Discovering Chapter Twelve: Part Four of Four
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Discovering Chapter Twelve
Part Four
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I don't have a particular desire to, but I take the time to make a quick call to the office, to save Matt the trouble of trying to pretend he has a business-related reason to contact me, when really, he and my secretary are chomping at the bit to come down here and make sure I'm coping alright.
Every time I talk to Matt, he still sounds laden with guilt and apologizes constantly for not taking Ryan out of the building as soon as he realized what bad shape the structure was in.
To be honest, I have completely absolved Matt of any responsibility in my son's accident.
His taking Ryan to a strip club, however, I'm still pissed off about.
Just a few minutes after I hang up from speaking with Matt, my phone rings. I flip it open, checking the caller I.D.
It's Dale.
I feel like I've been run over by a train and I'm sick of talking on the phone, but, I can't not talk to Dale.
I have to take this call.
"Hey, Mr. Cohen," he greets me. "How's your kid?"
I tell him a little bit of information, but nothing too definite other than that Ryan seems to be getting better.
"That's good. I'm very happy for your family," he tells me, in his short, abrupt, rushed style of speech that pretty much defines our conversations about anything personal. "I have a little more info for you about your son's shooting, if you're up for it."
I find a seat.
Sit down.
I'm honestly not sure if I am physically able to hear more disturbing insight into when Ryan was shot. I'm on my last nerve in terms of how much reality currently sucks.
I brace myself and assure Dale, "Of course. I'm up to hearing anything you have to tell me."
"Okay, well…" he says, and I recognize an impending, lengthy Dale dissertation when I hear one.
When Dale starts a story, I might as well pop some popcorn. It's gonna' be a while before I get a word in edge wise.
That's fine with me. I don't particularly feel like talking.
"See, Mr. Cohen, I was driving out of Sacramento, and I asked myself, 'What the hell, Dale? Why not throw common sense out the window and see if someone in the neighborhood where Ryan was shot remembers anything.' Turns out, even though the neighborhood is definitely on the lower end of working class, there are very few apartments. There's mostly single story family housing and it appears to be a lot more stability in the neighborhood than I thought there would be. Basically it's compromised of hardworking families who manage to make rent or mortgage every month. And check this out, those people that the Atwoods were staying with when Ryan was shot by his brother? They still live at the same address. I couldn't believe it."
"Wow….that's surprising," I say, shaking a little of my lethargy. I sit up a bit straighter, concentrate more on the conversation. "That's uh….that's incredible, actually."
My God, I love Dale.
"Sure as shit is," he says. "I mean, what are the chances, right? Crazy, huh? Based on the transient friends I met of Dawn Atwood when I was trying to track her down for you a few years ago, I figured this family in Sacramento would be the same, know what I mean? Long gone. But no. They actually seem to be very nice, good people. The wife told me they've been married for twenty years."
"You spoke to the family?" I ask, even more amazed.
Dale is….the best private investigator ever and now…now he completely has my attention.
If Dale was in the room with me, he'd see me lift my head up in hopeful anticipation as I ask, "Did you learn anything, Dale?"
"Oh yeah, I sure did, Mr. Cohen. That's why I'm calling you."
I wait anxiously for him to elaborate.
"So, do you have a few minutes, Mr. Cohen? Or should I call back at a better time?'
"No, now's the perfect time," I tell him. "I have as much time as you need. I'm all ears, Dale. I'm all yours."
That's probably true.
I most likely have more time. The nurses' station has my cell number and no one has called yet to tell me I can return to Ryan's room.
"Okay, well…." Dale starts, "First of all, the wife, Joan Danvers is her name, she was really open to talking with me. I explained who I was, that I had been hired by the family Ryan is living with now, to have a more complete sketch of his life before he came to live with them. I was more or less completely honest with her, Mr. Cohen. I told her that we had found out that there had been a shooting and that it was pretty obvious that Ryan was too young when it happened to remember the details, so I was wondering if she could help me fill in some of the gaps. And then, as soon as I was done talking, telling her why I was at her house, she breaks down into tears and tells me that there is hardly a day that goes by that she doesn't think about Dawn and Trey and Ryan and wonder what happened to them, especially Ryan."
I start to get a hunch…a good feeling…that Dale is about to reveal to me a whole lot more than I thought I would hear from his visit to Sacramento.
"So, uh, Mrs. Danvers, she invites me into her house, and we sit down and all I ask is if she can tell me about the day of the shooting. And it was almost like she was relieved, you know? The way she just started talking about it, what happened, like I was the first one who ever gave her a chance to get it all off her chest."
I look down at my watch. The doctor said one hour. I have approximately twenty minutes left before I can see Ryan again.
I'm conflicted by my desperate desire to hear everything Dale has to say in excruciating detail and a just as pressing need to rush Dale's story along in case the nurses' station calls.
"Okay, so," Dale continues, "Evidently Frank Atwood was a high school buddy of her husband's. They were tight when they were kids. So when her husband told her that the Atwoods were coming for a visit, she was excited, that her husband was gonna' be able to spend some time with this friend he hadn't seen in years. Frank and Dawn drive up from Fresno with the kids and Mrs. Danvers tells me that within the first hour, it was pretty damn obvious that Frank Atwood and her husband didn't really have that much in common anymore. Sure, they sat around bullshitting all afternoon about the good old days, but Frank was using cuss words in front of the Danvers' kids and ignoring Dawn and the boys and was really, really crass and behaving like the complete opposite of her husband. Mrs. Danvers said she was uncomfortable, especially with her own children being within earshot of Frank's language, so she made up an excuse for her and Dawn to go out with all the kids, and as they were walking to the park to let the kids play, Dawn told Mrs. Danvers right then and there that she and Frank drank too much, that she found being a parent was overwhelming, and that lately, Frank had been hitting her and the boys more and more."
I think about everything that I know about Dawn, and to her defense, she always has been honest about her inability to parent properly. There's always been such an air of sadness and regret that surrounds her. I've always felt sorry for Dawn in that it seems that if only she would have had some support when her children were young, maybe things would have turned out much differently for her and Trey and Ryan.
Dale takes a second to gather his thoughts before continuing.
"So, I spent a little time asking Mrs. Danvers some more questions about the Atwoods, just general stuff, like if Frank was working, which he wasn't, and how long they stayed with the Danvers, which was about two months. Mrs. Danvers said she just couldn't bring herself to kick them out. She felt sorry for the boys, so much so, that she asked Frank and Dawn if they wanted the Danvers to keep Trey and Ryan while they got themselves back on their financial feet. Mrs. Danvers thinks that had the shooting not happened, eventually, Frank would have left the kids with them."
The shooting.
I still can't believe Dale found the people who witnessed the shooting.
"What happened the day Ryan was shot?" I ask Dale, not meaning to necessarily rush him, but I'm nervous about Ryan's nurse calling me, telling me that I can go see him again, and then I'll have to choose between being with Ryan in the present or learning about his past.
