“I’m just an American guy in a pickup truck,” said Stephen Beech at the end of one of our early dates. It was Valentine’s Day 1993, and he was dropping me off at my Santa Monica apartment.
His comment was supposed to act as a deterrent as he explained why he wasn’t the man for me. He’d been through a difficult few years. His first marriage had ended, and he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. Anyway, he pointed out, we were from different worlds. He was a property manager from Philadelphia, I was a British journalist based in L.A. Also, while Stephen was intent on remaining single, I was on a mission to meet the right man and start a family.
But I’d already discovered that the tall, introspective, good-looking man I was falling for had hidden depths. He played classical guitar and he was funny and philosophical too. I’d met him at a part-time master’s program in spiritual psychology at the University of Santa Monica. The fact that he drove a pickup truck only added to the romantic allure.
There was clearly an attraction on his part too. After all, there we were kissing in his blue truck outside my apartment. So we continued dating, and we went everywhere in that blue truck: coffees and dinners, drives along Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu or further north to visit friends in Ojai. I learned more about his reluctance to get involved. Stephen and his first wife had lost their little girl to cancer. He’d been trying to recover from intense grief and rebuild his life without the complications of a relationship.
But our relationship took on an ineluctable momentum, and by October, I was pregnant. When our daughter, Chace, was born in August 1994, we drove home from the hospital in the blue truck. When we bought our house in Santa Monica, Stephen piled all our possessions into the back of the truck. He used the truck to haul paving stones for our yard and plants from the garden center. By the time our second daughter, Ava-Rose, arrived four years later, the truck remained reliable.
Eventually, though, it started to break down. One spring day, I arrived home from work just as Stephen was pulling up outside our house in a gleaming, brand-new, white Dodge pickup. Stephen didn’t get excited about much, but he was smiling broadly as he took me for a spin. Payments were $400 a month, a big chunk of his paycheck, but it was worth it.
The truck became an integral part of life. There were heated conversations in the front and back seats about school, friendships and politics and there were fights about music: whether we should listen to Radio Disney or classical station KUSC. Often the consensus ended up being “The Weight,” our favorite song by Stephen’s favorite band, the Band.
Most mornings he’d take the girls to school — Ava invariably leaving the house in a panic, eating the bowl of oatmeal her dad had made her for breakfast on the road while finishing her homework. He’d drive Ava to fencing competitions all over California. He’d take Ava and Chace to ballet, and he used the truck to cart around equipment when he was volunteering backstage for the Westside School of Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker” every year.
When our daughters were in their teens, he’d take them and their friends to parties, happy to be the designated parent collecting everyone in the early hours and making sure they got home safely. He was always putting his truck to good use helping out friends and neighbors.
There were often surprise presents delivered in the truck: One birthday, it was a purple wisteria tree; one Valentine’s day, it was a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt stove.
But my favorite memories of Stephen and his truck were more mundane, involving countless serendipitous meetings around Santa Monica. I’d be out walking our dogs, Puck and Chaucer, and Stephen would just happen to be driving along the same road. He’d slow down, left elbow resting on the open window, and stop for a quick chat: “What’s up?”
The truck was emblematic of the man. Trustworthy. Enduring. Reliable. Safe. Strong. Until it wasn’t. On March 12, 2018, Stephen called from work to say he wasn’t feeling well. He was shuffling and unsteady on his feet. I suggested that he should drive to the ER just to check that all was well.
That was the last time Stephen drove his truck. He was admitted to the hospital, had a brain scan and was diagnosed with a brain stem tumor. His condition deteriorated rapidly. My Strong American Guy in a Pickup Truck could no longer drive. After three major surgeries in quick succession, he was in a wheelchair and couldn’t walk. Stephen handed over the keys of his truck to Chace, who’d moved back home from New York where she’d been working to help take care of her dad. (Ava was in her first year at college.) Chace drove us in the truck to oncology appointments until it became too difficult and Stephen needed to be picked up by private ambulance.
Over the next 3½ years, Stephen gradually lost his ability to talk, eat or breathe independently. But he remained courageous and optimistic. Like the sturdy white truck, Stephen’s spirit and will to live were strong.
Today, almost four years since Stephen lost his battle with brain cancer, it’s time to say goodbye to the truck. Chace has already spent thousands of dollars on repairs, so we’ve made the tough decision to donate it to charity.
Some of the deep grief I’ve experienced since Stephen was initially diagnosed with an incurable glioma seven years ago had subsided a little, but it’s back. I miss Stephen and I’m sad that I won’t see the truck when I go out for my early morning walk.
On a recent Sunday morning, I decide to hose it down and wipe away the ingrained grime. I’m sure that wherever he is, Stephen is rolling his eyes, having a laugh at my careless use of the hose as I end up drenched. I’m sure there’s also a wry smile as he watches me take the truck for a drive (my first) along our road, encouraged by Dave, our next-door neighbor.
“You have to drive it once,” says Dave, so I do.
I will miss the white truck: resilient, kind and generous, just like the American guy who owned it. But it’s time to set off on my next adventure, knowing that Stephen’s spirit will always be beside me in the passenger seat.
The author is a senior writer at Thrive Global. Prior to Thrive, she wrote for U.K. and global newspapers, including the Guardian, the Times, the Telegraph and the Mail on Sunday. She also was a TV correspondent for the BBC and other U.K. networks.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
