Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 11

[chazper]

Yikes! So long since I updated this story, but for those of you still interested in Evil!Caleb, here's the next chapter.

You know the drill. Still AU. And the characters--well, the Cohen and Caleb--still not mine.



Best Forgotten, Chapter 11

“Mr. Nichol?”

Lost in thought, Caleb continued to gaze out the window, past the city skyline toward the ocean. His steepled fingertips tapped his chin, and his eyes gleamed. So, he mused with grim satisfaction. Dr. Keller can do the surgery tonight. Excellent. Perhaps I should fly down early enough to visit ‘Ryan Atwood’ one last time--

“Mr. Nichol,” his secretary repeated. She held his office door open a scant inch, her gaze fixed discreetly on the floor. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your grandson is on your private line. I said you were busy, but . . .”

Caleb peered around sharply. “That’s all right, Ms. Kerry. I’ll take it.” Giving the woman a dismissive wave, Cal pushed the button on his console. He waited until she shut the door before he spoke. “Seth,” he said. “This is a surprise.” Irritation tightened his jaw, but he forced himself to sound cordial. “What can I do for you?”

On the other end of the line Seth strode across the patio, stopping just outside the empty pool house. Sunlight glinted off its glass surface, making his eyes water, and he blinked rapidly.

You can do this, he told himself. C’mon, Cohen. Ryan faced down half the Harbor polo team to help you. He’s the best friend-the only real friend-you’ve ever had and he needs your help now.

You have to do this.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped closer to the door and grasped its knob for support.

“Hey, Grandpa. You know how you suggested that we go sailing together yesterday?” he began, deliberately rambling. “Well, I’ve kinda been in grand funk mode lately-okay, ever since Ryan disappeared-which apparently translates to acting sulky and self-involved. Anyway, I realized that when you asked me I kind of blew you off. Which was rude. And ungrateful. I mean, you were just trying to be nice, right?” Out of breath, he paused, gulping air.

“I appreciate you calling to apologize, Seth.”

“No. I mean yes, right, sorry. But, well, also the ‘rents and I talked last night about, um, about Ryan. They went on about unrealistic expectations and facing reality and how maybe it’s best if we just pick up our lives and . . .”

Seth took another deep breath and Caleb’s finger, already poised to end the call, relaxed. His brows arched quizzically. “And?” he prompted.

Sour liquid filled Seth’s mouth, but he swallowed it down. “So, yeah. I wondered if the offer is still good,” he replied. “‘Cause I think I’d like to go after all.”

Gratified, Caleb inclined his head. His mouth pursed in a near-smile. First Sandy and a reluctant Kirsten, he thought. Now even his grandson. Well, of course, it wasn’t a total surprise. He’d known it was just a matter of time before his family realized they were better off without that conniving little street thug. “Well, good. I’d enjoy that, Seth,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t we say . . . Tuesday? After your family gets back from San Francisco?”

“Tuesday?” Seth’s voice plummeted, thick with disappointment. “Oh. I was thinking more like this morning. But I mean, if you don’t want to . . . I guess I can always go alone. Or, I don’t know, maybe just hang around the house, play some video games.”

Gripping the phone tightly, Seth stared past his reflection into Ryan’s empty room. His face set in tense lines as he waited for his grandfather’s response. Come on, he urged mentally. I don’t want to do this any more than you do, but say yes, okay? Say yes.

“It’s just that I’m busy today, Seth.”

“Right. Got it. Busy.” Seth’s distorted image began to slump in defeat. Shit! he thought. Now what? Trying one last tactic, he sighed heavily. “Sorry to bother you, Grandpa,” he mumbled. “I’ll let you get back to . . . whatever.” He let the last word linger, crushed and bitter.

Caleb gritted his teeth. His mind racing, he mulled the situation. Leaving the office now would derail his plans for the day. He wanted to sequester himself with Kirsten. While they reviewed the Shoreway proposal, he could remind her subtly of her family obligations and renew all her original doubts about Ryan. By the time he was done, any remaining concern she might feel for the boy would be gone. Caleb was sure of that. But if Seth told his parents that his grandfather rebuffed his attempt to make amends-worse, if he went back to brooding around the house, pining for his missing ‘friend’ . . .

