Humankind Cannot Bear Very Much Reality

Best Forgotten, Part 36. Fin?

2012-03-31T20:41:53Z

Really, no April Fool's joke. This could be the end. I actually have part of another chapter written (actually written last summer before my old computer died, taking most of the ending I had planned with it). But for those of you who are ready for this epic to be over, feel free to read it as complete. I may add more to the story--at least finish the chapter I started--if I feel that old "unwind-by-writing-some-OC" impulse, but I'm not going to promise that it will appear next month.

So until, well, whenever, thanks for sticking with this. Oh yes, and that all-important Disclaimer: Thanks for the (unwitting) loan of the characters, Josh. I know they're not mine. But the situation, melodrama, and mistakes certainly are.

Best Forgotten 36

When Lucy opened the door of Ryan’s room, the first thing Sandy and Kirsten saw was Seth, rocking back and forth, babbling contentedly as Dr. Baldrich examined a monitor beside him. They could only hear his last words—“And that, my man Atwood, is why I would make an amazing doctor. Seriously, think about it. If you just subtract the blood and major ick factor, I could be an outstanding something-ologist, right?” Beyond their son, though, they managed to glimpse Ryan. Almost hidden by the doctor, he was slumped back, collapsed against the pillow. A film of sweat glossed his brow, and his skin looked flaccid and drained. Even so, he was his shaking his head wryly, an indulgent half-frown tipping into a smile on his face.

Seth, Sandy thought gratefully. Thank God he can get through to Ryan.

Then, abrupt as a blackout, Ryan’s smile vanished when he caught sight of the Cohens. He swallowed uncertainly, appearing to struggle for words, or control, or air.

Seth broke off in consternation when Ryan’s expression changed. He spun around, scowling, only to relax again when he recognized his parents and Lucy.

“Hey! I didn’t hear the door open. Although yeah, silent door. But anyway you’re back!” he exclaimed. “Well, obviously you know that but yeah, you’re back. So . . . good. That’s good, right?”

“I’d say so,” Sandy answered, ignoring the question Seth was trying to ask. “And by the way, son, what you saying about being a doctor? That was a joke, right? Did we spoil the punch line?”

Grinning at Seth’s indignant protest, Sandy strode forward to reclaim his spot next to the bed. His hand automatically settled on Ryan’s shoulder, massaging it gently, and he leaned down, pitching his voice low. “You’re looking better, kid. Nice to see you smile,” he confided, before looking up to demand, “How is he doing, doctor? Well enough to go home today?”

From her spot next to Kirsten, who still lingered in the doorway, Lucy supplied a swift translation. She listened to Dr. Baldrich’s reply, a long stream of Spanish to quick for Seth to follow. Then she nodded and turned to the Cohens. “Dr. Baldrich says that, considering the drugs he was given and the emotional trauma he suffered, Ryan is doing quite well--” She held up a finger, puncturing Seth’s jubilant “Yes!” “But,” she added gravely, “he feels he does not have enough background on Ryan’s case and he is concerned about releasing him prematurely. Without his real records, we do not know: he still might suffer complications—side effects from the drugs. Dr. Baldrich does not know that it would be safe for Ryan to travel yet, certainly not without medical supervision.”

Ryan paled, breathing hard, his hands clenching into fists as he listened. “I want to go home,” he blurted. The words were barely even a whisper, ragged and almost inaudible, but the Cohens all heard them clearly. They heard Ryan’s desperate longing too.

“You will, kid,” Sandy promised. “Believe me, we’re getting you out of here.” He kneaded Ryan’s shoulder again, his touch and tone both reassuring, but the face he raised to Lucy had settled into grim, determined lines. “We can get Ryan’s real medical records faxed here, the ones we have anyway--”

“Sandy wait!” Kirsten’s voice, urgent and unexpected, silenced Sandy, and he glanced back at her in surprise. She had moved closer to Lucy, gripping her hand, gazing at her with a kind of fierce pleading. “You said, ‘not without medical supervision,’ Lucy. Well, what if you came with us? It’s not a long trip, and you’re a nurse. You could look after Ryan. Would that be enough to get him released right away?”

“I . . . do not know,” Lucy replied, dazed. “Perhaps it might, but . . .”

“No buts!” Seth protested. He practically danced in place, beating a triumphant tattoo on his thigh. “That’s a brilliant idea, Mom! You’ll do it, won’t you Lucy? You’ll come with us?”

Lucy glanced at Ryan. He wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t looking at anyone at all. His eyes were downcast, lost beneath the fringe of his lashes, but Lucy felt that she could read them anyway. She saw the hectic red spots flame on his pale cheeks, a line of white where his teeth caught his lower lip, biting down hard, the way his whole body tensed, rigid with helpless waiting. Whatever objection she meant to express disappeared.

She didn’t even hear what Kirsten was saying about “expenses” and “signing waivers.”

“All right,” she said slowly. “If my service will satisfy the clinic so that they will release Ryan now, I will go with you.”

Ryan released a long, shuddering, laden breath, tipping his head back against the pillow, opening his tight fist. He lifted his eyes, a bottomless ocean blue, and a smile ghosted across his face. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently. At the same time, Kirsten said the same words aloud, and Seth erupted into a jubilant whoop.

“You hear that, dude? Lucy said yes! ’s coming with!” He pounded the mattress next to Ryan’s legs, bursting into exultant song. “California here we come!”

Sandy chuckled, noting Dr. Baldrich’s baffled concern. “Calm down, son,” he urged. “And watch what you’re doing before you hit Ryan.”

“Oh!—oh, right,” Seth agreed, shuffling away from the bed but still grinning widely as his father continued.

“Will you explain this to the doctor, Lucy? I think he believes that we’ve all lost our minds.”

Chuckling, Lucy nodded and turned to Dr. Baldrich. Her lilting Spanish filled the room like a song. As she spoke, Sandy glanced around at his family, his gaze finally settling on Ryan’s flushed face, upturned and eager. For the first time since they had found him, it seemed to Sandy that he looked like himself—not the wary, watchful Ryan Atwood who still too often seemed to walk a tightrope in their lives, but the candid, artless teen that he and Kirsten sometimes glimpsed in his rare, spontaneous smiles or, more often, in playful moments with Seth.

It made Sandy’s heart swell to see that boy appear again. Impulsively, he leaned down and rubbed his cheek against Ryan’s hair.

“Yeah, and now the doctor knows that we’ve gone crazy,” Seth chided. “Seriously, dad, pull yourself together. Some of us hate to have our hair messed up, you know.”

Ryan shook his head, blushing. “’s all right. Don’t . . . mind, Sandy” he murmured.

Sandy laughed and nuzzled Ryan’s forehead again. “See? Ryan doesn’t care. That’s just you, Seth. But . . . ” With a reluctant sigh, Sandy straightened up and shook back his own rumpled hair. Even so, he continued to knead Ryan’s neck; he couldn’t bring himself to break contact completely. “I suppose I should come with you while you make the arrangements, Lucy. You’ll need me to facilitate all the paperwork—at least to sign Ryan’s release.”

“This is true,” Lucy conceded. “But it will perhaps take some time to reach that point.” Her voice warm with understanding, she inclined her head, nodding toward Sandy’s hand, still resting on Ryan’s shoulder. “Why don’t you remain with your family for now? Dr. Baldrich and I can attend to matters first. I will send for you when I need you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very much sure, yes.” Moving swiftly, Lucy crossed to Ryan’s bed, cupped his cheek and smiled down at him. “You, young man, I will see again very soon,” she said.

Before she could step back, Ryan reached up and covered her hand with his own. This time he was able to find his voice, but it was thick, layered with feeling when he spoke.

“Thank you, Lucy,” he said quietly.

“It is my very great pleasure, Ryan Atwood.” Smiling again, Lucy touched one finger to Ryan’s lips, then turned, took Dr. Baldrich’s arm, and walked to the door.

It opened with a sound like a breath, exhaling again when it closed behind them.

In the instant of silence, the comparative emptiness of the room, it suddenly became apparent that all this time, Kirsten had remained apart. She stood alone, several long steps from Ryan’s bed where Sandy and Seth were huddled, her hands clasped, compulsively twisting her wedding ring.

“Soooo,” Seth said. It took him three seconds to complete the word and he glanced from anxiously from Ryan to his mother and back again. “It’s just us. You, me, Mom, Dad, all together again . . . But that’s okay now, isn’t it Ryan?”

Ryan bit his lip. He glanced up and then down again as he nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice both raw and shy. “I’m . . . sorry, Kirsten. About—before.”

Beaming, Sandy returned to his post beside the bed and leaned down to ruffle Ryan’s hair fondly. “Nothing to be sorry about, kid.” He turned to Kirsten who lingered behind him, an anxious crease between his brows belying his hearty tone. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” Kirsten agreed. Her tone almost exactly echoed Ryan’s and her smile, still flickering and uncertain, slipped. For an instant it evaporated completely, but she took a deep breath, recovered it, and stepped forward. Reaching out, she touched Ryan’s cheek, waiting until he looked up at her before she spoke. “I don’t blame you for—anything—and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong, Ryan.”

