Best Forgotten, Part 34. (It only feels like Part 340)
I'm trying to hard to finish this story but it's coming in dribs and drabs now (mostly drabs.) In any case, here's January's installment for anybody still interested.
Disclaimer: You know, the standard stuff. Characters (well, the central ones) still not mine, errors (well, all of them) still mine alone.
Best Forgotten, Part 34
There was an instant of shocked, sick silence after Ryan wrenched himself away from Kirsten. Then she stumbled to her feet, falling against Sandy. “I’m sorry--” she choked. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--”
She couldn’t finish. In a whirl of anguish, Kirsten spun around and buried her face against her husband’s shoulder. Sandy pulled her close, stroking her hair, murmuring hushed endearments. He never looked at his wife though. All the while he gazed past her, staring in consternation at the back of Ryan’s head.
Even without seeing his face, Sandy could tell that the boy had retreated. He lay still, remote and shuttered. It was if a light inside him had been switched off, leaving them all in the dark.
At a loss, Sandy fumbled to find the right words to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, gently prodding. It sounded as if he were trying to lure out a wounded animal or a frightened, lost child. “What’s going on, kid?” he asked. “Come on. You know you can talk to me, right?” He waited, still mechanically threading Kirsten’s hair, but Ryan didn’t respond. He did not even seem to hear.
On the other side of the bed, Seth ducked down, tilting his head, trying vainly to make Ryan look at him. “Yeah, dude. What was that all about?” he demanded. Taking a cue from his father, he kept his approach playful. “That was just Mom. You know-the Kirsten? Bad cook, bacon-lover, architecture tour guide? She’s on your side, remember?”
Ryan didn’t answer. His lips trembled though, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. At the same time, his eyes clamped shut, and he clenched his fists, convulsively squeezing a wadded fold of sheet.
Overhead, the monitors began to beep another warning.
Lucy’s head jerked up. She peered sharply at the machine but her voice remained calm, even soothing, when she spoke. “Kirsten asked me to examine you, Ryan,” she said, leaning down to touch his cheek with her fingertips. “I think it might be best if I did that now, yes?” Without waiting for an answer she glanced back at the Cohens. Her tone still gentle, she added, “Perhaps, Sandy, your family could wait outside while I do this?”
They hesitated and Seth scowled a mute “No,” but Lucy gazed meaningfully at Ryan. Then she inclined her head toward the door. “It should not take long,” she promised. “I will let you in again as soon as we have finished.”
Her smile offered silent reassurance and Sandy nodded reluctantly. He led Kirsten, still huddled blindly against him, to the door. His face grave, he waited there until Seth followed, walking backwards, stumbling and staring bewildered at Ryan all the way out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as Ryan’s door had closed behind them, Kirsten twisted out of Sandy’s arm. She pressed her back against the wall, her body somehow both tense and slack, her skin the same chalk-white as the hallway.
“He hates me,” she whispered.
Sandy raked his fingers through his hair. “Sweetheart--” he began, but he couldn’t make himself finish. Saying “that’s not true” felt too much like a lie. The truth was, he had no idea how Ryan felt, or why he had pulled away from Kirsten, shutting her out. Shutting himself away from all of them.
Baffled and deeply troubled, Sandy glanced through the window, trying vainly to see past Lucy, to read Ryan’s shadowed face.
“Aw, kid,” he thought, his heart clenching, “what the hell did Cal do to you? Don’t tell me we’re going to lose you after all.”
Aloud, he just murmured weakly, “Don’t say that,” and reached for Kirsten. She shook her head, shrinking away from him. Wrapping her arms across her midriff, she clutched her elbows, pinning them vise-tight to her sides. Beneath her bedraggled silk sleeves, her nails dug angry crescents into her skin.