“Wait,” Caleb ordered.

Seth released the breath he had been holding. “Yeah?” he asked, filling the word with misery.

“Maybe I could use a break this morning, Seth. I’ll tell you what.” With an effort, Caleb stifled the reluctance in his voice. “Give me about ninety minutes to get your mother up to speed on this project. Then I’ll meet you at the marina, all right? But we’ll sail my sloop, not that beginner dinghy of yours.”

His grandfather’s sneering dismissal of The Summer Breeze never even fazed Seth. Rocking back on his heels, he exchanged a grim smile with his reflection. “Great. Thanks, Grandpa,” he said. “This means a lot to me.”

Without waiting for a reply, he hung up, pivoted around, and stared out at the Pacific.

The ocean had always been Seth’s second home. It had never seemed uninviting before, or looked so vast, empty and fathomless. The prospect of sailing out there with his grandfather made his stomach churn.

But Seth reminded himself sternly, you have no choice, Cohen. Getting Grandpa out of the office is the only way you can help find Ryan.

You have to do this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ryan jerked awake. For a sick instant, he lay still and breathless, choked by the tentacles of his nightmare.

He is there again, in the infinity pool. This time Caleb is nowhere around. Ryan is alone. He is lying on a raft, chest-down and exhausted, his weary arms paddling desperately even as the edge of the water recedes further and further away. Somehow, it’s slipping towards the ocean, to a waterfall that will plunge him into its dark, hungry depths. There is no current, yet he’s being pushed backwards. He can hear the roar of the waves, and, then, below him, something worse: a sneering insidious hiss.

The raft is leaking. It’s the only thing keeping him afloat, and it’s begun to lose air.

Ryan is losing air. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t reach solid ground and now he’s sinking by slow inches beneath the surface. He’ll drown there, within sight of home, or drift helplessly to the cataracts until they pitch him down, down, down, battering him against the rocks, filling his lungs with water his own blood.

“No!” Ryan screams. “No!” His cry rises and disappears, lost in a maelstrom of strident death-noise.

All at once, cutting through the cacophony, Ryan hears a new sound.

It’s Seth.

Seth is there. Ryan can see him suddenly. He’s sitting in the hot tub, but his back is turned, his arms flailing in wide, familiar gestures, and he’s talking to somebody. Ryan squints, but he can’t make out the other person. He can only hear Seth’s voice, a dizzy tilt-a-whirl of words that tumble wildly, almost colliding, before wheeling away again. They’re random, a jumble of nonsense, and they’re loud-louder than the jeering hiss of the raft or the bellowing waterfall, too loud for Ryan’s own shouts to penetrate.

Still, he tries, over and over again. “Seth!” he yells, “Seth! Over here! Come on, man, look behind you!”

Seth doesn’t react.

If he would just stop for a moment, just pause and listen or turn around for just an instant . . . He doesn’t, though. He just keeps babbling, his head bobbing, curls dancing, until Sandy appears on the patio. He has one arm looped around Kirsten, who nestles against his side. They both beckon, laughing, for Seth to join them inside.

Panting, eyes wide with hope, Ryan stops paddling, and waits. He’s sure that they will see him. They have to. He’s right there in front of them, in their line of sight. All they have to do is glance upwards, just once, past Seth toward the pool. But they don’t. They never even look beyond the hot tub.

“I’m here!” Ryan tries to yell, to alert them, but his words, cracked and weak, fall beneath the waves.

He has to try something else. He has to make the Sandy and Kirsten see him.

With the last of his strength Ryan slips off the submerging raft. Head up, he starts to swim, head up, peering through the darkness, afraid to lose sight of the Cohens. Even so, they vanish for a moment, blocked by his own frantic splashing as Seth climbs out of the tub. Salt water stings his eyes and Ryan shakes his head desperately to clear them. When he can see again, a fourth figure has appeared. It’s a boy, shorter than Seth, broad-shouldered and vaguely familiar. Ryan watches as he hoists himself out of the tub and catches the towel Sandy tosses to him, grinning. His back still turned to Ryan, the boy dries his arms and legs, his bare chest. When he’s done, he folds the damp terrycloth into a neat oblong and flicks it once, playfully at Seth before he drapes it around his own neck.