“But your father--” Ryan began.

He swallowed, his mouth struggling to shape the words, but before he could finish, Kirsten reached down, her fingertips brushing his lips, shushing him. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “We don’t have to talk about him Ryan. Not now or ever. And you never have to apologize for any of this.” Before he could respond, Kirsten chuckled unexpectedly. “Of course I will expect an apology the next time an entire batch of cookies that Rosa baked for my committee meeting disappears.”

“Um, Mom?” Seth’s hand inches into the air. “That was mostly—well, almost all—me. Ryan settled for licking the bowl.”

Kirsten’s eyebrows arched quizzically. “And the next time a vase if mine winds up broken because of, what did you call it? A mysterious, localized minor earthquake?”

“Yeah. Also me.”

Sandy sighed and kneaded Ryan’s shoulder. “Why am I not surprised?”

Ryan risked a smile before he flushed, serious again. “It’s just—with Gabrielle, I know I shouldn’t have, Kirsten--”

She shook her head. “Shh,” she urged. “It doesn’t matter. What you did may have been a mistake, Ryan, but it was hardly a crime. And Gabrielle is a grown woman. Considering her behavior, yours was understandable.”

“Definitely understandable,” Seth interjected. “She was hot.” His cheeks creased with a goofy, dreamy grin, but it faded rapidly under his mother’s frown.

“There, you see Ryan. Seth would have done the same thing if he’d had the opportunity. Although that would be unlikely.”

“Hey!” Seth objected.

Ryan’s elusive smile reappeared only to flicker out again, a flame deprived of oxygen. “Not the same . . .” he murmured. “I’m not Seth.”

“No you’re not.” Kirsten’s hand strayed to Ryan’s hair, gently stroking it off his forehead. She appeared unaware of the gesture. “We don’t expect you to be, sweetie.”

“We don’t even want that, kid,” Sandy added. “One Seth Cohen is more than enough for any family. Maybe for all of southern California.”

Seth’s mouth popped open, closed into a scowl, then puckered sideways as he shrugged. “Okay, I guess that might be true. I’m going to take that as a tribute to my unique personality.”

Grinning, Sandy reached across the bed to ruffle Seth’s hair. “You do that, son.” His gaze returned to Ryan, who was watching the whole exchange, his head slightly cocked, his eyes both bemused and grateful. With his free hand, Sandy ruffled Ryan’s hair too. “Personally,” he confided, “I like having someone in the family to balance Seth’s—exuberance.”

“So do I,” Kirsten said softly. She inclined her head toward the chair beside Ryan’s bed. “May I?” she asked.

Ryan’s lips parted, only to close again. He nodded, swallowing hard, lying so still that he hardly seemed to breathe. Only his eyes moved, following Kirsten, tracking each movement she made as she sat, hitched her chair closer and, slowly and silently, pushed back a fold of sheet. Reaching underneath, she uncovered Ryan’s hand. It lay near the edge of the bed, curled into a loose fist. Ryan watched, his gaze still wondering, as Kirsten traced the line of his knuckles, gently easing his fingers open until she could lace her own through his.

She didn’t risk any pressure, just let her hand rest there, warm and trusting, not even allowing herself to look at Ryan’s face, until he made a small, wordless sound, and she felt the tense begin to drain from his body. Then, with a sigh, Kirsten relaxed too. Unconsciously, silently she began to move her forefinger. It swooped gracefully, slowly, tracing shapes on Ryan’s palm—loops and curves that spelled out his name. He peered up, startled. Cocking his head, he watched Kirsten’s face, her faint, tender smile as her finger continued to glide, shy against his skin. It lifted, returned to its starting spot near his thumb, and lowered to begin again, still forming a soft, cursive “Ryan”.

Slowly, the swirls started to make sense to him. They shaped themselves into those four familiar, letters, those two small, essential syllables.

It was his name, the one he had not known he needed until his identity was denied him for so long.

A wondering smile lit Ryan’s eyes.

Kirsten was claiming him. She was giving him back his name.

TBC or FIN: take your pick

Best Forgotten, Part 35. Or 350. Who knows?

2012-03-01T00:41:23Z

Happy leap year.

Despite the extra day, though, the end of this month snuck up on me. This part (oh, so close to the end, but still not there) wasn't done; it was written in chunks with a gap missing. Since I couldn't bridge the gap in time, I'm just posting what I have up to what can pass as a stopping point. But at this time, really, who cares?

And after that long disclaimer, here's the real one: AU season 1; only Lucy and the other clinic employees belong to me. With that, on to . . .

Best Forgotten, Part (sigh) 35

Lucy’s hand was already cupped to beckon the Cohens back inside when she opened the door to Ryan’s room. Instead she stopped, startled. Her smile, bright with welcome, dimmed at the edges and her arm fell to her side. Seth was blocking the entrance. His back was to her, and he stood with his feet planted firmly apart, his arms spread as if daring anyone to pass. Even the set of his shoulders screamed defiance. Lucy peered past him. Behind Seth, she could see Sandy, one arm wrapped around a mute Kirsten, the other hand raking through his hair, and further down the hall, Felix leading the way for Dr. Baldrich. Everyone except Kirsten was talking excitedly. Lucy heard Felix say her name, a fragment of labored English as Dr. Baldrich introduced himself, and Sandy’s exasperated, “If you would just listen, son--” but Seth’s voice cut through everything else.

“Yeah, I don’t care,” he was growling. “I want to see some ID. Real ID, with a photograph, not just a stupid plastic nametag. Tell him, Dad. I mean, this guy could be wearing somebody else’s jacket. How do we know he isn’t really Dr. Keller? Or somebody working for--”

“He is not,” Lucy said. Slipping outside, she touched Seth’s shoulder, gently silencing him. Her smile, calm and reassuring, sought Kirsten first, before it enveloped all of the Cohens. “This is Dr. Baldrich, Seth. I sent for him to examine Ryan. We must be sure when it is medically safe for him to travel, and that is not something I can determine.”

Seth shuffled, blinking in surprise. He relaxed his defensive stance but he didn’t move out of the way. “Oh, um. Hey, Lucy. Yeah. So you can vouch for this guy?”

Lucy’s forehead puckered at the word “vouch” but she nodded her agreement. “You want to take Ryan home as soon as possible, yes?” she prompted.

“Yes, we do,” Sandy answered emphatically. “Son--?” He inclined his head, his brows lifting to complete the message, and Seth bobbed his head. Half-hopping sideways, he cleared the entrance.

It gave the Cohens a glimpse of Ryan, waiting inside. Propped up by the raised bed, he leaned against his pillow, his head tipped down, one hand gripping the other, knuckles straining white on top of the white sheets. His face was faintly flushed, with the preternatural alertness of a wild animal, and he watched them all through hooded eyes.

Sandy recognized the expression; it was the same shuttered gaze, the same wary, fragile mask, he had seen across a table in the cold juvenile detention center the first time he met Ryan. The sight chilled him.

We’ve come so far, kid, he thought helplessly. How did we get back to this again?

He clasped Kirsten closer, remembering.

That first day, Sandy recalled, Ryan had been handcuffed when the guard brought him into the visitor’s room. He had stared at the floor, stoic, while the man released him, trying his best to look hardened, immune to punishment, immune to hope. It didn’t work. Ryan could not stop his cheeks from staining with shame and once he sat down, Sandy had seen him surreptitiously rub his chafed wrists under the table.

Now in his hospital bed, Ryan did the same thing again. Darting furtive glances sideways, he repeated the gesture, compulsively circling one hand with the other, pressing down hard. Holding on to himself.

The gesture seared Sandy’s heart.

Still, he mustered a grin and waved. His hearty tone betrayed nothing except paternal warmth, playful indulgence. “Hey there, kid! Good to see you sitting up.” Without glancing away from Ryan, Sandy lowered his voice and gestured backwards to Dr. Baldrich. “Go ahead, Doctor. But make it quick, all right?”

With a swift, relieved smile, Dr. Baldrich nodded. He motioned to Felix and both men walked into Ryan’s room. The Cohens automatically started to follow, but Lucy held up one hand, stopping them. Then she turned around, facing Ryan but not moving back inside. “Ryan?” she called softly. “You remember that I said a doctor must check on you? This is Dr. Baldrich. I promise that you can trust him. Is it all right if he examines you? He will not take long, and Felix will stay with you.”

Felix blocked sight of the bed so none of the Cohens could see Ryan, but they could hear his hesitant “Okay,” and then the whisper-soft sound of the door starting to slide shut.

“Wait, what?” Seth blurted. He spun around, waving his hand in a futile effort to stall the door. “Felix will stay with him? What about us? Shouldn’t we be there too? I mean, think about it Lucy. You may know this doctor but Ryan doesn’t, and he might . . . I don’t know, he might need us. Or at least know we’re still here.”

Seth’s voice was equal parts pleading and insistent and Lucy glanced through the window at Ryan, her brow furrowed. Then she pressed the code into the keypad and the door glided open again.

“Of course. You are right,” she conceded. “Ryan should have family with him. Perhaps you could keep him company, Seth? Just please you must stay out of Dr. Baldrich’s way.”