“But it’s true,” she said. Her voice, hollow and paper-thin, barely stirred the air. “I don’t blame him, Sandy. He should hate me. My father did this to him. And as far as Ryan knows, I might have done it too. The way I treated him when you first brought him home-thinking the worst, sending him away-
“Kirsten, honey, you brought him back,” Sandy reminded her. “When he was in juvie after the model home fire, you’re the one who brought him home. Ryan knows that. He knows you’re not like your father.”
As if Sandy had not even spoken, almost as if she was talking to herself, Kirsten continued in the same empty whisper. “I knew it would be like this. After what -after everything my father put Ryan through, I expected . . .” Her voice wavering, Kirsten lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug, and her lips crimped. “But . . . I still hoped,” she confessed, “and for a minute when he let me hold him I thought . . . but then he--”
She broke off, choking on a sob, and Sandy folded Kirsten into his arms. Seth huddled behind her, shuffling clumsily from foot to foot, giving her shoulder soft, ineffectual pats.
“But Mom, Ryan would never feel like that,” he insisted. His voice trailed off as he recalled his own shock at Ryan’s reaction to Kirsten, but Seth rallied, talking quickly to convince himself as well as his much. “You’ve gotta remember, Ryan’s been locked up here alone all this time with people calling him Brandon and claiming he killed the real Ryan Atwood. Plus, they gave him all kinds of drugs. He’s just, you know, confused. He’s not sure what’s real yet. Maybe-maybe he didn’t recognize you. I mean, it’s not like you look like yourself right now. And hell, Ryan reacted the same way to Dad and me at first.” Seth paused, out of breath, and hoping that his mother would rouse. When she didn’t, he glanced at his father and grimaced, concluding feebly, “He didn’t mean it, Mom. Just give him time. You’ll see. Tell her Dad. ”
“Sweetheart--” Sandy began.
Kirsten shook her head against his chest.
“No,” she said dully.
Seth and Sandy had to strain to understand. Her words were muffled by Sandy’s shirt and clotted by misery. “He meant it. Ryan can’t even stand to look at me--” She lifted her face, despairing and tear-glazed. “What are we going to do, Sandy? I can never make this up to him. I know he loves you and Seth, but what if he doesn’t want to live with us-with me-anymore? We can’t force him to come back.”
“We won’t have to, Mom,” Seth insisted staunchly. “Trust me, I know the guy. Ryan wants to be with us.”
“He does, Kirsten,” Sandy added. “Whatever happened in there just now, Ryan will get past it. You have to believe that.”
“I want to,” Kirsten said softly. “But he’s been through hell, Sandy. And even if you’re right, if Ryan can bear to be around me after this-oh God, how can we ever make him feel safe in our home again?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the door had closed behind the Cohens, Lucy went to work. She coaxed Ryan onto his back, gently easing him against the pillow and lowering the arm that he flung over his eyes.
“I promised your mother that I would check you, Ryan. We must have a doctor look at you too,” she told him quietly. “But it will not be anyone who has worked with Dr. Keller. Your mother insisted on that. She would not permit any one from his team to come near you.” Ryan winced each time she said “your mother,” but Lucy pretended not to notice. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, though, and she kept glancing at the monitor. “That is what she was doing outside,” she continued. “Fending off the doctors who came to examine you.” Deftly bustling around, checking Ryan’s vital signs, she allowed a smile to creep into her voice. The alarm was gradually slowing as she worked, and the pattern on the screen that reflected Ryan’s agitation was growing less erratic, less disquieting. “Is that the right word-fending?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “It has such an odd sound. Does it mean to guard something like a fierce dog?”
Lucy waited. At last Ryan, his eyes still closed, gave a small nod.
“Ah good. I was not sure,” she said. “But it was the first word that came to mind when I saw Kirsten outside your room.” The monitor stopped beeping and Lucy, unseen by Ryan, sighed with relief. Then she chuckled. “Of course she would be a very slight guard dog, but such a fearsome one, Ryan! I wish you could have seen. She was blocking the door and facing down Dr. Estola. He is a very large man and I have never seen him intimidated before. Yet your mother would not let him pass.-Ryan, I must ask you to open your eyes now. I need to check them. Look at me, please.”