Then he pads over to join the Kirsten and Sandy. They hold out their hands to welcome him.

There is an abrupt, absolute silence. All the background noise stops, and Ryan, gulping air, treading water, can hear every word.

“Hey, kid.” Sandy greets the boy with a one-armed half-hug and tousles his wet hair. “How’re you doing? You hungry?”

The boy nods. When he moves, droplets of water glisten on his skin. It almost glows in the dark. Ryan still can’t distinguish his face, though.

“It’s getting chilly out here. Look at you,” Kirsten says. “You’re cold.” She rubs the boy’s arm, and Ryan, aching with envy, can see his whole body relax. Then she waves to Seth who shuffles over to join them. “Why don’t you both come in and get changed before we eat?”

The maternal concern in her voice stretches through the night air. It reaches Ryan and warms him. Momentarily revived, he starts to swim again, slicing the water with long, urgent strokes.

“Kirsten?” he calls. “Sandy? I’m here-in the pool! Please . . . I can’t get out. Sandy! ”

Nobody answers. Instead, they all turn, heading for the house. Ryan swims harder, swallowing water now and thrashing, desperate to make them hear him or see him, to remember that he exists.

But he won’t for long. Ryan knows that. He’s dying.

“Sandy!” he chokes. “Please!”

His hand on the French door, Sandy pauses. He glances back, his brows furrowed quizzically.

Ryan waits, gasping, clutching at hope. Maybe, he thinks, maybe . . .

“So I’m thinking maybe Indian food tonight,” Sandy says. He’s looking at the stranger, not Ryan at all, and he nods thoughtfully. “What do you say, Ryan? Ever had curry?”

Ryan?

The boy ducks his head, smiling slightly, and in a flash, Ryan sees his face: piercing blue eyes half-hidden beneath lowered lashes, small scar above his left brow, another over his lip, irregular nose, chiseled cheekbones a vulnerable mouth above a set, determined chin.

It’s a face at once much too young and too old. And it’s one he knows.

He is looking into a mirror.

“No!” Ryan moans. He starts to feel himself sink, weighted down by his own body. “No, don’t believe him! That’s not the real Ryan! I’m here. Sandy, Kirsten! Seth, please look at me! I’m here!”

It’s too late. The Cohens can’t hear him, won’t help him. They’re already turning, arms linked around that other boy, that imposter, ready to go inside and leave Ryan alone and drowning.

He watches, despairing, as they step into the house. He can still hear their laughter as the French doors click shut.

After that, he hears nothing. The Cohens are gone.

Ryan bolted awake then, into a dead quiet. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The sheet was twisted, shroud-like, around him, its hem balled in his fists, its folds tangled around his legs. With an effort, Ryan fought down his panic long enough to wrench himself free. Then he threw the sheet aside. Pushing himself up, he huddled against the headboard.

Just a dream, Ryan told himself, just a dream.

It did not matter though. Nothing had changed. He was still alone, locked in the clinic. Slowly, his eyes glazed over, staring at nothing, his skin grew slick with sweat, and his mouth clamped shut against a silent scream.

That was how Lucy found him when she arrived. Alarmed, she stepped cautiously into the room.

Something was very wrong.

Always before, she felt that she could read Ryan’s face. No matter how guarded his expression, how confused or defiant or desperate, Lucy believed she could glimpse the person he was at his core. She knew how to reach that boy.

Now she couldn’t find him. She saw nothing at all in Ryan’s eyes, and nothing beneath or beyond them.

“Ryan?” she called gently.

His gaze flickered, then shuttered again.