Seth bounded forward. “Yeah, not to worry, I can--” He grabbed the edge of the door, abruptly skidding to a stop halfway into the room. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “Wait, you mean just me? What about you guys? Aren’t you coming in too?”

Lucy hesitated. She looked past Seth, answering his question but directing her reply to Sandy and Kirsten instead. “We will wait here. I wish to speak to your mother and father—if that is all right, Kirsten?”

“What about?” Seth demanded, before either of his parents could answer. His gaze darted toward Ryan and ricocheted back to Lucy, dark with anxiety. “Why can’t you tell me too? Because we’re kind of a package deal here, aren’t we Dad? You, mom, Ryan, me—the Cohen family unit? Four for the price of one? Come on, Lucy. Whatever is going on, I have a right to know.”

“Seth--” Sandy began, but Lucy shook her head slightly. She laid a soothing hand on Seth’s arm.

“It is nothing you cannot hear, Seth, and nothing that should worry you,” she assured him. “Your parents can tell you everything later. Only I wish to discuss it with them first. And Ryan needs you with him right now, yes?”

Seth chewed one corner of his lip. He squinted again, examining Lucy’s face for any hint of deception before his head bobbed in a reluctant nod. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. “But full disclosure later, right Dad?”

“Absolutely, Seth. Go—don’t keep Ryan waiting.”

Smiling a promise, Sandy rumpled his son’s matted curls. He chuckled as Seth mock-scowled, trying vainly to pat his hair back in place while he hurried into Ryan’s room, already launching a barrage of words.

“I’m back, dude! The ‘rents and Lucy will be in soon but for now let Seth-Ryan time—well, Seth-Ryan time with medical extras—commence--”

The door slid shut behind him, cutting off the rest of Seth’s caroled greeting. An instant of silence chilled the hallway. Then Kirsten stirred, stiffening in Sandy’s arms.

“How . . . how is he?” she asked. After Seth’s buoyant voice, her question sounded dim and flimsy, a single gray feather caught in the wind.

Lucy smiled. “Very much better, Kirsten.”

The words vibrated with surety and Sandy responded to them with instant relief.

“That’s wonderful. Did you hear that, sweetheart? Ryan’s okay. We told you he would be. You see? There was nothing to worry about.”

Exhaling a grateful sigh, Sandy leaned down to kiss the top of his wife’s head, but neither his tenderness nor Lucy’s soothing expression seemed to reassure Kirsten. She pulled away from Sandy, drawing herself in tight as if bracing herself before she spoke again. Her unseeing gaze slid past him, focusing somewhere beyond the hallway, beyond the hospital, into the glare of a blinding, invisible and unforgiving sun.

“But he blames me for what my father did to him,” Kirsten said flatly. There was a sense of finality in her voice, an assumption that the conversation was over. There was nothing else to be said.

“Oh. Oh no Kirsten. That is not it at all.” Lucy placed one hand on each of Kirsten’s arms. She rubbed them gently as she spoke, the warmth of her palms slowly seeping through the thin layer of silk, heating and soothing the icy skin below. “Ryan blames you for nothing,” she said quietly. “I promise you, he does not. Only . . . Kirsten, he fears very much that you blame him.”

Kirsten’s gaze snapped back from the distance. Her eyes, wide and startled, fastened on Lucy’s face. Swallowing his own instinctive shock, the dozen questions he wanted to ask, Sandy moved closer to his wife, ready to support her, silently waiting while she struggled to make sense of Lucy’s words.

“What?” Kirsten breathed. She blinked, stammering. “Me . . .? But Lucy, I don’t understand. Ryan didn’t do anything wrong. How could I—why would I blame him for anything?”

“You must remember that Ryan is still most confused.” Lucy spoke slowly, her brow knotted with concentration, explaining to herself as well as the Cohens. “But I will try to say exactly what he told me. Ryan believes that his behavior with that young woman, your father’s female companion—Grazielle?”

Sandy slipped an arm around Kirsten’s rigid shoulders. “Gabrielle,” he supplied grimy.

“Yes, Gabrielle. Ryan thinks that if he had not behaved as—thoughtlessly—as he did with her, Mr. Nichol would not have—would not have retaliated the way he did. You see, Kirsten, Ryan understands how much you have suffered in this. He knows what it has cost you to learn that your father is capable of such, such--”

Lucy paused, fumbling for a word that would not scald, but Sandy didn’t hesitate.

“Cruelty,” he said.

Kirsten’s mouth tightened. “Evil,” she amended.

She spoke in a bitter whisper, almost inaudible, but declaring the truth seemed to ignite Kirsten’s strength. Her eyes blazed. Taking a deep breath, she stood up straighter. It was as if, having found the courage to say the word out loud, she determined not let it defeat her. “Lucy,” she said, thinking through the question as she asked it. “Are you saying that just because of that business with Gabrielle—that Ryan thinks it’s his fault--? That I blame him for all the horrible things my father has done? I don’t . . . I never would . . .”

Lucy’s reply matched Kirsten’s pensive tone. “I know this, Kirsten,” she said. “And on some level, I am sure Ryan knows this too. The problem, I think, is that he holds himself responsible. He believes that if he had not been in your house, if his conduct with Gabrielle had not humiliated Mr. Nichol, none of this would have happened. Your faith in your father would not have been destroyed this way. ”

“Oh my God,” Sandy muttered. He raked his hair back roughly, leaving angry red scratch marks on his forehead. “That’s what’s going on with the kid? I should have realized . . .”

Kirsten shook her head. “But Lucy,” she said, puzzled, “I still don’t understand. The way Ryan acted in there—as if he couldn’t stand having me touch him—He couldn’t even bear to look at me.”

“That was not why Ryan turned from you, Kirsten. He did it because he felt ashamed. And guilty.”

Recalling his ragged voice, the depths of anguish in Ryan’s face as he tried to explain his reaction to her, Lucy felt her heart clench. They had managed to spare Ryan the operation, the worst of Caleb Nichol’s vengeance. Yet even now, even though he was safe, reunited with his family, that man was still causing so much pain—tentacles of it, coiling venomously around so many people.

Lucy was unsure how the Cohens and Ryan would ever free themselves entirely. She was uncertain, too, how to explain Ryan’s emotions to Kirsten when they were so embedded in the unhealed wounds of his childhood. At a loss, she said simply, “Ryan did it to spare you, Kirsten. He believes that the sight of him must cause you pain.”

“What? Why would make him think that?”

“Because if Ryan had never been in your life, you would still have a father you could love and trust. And also—Ryan too had a father who hurt and betrayed him. He knows how much it hurts to lose faith in a parent. Somehow he feels that, looking at him—you would see all that—everything thing you have lost.”

Kirsten gripped Sandy’s hand tightly. She moaned a strangled, half-sobbed “No.”

“I told him--” Lucy took a deep breath, pausing an instant before she confessed, “I said you did not see him that way, that you looked at him only as a mother looks at her son. It was all I could think to say, Kirsten.”

“A mother . . .” Kirsten echoed. “Did--” She closed her eyes for a moment, the corners of her lips trembling. When she looked up again, a wistful film veiled her face. “Do you know--did Ryan believe you?”

“I am not sure,” Lucy admitted. “I think that will depend on what you believe.”

She did not ask a question, but an unspoken one echoed, insistent in the air.

Unconsciously, Kirsten began to twist her rings. She didn’t look at anyone, and when she finally spoke, her face dimmed. She seemed to forget Sandy and Lucy were listening—forget they were with her at all. Her voice floated dreamlike and drifting, lost in a cloud of thoughts.

“It’s so strange. I didn’t—even the day Ryan disappeared—I didn’t think of him as my son. I cared about him. I think every day I cared a little more. But only as . . . as Seth’s friend or Sandy’s protégé. I didn’t know what he was to me. We weren’t . . . close. Ryan always kept his distance . . . or maybe that was my fault. Maybe I kept him away. Maybe I was afraid—I don’t know. It was only after, when Ryan wasn’t there . . . it felt like there was a hole in our family. And then when my father tried to make us believe all those horrible things about him? I knew they couldn’t be true. I knew it. And I just . . . I missed him. And I was so afraid for him. I wanted him home, safe, where he belonged. But love him like a mother? I never thought--”

Kirsten stopped suddenly. She looked up, her eyes sparkling, her voice clear and firm. “Lucy, can we go back in now?” she asked. “I have to see Ryan.”

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 34. (It only feels like Part 340)

2012-01-31T22:17:11Z

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

Best Forgotten--what is this now? Part 33? Anyway--

2011-12-31T21:23:48Z

Another month (in fact another year!) and another part of this story. Note: no, it's still not done. The holidays intruded and I'm sorry, but I just can't make it a simple, happy ending. If you'd like, though, stop reading four paragraphs before the end and you can consider the story completed.

Meanwhile, whether you're reading or not, happy New Year to all of you. Now go and celebrate!

Best Forgotten, Part 33

All the standard disclaimers apply.