Once again Lucy waited. Twice, Ryan’s lashes fluttered, only to squeeze shut again. When, at last, he opened his eyes they appeared mottled blue, both wistful and wary, but Lucy thought she detected something else too-a deep undercurrent of something dark, something oddly like shame.
Lucy frowned. She could not imagine what would prompt such a feeling, but she thought it best not to ask. Instead she said simply, “Thank you.” She aimed the penlight, flashing it left to right. “There-and-there. Excellent. No-no, do not close your eyes again, Ryan. There is no need to shut out the world now. You see, you are safe. I am here, Sandy is here, your whole family has come to take you home. Only, only I think perhaps,” she ventured, “you are sorry that you hurt your mother’s feelings?”
Ryan shook his head. “Not-my mother, Lucy,” he said hoarsely. He reached up one arm to shield his eyes again, but Lucy caught it, easing it down to his side. Clasping his hand, she held it between both of hers.
“Not by your birth, no,” she agreed gently. “I know you already have a mother. But by Kirsten’s heart, yes, she is your mother too. Just as Sandy is your father now, you are Kirsten’s child. I have heard her speak of you, Ryan. I have seen how she looks at you with her whole soul in her eyes. That is the way a mother looks at a beloved son. Surely you know this?”
Ryan didn’t answer for a moment. He stared up at the expanse of flat, white ceiling. His breath hitched, and his free hand plucked at the sheet, squeezing a fold of it in his fist. When he finally spoke the words emerged with a harsh, labored effort, stopping and starting again as if they were too painful to sustain. “Mr. Nichol-her father-can’t-can’t tell her, Lucy. ”
Lucy’s brow puckered as she strained for understanding. “About . . .what he did?” Ryan nodded, mute, and her expression softened. “Oh Ryan,” she said tenderly. Her fingers stroked the back of his icy hand. “Ryan, she knows this already.”
“Knows?” Ryan echoed. His gaze flickered wildly to the door and his cheeks flushed, then paled. “No.”
It was less than a word than a moan, despairing.
“Yes,” Lucy replied evenly. “Kirsten knows what her father has done. But that does not need to concern you. She is here for you, Ryan. So you see, there is no cause to worry.” Lucy watched for a welcome wash of relief to clear his face, but none did. The shadows clouding it simply changed, from bleached gray to the shade of abandoned ash. She waited, but Ryan didn’t respond at all. When his gaze remained shuttered, fixed on the flat white wall beyond the bed, Lucy touched his cheek, making him look at her. He lifted his eyes reluctantly. Their lost expression made her ache inside. Still she managed to smile. “I will let the Cohens return now, yes?” she said. “Seth and Sandy and Kirsten too?”
Still smiling, Lucy released Ryan’s hand and turned to go, but at the last minute he grabbed her fingers.
“Wait.”
Something in his tone troubled Lucy. She paused, turning back to him, but even so Ryan tightened his grip as if afraid she would break free and reach the door.
“Kirsten . . . knows everything? Everything he-her father--?”
Lucy saw Ryan struggle to form the next words. She could feel the memories scald him. “Yes,” she concluded. “Kirsten knows all the monstrous things Mr. Nichol did to you. She wants nothing more to do with him, Ryan. Please, let me call her back in.”
He clutched her hand, his grip vise-like and desperate. “No--Can’t--”
Ryan stopped. He made choked sound, and his face burned-less with pain, Lucy realized, than with something else. Shame? Bewildered, she sat down again, covering his hand with hers, gentling it. “But, Ryan, why not? I do not understand what troubles you. You would not, I know, blame Kirsten for her father’s actions.
“No!” Ryan shook his head violently. The fist folded between Lucy’s hands clenched even tighter in denial. “Not her fault-mine! So when, when she looks at me--”
“What Ryan? Please. Talk to me.”