"Right. I understand. You need to get back to your kid," Dale says without missing a beat. "All the other stuff I learned about the Atwoods… stuff besides the shooting, I'll be sure and include it in my report."
"Thanks, Dale," I say, and take a deep breath and wait to hear the story that has been haunting me for two days.
"Okay, well, like I said, Mrs. Danvers was on the verge of tears almost the entire time I was talking to her, and when she was telling me about the shooting, well, I was afraid she wouldn't make it through the whole story. She was really upset. She told me that her husband never talks about it and he told her, after it happened, never to mention it to anyone. So, all these years, Mrs. Danvers has been feeling guilty that she never did more for Trey or Ryan. So I got her a glass of water, and told her to relax, and when she got calmed down, the entire story just poured out of her."
I glance at my watch.
Five minutes have gone by.
I have fifteen minutes left. Maybe a little less.
"So, she started talking. It seems that on the day Ryan was shot, Mr. Danvers and Frank decided to fire up the grill. It was a Saturday afternoon and a nice spring day, and the kids were all running around in the backyard, and Frank hadn't been drunk in almost a week. He'd gotten some handyman jobs, earned a little money, and he seemed to be doing well for the first time since he and Dawn moved in. Mrs. Danvers said that her and her husband wanted to continue the good mood that Frank was in, and a barbeque on a beautiful day sounded like a great idea. But halfway into it, Dawn and Frank and her husband started drinking and pretty soon Frank passed them all up. Drank a ton of beer. Mrs. Danvers was busy, she said, looking after the littler kids, Ryan included, and she said didn't even notice that Trey had left the house right away, and then when she did, she told Dawn immediately and Dawn didn't seem to give a damn. Mrs. Danvers said her husband told her to stay out of it, so she did."
In my mind, I can picture this woman conflicted. Her gut telling her something is wrong, her husband telling her to ignore her instincts. I wonder what it was like, having to sit by and watch Ryan and Trey under-parented. It must have driven her crazy.
I could barely stomach it when Ryan was fifteen and I witnessed Dawn's inept interactions with her son. Mrs. Danvers got to see it all up close when Ryan was only five years old.
"About an hour later, Trey shows back up and Mrs. Danvers said she was relieved that he was safe and back at the house. I asked her if she saw Trey with anything that in retrospect could have been a gun, but she said she doesn't remember anything. Trey always had real baggy clothes on, pants dropping past his butt, underwear hanging out. Her kids called it thug gear. Anyway, she said she has second-guessed herself for all these years, what if she had just stopped Trey and asked him where he had been…maybe Ryan getting shot wouldn't have happened. But no one asked Trey where he had been, not even his own mother."
Ten minutes.
If the nurse calls early, tells me Ryan is awake…what am I going to do?
"What happened next, Dale?" I ask, trying hard not to convey my impatience.
"Well, all the kids were home safe, Mrs. Danvers says, and sure, Frank and Dawn and her husband were drunk, but everyone was still in a good mood. Mrs. Danvers said that she had to leave the house to go get some hamburger buns, so she puts all the kids in front of the TV with sodas and tells them to stay put in the living room. She was gone about a half-hour, and when she comes back, she hears a commotion. All hell has broken loose. There's chaos. Her kids are huddled on the lawn, hugging each other and looking petrified. Frank comes scrambling out of the house, blood covering the front of his shirt, with Ryan in his arms and Dawn and Trey following behind, Dawn screaming and Trey crying. Mrs. Danvers' sees her husband running around the side of the house, his phone pressed against his ear, carrying a bunch of towels."
Jesus.
The way Dale is telling the story, I can see it all.
I can see the front of Frank's shirt, and I can see Dawn screaming and Trey in tears but … I can't picture what Ryan would have looked like. I can't picture Ryan that little, small enough to fit into anyone's arms. I don't want to see it.
I've seen enough of Ryan's blood these past two days.
"You okay Mr. Cohen?" Dale asks.
"Yes," I say quietly. "Go on, please."
"Right," he says, "So, I guess the Atwoods had a pick-up truck at the time, and Frank yells at Dawn to shut up and get into the truck, and he passes Ryan to her and he shoves Trey into the cramped back seat. Mr. Danvers tells Frank that the 911 operator said to stay at the house and try and control the bleeding, but Frank didn't listen to him. He kept shouting at Dawn to stop screaming. Mrs. Danvers said her husband threw the towels into the pickup window as Frank peeled away. She said then, just like that… she said everything was quiet…like her entire family was frozen solid. Like none of them could move. Her husband was standing there with the 911 operator's voice still coming out of his cell phone, and the kids were crying in the background. She says that as Frank's truck tore out of the driveway, tires squealing, she saw Trey looking at her through the back window. Just staring at her, with his face covered in tears, and he put his palm on the dusty, battered, glass, and it left a bloody handprint. That image, of Trey crying and his bloody palm print on the window as the truck drove away have never left her mind, never. Mrs. Danvers told me she can still see the entire scene like it happened yesterday. It's always with her. She told me it haunts her, that sometimes she sees in her head one of her own kids instead of Trey, looking at her out of the window."
Dale stops talking and the phone goes quiet.
I swallow back a lump in my throat and listen to Dale breathing.
I stand up, run my fingers through my hair.
Try and find my voice.
"Are you alright, Mr. Cohen?"
Questions.
I need to ask questions.
Thanks to Dr. DeGraff, I know what happened next with the Atwoods.
They went to the nearest Urgent Care.
The Urgent Care called Life Flight.
Ryan was somehow saved.
But there are still gaps in the story.
I need to stay focused and ask questions.
Dale asks me again if I'm alright, breaking his usual formal protocol, he even resorts to my first name.
"Mr. Cohen, Sandy, you okay?"
I don't answer his question but rather present my own. "So Mrs. Danvers didn't actually see the shooting?" I ask.
"No," Dale says. "No one in the Danvers family did. Evidently Frank and Dawn got into a fight a few minutes after Mrs. Danvers went to the store, and they went into the house screaming at each other. Mr. Danvers took his own kids into the backyard so that they didn't have to listen to the Atwoods fighting. Mrs. Danvers said that for a few months after the shooting, when her husband was still willing to talk about what happened, he never let go of his guilt that he should have been more assertive and brought Trey and Ryan out with his own kids. He should have tried harder to shelter the Atwood boys from their parents. Mr. Danvers admitted to his wife, that if she would have been home, she would have made sure the Atwood kids were safe, that they were removed from the insanity of the moment, just like she always did whenever Frank was mean and unstable to his wife or kids. Mrs. Danvers doesn't think her husband has ever forgiven himself for leaving Trey and Ryan in the house."
"The gun," I ask Dale. "What about the gun? What happened to it?"