Kirsten stood with her arms crossed tightly, fingers gripping her elbows as if her bones would shatter if she didn’t hold herself together. She pressed her back against the cold wall beside Ryan’s door. Shallow breaths caught in her throat, barely forcing air out and in and out again through her white-rimmed lips.

She couldn’t move. Kirsten wanted to. She wanted to find Lucy, the way she had mumbled she would when she stumbled out of Ryan’s room. Once in the hallway, though, Kirsten just stopped. She couldn’t make herself take another step, despite silent, insistent accusations.

“Ryan will want her . . . Said you would get her . . . Lucy deserves to be there . . . Least you can do for him . . .”

A sudden light flashed over the door puncturing Kirsten’s thoughts. She heard an alarm sound, the staccato stream of urgent Spanish coming from the intercom and as if in reply, muffled footsteps racing down the corridor. Instantly, her heart racing, Kirsten spun away from the wall and stared through the window into Ryan’s room.

Something was wrong.

In an endless, frozen moment between one breath and the next, she saw Seth, eyes wide and glazed with fear, scanning the monitors that surrounded the bed. They pulsed jagged lines of warning as Sandy, his back toward her, bent over Ryan, leaning close to him, whispering words that Kirsten couldn’t hear.

She could see all of that, even sense the urgency in Sandy’s voice and feel the strain of his muscles throb through her own veins.

But Kirsten couldn’t see Ryan at all.

And she realized the door had locked behind her. She could not get back in.

Frantic, she raised her hand to knock on the glass, but just as she did, several things happened at once. Inside Ryan’s room, the monitors quieted, and Sandy relaxed, sighing with relief. Kirsten saw him glance up, flashing a swift, reassuring smile at Seth even as he shifted on the bed. It was a small movement, just enough to give her a glimpse of Ryan, his face wan but awake and responsive, as Sandy, beaming, now, ruffled his hair.

Light and warmth, golden as a summer morning, spread through Kirsten. She exhaled, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath. At the same time, though, she heard a clatter of equipment, the percussive sound of running feet, and realized that people were behind her, calling orders, heading for Ryan’s room.

Kirsten tore herself from the window. She wheeled around again, blocking the door. Lifting her chin, mustering every once of Nichol authority, stared down the medical team approaching her.

“Stop. You can’t go in there,” she said. Her tone was sharp and adamant, and she drew herself up, infusing her slight, thin body with steel. “Ryan is fine. My husband—his father—is with him. You’re not touching him again.”

The doctor in front replied in a forceful stream of Spanish, at once incomprehensible and easily understood. He glared, gesturing her away from the door, but Kirsten stood her ground.

“I told you no,” she repeated. Her eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously. “I don’t trust any of you to help him--”

“Mrs. Cohen? Kirsten? It is all right.”

Breaking off abruptly, Kirsten looked down the hallway. A wash of relief swept over her at the sound of the soft, firm voice, the sight of Lucy hurrying around a corner, three steps ahead of Felix.

“Oh, Lucy,” she gasped. She reached out both hands in welcome. “I’m so glad you’re back. Ryan is awake!”

“Ah, por último. Gracias, Dios,” Lucy murmured. Pausing for a moment, she crossed herself and touched her lips, a kiss sent to heaven. Then, her eyes glowing, mirroring Kirsten’s joy, she moved with calm assurance to stand beside her. For a few seconds, both women ignored the waiting trauma team. “That is most wonderful,” Lucy said. She clasped Kirsten’s hands, pressing them fervently as she glanced into Ryan’s room. In an instant, she took in the picture there: Seth, wreathed in smiles, his body almost vibrating with excitement as he tried to wedge himself onto the bed; Sandy, shirt and hair rumpled, crowding close on the other side, his gaze locked on Ryan’s face, radiating comfort and strength and assurance; and Ryan, still dazed and blinking in wonder, even as he nestled into the refuge of Sandy’s palm.

The image spoke to Lucy of promises fulfilled and family.

Yet, she thought, troubled, it is not a true reunion.

She squeezed Kirsten’s hand. “But you should not be out here,” she said quietly. “You should be with them—with Ryan, Kirsten.”

Kirsten glanced back through the window into the room. As she watched, Ryan’s eyes seemed to clear. They widened, wiping away the shadows, and he looked up at Sandy with child-like, utter trust.

Kirsten could almost hear Sandy’s tear-choked laugh in response. Unconsciously, her thumb moved with his, tracing the same small circles that Sandy was stroking on Ryan’s temples.

“Yes,” she agreed uncertainly.

Lucy followed her gaze. A tender smile curved her lips. “Go now,” she urged, reaching for the keypad. “Ryan will wonder if--”

Behind her, the doctor slapped the side of the crash cart. The sudden, metallic sound, shattered their private moment, and both Lucy and Kirsten turned around. Taking a step forward, the doctor gestured toward the door, spewing a furious torrent of Spanish. Kirsten stiffened, automatically starting to argue again, but Lucy signaled for her to wait. Her brow furrowing, she listened as the doctor spoke. Then she gave a brief, reluctant nod.

“Por supuesto. Tiene usted razón,” she sighed. Taking Kirsten’s hands, Lucy pressed them with mingled apology and insistence. “You must let him inside also,” she said. Kirsten pulled back, but Lucy added, low and sure. “You know this, Kirsten. A doctor must check Ryan. You wish to protect him, I understand. But after all he has been through, we must be sure . . .”

Lucy let the sentence hang and Kirsten’s lips crimped. Even so she shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “Not these people, Lucy. I don’t want anyone who worked with Dr. Keller anywhere around Ryan. Think how he’d feel if he saw them. We can't do that to him. Please, Lucy. No. Tell them. They can’t go in.”

Lucy looked from the glowering faces of the trauma team to the anguished entreaty in Kirsten’s eyes. She hesitated just for moment before she nodded. “All right,” she agreed. Turning back to the waiting group, she told them in Spanish, “This is the patient’s mother. The emergency has passed—only look at the monitors; all of his vital signs are in an acceptable range—and Mrs. Cohen does not wish you to examine her son. You cannot do so without her permission. Call doctor—call Dr. Baldrich.” Over her shoulder Lucy reassured Kirsten. “I have asked for a doctor who has had nothing to do with this procedure. He does not work with Dr. Keller’s patients. We can trust him with Ryan, Kirsten.”

Kirsten bit her lip. She twisted her hands together, unconsciously spinning her rings, pushing the sharp edges of the stones into her skin. “You--” she pleaded. “Couldn’t you check on him, Lucy? Please. You’ve been his nurse all along and you know his condition, everything that’s been done to him. You can do that, can’t you?”

Inclining her head, Lucy studied Kirsten’s face, noting the panic still rampant in her eyes, the spots of hectic red on her pale cheeks. “Yes,” she agreed slowly. “I can do that, at least while we wait for the doctor to arrive.”

“Thank you, Lucy” Kirsten whispered. The words emerged heavy, layered with a dozen different levels of gratitude, and Kirsten repeated them, as if a single utterance could not bear their weight. “Thank you.”

Lucy replied with a slight, gentle smile. Then, turning around, she said something to the trauma team in a level, deliberate tone. When she finished, she waved them away, waiting until Felix had ushered them, still protesting, down the hall, before she continued.

“I will go to see Ryan now. But you will come inside with me, yes, Kirsten?”

Kirsten hesitated. “I don’t know . . .” she murmured. Her voice wavered in the air, thin and aching and wistful. She twisted her rings again. “Ryan will want you, Lucy.”

Lucy wrapped both her hands around Kirsten’s, stilling them. “But he will want and need you,” she said firmly. “You are his mother, Kirsten. I know his story. You are the mother who accepted him when his own walked away, the one who gave him a home. And Ryan will need you with him to know that he is safe. That is what is important now, is it not? What Ryan needs?”

What Ryan needs.

You are his mother.

What Ryan needs.

Kirsten heard the phrases echo, a reprimand and reminder and reassurance.

She took a deep breath. Bracing herself, repeating the words silently, she shook back her hair, squared her shoulders, and nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what’s important . . . I’ll go in with you, Lucy.”

Lucy smiled again. Releasing Kirsten’s hand, she tapped in the room code on the keypad. Then she stood aside while the door slid open and gestured for Kirsten to walk in first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside Ryan’s room, Sandy had started to edge off the bed when he became aware of Kirsten’s absence, but instantly he settled back again, his instinct to look for his wife dispelled by his need to stay with Ryan. Even so, he peered over his shoulder, struggling in vain to see out the window from his perch on the bed.

I should send Seth to find her, he thought, but in the next breath he dismissed the idea. Seth wouldn’t want to leave Ryan either.

Raking back his hair, Sandy mustered a reassuring smile. “Well, wherever she is, I’m sure she’ll be--” he began as he turned to face his sons. Then he broke off, alarmed, at the sight of Ryan’s tense, ashen face. All the anguish Sandy thought they had banished raged there again, clouding his eyes, catching in his ragged breath.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Sandy asked. “There’s nothing to worry about, Ryan. Relax, okay? Kirsten will be right back.”