Lucy cupped his chin, turning his face so that Ryan had to look at her. She smiled her support, her gaze warm and steady, but his eyes remained glazed with anguish. For several seconds, Lucy just waited, watching, reassuring, as his defenses crumbled. At last Ryan choked out a reply.
“Kirsten-loves her father. Admires him.”
“She did,” Lucy conceded evenly. “But now she does not.”
Ryan swallowed hard and licked his lips. His eyes glistened and his voice, barely audible, frayed at the edges. “Hurts-I know. I love, loved--my dad. But what he did to my mom, Trey, me-Can’t explain. Hate him--but still, feels all tangled up-And then I hate myself--”
He broke off and Lucy’s face darkened, recalling what she knew of Frank Atwood. Still, she continued to stroke Ryan’s hand gently and her voice never wavered. It remained soothing and softly firm. “Yes. Love and hate-they are so complicated, so often painful. But I believe that you, Ryan, more than Seth or even Sandy, may understand what Kirsten is feeling now. You and your mother-you are a great deal alike, I think.” Ryan shook his head, but Lucy silenced his unspoken protest. “Yes,” she insisted. “And not just in knowing this kind of hurt. In how your hearts work too. Ryan, if you try, you might be able to help her.”
“You might be able to help each other,” Lucy amended silently.
“Can’t-you don’t understand--” Ryan’s voice twisted, stopped, stumbled forward again, aching and halting and starting again. “My fault, Lucy-If Gabrielle and I hadn’t-Kirsten knows! Her father-if it hadn’t been for me-this-never happen. She could still-could love him-the same way.”
Gasping, he stopped. His cheeks flamed with effort and grief and shame.
“No, Ryan,” Lucy said evenly. With one hand, she still clasped Ryan’s. With the other, she caressed his face, her palm cool on his burning skin. “Listen to me. What Mr. Nichol has done, all of it, he alone is responsible. Kirsten does not blame you, and you must not blame yourself.”
“But--” Ryan paused. His fingers moved between Lucy’s and he took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice sounded fearful and small, like a child facing monsters in the dark. “I feel like . . .when she looks at me,” he whispered, “she’ll see her father-see what she lost.”
Lucy felt her heart twist. Blinking back tears, she stroked his cheek again, struggling to muster a sure, tender smile. “Oh, no. No, you are wrong about this, Ryan,” she told him. “When she looks at you, Kirsten-your mother will only see what she found.”
There were those words again-“your mother.”
They wafted over Ryan, warm and lilting, softly compelling and confident. Lucy saw the truth of them register on his face, slowly start to answer the painful questions there. She brushed back Ryan’s hair and tilted his face up. Inclining her head, Lucy looked deeply into his eyes.
“And she has been looking for you for so very long.” Her expression radiated compassion and surety. “Too long,” she added briskly. “We are being very rude, you and I, keeping your family waiting in that cold hallway when they should be here with you. They need to be with you, Ryan. It is time we let them back inside now, yes? ”
Lucy stood up. She plumped Ryan’s crushed pillows, smoothed his sheets, and brushed damp strands of hair off of his forehead. Then she spooned out a few ice chips, warning as she offered them, “Only one or two right now. And you must let them melt in your mouth.” She fixed him with a playful glare, watching until he swallowed and he sank back with a grateful sigh.
Finally, Lucy raised the head of bed and stood aside, giving Ryan a better view of the door, a better sense of the space beyond it and the family waiting for him outside.
All the while, she continued to smile down at him.
Ryan licked a stray drop of water from his lips. “You . . .sure?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she replied. “Very sure.”
For a moment Ryan hesitated. His brow puckered, considering, and he stared down, pinning his gaze on the bleached white blanket covering his legs. Shadows chased each other across his face until, at last, he lifted his eyes, looking at Lucy through the veil of his lashes.
His thumb moved up and down on the hem of his sheet, slowly and slightly, as if it were taking very small, wary steps.
Squaring his chin Ryan nodded just once.
