house.
The thought of food still makes me feel sick, but even more, I can’t imagine winding my way through all of the guests who will be there. Forcing a smile to my face, a polite note to my voice. I can’t imagine smiling again or that the furnace of anger melting my very core can ever be snuffed out.
But Mama thinks I will regret it if I don’t go in. And since I’m too exhausted to put up much of a fight, I let her get the wheelchair out of the car. I sit down in it to the hope that it will lessen the number of times I actually have to meet eyes with the other people here today.
I see Nelda, the Phillips’s housekeeper standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her black dress formal in a way I’ve never seen her. She glances up, and as soon as her gaze falls across me, I hear the sob erupt from her chest.
She walks over to me, drops onto her knees and puts her arms around me. Her shoulders shake with the effort of trying to hold back the despair intent on breaking free from her. And I’m crying so hard that I can’t catch my breath. I feel like such an imposter here. All of these people loved Beck.
I cared for him, but I hurt him. If I could take back those last moments between us, if I could just reach through time and change the ending. . .
I can’t. And that is something I will have to live with.
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