“Yeah,” Seth added. “And meanwhile you have us, right? The Cohen men?” He grinned encouragement, but Ryan shuddered restively. He twisted back and forth on the pillow, straining against Sandy’s calming grasp, and Seth glanced anxiously at his father before he continued. “You know, I never realized that we have the same initials,” he babbled, trying to relax Ryan, or at least ease the tension with unconcerned nonsense. “Seth and Sandy Cohen—it’s like the SC monogram club. Not that I ever wear anything monogrammed, because that? Is entirely too pretentious-slash-Newpsie. Well, no, I guess I did wear them that one time, if you count the initials Rosa sewed on my underwear when I went to summer camp, but that was when I was nine, dude. Besides, a monogram has three initials, right? And mine is SEC—don’t ask—but Dad’s--”

“Seth,” Sandy interjected sharply. He gestured at Ryan who was licking his lips, his mouth moving around small, incoherent sounds. His obvious distress silenced Seth, who stopped talking mid-syllable, sucking in his own lips as if to seal them shut. He sat still. Only his hand moved, gingerly patting the sheet over Ryan’s arm.

Across the bed, Sandy bent down to cup Ryan’s face again.

“What is it, kid?” he prompted. “Talk to me. Are you in pain? Should I call someone?”

Ryan’s eyes flashed desperate refusal. “Shouldn’t--” he swallowed, straining for words, finally gasping out, “be here.”

Exhausted, he sank back against the pillow.

Keeping one hand on his cheek, Sandy kneaded Ryan’s shoulder gently with the other. “I know you shouldn’t be here. Trust me, kid, we don’t want you here either. We’re going to take you home the moment we know it’s okay for you to travel.”

Ryan shook his head. “Not—me,” he gasped. “K—Kir--”

He choked on the word, too drained to finish, but his eyes pleaded with Sandy to understand.

“Kirsten?” Sandy frowned, his brows knitting together. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ryan. Are you worried because she’s not here? She’ll be right back, I promise.”

Ryan’s gaze darkened and he shook his head again, but Sandy had no chance to reply. Behind him, the door started to slide open. The soft sound startled all of them, and Sandy’s hand tightened on Ryan’s shoulder. Seth bobbed up, bounding off the bed and brandishing his chair in front of him like a four-pronged weapon.

In the next instant, though, his instinctive defense evaporated.

“Mom!” he exclaimed, letting the chair clatter to the floor. “There you are! Look—Sleeping Beauty is finally awake. Which, I realize, is a very minty thing to say and no kisses were involved, but--”

Kirsten smiled shakily. Somehow her quiet voice carried over her son’s excited prattle. “I know, Seth,” she said. She took a step closer to the bed, lifting one arm, stretching it toward Ryan. Then she lowered it again. Her fingers closed, digging into her palm. “Ryan, sweetie, it’s--I’m so happy to see you.”

She paused, but Ryan, his face shuttered, couldn’t seem to respond. He managed only a jerky nod, an almost inaudible, “Thanks.”

A gray veil drifted over Kirsten’s eyes. Still, they maintained their tender glow as she gestured behind her. “I—I found Lucy,” she said. “I thought—she should be here.”

At the sound of Lucy’s name, Ryan seemed to rouse. With an effort, he raised his head, pressing his palms into the mattress, trying to push himself higher on the bed. Sandy rushed to support his shoulders, holding Ryan up as he looked around, finally finding her at the doorway. “Lucy?” he whispered.

Lucy laughed fondly, a light, rippling sound that seemed to brighten the entire room. Hurrying to Ryan’s side, she leaned over to brush a kiss on his forehead. “I promised that I would return, did I not?” she said as, deft and gentle, she eased him back on the bed. “Only I did not say when, which is a good thing, since it took me so much longer than I would have wished.” She stroked his cheek, letting her hand linger. “Too long,” she added with a contrite sigh. “I am most sorry for that Ryan.”

A smile, faint and rusty, creased Ryan’s face. “No need . . . be sorry, Lucy. Kept . . . your promise. Called Sandy. Brought . . . him here.”

“Also me,” Seth chimed. “And Mom. Don’t forget us, dude. We came too.”

Lucy nodded, her eyes twinkling again. “Yes, that is right,” she agreed. With one finger she tapped Ryan’s nose, a gesture both playful and gently prompting. “Sandy and Seth and Kirsten—all of your family came for you Ryan.” Without turning, Lucy reached behind her. Gesturing for Kirsten to join them, she waited for her to take two last, diffident steps to Ryan’s bedside, and then slipped aside. “You see,” she said, silently urging Kirsten to take her place beside Ryan. “You are together now, as you should be.”

Kirsten glanced at Sandy. He nodded, his eyes glistening, and she took a deep breath. Then, slowly, tentatively, she moved closer and reached for Ryan. Her hand drifted, unfolding and fluttering like a wounded bird unsure how to land. At last, still hesitant, she touched Ryan’s forehead with her fingertips.

He started, then lay still, scarcely breathing, as she sat beside him. Shadows from his downcast lashes smudged his cheeks.

“It’s so good . . . to have you back, Ryan,” she whispered. “We missed you so much.”

Unconsciously she repeated the gestures she had seen Sandy make through the window. Just as he had done, she skimmed her palms down until she cupped Ryan’s face, and just as he had done, she paused there, soothing and quiet. Only Kirsten’s thumbs moved, tracing small, warm circles on Ryan’s temples.

He blinked up at her. At first, his brow puckered intently, and he seemed to search Kirsten’s face, his gaze asking with some unspoken question. Then, as if he could not bear to find the answer, Ryan sank back. He exhaled, a breath of air that released a smothered sob, and ended in a deep sigh. Closing his eyes, he shifted an inch closer to Kirsten, and for a few silent moments they stayed like that—Ryan nestled into her caress, Kirsten gazing down at him, her cheeks flushed pink with tenderness.

The slight curve of her lips mirrored his, twin smiles like shy slivers of sunlight.

Then Ryan’s eyes snapped open. In the instant that he saw her again, everything changed. Suddenly ashen, his chest heaving erratically, he stared up at Kirsten, wild as a trapped animal. The clear azure of his eyes grew mottled, becoming a muddy, bruised blue.

“No,” he choked, flinching. “Stop, please. Just—stop. Sorry. I’m sorry—Your father—I can’t—”

Throwing one arm up to shield his face, Ryan turned away. He shifted violently, the sheets twisting around him as he wrenched himself free from Kirsten’s grasp.

In the leaden silence that followed, her hand fell to the bed. It landed, limp and empty, in the hollow of Ryan’s pillow.

TBC. Again

Best Forgotten, Part 32. Or more precisely part of Part 32

2011-11-30T23:01:38Z

It's the end of November, isn't it? That means I'm due to post more of this apparently endless saga. I've had very little time to write, though. (How did we manage to produce so much fic--weekly updates, even daily ones--back when The O.C. was airing? The days must have had more hours--27 at least. That's all I can figure.)

In any case, this is just a snippet. It doesn't deserve to be called a chapter so I won't.

(Insert disclaimers here. You know them.)

Here's Part of Best Forgotten, Part 32

Ryan stared blankly at Sandy. His gaze appeared bruised blue and almost feral, shrouded beneath a film of confusion. He shook his head, choking sounds of panicked denial.

“Hey there, kid,” Sandy said. His voice trembled, suffused with relief and joy. “We’ve been waiting for you. Welcome back.” Beaming, he reached up to stroke Ryan’s forehead, brushing back damp strands of hair, circling carefully around a discolored spot just above his eye.

Instantly Ryan stiffened. “No--” he gasped. “No.” Another word caught in his throat. It emerged, thick and slurred on a serrated breath.

Sandy, listening closely, couldn’t be sure, but the raw syllable sounded like “Trick.”

Or maybe “Quit.”

Either way, anguished desperation raged behind Ryan’s eyes.

It wasn’t the reaction Sandy expected.

Seth didn’t anticipate it either. “Dad?” he stammered. All the excitement drained from his face and he stumbled backwards. His mouth worked as he swallowed. “Why is he acting like that? Doesn’t he know us?”

“Just . . . give him time, son,” Sandy replied. His voice thinned as he spoke, stretching for surety. “Remember what Lucy said? That Ryan would be confused with he first woke up?” Sandy mustered a swift, shaky smile. He nodded quick assurance at Seth before he shifted even closer to the bed, bending down until his forehead touched Ryan’s. Pressing one palm firmly against each ravaged cheek, he stroked the boy’s temples. “Shhh, shhh, kid. It’s all right. Ryan, no, listen to me,” he crooned. “Listen. It’s Sandy. You’re all right, okay? You’re all right.”

“No!” Ryan panted, his chest heaving with each broken word. “Trick. Won’t--”

Sandy’s heart clenched. He felt the boy recoil, as if trying to sink inside the bed, anything to escape his grasp. He glanced down, seeing Ryan’s hands fist. They clawed the sheets, his legs thrashing beneath them as his eyes darted, wide and wild, around the room.

The monitors beeped an alarm, and Seth jumped.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happening? Should we call someone? Dad?”