"Mrs. Danvers doesn't know anything about it. The cops showed up, her husband gave them the gun, and that was the last time she ever saw it. The cops came back four or five times to interview them, but after that, the Danvers never heard another word about the investigation. The hospital never went after their homeowners insurance to cover Ryan's medical expenses. Mrs. Danvers said that a few months passed and then her husband forbade any of them from ever mentioning the shooting again. Her kids learned not to talk about it unless they wanted their father sending them to their rooms. To this day, everyone just pretty much pretends it never happened."
I feel sick to my stomach. A little boy was shot and no one wants to remember.
I ask quietly, "Did she ever see Dawn or the boys or Frank again?"
"Yeah," Dale says. "Mrs. Danvers told me she went to the hospital a lot, but Frank never let her in Ryan's room, so mostly she just made sure Dawn was taking care of herself and Trey. She did tell me that eventually, after things had calmed down a little and Ryan was out of the ICU, she was able to see him a couple of times. Dawn called her once and asked her to bring a few of Ryan's toys to the children's rehab center he was in after he was discharged from the hospital. I guess Frank was out working that day, doing some more cash under the table handyman jobs. Mrs. Danvers said that Dawn was really, really nervous when she saw her, borderline manic, almost to the point that she should have been medicated. Trey was Trey, causal, acting like things couldn't be more normal, asking her if she would buy him some candy from the vending machine. Dawn asked her to sit with Ryan and Trey because she needed a break, a smoke, and Mrs. Danvers said she ended up staying with the boys for almost seven hours. Dawn's cigarette break turned into a trip to the nearest bar."
"Did Mrs. Danvers tell you anything…about Ryan? About anything he said to her about being shot?" I ask, hoping like hell that Dale took a few more minutes interviewing the woman to find out what Ryan was like after the shooting, if he talked about it, if he told Mrs. Danvers anything.
"Like I told ya'," Dale says, "She seemed relieved to talk to me about everything. She said that I was the first person that she ever told about seeing Ryan in the rehab hospital. She started crying again. I had to get her another glass of water."
I look at my watch.
Five more minutes, and then it'll be an hour since I saw Ryan.
After all these years, Mrs. Danvers was still crying about what happened. She remembered.
I have five more minutes.
"What did she tell you, Dale?"
Four minutes.
"What happened in the rehab center?"
Three and a half minutes.
"Well…she told me that before the shooting, despite everything, Dawn and Frank's constant drinking, all the instability that he was surrounded by, Ryan was still a happy-go-lucky little kid. He was really affectionate, loving. She said Ryan used to sometimes crawl into her lap at nighttime and listen to whatever book she was reading to her children. He used to play with her kids, run through the house, and ask her questions non-stop. She said he was smart as hell, way smarter than her own five-year-old. He wanted to know information about everything and anything. He would watch TV with her, shows that no one else in the house wanted to watch, like documentaries and science shows and stuff most kids that age had no interest in. She said that while Trey was loud, a somewhat unlikable smartass, Ryan was the complete opposite, sweet and thoughtful, always asking her if he could do anything for her. He always followed her around, like a shadow. But in the rehab center, when she was finally able to see him after he was shot, Ryan was a different kid. He never once smiled at her, didn't say a single word to her, wouldn't let her touch him, never looked her in the eye, he pretty much just stared at the TV or out the window. She went to give him a kiss when she had to leave and he pushed her away. Didn't look at her, just pushed her face away from his. Mrs. Danvers said she cried the whole way back to her house. She couldn't believe it was the same kid."
I slowly digest what Dale just told me.
I can't imagine even a very young Ryan crawling into someone's lap, talking non-stop, showing unsolicited affection.
The Ryan I know asks question, but only after careful calculation. He'll respond to affection, but he never initiates it.
Dale seems to know instinctually that I need time to process the information. He doesn't talk.
He waits for me.
Questions.
I need to ask more questions.
I need to think.
Connect the dots.
"Did Dawn or Trey ever say what happened?"
I assume Frank never talked to anyone about the shooting. But maybe Dawn or Trey confided in Mrs. Danvers.
Anything…anything would be better than no details at all.
"Nope. Nothing. Mrs. Danvers said she even asked Dawn point blank what happened, how Ryan was shot. Where did Trey get the gun? But Dawn never answered her, only cried and said that Frank swore he would kill her if she ever told anyone anything. Trey never said a thing about the shooting, never once mentioned Ryan being shot."
I clear my throat.
I'm frustrated that even though we have more first hand information than we probably ever hoped for, it still doesn't seem like enough.
Questions.
I have so many questions.
Dale said Mrs. Danvers saw Ryan several times. The rehab hospital was one time.
"Dale, you said um…that she had seen Ryan a few other times."
"Yeah," he tells me, and I can almost see him nodding on the other side of the phone line. "Yeah. Dawn came by the Danvers' house with the boys twice, mostly just to finish getting some stuff the Atwoods had left behind. She told Mrs. Danvers that she had to sneak the visits in, that Frank didn't want her and the kids seeing no one, didn't want them talking to no one. She said Frank had smacked her around after Trey accidentally let it slip that Dawn had left Ryan and him alone in the rehab center with Mrs. Danvers. Both times the boys came over to the Danvers' house, Ryan barely said a word. He would only answer questions that Dawn asked him, and even then, only by nodding 'yes' or shaking his head 'no'. He would sit and watch the other kids play, removed from everyone. Just sat and watched. Mrs. Danvers said Dawn blamed it on Ryan's leg, said he couldn't walk very well still, but it was pretty obvious that something was going on with the kid mentally. She said Ryan never spoke to anybody, wouldn't let anyone but Trey touch him."
My hour is up.
Now it's been sixty-five minutes since I've been with Ryan. I need to hear the rest of the story.
"The last time Dawn and the boys came over, Mrs. Danvers said she laid out some crayons and paper on the kitchen table, hoping Ryan would at least color instead of sitting all alone. Mrs. Danvers said that after Dawn and the boys left that last time they visited her, she was cleaning up and realized that Ryan had forgotten his drawings on the table. But they weren't pictures. There weren't any drawings. Ryan had filled up every single blank sheet of paper with red crayon. Every inch of every paper was colored red. Not a single white spot. Everything red and Mrs. Danvers is convinced to this day that it was blood Ryan was coloring. All that red. When she showed the pictures to her husband and begged him to do something, to convince Frank to stay in Sacramento and let them help the Atwoods get the boys some counseling, her husband ripped up Ryan's 'drawings' and told her that he couldn't, he wouldn't, continue to expose his family to Frank and Dawn and their destructive dysfunction. The Danvers kids had seen enough. Mr. Danvers said he felt sorry for Trey and especially for Ryan, but his kids came first. He couldn't chance his wife or one of their own kids getting hurt. Mrs. Danvers said she tried to call Frank's cell phone for weeks after the family left Sacramento, but he never answered it and a month later, the cell was out of service. She never spoke to Dawn or saw the boys again."