Lucy moved closer, measuring her steps. She noted the crumpled sheets, the pillow yanked out of its case and lying on the floor, the mattress hanging half-off the bed frame. Then she studied Ryan himself. He sat uncannily still, his posture rigid and his dry lips circled by a white line. Dark, bruise-like shadows smudged his eyes.

Her own softened in sympathy.

“Was it a nightmare, Ryan?” Lucy pitched her voice low, warm and soothing. “I know that you have had them. Was this one very bad?”

He took a shuddering breath, then shook his head. It was a strange gesture, Lucy thought, part nod, part denial and part something else: a marshaling of his strength? Or perhaps just an attempt to clear his mind, recognize the world again.

“Yes.” His gaze, still opaque, raked the room. “Not as bad as this though,” he muttered. “Can’t wake up from this.”

Lucy tried, but she could not summon a reply. Instead, she reached mutely for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. She poured a glass but when she started to offer it to him, Ryan turned his head, already rejecting it. Rejecting her too, Lucy sensed. She could feel the boy retreating further into himself, shutting her out. Setting the cup down, she moved a step closer to the bed and gently brushed the back of his clenched hand with her fingertips.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?”

For a few strained moments Ryan was silent. Lucy waited, giving him time, her touch simply letting him know she was there. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded raw. He said nothing at all about his dream.

“Used . . . used to think my father was a monster,” he whispered painfully. “When I was a kid, before he went to prison . . . he’d get drunk, beat Mom or Trey or me. Belts, chairs, his fists, anything he could grab. Once-think I was about five-threw me down the front steps, broke my arm, split my knee open. It hurt-but . . .”

“What Ryan?

He licked his lips, his fist tightening. “Not like this. Never tried to destroy me like this, kill me from the inside out--”

From the inside out? Lucy’s fine brows furrowed sharply. What could Ryan mean? Surely not Brandon. The boy had always insisted that other self didn’t exist. Yet . . . could he sense his presence now-Was he saying he could feel a killer lurking somewhere within him?

She shivered, but her hand, soothing and firm, continued to stroke Ryan’s icy skin. “Is someone doing that to you?” she asked gently.

His eyes skidded sideways, answering her question. They darted back down almost instantly, but not before Lucy recognized him again, the boy she had come to know.

“Who is it?” she prompted. She tensed, waiting for his answer.

His lips trembled, as if the answer burned them. “Caleb Nichol,” he said flatly.

Ah, Lucy thought. He is not speaking of Brandon at all. He means Mr. Nichol. She nodded, feeling herself relax, never questioning the sense of relief that flooded through her.

“How has he done this to you, Ryan?”

“You know how!” he blurted, abruptly facing her. “He lied! He used his money and power to trap me in this place and he lied about me, made you all believe that I’m crazy, that I’m violent-a killer. He wants . . .” Ryan’s voice caught and he shook his head as if movement might jerk it free. “Wants me to believe it too. So I’ll just . . . disappear.”

His last words seemed to echo in the room. The anguish in them chilled Lucy to the bone, freezing any reply she might make. She sought vainly for the right response, words or some way to reassure him. But how could she, knowing that the boy was right?

After the surgery, Ryan would disappear in every way that mattered.

By tomorrow, he would be gone.

“Please,” she murmured uncertainly, “please, you must not think such things.”

She eased closer, seeking to comfort him, but Ryan recoiled.

“Don’t tell me what to think,” he warned fiercely.

“I did not mean to do so,” Lucy protested, but the boy had clearly stopped listening. Yanking his hand from under hers, he wrapped his arms around his midriff, turned to the wall and wedged himself into the far corner of his bed.

Lucy hesitated a moment. Then she sighed and stood up silently. She felt hollow inside and helpless. At a loss, she began absently to retrieve the bedding he had flung to the floor. Ryan sat huddled at an awkward angle, his head falling sideways, but Lucy did not dare offer him his pillow. Instead she slipped it back into its case, smoothed it carefully, and placed it on the bed beside him. She hoped he might reach for it, but Ryan didn’t move.

Sighing again, Lucy retrieved his crumpled sheet. As she shook out the creases, a piece of paper, wadded tight and torn, suddenly fell from one of its folds.