Sandy didn’t answer. Instead, he clasped Ryan tighter, forcing the boy’s fearful gaze back to him. “Look at me, Ryan,” he ordered. “Come on, kid. Look at me.” For a few moments, he said nothing else. He just held Ryan still, willing him to settle, riveting his attention with the force of his eyes, clear and tender and honest. They smiled, silently reassuring, until slowly, warily Ryan started to relax. When Sandy spoke again, his tone was low, measured and insistent.

“That’s better,” he said. Without releasing Ryan, Sandy relaxed his grip and leaned back slightly so the boy could see him better. “Now let’s try this again, okay? Look at me, Ryan. It’s Sandy. I’m here. I know you’ve—I know you’ve been through hell. But it’s over now. Trust me, it’s--” Sandy’s voice broke. He shook his head, his lips crimping tightly, before he continued. “It’s over. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. This isn’t a trick, kid. It’s not drugs. You’re not hallucinating, you’re not delirious. It’s me, Sandy. I’m here. Lucy called me and I came. I’m here with you now and I’m going to take you home.”

Sandy stopped and waited. Across the bed Seth opened his mouth, then clamped it closed again. He held his breath and waited too.

A glimmer of light, almost wonder, flickered across Ryan’s face. It seemed to shred the gray shroud dimming his vision, to tame the ferocity and terror lurking there. He licked his lips, his fists opening. “Lu—Lucy . . .?” His voice slid over her name, as if it were one sure thing that he recognized. “Call?”

“That’s right. You asked her to call me, remember? She did, Ryan. I’m here.”

Ryan’s forehead puckered. He frowned quizzically, the expression of a child painstakingly piecing a puzzle together. “Here . . . hospital? Sandy . . .?”

“That’s right, kid. Sandy.” With one hand, Sandy reached up and ruffled Ryan’s matted hair. His smile widened, warm with paternal tenderness. Then he cupped the boy’s cheek again, tapping it playfully. “You could do worse, right?” he teased.

Ryan blinked. Doubt and confusion and, finally, joy chased each other across his face. “Sandy,” he said again. This time the name floated on a long, cleansing breath. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut for an moment. When he opened them again, they flashed, anxiety instantly replaced with relief when they registered Sandy still there, still beaming down at him. With a sigh that dispelled any lingering doubt, Ryan relaxed. The fraught tension in his muscles eased and instinctively, he nestled closer, letting his cheek rest in the curve of Sandy’s palm. “Feel . . . real,” he murmured.

All around Ryan, the monitors, recognizing normal reactions, returned to a dull, unperturbed drone.

Watching in unaccustomed silence, Seth shimmied quietly, thrilled by the change in Ryan’s mood, but Sandy’s brows knit with momentary confusion. He wasn’t sure what the boy meant. Was he saying that he finally believed Sandy was real, realizing at last that his hand was solid, that he wasn’t an illusion?

Or did Ryan mean that he felt real, that after so many days of disorientation and despair, of desperate struggle to maintain his identity, he felt like himself again?

It didn’t matter. Either way the kid was right.

Sandy grinned. “Damn right, kid,” he said fervently.

“Me too!” Seth blurted. Unable to wait any longer, he bounced on his toes and launched himself forward, waving an arm to catch Ryan’s attention. His dimples danced, and his untidy curls bobbed impatiently. “Over here, bro!” he cried. “Also real!”

Ryan peered past the frantic hand to locate his friend’s flushed, glowing face. His eyes narrowed, puzzled, then widened into mingled surprise and uncertainty. “Seth?” he ventured. He seemed to struggle with the word, as if it stuck thick on his tongue, but Seth didn’t notice.

“Got it on the first try, dude!” Seth crowed. “See, Dad? Take that! Told you I’m unforgettable!--Damn, Ryan, it’s good to see you again.” Unable to maneuver a hug, Seth settled for plopping onto the edge of the bed, making a loose fist and bopping his knuckles against Ryan’s arm.

Watching a smile flicker faintly in the corners of Ryan’s mouth, Sandy chuckled indulgently. At the same time, though, he lifted a restraining hand. “Slow down, son,” he urged, but Seth continued, oblivious.

“So . . . really, really, really sorry it took us so long to get here, Ryan. It’s not like we haven’t been trying—I mean, seriously, none of us ever believed you just took off. We’ve been searching for you all along.” Babbling happily, Seth stretched out his legs, tapping the toes of his sneakers together as he made himself comfortable on the bed. “But it hasn’t been easy. First we had to sort out all these false leads and track you to Mexico. But when we finally got here? Cozumel?” Seth scowled disparagingly. “Not as easy to navigate as you would expect, considering the size of the place. And we actually had to come to this damn clinic twice. The first time--”

“Seth!” Sandy inclined his head, indicating Ryan’s wan face, his bewildered expression. He lowered his voice, continuing softly. “Take a breath, all right? Give Ryan a chance to process everything.”

“Oh,” Seth paused, abashed. “Oh, okay, epic story. Got it. Plenty of time for the details about Lucy, saboteur, Sandy Cohen, forger, and The Kirsten, prizefighter, when we get home.” He nudged Ryan’s sheet-covered leg with his foot. “The point is, we made it and we’re all here now, right? The Cohen plus one clan, reunited. You and me and Dad and Mom . . . Mom?’ Seth came to a stunned, abrupt stop. He peered across the room, meeting his father’s equally startled gaze. For the first time since Ryan eyes opened, their attention shifted from him and they became aware of Kirsten’s absence.

“She's gone. Why would she leave, Dad?” Seth demanded. “She was here a minute ago. Really, Ryan—Mom was right here with us when you started to wake up.”

Sandy’s brow furrowed. “I think . . .” he recalled hesitantly, “I’m not sure—did she say something about Lucy?”

Concerned, both Seth and Sandy glanced towards the door, as if Kirsten might suddenly materialize. They didn’t see Ryan pale, stiffening, or hear the lost sound of his harsh, broken breath.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 31

2011-10-31T22:02:59Z

It's that time of month again, so here's the latest installment. Warning: I've been too busy to write much (or even to read! My apologies for not responding to many posts recently) so this is more trick than treat. Meaning, yes, it's still not done.

Disclaimers: You know them by now: AU season 1 and the main characters? Still not mine.

Best Forgotten, Part 31

Dr. Cuello’s head had been bent, eyes intent on his patient’s chart, while he strode down the hallway. Frowning, not bothering to look up, he had pressed the entry panel next to Ryan’s door and waited, his fingers drumming the wall. The boy is starting to emerge from the anesthesia, he had mused. But what is causing these odd fluctuations in--?

At that moment his train of thought derailed. A kind of static charge greeted him as the door slid open, the hum of voices suddenly stilled, and the firm tread of somebody moving to block the entry. Dr. Cuello’s head jerked up.

“Lo que en la tierra? --?” he blurted, startled. He rocked to a stop just inside the room. His eyes narrowed, darting in astonished alarm at the group clustered around his patient’s bed. Then his gaze shot back to Felix who, silently, stoically, continued to block his way. The doctor’s voice’s flinty edge glanced off the metal cabinets.

“Orderly, who are these people?” he demanded. “What is going on here?”

Felix didn’t reply. He simply shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. Instinctively Dr. Cuello retreated before he bristled and stepped forward again.

“I asked you a question. What are these people doing in here?” Waving his hand dismissively, Dr. Cuello gestured to the door. “They need to leave now.”

Ryan’s fingers grasped nothing but air, and he went still again. The space surrounding him shifted, contracting and expanding and contracting again. It filled with ominous echoes, a sense of sinister waves roiling just beneath the surface. At the same time, the soft, beckoning voices disappeared, shattered by tremors that surged through the current carrying him. Blackness, at once protective and suffocating, folded itself around Ryan. Thick and heavy, it weighted all his limbs, pulled them down, pulling him further away from the faint sun-touched horizon he had just begun to glimpse.

For a moment, it had seemed so close, almost within his grasp. Ryan reached toward it again, but as he did, the promise of light dissolved, sinking beneath the surface.

And Ryan, anchorless, drifted away too, back and back into the dark.

Sandy, Kirsten and Seth were all intent on Dr. Cuello. None of them noticed Ryan’s hands twitch one more time, then fall back, limp again.

“Leave!” Dr. Cuello ordered. He spoke in Spanish, but the Cohens needed no translation. They stiffened, instinctively closing ranks around Ryan’s bed. Before they could respond, though, Lucy answered for them.

“This is the patient’s family, doctor,” she said evenly. “There will be no operation, today or ever.” She repeated the last sentence in English, adding, “They have come to take him home.”

At the sound of her voice, Dr. Cuello swiveled to study Lucy. His eyes flickered with recognition. “You’re that nurse,” he said, in slow, thickly accented English. “The one Dr. Keller had dismissed earlier. And now you are back here?--” His gaze, dark with apprehension jumped to Ryan, then to the monitors tracking his condition. “You, all of you people, have to leave this room right now. I need to check Brandon’s condition --”

“Ryan!” Seth snapped. He grabbed the chair next to him, slamming it down as furious punctuation. “His name is Ryan! Not Brandon. Ryan Atwood! Got it?”