It was a silent and prayerful reply but it was all Lucy needed. She tapped Ryan’s cheek, a touch of mute promise, smiled one more time and went to open the door.
TBC
Disclaimer: You know, the standard stuff. Characters (well, the central ones) still not mine, errors (well, all of them) still mine alone.
Best Forgotten, Part 34
There was an instant of shocked, sick silence after Ryan wrenched himself away from Kirsten. Then she stumbled to her feet, falling against Sandy. “I’m sorry--” she choked. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--”
She couldn’t finish. In a whirl of anguish, Kirsten spun around and buried her face against her husband’s shoulder. Sandy pulled her close, stroking her hair, murmuring hushed endearments. He never looked at his wife though. All the while he gazed past her, staring in consternation at the back of Ryan’s head.
Even without seeing his face, Sandy could tell that the boy had retreated. He lay still, remote and shuttered. It was if a light inside him had been switched off, leaving them all in the dark.
At a loss, Sandy fumbled to find the right words to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, gently prodding. It sounded as if he were trying to lure out a wounded animal or a frightened, lost child. “What’s going on, kid?” he asked. “Come on. You know you can talk to me, right?” He waited, still mechanically threading Kirsten’s hair, but Ryan didn’t respond. He did not even seem to hear.
On the other side of the bed, Seth ducked down, tilting his head, trying vainly to make Ryan look at him. “Yeah, dude. What was that all about?” he demanded. Taking a cue from his father, he kept his approach playful. “That was just Mom. You know-the Kirsten? Bad cook, bacon-lover, architecture tour guide? She’s on your side, remember?”
Ryan didn’t answer. His lips trembled though, and a muscle in his jaw jumped. At the same time, his eyes clamped shut, and he clenched his fists, convulsively squeezing a wadded fold of sheet.
Overhead, the monitors began to beep another warning.
Lucy’s head jerked up. She peered sharply at the machine but her voice remained calm, even soothing, when she spoke. “Kirsten asked me to examine you, Ryan,” she said, leaning down to touch his cheek with her fingertips. “I think it might be best if I did that now, yes?” Without waiting for an answer she glanced back at the Cohens. Her tone still gentle, she added, “Perhaps, Sandy, your family could wait outside while I do this?”
They hesitated and Seth scowled a mute “No,” but Lucy gazed meaningfully at Ryan. Then she inclined her head toward the door. “It should not take long,” she promised. “I will let you in again as soon as we have finished.”
Her smile offered silent reassurance and Sandy nodded reluctantly. He led Kirsten, still huddled blindly against him, to the door. His face grave, he waited there until Seth followed, walking backwards, stumbling and staring bewildered at Ryan all the way out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as Ryan’s door had closed behind them, Kirsten twisted out of Sandy’s arm. She pressed her back against the wall, her body somehow both tense and slack, her skin the same chalk-white as the hallway.
“He hates me,” she whispered.
Sandy raked his fingers through his hair. “Sweetheart--” he began, but he couldn’t make himself finish. Saying “that’s not true” felt too much like a lie. The truth was, he had no idea how Ryan felt, or why he had pulled away from Kirsten, shutting her out. Shutting himself away from all of them.
Baffled and deeply troubled, Sandy glanced through the window, trying vainly to see past Lucy, to read Ryan’s shadowed face.
“Aw, kid,” he thought, his heart clenching, “what the hell did Cal do to you? Don’t tell me we’re going to lose you after all.”
Aloud, he just murmured weakly, “Don’t say that,” and reached for Kirsten. She shook her head, shrinking away from him. Wrapping her arms across her midriff, she clutched her elbows, pinning them vise-tight to her sides. Beneath her bedraggled silk sleeves, her nails dug angry crescents into her skin.
“But it’s true,” she said. Her voice, hollow and paper-thin, barely stirred the air. “I don’t blame him, Sandy. He should hate me. My father did this to him. And as far as Ryan knows, I might have done it too. The way I treated him when you first brought him home-thinking the worst, sending him away-
“Kirsten, honey, you brought him back,” Sandy reminded her. “When he was in juvie after the model home fire, you’re the one who brought him home. Ryan knows that. He knows you’re not like your father.”