Lucy frowned. Puzzled, she picked up the paper and inspected it.

“Ryan” she asked. “What is this?”

His face was still averted, but a muscle in Ryan’s jaw jumped and Lucy could see the corner of his mouth curl caustically. “More proof that I don’t exist,” he snapped. For a moment, she detected a trace of his old strength and defiance. Then his shoulders slumped, and his voice sank into despair, so low that she could barely hear it. “Maybe I don’t.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. More confused than ever, she flattened the paper on the bed table, but Ryan’s reaction still baffled her. All she saw was an ad for some clothing store. Then she turned the sheet over. Before she even aligning the edges where it had been torn, Lucy saw the headline.

She blanched, horrified. “Oh no,” she breathed, scanned the article. “Who gave this to you? Dr. Keller?”

Ryan half-shrugged, half-nodded. “Last night. Heard him tell Dr. Gall . . . might shock me into reality. . .”

Rage, swift and hot, surged through Lucy. How dare the man? How could he do this? The boy believed he was Ryan! Forcing him to read an account of his own death-his own murder-it was beyond heartless. No wonder he seemed to have lost all sense of himself, all hope. How could anyone survive an assault like that?

Without thinking, Lucy dropped down next to Ryan. Slipping an arm around him, she guided his head to her shoulder.

The boy didn’t resist. He hardly seemed aware of her touch, even when she began to stroke his hair. For a few minutes, they sat like that in silence. At last Lucy tilted his face up so he would meet her eyes.

“I am so sorry,” she began quietly. “You should not have had to read these things, Ryan--”

“Don’t!”

Lucy started, almost jolted off the bed as Ryan jerked out of her arms.

“What is wrong?” she asked, shocked by the harshness of his tone, the violence of his reaction. “What did I do, Ryan?”

“That-calling me Ryan. Patronizing me.”

“But I am not--”

“No!” he insisted. His breath came hard and fast, alarming Lucy. “I don’t want you to use my name, not if you believe I’m that other person. Brandon.” The boy searched her face, searing her with his gaze. Lucy shrank back, almost frightened by his intensity. “Do you?” he demanded. “Tell me. I need to know. Do you believe I’m Ryan?”

Lucy hesitated, hating the question, hating herself, searching for an honest and still painless answer.

What reply could she offer that would satisfy him, that wouldn’t destroy his tenuous trust?

There was nothing.

She took a deep breath, her eyes brimming with compassion. “I do not know,” she admitted slowly. “I wish that I could say what you want to hear but . . . if you are indeed Ryan there are so many things that make no sense. All of your records, what I heard from--” Lucy almost said “Mr. Cohen, but she stopped herself in time. The boy did not need to hear about that phone call now. “The doctors,” she concluded. “I am sorry. The truth is, I do not know what to believe about you.”

Ryan’s fingers gouged his own arms, scoring the skin. Other than that he didn’t move. “At least you didn’t lie,” he said bitterly. “I suppose that’s something.”

Taking a chance, Lucy eased closer. “Please listen,” she begged. “I . . . feel that you are Ryan Atwood, yes. That is why I use the name. I can find no trace of Brandon in you.” Her voice, already soft, sank to a gentle plea. “But I think perhaps you want so much for it to be true, to be Ryan, that you have made it so inside yourself. No, hear me, please! I understand why you would choose not to be Brandon any longer--”

“I didn’t choose anything! Brandon doesn’t exist. I do.”

Lucy shook her head. She could feel the boy’s frustration building, but she persisted anyway. Somehow, together, they needed to uncover the truth.

It might be their last chance before the operation.

“Yes, but there are your medical records,” she reminded Ryan gently. “The legal papers Mr. Nichol brought when he admitted you here, even the story in this newspaper--”

“They’re lies, all of them! Mr. Nichol-he made it all up to punish me.”

“Surely no one could be so vindictive--”

Ryan cut her off, his eyes glowing as if electrified. “Look at this, Lucy!” he demanded. “There’s something not right here, I know there is . . . something . . .” Desperately he grabbed the paper that she still held. His fingernails cut through the flimsy newsprint as he spread it out on the bed and bent over to study it. Then, slowly, he raised his head. “It’s the pictures,” he declared.