At the same time, Sandy exploded from his spot beside the bed. His face was thunderous, his voice throbbing with rage. “We’re Ryan’s family. And we are not going anywhere without him.”

Dr. Cuello shook his head. “You cannot be here,” he insisted. “I don’t know what’s going on or who let you in, but this area is fuera de los límites. The only people permitted here are the clinic staff and Brandon’s guardian. Now I intend to examine my patient, and whoever you are, you must get out of here before I call security. Orderly, stand aside--”

“You want to know who I am?” Kirsten demanded suddenly. Unlike Seth and Sandy, she hadn’t stirred from Ryan’s side, but her voice sliced through the air, scalpel sharp. Lucy started, hearing the steel edge rimming the words. For the first time, she realized the core strength Kirsten possessed. Anguish had obscured it. When challenged, though, it shone through, fierce, bright, and adamant. Her eyes glinted blue fire as she spoke. “My name is Kirsten Nichol Cohen.” She spat her maiden name as if the word burned her throat. “You probably know my father, Caleb Nichol.”

Dr. Cuello shook his head, confused. “You are Mr. Nichol’s daughter? But why would you be here? I don’t understand--”

Kirsten’s jaw tightened. Otherwise she ignored the doctor’s questions “This is my husband, Sandy Cohen,” she continued. “And this boy is not your patient. He is not my father’s ward, and his name is not Brandon McConnell. He’s our son, Ryan Atwood.”

“Our son,” Kirsten had said. Not “our ward” or even “our foster son.”

Just simply, instinctively, “Our son.”

Seth instantly noticed his mother’s choice of words. Even in the midst of the tension, he shimmied slightly and grinned. Leaning down, unnoticed, he nudged Ryan’s shoulder. “Did you catch that?” he whispered. “Mom made it official. It’s not just mi casa es su casa anymore, bro. It’s mis padres son tus padres now.”

Then Dr. Cuello’s sharp voice intruded, and Seth’s smile vanished as he looked up again.

“This makes no sense,” the doctor argued. “You say this is your son--?”

Sandy nodded grimly. “That’s right. Our son,” he repeated, punctuating each word. “And you are not coming anywhere near our kid.”

Dr. Cuello shifted. Shaking his head, his bewildered gaze sliding past the group toward Ryan, he tried to edge past Felix again. Instantly, Sandy, face thunderous, started toward the man. His fists clenched, but Lucy caught his arm before he reached the doctor.

“No,” she murmured. “It will be all right. Felix and I will handle this, Sandy.” He resisted, and she pressed his hand, adding softly, “Please. Ryan will wake soon. Stay here with your family.”

Then lifting her chin, Lucy gestured to Felix. He caught the signal and nodded. Promptly and unceremoniously, he shouldered Dr. Cuello out of the room and into the hallway. Lucy followed. She shut the door, closing it on the man’s furious protests.

As soon as the latch clicked, Seth dragged his chair over, propped it in front of the door and then, for good measure, plopped down on top of it, as if turning himself into a human lock.

For a few moments, the echo of Lucy and Dr. Cuello’s voices seeped inside, mingled with footsteps and loud at first, then growing fainter and slower until they disappeared completely. A strained quiet enveloped the room as the Cohens waited, listening. Only a few sounds splintered the silence: just Seth’s furious huffing breath, a whisper of fabric as Kirsten moved closer to Ryan’s bed, and the faint, regular whirr of the machines that monitored his condition.

Sandy looked at his family: his wife sinking exhausted into a chair, Ryan, lying oblivious to everything going on, Seth, livid and scowling, tapping his feet in front of the door. His brows furrowed as he studied both boys. Then abruptly, unexpectedly, Sandy chuckled.

“Son,” he noted, pointing a finger at Seth. “You do know that door slides opens, right? If somebody tries to come in, you’ll fall over backwards.”

Just like that, the tension that had stretched perilously thin relaxed, and the air cleared, becoming breathable again.

Seth glanced behind him, abashed. His shoulders hunched around his red ears, and he scooted down in his chair. “What? Oh yeah, I totally knew that,” he claimed. His father’s eyebrows rose and he amended hastily, “Well, okay, I forgot, but I still get an A for effort, right?”

Sandy ruffled Seth’s hair. “A plus,” he agreed fondly. He cocked his head sideways, in the direction of Ryan’s bed. “Come on,” he urged. “Lucy’s right. It’s just the family here now. Let’s join your mom and Ryan, okay?”

Seth glanced over his father’s shoulder. He noted his mother’s tender, anxious face, the way she sat pleating the hem of Ryan’s sheet and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “Cohens plus one time. Excellent.”

Patting his curls back in place, he picked up his chair and carried it back to its original spot. At the same time, Sandy returned to Kirsten’s side. He draped an arm around her, and she instinctively sank back, leaning against him, even as she reached down to cover Ryan’s hand with hers. They sat like that for a few wordless minutes, simply holding each other, breathing in time with each rise and fall of Ryan’s chest, following each shadow that crossed his face.

His brow puckering, Seth drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed across from his parents. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. It felt as if he had seen his mother and father sit that way before—eager and anxious and clenched and watchful. Then he remembered: he had. They had looked just that way years ago, when Seth had his tonsillectomy. He had woken up after the operation, groggy, a fire burning in his throat, to find both his parents hovering over his hospital bed. Their eyes had been dark with a kind of concentrated love, and fixed on Seth as if he was the center of their existence, as if they could will him to wake up, to be well.

Seeing them like that . . . it had made Seth feel safe, cherished and protected.

He wondered if Ryan would feel that way too.

Seth coughed, his throat threatening to close again. “It’s kinda weird isn’t it?” he asked, breaking the silence. Unconsciously he pitched his voice hospital-low, even though there was no need to be quiet.

“Weird?” Kirsten prompted vaguely. She didn’t look up. She just continued to rub slow circles on the back of Ryan’s hand. “What do you mean, sweetie?”

Seth shrugged. “Sitting here like this. You know, just watching Ryan and waiting for him to wake up.”

Sandy’s lips twitched. “For your mom and me, maybe,” he replied. A current of suppressed mirth rippled through his voice. “But isn’t this pretty much how you start every day—sitting out in the pool house, waiting for Ryan to get up so you can start your morning monologue?”

“What?” Seth jerked up, banking his knee against the bed frame. “No, Dad! I don’t--”

Sandy chuckled and Seth flushed. He sank in his chair, his indignation melting into embarrassment.

“Oh. Ryan told you I did that, huh?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Sandy replied. “But I’d see you slipping in there every morning when I was heading out to surf. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, son.”

“Stealth,” Seth corrected automatically. “I’m stealth. Or, I guess, not so much. Anyway, I go over to the pool house to bring Ryan coffee in the morning. It’s kind of a brotherly room-service wake-up call kind of thing. And you should thank me because, let’s face it, Ryan is a bear before he has his coffee, so I’m saving you from his major grump-face. And I don’t start a morning monologue. That? Is our Seth-Ryan time, when we make plans and discuss important news of the day--”

“Like whether or not you’re making progress with Summer Roberts?”

Seth stiffened with surprise. “How do you know about Summer? Did Ryan say something--?”

“Ah my son.” Sandy reached across the bed to pat Seth’s knee. “Again, you’re not so stealth. Ryan didn’t have to say a word. In fact, speaking of that . . . does Ryan ever get a word in edgewise during this Seth-Ryan time of yours?”

“Of course he does,” Seth claimed. “Well . . . sometimes. All right no, not so much. But it’s not like Ryan is big on talking anyway. You know him. He’s all about the glares and shrugs and one-word answers.”

“Maybe because you don’t give him a chance to do anything else.”

“I do. I mean sometimes, but we have this give and take routine and--” Sandy raised his eyebrows, giving Seth a long, significant stare and he sighed. “Okay,” he conceded. “Point taken. I shouldn’t monopolize every conversation. Less take, more give, got it. We’ll rewrite the Seth-Ryan bylaws and make some changes as soon as we get home.”

As Seth spoke, Sandy’s playful expression changed. It grew pensive, then serious. He gazed down at Ryan, frowning thoughtfully. “Actually,” he mused, “I think it’s time we changed a number of things at Casa Cohen. We could start by making Ryan feel like a real member of the family.”

Kirsten looked up, startled. Her hand closed tighter around Ryan’s, but she said nothing. Seth, though, protested instantly. “We do that already,” he declared. “I mean . . . we do, don’t we?”

Sandy shook his head. “Think about it, Seth. Ryan still believes that he’s with us on sufferance, that he’s always one misstep away from being thrown out. That’s true, isn’t it?”

An image of Ryan’s bleak face, his hollow voice murmuring, “I’m gone. Back to Chino or worse,” after Luke was shot, flashed through Seth’s mind. And, he reminded himself, that hadn’t even been Ryan’s fault; he hadn’t done anything wrong but he assumed the worst anyway.

Picking at a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt, Seth bit his lip. He shrugged reluctant agreement. “Yeah,” he conceded. “I guess it is.”

“So do you think he believes your mom and I would toss you out if you made a mistake?”