I take an unsteady, deep breath.
Run a hand through my hair.
Blow out a puff of air.
I'm on overload.
I can't think straight.
I can't think about anything.
I compelled to hang up and bust my way into Ryan's room.
I need to see him.
"She asked for your phone number, Mr. Cohen," Dale says, his voice softer than maybe I have ever heard it.
"She seems like an incredibly nice lady. She kept asking me if Ryan and Trey were alright. I told her I wasn't sure about Trey, but that Ryan was doing great, in a good family, a private school, friends, all that. I didn't tell her anything about how you met Ryan, or that Dawn had abandoned him with you or anything personal, like where you were living. You know how professional I am. But I couldn't walk out of that house without telling that woman that the little boy she spent years worrying about was now a fully functioning, thriving teenager. I just couldn't leave her wondering. It didn't seem humane. I hope I didn't cross any lines or betray your trust. I told her I would relay her request that you give her a call, but that I couldn't make any promises."
"That's fine, Dale," I answer quietly. "I'm glad you told her Ryan was doing well. I want you to go back there, tell her how much my family and I appreciate her candor and willingness to speak to you. Can you ask her if I can send her some pictures of Ryan to her? If that wouldn't cause a problem between her and her husband?"
The words flow from my mouth, but they're from rote courtesy.
I'm not thinking, not really.
Ten more minutes have gone by.
I start walking in the direction of Ryan's room, looking left to right, seeing Frank's blood covered shirt on every person I pass in the hallway.
"Of course," Dale answers, his voice full of the familiar hyperactive energy I'm used to hearing from him. "Absolutely. You're a stand-up guy, Mr. Cohen. Mrs. Danvers will be so thankful."
Questions.
I should have more questions for him.
I should be connecting dots, but I don't know where to start.
Red flashes. The display on my phone lights up and I recognize the number as the CCU nurses' station.
I've already snapped my phone shut before I realize I never told Dale goodbye.
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Ryan is hooked up to the dialysis machine when I walk into the room. A new nurse is with him. She introduces herself as Caroline. She's maybe my age and she must be a parent, because she has that frazzled, but caring, maternal look. She's got a soft, gentle nature about her, patting my arm and telling me to, "Come on in, Mr. Cohen," before she even takes the time to tell me her name.
"Your son's doing very well," she says. "He's been asleep most of the time."
She tells me that they've begun the process of weaning Ryan off the ventilator. He continuing to improve, his fever dropping, albeit incrementally, and his breathing is already stronger than expected.
"Ah, youth," Caroline says with a smile and a shake of her head. "If it was you or me in that bed, I guarantee you that we'd be doing nowhere near as well as your son is."
I nod.
I can't bring myself to return the smile.
My head is spinning.
"Let me explain the new equipment," she says and directs me over to the dialysis machine. It has a long, important official name that I forget the instant I hear it. It doesn't seem possible that there's room for any more machines in the already cramped space. There's not enough room for me to breathe.
I see a new, pristine bandage above Ryan's shoulder blade. There's no visible blood on the white gauze covering the latest invasion of his skin.
The thick tube sticking out of the bandage is almost in Ryan's neck.
Thank God Kirsten isn't here to see any of this.
"I'll be right outside," Caroline tells me, checking the IV stand and the monitors before she steps out. "Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything."
What could I possibly need, Caroline?
Me need anything? That's silly.
What the fuck could I possibly need?
I need all this to go away.
Everything.
Can you make that happen for me Caroline? I'd appreciate it.
When she exits the room, I pull up my new best friend, my recliner, and I get settled in it, my movements feeling clunky and forced and heavy.
This room is too crowded.
I can hardly breathe in it.
I lean forward so I can slide my hand through the metal railing into Ryan's lax one.
He's in what appears to be a deep sleep, his skin still flushed and that goddamn tube still jutting out of his mouth.
I want it gone.
I want all of this, everything, gone.
All of it.
I want everything out of him.
I put my forehead on the bed's railing.
It's cold on my skin.
The ventilator whooshes and the dialysis machine clicks and the various monitors beep a steady rhythm… and the sounds are like little voices in my head, all those sounds, chastising me, telling me I should have asked Dale more questions.
The room feels stifling, smaller than it was before I left.
I rub my fingers against Ryan's knuckles, back and forth.
I try to picture him as a little boy, not much different than Seth evidently was, asking question after question, and sitting on Mrs. Danvers' lap and listening to her read a story, just like Seth used to sit with myself or Kirsten.
I always imagined Ryan as an introverted, quiet little boy, standing in the corner, staying out of the way.
Watching.
In my mind, he was never like Seth, never outgoing, not seeking affection.
But I was wrong. At some point, for a few years, Ryan was evidently quite a bit like Seth.
Life, and his parents, and the effort of surviving his childhood beat the carefree innocence out of Ryan.
Changed him.
It seems, evidently, a gun took parts of Ryan away.
Gone.
And left behind this guarded, sometimes defensive kid that I've come to love as much as my own son.
These past few years, I've seen Ryan emerge more and more out of his shell, trust a little more with every single day that passes, talk a little less inhibited. The four of us have become more and more like a family. I think Ryan is finally at peace, has finally found where he belongs in our household.
Now this happens, this accident, and as if this whole experience hasn't been traumatic enough, now I know something.
Something Ryan and I will have to talk about.
I can't pretend I don't know he was shot.
I can't keep all this to myself, what I've learned over the past few days.
I can't not confront what I've learned, even though it would be so easy to, because Ryan has always set the pace which Kirsten and I and Seth follow. No one is allowed to talk about his childhood except for Ryan. That's the rule. That's always been the rule.
Things have to change.
I can't ignore what I know.
We need a new rule in the Cohen household.
I slowly turn Ryan's hand over and study his palm, tracing the lines on it.
Does he even remember the event that seems to have completely changed his personality?
Does Ryan remember Trey holding the gun?
Was he conscious while Dawn screamed and his brother cried?
Was he aware of any of it?
Has he blocked out what happened to him when he was five or simply, with time, forgotten it?
The machines surrounding us keep up there beeping and whooshing, their little voices reminding me that I have dots to connect.
I keep tracing the lines on Ryan's hand.
While he sleeps, Kirsten calls.
I give her yet another update.
She talks and I listen and answer questions, and the whole time we speak to each other, I stare at Ryan and see a little boy sitting at the foot of the bed, coloring one white sheet of paper after another with a deep red crayon.
Dark red covering everything.
Ryan stirs.
He wakes up halfway through my conversation with Kirsten.
I smile at him, place my hand on his hair, and softly say, "Hi."
I put the phone on speaker and place it close to his ear.
And then I close my eyes, and listen to my wife's soothing voice, as she tells Ryan in her own words how much we all love him.
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To be continued….................
I'm embarrassed to even type those hollow words, lol.