The boy’s voice sounded taut, on the thin edge of triumph.

“What? I do not understand.”

“Pictures,” Ryan repeated. “Look!”

He thrust the article in front of Lucy. For a moment she stared at it, uncomprehending. There was the account of the murder, stark and horrible, all those heartbreaking details, a description of the bereft Cohen family and-

Her eyes widened with realization.

“Oh,” Lucy breathed. “There are no pictures. A story like this? So tragic, and the people involved all so prominent? Yes. It is very strange that there are no photographs.”

Ryan nodded. The glow in his eyes had faded. Now they shimmered darkly, like water in a deep, forgotten well. He didn’t raise them from the page. Lucy followed his gaze, reading silently.

“A grieving Kirsten Nichol stated, ‘Ryan was just settling into our family. He had such a rough background, but we thought we could give him a better life-and now this.’ The Cohen son, Seth, appeared inconsolable. He refused to speak with reporters, but Sandy Cohen declared, ‘I blame myself. I should never have brought him here--”

That was where Ryan had ripped the page in half. Lucy covered the rest of the text.

“It is enough,” she said gently. “There is no need for you to read any more.”

“But you see what I mean, don’t you?” Ryan asked urgently. “It’s not true. That newspaper, the medical records . . . he faked them all. They’re lies. Lucy. You have to believe me--”

“Nurse Forde′? Is something wrong here?”

The unexpected voice startled Lucy and Ryan, silencing them. They both turned toward the open door, and she swiftly slipped off the bed. Instinctively, Lucy took the newspaper with her, tucking it into her pocket as Dr. Keller and Nurse Cree walked into the room.

“Not at all, Doctor,” she replied. “The patient simply had a nightmare. I was attempting to calm him.”

“I see.” Dr. Keller looked from her to Ryan, his lips pursed in appraisal. “And are you calm now, Brandon?”

Ryan stiffened at the sound of the name. He glared, his expression at once defensive and challenging. “Yes,” he said flatly. “But I’m not Brandon. I’m Ryan.”

“Indeed. Well. Why don’t we see how you are doing physically. Nurse Cree?” Dr. Keller nodded to the woman, who began to prepare a syringe.

Lucy saw Ryan’s fists clench and she placed a warning hand on his shoulder. “Don’t,” she whispered. “It is just to draw blood. You must cooperate.” Then she turned to Dr. Keller. “I would be glad to assist you with the patient’s examination,” she offered, louder.

“Your shift hasn’t started yet,” Nurse Cree replied tartly. “I can handle this, thank you. You must have other things to do, Nurse.”

Her tone signaled dismissal. So did Dr. Keller’s curt gesture toward the door. Lucy looked helplessly at Ryan. “I must go now,” she said. He shook his head and she added, firm and grave, “It is all right. We will talk when I return.” Do not fight them, she pleaded silently. Do nothing to make them sedate or restrain you again.

“Lucy--” The boy’s voice cracked, brittle with entreaty.

Lucy gave him a gentle smile and patted her pocket. Inside it the paper rustled faintly. “I understand,” she said. Her eyes widened, a promise. “Trust me.”

Before she could say more, Nurse Cree bustled in front of her, blocking Ryan from Lucy’s view. She lingered for a moment, then slipped out the door, her mind churning.

The boy was right.

Something was wrong with that article, something more than its lack of pictures. She stopped at the nurse’s station. Pulling out the paper, Lucy scanned both sides, rereading, searching. Then she caught her breath.

There! she thought. What of that? It might just be an ordinary mistake, but perhaps . . .

Darting a final sharp glance into Ryan’s room, Lucy turned and rushed, almost running, to the computers in the staff break room.

TBC

P.S. My apologies to those of you who posted feedback on the last chapter and didn't get a response. When I went back to check continuity I discovered several comments I didn't realize I'd received. But I do appreciate all of you who are still reading! Really!