As if Sandy had not even spoken, almost as if she was talking to herself, Kirsten continued in the same empty whisper. “I knew it would be like this. After what -after everything my father put Ryan through, I expected . . .” Her voice wavering, Kirsten lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug, and her lips crimped. “But . . . I still hoped,” she confessed, “and for a minute when he let me hold him I thought . . . but then he--”
She broke off, choking on a sob, and Sandy folded Kirsten into his arms. Seth huddled behind her, shuffling clumsily from foot to foot, giving her shoulder soft, ineffectual pats.
“But Mom, Ryan would never feel like that,” he insisted. His voice trailed off as he recalled his own shock at Ryan’s reaction to Kirsten, but Seth rallied, talking quickly to convince himself as well as his much. “You’ve gotta remember, Ryan’s been locked up here alone all this time with people calling him Brandon and claiming he killed the real Ryan Atwood. Plus, they gave him all kinds of drugs. He’s just, you know, confused. He’s not sure what’s real yet. Maybe-maybe he didn’t recognize you. I mean, it’s not like you look like yourself right now. And hell, Ryan reacted the same way to Dad and me at first.” Seth paused, out of breath, and hoping that his mother would rouse. When she didn’t, he glanced at his father and grimaced, concluding feebly, “He didn’t mean it, Mom. Just give him time. You’ll see. Tell her Dad. ”
“Sweetheart--” Sandy began.
Kirsten shook her head against his chest.
“No,” she said dully.
Seth and Sandy had to strain to understand. Her words were muffled by Sandy’s shirt and clotted by misery. “He meant it. Ryan can’t even stand to look at me--” She lifted her face, despairing and tear-glazed. “What are we going to do, Sandy? I can never make this up to him. I know he loves you and Seth, but what if he doesn’t want to live with us-with me-anymore? We can’t force him to come back.”
“We won’t have to, Mom,” Seth insisted staunchly. “Trust me, I know the guy. Ryan wants to be with us.”
“He does, Kirsten,” Sandy added. “Whatever happened in there just now, Ryan will get past it. You have to believe that.”
“I want to,” Kirsten said softly. “But he’s been through hell, Sandy. And even if you’re right, if Ryan can bear to be around me after this-oh God, how can we ever make him feel safe in our home again?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the door had closed behind the Cohens, Lucy went to work. She coaxed Ryan onto his back, gently easing him against the pillow and lowering the arm that he flung over his eyes.
“I promised your mother that I would check you, Ryan. We must have a doctor look at you too,” she told him quietly. “But it will not be anyone who has worked with Dr. Keller. Your mother insisted on that. She would not permit any one from his team to come near you.” Ryan winced each time she said “your mother,” but Lucy pretended not to notice. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, though, and she kept glancing at the monitor. “That is what she was doing outside,” she continued. “Fending off the doctors who came to examine you.” Deftly bustling around, checking Ryan’s vital signs, she allowed a smile to creep into her voice. The alarm was gradually slowing as she worked, and the pattern on the screen that reflected Ryan’s agitation was growing less erratic, less disquieting. “Is that the right word-fending?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “It has such an odd sound. Does it mean to guard something like a fierce dog?”
Lucy waited. At last Ryan, his eyes still closed, gave a small nod.
“Ah good. I was not sure,” she said. “But it was the first word that came to mind when I saw Kirsten outside your room.” The monitor stopped beeping and Lucy, unseen by Ryan, sighed with relief. Then she chuckled. “Of course she would be a very slight guard dog, but such a fearsome one, Ryan! I wish you could have seen. She was blocking the door and facing down Dr. Estola. He is a very large man and I have never seen him intimidated before. Yet your mother would not let him pass.-Ryan, I must ask you to open your eyes now. I need to check them. Look at me, please.”