Wow...thank you! I am not worthy.
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Discovering Chapter Twelve
Part Four
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I don't have a particular desire to, but I take the time to make a quick call to the office, to save Matt the trouble of trying to pretend he has a business-related reason to contact me, when really, he and my secretary are chomping at the bit to come down here and make sure I'm coping alright.
Every time I talk to Matt, he still sounds laden with guilt and apologizes constantly for not taking Ryan out of the building as soon as he realized what bad shape the structure was in.
To be honest, I have completely absolved Matt of any responsibility in my son's accident.
His taking Ryan to a strip club, however, I'm still pissed off about.
Just a few minutes after I hang up from speaking with Matt, my phone rings. I flip it open, checking the caller I.D.
It's Dale.
I feel like I've been run over by a train and I'm sick of talking on the phone, but, I can't not talk to Dale.
I have to take this call.
"Hey, Mr. Cohen," he greets me. "How's your kid?"
I tell him a little bit of information, but nothing too definite other than that Ryan seems to be getting better.
"That's good. I'm very happy for your family," he tells me, in his short, abrupt, rushed style of speech that pretty much defines our conversations about anything personal. "I have a little more info for you about your son's shooting, if you're up for it."
I find a seat.
Sit down.
I'm honestly not sure if I am physically able to hear more disturbing insight into when Ryan was shot. I'm on my last nerve in terms of how much reality currently sucks.
I brace myself and assure Dale, "Of course. I'm up to hearing anything you have to tell me."
"Okay, well…" he says, and I recognize an impending, lengthy Dale dissertation when I hear one.
When Dale starts a story, I might as well pop some popcorn. It's gonna' be a while before I get a word in edge wise.
That's fine with me. I don't particularly feel like talking.
"See, Mr. Cohen, I was driving out of Sacramento, and I asked myself, 'What the hell, Dale? Why not throw common sense out the window and see if someone in the neighborhood where Ryan was shot remembers anything.' Turns out, even though the neighborhood is definitely on the lower end of working class, there are very few apartments. There's mostly single story family housing and it appears to be a lot more stability in the neighborhood than I thought there would be. Basically it's compromised of hardworking families who manage to make rent or mortgage every month. And check this out, those people that the Atwoods were staying with when Ryan was shot by his brother? They still live at the same address. I couldn't believe it."
"Wow….that's surprising," I say, shaking a little of my lethargy. I sit up a bit straighter, concentrate more on the conversation. "That's uh….that's incredible, actually."
My God, I love Dale.
"Sure as shit is," he says. "I mean, what are the chances, right? Crazy, huh? Based on the transient friends I met of Dawn Atwood when I was trying to track her down for you a few years ago, I figured this family in Sacramento would be the same, know what I mean? Long gone. But no. They actually seem to be very nice, good people. The wife told me they've been married for twenty years."
"You spoke to the family?" I ask, even more amazed.
Dale is….the best private investigator ever and now…now he completely has my attention.
If Dale was in the room with me, he'd see me lift my head up in hopeful anticipation as I ask, "Did you learn anything, Dale?"
"Oh yeah, I sure did, Mr. Cohen. That's why I'm calling you."
I wait anxiously for him to elaborate.
"So, do you have a few minutes, Mr. Cohen? Or should I call back at a better time?'
"No, now's the perfect time," I tell him. "I have as much time as you need. I'm all ears, Dale. I'm all yours."
That's probably true.
I most likely have more time. The nurses' station has my cell number and no one has called yet to tell me I can return to Ryan's room.
"Okay, well…." Dale starts, "First of all, the wife, Joan Danvers is her name, she was really open to talking with me. I explained who I was, that I had been hired by the family Ryan is living with now, to have a more complete sketch of his life before he came to live with them. I was more or less completely honest with her, Mr. Cohen. I told her that we had found out that there had been a shooting and that it was pretty obvious that Ryan was too young when it happened to remember the details, so I was wondering if she could help me fill in some of the gaps. And then, as soon as I was done talking, telling her why I was at her house, she breaks down into tears and tells me that there is hardly a day that goes by that she doesn't think about Dawn and Trey and Ryan and wonder what happened to them, especially Ryan."
I start to get a hunch…a good feeling…that Dale is about to reveal to me a whole lot more than I thought I would hear from his visit to Sacramento.
"So, uh, Mrs. Danvers, she invites me into her house, and we sit down and all I ask is if she can tell me about the day of the shooting. And it was almost like she was relieved, you know? The way she just started talking about it, what happened, like I was the first one who ever gave her a chance to get it all off her chest."
I look down at my watch. The doctor said one hour. I have approximately twenty minutes left before I can see Ryan again.
I'm conflicted by my desperate desire to hear everything Dale has to say in excruciating detail and a just as pressing need to rush Dale's story along in case the nurses' station calls.
"Okay, so," Dale continues, "Evidently Frank Atwood was a high school buddy of her husband's. They were tight when they were kids. So when her husband told her that the Atwoods were coming for a visit, she was excited, that her husband was gonna' be able to spend some time with this friend he hadn't seen in years. Frank and Dawn drive up from Fresno with the kids and Mrs. Danvers tells me that within the first hour, it was pretty damn obvious that Frank Atwood and her husband didn't really have that much in common anymore. Sure, they sat around bullshitting all afternoon about the good old days, but Frank was using cuss words in front of the Danvers' kids and ignoring Dawn and the boys and was really, really crass and behaving like the complete opposite of her husband. Mrs. Danvers said she was uncomfortable, especially with her own children being within earshot of Frank's language, so she made up an excuse for her and Dawn to go out with all the kids, and as they were walking to the park to let the kids play, Dawn told Mrs. Danvers right then and there that she and Frank drank too much, that she found being a parent was overwhelming, and that lately, Frank had been hitting her and the boys more and more."
I think about everything that I know about Dawn, and to her defense, she always has been honest about her inability to parent properly. There's always been such an air of sadness and regret that surrounds her. I've always felt sorry for Dawn in that it seems that if only she would have had some support when her children were young, maybe things would have turned out much differently for her and Trey and Ryan.
Dale takes a second to gather his thoughts before continuing.
"So, I spent a little time asking Mrs. Danvers some more questions about the Atwoods, just general stuff, like if Frank was working, which he wasn't, and how long they stayed with the Danvers, which was about two months. Mrs. Danvers said she just couldn't bring herself to kick them out. She felt sorry for the boys, so much so, that she asked Frank and Dawn if they wanted the Danvers to keep Trey and Ryan while they got themselves back on their financial feet. Mrs. Danvers thinks that had the shooting not happened, eventually, Frank would have left the kids with them."
The shooting.
I still can't believe Dale found the people who witnessed the shooting.
"What happened the day Ryan was shot?" I ask Dale, not meaning to necessarily rush him, but I'm nervous about Ryan's nurse calling me, telling me that I can go see him again, and then I'll have to choose between being with Ryan in the present or learning about his past.
"Right. I understand. You need to get back to your kid," Dale says without missing a beat. "All the other stuff I learned about the Atwoods… stuff besides the shooting, I'll be sure and include it in my report."
"Thanks, Dale," I say, and take a deep breath and wait to hear the story that has been haunting me for two days.
"Okay, well, like I said, Mrs. Danvers was on the verge of tears almost the entire time I was talking to her, and when she was telling me about the shooting, well, I was afraid she wouldn't make it through the whole story. She was really upset. She told me that her husband never talks about it and he told her, after it happened, never to mention it to anyone. So, all these years, Mrs. Danvers has been feeling guilty that she never did more for Trey or Ryan. So I got her a glass of water, and told her to relax, and when she got calmed down, the entire story just poured out of her."
I glance at my watch.
Five minutes have gone by.
I have fifteen minutes left. Maybe a little less.
"So, she started talking. It seems that on the day Ryan was shot, Mr. Danvers and Frank decided to fire up the grill. It was a Saturday afternoon and a nice spring day, and the kids were all running around in the backyard, and Frank hadn't been drunk in almost a week. He'd gotten some handyman jobs, earned a little money, and he seemed to be doing well for the first time since he and Dawn moved in. Mrs. Danvers said that her and her husband wanted to continue the good mood that Frank was in, and a barbeque on a beautiful day sounded like a great idea. But halfway into it, Dawn and Frank and her husband started drinking and pretty soon Frank passed them all up. Drank a ton of beer. Mrs. Danvers was busy, she said, looking after the littler kids, Ryan included, and she said didn't even notice that Trey had left the house right away, and then when she did, she told Dawn immediately and Dawn didn't seem to give a damn. Mrs. Danvers said her husband told her to stay out of it, so she did."
In my mind, I can picture this woman conflicted. Her gut telling her something is wrong, her husband telling her to ignore her instincts. I wonder what it was like, having to sit by and watch Ryan and Trey under-parented. It must have driven her crazy.
I could barely stomach it when Ryan was fifteen and I witnessed Dawn's inept interactions with her son. Mrs. Danvers got to see it all up close when Ryan was only five years old.
"About an hour later, Trey shows back up and Mrs. Danvers said she was relieved that he was safe and back at the house. I asked her if she saw Trey with anything that in retrospect could have been a gun, but she said she doesn't remember anything. Trey always had real baggy clothes on, pants dropping past his butt, underwear hanging out. Her kids called it thug gear. Anyway, she said she has second-guessed herself for all these years, what if she had just stopped Trey and asked him where he had been…maybe Ryan getting shot wouldn't have happened. But no one asked Trey where he had been, not even his own mother."
Ten minutes.
If the nurse calls early, tells me Ryan is awake…what am I going to do?
"What happened next, Dale?" I ask, trying hard not to convey my impatience.
"Well, all the kids were home safe, Mrs. Danvers says, and sure, Frank and Dawn and her husband were drunk, but everyone was still in a good mood. Mrs. Danvers said that she had to leave the house to go get some hamburger buns, so she puts all the kids in front of the TV with sodas and tells them to stay put in the living room. She was gone about a half-hour, and when she comes back, she hears a commotion. All hell has broken loose. There's chaos. Her kids are huddled on the lawn, hugging each other and looking petrified. Frank comes scrambling out of the house, blood covering the front of his shirt, with Ryan in his arms and Dawn and Trey following behind, Dawn screaming and Trey crying. Mrs. Danvers' sees her husband running around the side of the house, his phone pressed against his ear, carrying a bunch of towels."
Jesus.
The way Dale is telling the story, I can see it all.
I can see the front of Frank's shirt, and I can see Dawn screaming and Trey in tears but … I can't picture what Ryan would have looked like. I can't picture Ryan that little, small enough to fit into anyone's arms. I don't want to see it.
I've seen enough of Ryan's blood these past two days.
"You okay Mr. Cohen?" Dale asks.
"Yes," I say quietly. "Go on, please."
"Right," he says, "So, I guess the Atwoods had a pick-up truck at the time, and Frank yells at Dawn to shut up and get into the truck, and he passes Ryan to her and he shoves Trey into the cramped back seat. Mr. Danvers tells Frank that the 911 operator said to stay at the house and try and control the bleeding, but Frank didn't listen to him. He kept shouting at Dawn to stop screaming. Mrs. Danvers said her husband threw the towels into the pickup window as Frank peeled away. She said then, just like that… she said everything was quiet…like her entire family was frozen solid. Like none of them could move. Her husband was standing there with the 911 operator's voice still coming out of his cell phone, and the kids were crying in the background. She says that as Frank's truck tore out of the driveway, tires squealing, she saw Trey looking at her through the back window. Just staring at her, with his face covered in tears, and he put his palm on the dusty, battered, glass, and it left a bloody handprint. That image, of Trey crying and his bloody palm print on the window as the truck drove away have never left her mind, never. Mrs. Danvers told me she can still see the entire scene like it happened yesterday. It's always with her. She told me it haunts her, that sometimes she sees in her head one of her own kids instead of Trey, looking at her out of the window."
Dale stops talking and the phone goes quiet.
I swallow back a lump in my throat and listen to Dale breathing.
I stand up, run my fingers through my hair.
Try and find my voice.
"Are you alright, Mr. Cohen?"
Questions.
I need to ask questions.
Thanks to Dr. DeGraff, I know what happened next with the Atwoods.
They went to the nearest Urgent Care.
The Urgent Care called Life Flight.
Ryan was somehow saved.
But there are still gaps in the story.
I need to stay focused and ask questions.
Dale asks me again if I'm alright, breaking his usual formal protocol, he even resorts to my first name.
"Mr. Cohen, Sandy, you okay?"
I don't answer his question but rather present my own. "So Mrs. Danvers didn't actually see the shooting?" I ask.
"No," Dale says. "No one in the Danvers family did. Evidently Frank and Dawn got into a fight a few minutes after Mrs. Danvers went to the store, and they went into the house screaming at each other. Mr. Danvers took his own kids into the backyard so that they didn't have to listen to the Atwoods fighting. Mrs. Danvers said that for a few months after the shooting, when her husband was still willing to talk about what happened, he never let go of his guilt that he should have been more assertive and brought Trey and Ryan out with his own kids. He should have tried harder to shelter the Atwood boys from their parents. Mr. Danvers admitted to his wife, that if she would have been home, she would have made sure the Atwood kids were safe, that they were removed from the insanity of the moment, just like she always did whenever Frank was mean and unstable to his wife or kids. Mrs. Danvers doesn't think her husband has ever forgiven himself for leaving Trey and Ryan in the house."
"The gun," I ask Dale. "What about the gun? What happened to it?"