Once again Lucy waited. Twice, Ryan’s lashes fluttered, only to squeeze shut again. When, at last, he opened his eyes they appeared mottled blue, both wistful and wary, but Lucy thought she detected something else too-a deep undercurrent of something dark, something oddly like shame.
Lucy frowned. She could not imagine what would prompt such a feeling, but she thought it best not to ask. Instead she said simply, “Thank you.” She aimed the penlight, flashing it left to right. “There-and-there. Excellent. No-no, do not close your eyes again, Ryan. There is no need to shut out the world now. You see, you are safe. I am here, Sandy is here, your whole family has come to take you home. Only, only I think perhaps,” she ventured, “you are sorry that you hurt your mother’s feelings?”
Ryan shook his head. “Not-my mother, Lucy,” he said hoarsely. He reached up one arm to shield his eyes again, but Lucy caught it, easing it down to his side. Clasping his hand, she held it between both of hers.
“Not by your birth, no,” she agreed gently. “I know you already have a mother. But by Kirsten’s heart, yes, she is your mother too. Just as Sandy is your father now, you are Kirsten’s child. I have heard her speak of you, Ryan. I have seen how she looks at you with her whole soul in her eyes. That is the way a mother looks at a beloved son. Surely you know this?”
Ryan didn’t answer for a moment. He stared up at the expanse of flat, white ceiling. His breath hitched, and his free hand plucked at the sheet, squeezing a fold of it in his fist. When he finally spoke the words emerged with a harsh, labored effort, stopping and starting again as if they were too painful to sustain. “Mr. Nichol-her father-can’t-can’t tell her, Lucy. ”
Lucy’s brow puckered as she strained for understanding. “About . . .what he did?” Ryan nodded, mute, and her expression softened. “Oh Ryan,” she said tenderly. Her fingers stroked the back of his icy hand. “Ryan, she knows this already.”
“Knows?” Ryan echoed. His gaze flickered wildly to the door and his cheeks flushed, then paled. “No.”
It was less than a word than a moan, despairing.
“Yes,” Lucy replied evenly. “Kirsten knows what her father has done. But that does not need to concern you. She is here for you, Ryan. So you see, there is no cause to worry.” Lucy watched for a welcome wash of relief to clear his face, but none did. The shadows clouding it simply changed, from bleached gray to the shade of abandoned ash. She waited, but Ryan didn’t respond at all. When his gaze remained shuttered, fixed on the flat white wall beyond the bed, Lucy touched his cheek, making him look at her. He lifted his eyes reluctantly. Their lost expression made her ache inside. Still she managed to smile. “I will let the Cohens return now, yes?” she said. “Seth and Sandy and Kirsten too?”
Still smiling, Lucy released Ryan’s hand and turned to go, but at the last minute he grabbed her fingers.
“Wait.”
Something in his tone troubled Lucy. She paused, turning back to him, but even so Ryan tightened his grip as if afraid she would break free and reach the door.
“Kirsten . . . knows everything? Everything he-her father--?”
Lucy saw Ryan struggle to form the next words. She could feel the memories scald him. “Yes,” she concluded. “Kirsten knows all the monstrous things Mr. Nichol did to you. She wants nothing more to do with him, Ryan. Please, let me call her back in.”
He clutched her hand, his grip vise-like and desperate. “No--Can’t--”
Ryan stopped. He made choked sound, and his face burned-less with pain, Lucy realized, than with something else. Shame? Bewildered, she sat down again, covering his hand with hers, gentling it. “But, Ryan, why not? I do not understand what troubles you. You would not, I know, blame Kirsten for her father’s actions.
“No!” Ryan shook his head violently. The fist folded between Lucy’s hands clenched even tighter in denial. “Not her fault-mine! So when, when she looks at me--”
“What Ryan? Please. Talk to me.”
Lucy cupped his chin, turning his face so that Ryan had to look at her. She smiled her support, her gaze warm and steady, but his eyes remained glazed with anguish. For several seconds, Lucy just waited, watching, reassuring, as his defenses crumbled. At last Ryan choked out a reply.