"Mrs. Danvers doesn't know anything about it. The cops showed up, her husband gave them the gun, and that was the last time she ever saw it. The cops came back four or five times to interview them, but after that, the Danvers never heard another word about the investigation. The hospital never went after their homeowners insurance to cover Ryan's medical expenses. Mrs. Danvers said that a few months passed and then her husband forbade any of them from ever mentioning the shooting again. Her kids learned not to talk about it unless they wanted their father sending them to their rooms. To this day, everyone just pretty much pretends it never happened."
I feel sick to my stomach. A little boy was shot and no one wants to remember.
I ask quietly, "Did she ever see Dawn or the boys or Frank again?"
"Yeah," Dale says. "Mrs. Danvers told me she went to the hospital a lot, but Frank never let her in Ryan's room, so mostly she just made sure Dawn was taking care of herself and Trey. She did tell me that eventually, after things had calmed down a little and Ryan was out of the ICU, she was able to see him a couple of times. Dawn called her once and asked her to bring a few of Ryan's toys to the children's rehab center he was in after he was discharged from the hospital. I guess Frank was out working that day, doing some more cash under the table handyman jobs. Mrs. Danvers said that Dawn was really, really nervous when she saw her, borderline manic, almost to the point that she should have been medicated. Trey was Trey, causal, acting like things couldn't be more normal, asking her if she would buy him some candy from the vending machine. Dawn asked her to sit with Ryan and Trey because she needed a break, a smoke, and Mrs. Danvers said she ended up staying with the boys for almost seven hours. Dawn's cigarette break turned into a trip to the nearest bar."
"Did Mrs. Danvers tell you anything…about Ryan? About anything he said to her about being shot?" I ask, hoping like hell that Dale took a few more minutes interviewing the woman to find out what Ryan was like after the shooting, if he talked about it, if he told Mrs. Danvers anything.
"Like I told ya'," Dale says, "She seemed relieved to talk to me about everything. She said that I was the first person that she ever told about seeing Ryan in the rehab hospital. She started crying again. I had to get her another glass of water."
I look at my watch.
Five more minutes, and then it'll be an hour since I saw Ryan.
After all these years, Mrs. Danvers was still crying about what happened. She remembered.
I have five more minutes.
"What did she tell you, Dale?"
Four minutes.
"What happened in the rehab center?"
Three and a half minutes.
"Well…she told me that before the shooting, despite everything, Dawn and Frank's constant drinking, all the instability that he was surrounded by, Ryan was still a happy-go-lucky little kid. He was really affectionate, loving. She said Ryan used to sometimes crawl into her lap at nighttime and listen to whatever book she was reading to her children. He used to play with her kids, run through the house, and ask her questions non-stop. She said he was smart as hell, way smarter than her own five-year-old. He wanted to know information about everything and anything. He would watch TV with her, shows that no one else in the house wanted to watch, like documentaries and science shows and stuff most kids that age had no interest in. She said that while Trey was loud, a somewhat unlikable smartass, Ryan was the complete opposite, sweet and thoughtful, always asking her if he could do anything for her. He always followed her around, like a shadow. But in the rehab center, when she was finally able to see him after he was shot, Ryan was a different kid. He never once smiled at her, didn't say a single word to her, wouldn't let her touch him, never looked her in the eye, he pretty much just stared at the TV or out the window. She went to give him a kiss when she had to leave and he pushed her away. Didn't look at her, just pushed her face away from his. Mrs. Danvers said she cried the whole way back to her house. She couldn't believe it was the same kid."
I slowly digest what Dale just told me.
I can't imagine even a very young Ryan crawling into someone's lap, talking non-stop, showing unsolicited affection.
The Ryan I know asks question, but only after careful calculation. He'll respond to affection, but he never initiates it.
Dale seems to know instinctually that I need time to process the information. He doesn't talk.
He waits for me.
Questions.
I need to ask more questions.
I need to think.
Connect the dots.
"Did Dawn or Trey ever say what happened?"
I assume Frank never talked to anyone about the shooting. But maybe Dawn or Trey confided in Mrs. Danvers.
Anything…anything would be better than no details at all.
"Nope. Nothing. Mrs. Danvers said she even asked Dawn point blank what happened, how Ryan was shot. Where did Trey get the gun? But Dawn never answered her, only cried and said that Frank swore he would kill her if she ever told anyone anything. Trey never said a thing about the shooting, never once mentioned Ryan being shot."
I clear my throat.
I'm frustrated that even though we have more first hand information than we probably ever hoped for, it still doesn't seem like enough.
Questions.
I have so many questions.
Dale said Mrs. Danvers saw Ryan several times. The rehab hospital was one time.
"Dale, you said um…that she had seen Ryan a few other times."
"Yeah," he tells me, and I can almost see him nodding on the other side of the phone line. "Yeah. Dawn came by the Danvers' house with the boys twice, mostly just to finish getting some stuff the Atwoods had left behind. She told Mrs. Danvers that she had to sneak the visits in, that Frank didn't want her and the kids seeing no one, didn't want them talking to no one. She said Frank had smacked her around after Trey accidentally let it slip that Dawn had left Ryan and him alone in the rehab center with Mrs. Danvers. Both times the boys came over to the Danvers' house, Ryan barely said a word. He would only answer questions that Dawn asked him, and even then, only by nodding 'yes' or shaking his head 'no'. He would sit and watch the other kids play, removed from everyone. Just sat and watched. Mrs. Danvers said Dawn blamed it on Ryan's leg, said he couldn't walk very well still, but it was pretty obvious that something was going on with the kid mentally. She said Ryan never spoke to anybody, wouldn't let anyone but Trey touch him."
My hour is up.
Now it's been sixty-five minutes since I've been with Ryan. I need to hear the rest of the story.
"The last time Dawn and the boys came over, Mrs. Danvers said she laid out some crayons and paper on the kitchen table, hoping Ryan would at least color instead of sitting all alone. Mrs. Danvers said that after Dawn and the boys left that last time they visited her, she was cleaning up and realized that Ryan had forgotten his drawings on the table. But they weren't pictures. There weren't any drawings. Ryan had filled up every single blank sheet of paper with red crayon. Every inch of every paper was colored red. Not a single white spot. Everything red and Mrs. Danvers is convinced to this day that it was blood Ryan was coloring. All that red. When she showed the pictures to her husband and begged him to do something, to convince Frank to stay in Sacramento and let them help the Atwoods get the boys some counseling, her husband ripped up Ryan's 'drawings' and told her that he couldn't, he wouldn't, continue to expose his family to Frank and Dawn and their destructive dysfunction. The Danvers kids had seen enough. Mr. Danvers said he felt sorry for Trey and especially for Ryan, but his kids came first. He couldn't chance his wife or one of their own kids getting hurt. Mrs. Danvers said she tried to call Frank's cell phone for weeks after the family left Sacramento, but he never answered it and a month later, the cell was out of service. She never spoke to Dawn or saw the boys again."
I take an unsteady, deep breath.
Run a hand through my hair.
Blow out a puff of air.
I'm on overload.
I can't think straight.
I can't think about anything.
I compelled to hang up and bust my way into Ryan's room.
I need to see him.
"She asked for your phone number, Mr. Cohen," Dale says, his voice softer than maybe I have ever heard it.
"She seems like an incredibly nice lady. She kept asking me if Ryan and Trey were alright. I told her I wasn't sure about Trey, but that Ryan was doing great, in a good family, a private school, friends, all that. I didn't tell her anything about how you met Ryan, or that Dawn had abandoned him with you or anything personal, like where you were living. You know how professional I am. But I couldn't walk out of that house without telling that woman that the little boy she spent years worrying about was now a fully functioning, thriving teenager. I just couldn't leave her wondering. It didn't seem humane. I hope I didn't cross any lines or betray your trust. I told her I would relay her request that you give her a call, but that I couldn't make any promises."
"That's fine, Dale," I answer quietly. "I'm glad you told her Ryan was doing well. I want you to go back there, tell her how much my family and I appreciate her candor and willingness to speak to you. Can you ask her if I can send her some pictures of Ryan to her? If that wouldn't cause a problem between her and her husband?"
The words flow from my mouth, but they're from rote courtesy.
I'm not thinking, not really.
Ten more minutes have gone by.
I start walking in the direction of Ryan's room, looking left to right, seeing Frank's blood covered shirt on every person I pass in the hallway.
"Of course," Dale answers, his voice full of the familiar hyperactive energy I'm used to hearing from him. "Absolutely. You're a stand-up guy, Mr. Cohen. Mrs. Danvers will be so thankful."
Questions.
I should have more questions for him.
I should be connecting dots, but I don't know where to start.
Red flashes. The display on my phone lights up and I recognize the number as the CCU nurses' station.
I've already snapped my phone shut before I realize I never told Dale goodbye.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan is hooked up to the dialysis machine when I walk into the room. A new nurse is with him. She introduces herself as Caroline. She's maybe my age and she must be a parent, because she has that frazzled, but caring, maternal look. She's got a soft, gentle nature about her, patting my arm and telling me to, "Come on in, Mr. Cohen," before she even takes the time to tell me her name.
"Your son's doing very well," she says. "He's been asleep most of the time."
She tells me that they've begun the process of weaning Ryan off the ventilator. He continuing to improve, his fever dropping, albeit incrementally, and his breathing is already stronger than expected.
"Ah, youth," Caroline says with a smile and a shake of her head. "If it was you or me in that bed, I guarantee you that we'd be doing nowhere near as well as your son is."
I nod.
I can't bring myself to return the smile.
My head is spinning.
"Let me explain the new equipment," she says and directs me over to the dialysis machine. It has a long, important official name that I forget the instant I hear it. It doesn't seem possible that there's room for any more machines in the already cramped space. There's not enough room for me to breathe.
I see a new, pristine bandage above Ryan's shoulder blade. There's no visible blood on the white gauze covering the latest invasion of his skin.
The thick tube sticking out of the bandage is almost in Ryan's neck.
Thank God Kirsten isn't here to see any of this.
"I'll be right outside," Caroline tells me, checking the IV stand and the monitors before she steps out. "Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything."
What could I possibly need, Caroline?
Me need anything? That's silly.
What the fuck could I possibly need?
I need all this to go away.
Everything.
Can you make that happen for me Caroline? I'd appreciate it.
When she exits the room, I pull up my new best friend, my recliner, and I get settled in it, my movements feeling clunky and forced and heavy.
This room is too crowded.
I can hardly breathe in it.
I lean forward so I can slide my hand through the metal railing into Ryan's lax one.
He's in what appears to be a deep sleep, his skin still flushed and that goddamn tube still jutting out of his mouth.
I want it gone.
I want all of this, everything, gone.
All of it.
I want everything out of him.
I put my forehead on the bed's railing.
It's cold on my skin.
The ventilator whooshes and the dialysis machine clicks and the various monitors beep a steady rhythm… and the sounds are like little voices in my head, all those sounds, chastising me, telling me I should have asked Dale more questions.
The room feels stifling, smaller than it was before I left.
I rub my fingers against Ryan's knuckles, back and forth.
I try to picture him as a little boy, not much different than Seth evidently was, asking question after question, and sitting on Mrs. Danvers' lap and listening to her read a story, just like Seth used to sit with myself or Kirsten.
I always imagined Ryan as an introverted, quiet little boy, standing in the corner, staying out of the way.
Watching.
In my mind, he was never like Seth, never outgoing, not seeking affection.
But I was wrong. At some point, for a few years, Ryan was evidently quite a bit like Seth.
Life, and his parents, and the effort of surviving his childhood beat the carefree innocence out of Ryan.
Changed him.
It seems, evidently, a gun took parts of Ryan away.
Gone.
And left behind this guarded, sometimes defensive kid that I've come to love as much as my own son.
These past few years, I've seen Ryan emerge more and more out of his shell, trust a little more with every single day that passes, talk a little less inhibited. The four of us have become more and more like a family. I think Ryan is finally at peace, has finally found where he belongs in our household.
Now this happens, this accident, and as if this whole experience hasn't been traumatic enough, now I know something.
Something Ryan and I will have to talk about.
I can't pretend I don't know he was shot.
I can't keep all this to myself, what I've learned over the past few days.
I can't not confront what I've learned, even though it would be so easy to, because Ryan has always set the pace which Kirsten and I and Seth follow. No one is allowed to talk about his childhood except for Ryan. That's the rule. That's always been the rule.
Things have to change.
I can't ignore what I know.
We need a new rule in the Cohen household.
I slowly turn Ryan's hand over and study his palm, tracing the lines on it.
Does he even remember the event that seems to have completely changed his personality?
Does Ryan remember Trey holding the gun?
Was he conscious while Dawn screamed and his brother cried?
Was he aware of any of it?
Has he blocked out what happened to him when he was five or simply, with time, forgotten it?
The machines surrounding us keep up there beeping and whooshing, their little voices reminding me that I have dots to connect.
I keep tracing the lines on Ryan's hand.
While he sleeps, Kirsten calls.
I give her yet another update.
She talks and I listen and answer questions, and the whole time we speak to each other, I stare at Ryan and see a little boy sitting at the foot of the bed, coloring one white sheet of paper after another with a deep red crayon.
Dark red covering everything.
Ryan stirs.
He wakes up halfway through my conversation with Kirsten.
I smile at him, place my hand on his hair, and softly say, "Hi."
I put the phone on speaker and place it close to his ear.
And then I close my eyes, and listen to my wife's soothing voice, as she tells Ryan in her own words how much we all love him.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To be continued….................
I'm embarrassed to even type those hollow words, lol.