“Kirsten-loves her father. Admires him.”
“She did,” Lucy conceded evenly. “But now she does not.”
Ryan swallowed hard and licked his lips. His eyes glistened and his voice, barely audible, frayed at the edges. “Hurts-I know. I love, loved--my dad. But what he did to my mom, Trey, me-Can’t explain. Hate him--but still, feels all tangled up-And then I hate myself--”
He broke off and Lucy’s face darkened, recalling what she knew of Frank Atwood. Still, she continued to stroke Ryan’s hand gently and her voice never wavered. It remained soothing and softly firm. “Yes. Love and hate-they are so complicated, so often painful. But I believe that you, Ryan, more than Seth or even Sandy, may understand what Kirsten is feeling now. You and your mother-you are a great deal alike, I think.” Ryan shook his head, but Lucy silenced his unspoken protest. “Yes,” she insisted. “And not just in knowing this kind of hurt. In how your hearts work too. Ryan, if you try, you might be able to help her.”
“You might be able to help each other,” Lucy amended silently.
“Can’t-you don’t understand--” Ryan’s voice twisted, stopped, stumbled forward again, aching and halting and starting again. “My fault, Lucy-If Gabrielle and I hadn’t-Kirsten knows! Her father-if it hadn’t been for me-this-never happen. She could still-could love him-the same way.”
Gasping, he stopped. His cheeks flamed with effort and grief and shame.
“No, Ryan,” Lucy said evenly. With one hand, she still clasped Ryan’s. With the other, she caressed his face, her palm cool on his burning skin. “Listen to me. What Mr. Nichol has done, all of it, he alone is responsible. Kirsten does not blame you, and you must not blame yourself.”
“But--” Ryan paused. His fingers moved between Lucy’s and he took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice sounded fearful and small, like a child facing monsters in the dark. “I feel like . . .when she looks at me,” he whispered, “she’ll see her father-see what she lost.”
Lucy felt her heart twist. Blinking back tears, she stroked his cheek again, struggling to muster a sure, tender smile. “Oh, no. No, you are wrong about this, Ryan,” she told him. “When she looks at you, Kirsten-your mother will only see what she found.”
There were those words again-“your mother.”
They wafted over Ryan, warm and lilting, softly compelling and confident. Lucy saw the truth of them register on his face, slowly start to answer the painful questions there. She brushed back Ryan’s hair and tilted his face up. Inclining her head, Lucy looked deeply into his eyes.
“And she has been looking for you for so very long.” Her expression radiated compassion and surety. “Too long,” she added briskly. “We are being very rude, you and I, keeping your family waiting in that cold hallway when they should be here with you. They need to be with you, Ryan. It is time we let them back inside now, yes? ”
Lucy stood up. She plumped Ryan’s crushed pillows, smoothed his sheets, and brushed damp strands of hair off of his forehead. Then she spooned out a few ice chips, warning as she offered them, “Only one or two right now. And you must let them melt in your mouth.” She fixed him with a playful glare, watching until he swallowed and he sank back with a grateful sigh.
Finally, Lucy raised the head of bed and stood aside, giving Ryan a better view of the door, a better sense of the space beyond it and the family waiting for him outside.
All the while, she continued to smile down at him.
Ryan licked a stray drop of water from his lips. “You . . .sure?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she replied. “Very sure.”
For a moment Ryan hesitated. His brow puckered, considering, and he stared down, pinning his gaze on the bleached white blanket covering his legs. Shadows chased each other across his face until, at last, he lifted his eyes, looking at Lucy through the veil of his lashes.
His thumb moved up and down on the hem of his sheet, slowly and slightly, as if it were taking very small, wary steps.
Squaring his chin Ryan nodded just once.
It was a silent and prayerful reply but it was all Lucy needed. She tapped Ryan’s cheek, a touch of mute promise, smiled one more time and went to open the door.
TBC