“Of course not, but . . . Okay, yeah. I see what you mean. But, well, Ryan’s own mom threw him out, and then abandoned him. Twice. That's gotta cause some major trust issues. Now you guys know you won't ever do that, and I know you won't ever do that, but how are we supposed to convince Ryan?”

Sandy’s brow furrowed. Absently, he finger-combed Ryan’s hair, his gaze as intent as it always appeared when he prepared a case for court. “It will take time,” he said. “But we could start by including him in everything we do as a family.”

“We do that already,” Seth argued. "Ryan's already a bona fide, albeit differently named Cohen. I mean, you know, there was, um, there was the cotillion. We included him in that."

“And what about in the little, everyday, things?” Sandy countered. “When was the last time Ryan picked out a movie for us to watch? Or decided on a restaurant when we order take-out? You choose, or your mom does, or I do. Ryan just goes along with whatever we want.”

Seth inclined his head judiciously. “Okay, so we work Ryan into the food and recreation rotation. We can do that." His expression brightened, and a mischievous smile deepened his dimples. "And what about chores?" he suggested. "I bet it would make Ryan feel like family if he did some of them too, so I'm willing to sacrifice a few to the cause.”

“Ryan already does most of your chores, Seth Ezekiel Cohen. Don't think your mom and I haven't noticed," Sandy retorted. "But there is the matter of the pool house . . .” Pulling Kirsten closer, Sandy rubbed her shoulder until she looked up at him. “Sweetheart?” he prompted quietly. “What do you think?”

Her lips trembling, Kirsten nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. Gazing down at Ryan again, she stroked his wrist tenderly. “It’s time. Ryan can’t feel like a real member of the family when we're all in the house and he's staying out there.”

“Wait, what?” Seth’s chair scraped against the floor as he bolted backwards to stare at his parents, aghast. “You’re talking about making Ryan move inside? Okay, take-out, movies—absolutely, we should cut him in, even though, I warn you, we’re gonna get sick of Thai food. But the pool house—Mom, Dad, that’s like our, our haven, our refuge. It's our bat cave. It’s Ryan’s fortress of solitude! We love that place.”

Sandy frowned quizzically. “First of all, I doubt if Ryan ever thinks of the pool house as a bat cave. And it can hardly be a fortress of solitude when you’re always over there, son. Second, “we” love that place? I thought we were talking about Ryan’s feelings right now.”

“Right. We are. And believe me, Dad,” Seth insisted, “Ryan loves the pool house. The space, the privacy—that’s really important to him. You can’t make him give it up for an ordinary-in the-house room.”

“Your mother and I have no intention of making Ryan do anything. But I think he deserves the choice, don’t you? Think about it, son,” Sandy urged. “The pool house arrangement was supposed to be temporary, when he was just staying with us for a few days. But things have changed. Ryan needs to know that we want him with us—that he’s not a guest, he’s a permanent member of the family. That’s the whole point, right?”

Seth sighed. “I . . . guess,” he muttered on a long, reluctant breath. “So we invite Ryan inside to let him know he’s really part of the family. But trust me, he’s gonna want to stay in the pool house anyway.”

“Maybe,” Sandy conceded. He grinned suddenly. “But you know, the pool house has drawbacks, son. What happens to your Seth-Ryan time if it rains? Are you going to have your discussions by phone? Because I know how much you hate getting your hair wet.”

“Seriously, Dad? Seriously?” Seth scoffed. “That’s your closing argument? We live in southern California. How often do we get rainstorms? Four times a year? But you know what? Good point. Rain could be a problem sometimes. You should get us both Skype just in case. Or at least webcams.”

“No Skype and no webcams,” Sandy replied firmly. “And Seth, remember, all we'll do is give Ryan the option. The choice is up to Ryan. He gets to decide for himself whether he wants to stay in the pool house. Right, sweetheart?”

Kirsten twined her fingers through Ryan’s, pressing them gently as she answered. “Yes. But I hope he’ll move inside.”

“Son?” Sandy prompted. “You’ll let Ryan make his own decision? No filibustering or bribery or applying undue Seth Cohen style pressure to get your own way?”

“I suppose,” Seth conceded grudgingly. “As long as you promise not to use any sneaky lawyer logic to convince him to move into the house.” Sandy’s eyebrows jumped, and Seth pointed an accusing finger. “And no channeling the power of the eyebrows either! That is totally not fair." Leaning down, Seth prodded Ryan with his elbow. "Come on, dude," he urged. "We’ve got a major issue waiting for you to cast the deciding vote. Wake up so we can settle this now, okay? Before the 'rents and Dad's eyebrows gang up against us.”

Kirsten shook her head. “Shush, Seth,” she reproved indulgently. Then her gaze returned to Ryan and her expression changed, growing tender and anxious. Sliding her fingers out of Ryan’s limp hand, she reached up to stroke his brow. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispered. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. You don't have to do anything. Just wake up so that we can take you home." Her smile flickered, and she tried to muster a light, teasing tone. "I promise I won’t cook your welcome home dinner,” she added. Taking his hand again, Kirsten turned it over to rub his palm. Unconsciously, she traced his name with her fingertip as she spoke. “Just, please, wake up now. You can do that for us, can’t you, Ryan?”

“You can do that for me, can’t you, Ryan?”

“Ryan”

That was it, the word inside those two sighed syllables.

His name.

The sounds rolled together, finally familiar, forming one word. And he recognized it.

It was his name. Ryan. Calling him.

Light filtered through the darkness, and all at once he became aware of half a dozen things: a crease of cotton under his cheek, the pinch of a needle in the crease of his elbow, a dry scratchy sensation clogging his throat, a muted mechanical whirr, and warm fingers, rubbing his palm. They moved in rhythm as he heard his name again—"Ryan",, clearer now—and he tried to answer.

His tongue moved inside his mouth, searching for moisture. At the same time, he closed his hand, weakly trying to grab the fingers he felt against his skin, to hold them there, warm and solid.

“Oh,” Kirsten gasped. She started, staring down, wild-eyed. “Sandy--”

Immediately Sandy’s arm tightened around her and he followed Kirsten’s gaze, looking at her hand, clasped around Ryan's. “What? What is it, sweetheart?”

Seth tensed too, scooting closer to the bed. “Mom? What happened?”

“He moved,” Kirsten breathed. She almost mouthed the words, as if afraid to say them aloud, but when she gazed up at Sandy her face was luminous. “Ryan. Look!" His finger twitched, and she smiled, jubilant. "He’s moving. He’s waking up.”

Before Kirsten finished speaking Seth bolted up, bouncing excitedly beside the bed, while Sandy leaned closer. Releasing Kirsten, he seized Ryan’s free hand, simultaneously cupping his chin and rubbing it with his thumb.

“Ryan,” he called. “Hey, kid. We know you’re in there. Time to open your eyes, okay? We’re all here waiting for you, me and Seth and Kirsten. We’re here to take you home.”

Kirsten didn't hear Sandy's last words.

Suddenly all she could hear was the sound of her name, echoing, accusing her. It pierced her heart like an icy blade, and she caught her breath. Her blood chilled, and the joy drained from her face.

All at once she could picture the instant when Ryan fully awoke, the way he would look up, still dazed and afraid, seeking reassurance, some sense of safety, only to find her there.

Kirsten Nichol Cohen.

Caleb’s daughter.

A shadow dimmed her face, and Kirsten flinched, shivering. “No,” she thought desperately. “I can’t be here with him. Not now. Not yet.”

Aloud, Kirsten choked, “Lucy--” She licked her frozen lips, fumbling for words. “She should be here . . . ” With an effort, reluctantly, she pulled her hand from Ryan's even as he clutched her fingers again. “I’ll . . . get her for you,” she whispered. "I'll be right back, Ryan."

Her promise, weak with panic, barely grazed the air.

Easing away from the bed, Kirsten stumbled to her feet. Sandy glanced back at her, startled. “Sweetheart--” he began, but at that moment Ryan stirred again. His head tossed back and forth and he mumbled something, a slurred, incoherent sound. Instantly forgetting Kirsten, Sandy whirled around again.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice deep and soothing. “It’s okay, Ryan. You can wake up. We’re here.”

Slowly, uncertainly, Ryan’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, squeezed them shut, and then forced them open again. His gaze darted blindly around the room, uncomprehending, almost terrified, before it fixed on Sandy.

“There you are!” Sandy exclaimed. Smiling broadly, his face alight, he squeezed Ryan’s hand and gently knuckled his cheek. His eyes, warm and unwavering, held Ryan's, willing him to relax. “Welcome back to the world, kid.”

“Took you long enough, dude,” Seth added. Beaming, practically dancing with excitement, he waved a greeting from behind his father’s head. “We’ve been waiting pretty close to forever here.”

They both bent over the bed, crowding closer to Ryan, obscuring him from Kirsten’s sight. A soft, strangled whimper escaped her as she watched. She covered her mouth, her fingers and lips both trembling. Then, her eyes glazing, she slowly backed toward the door.

Nobody noticed when she slipped out.

TBC

Best Forgotten 30

2011-09-19T20:10:14Z

I give up. Trying to rewrite the lost (last) chapter of this story is driving me crazy. I can't remember exactly what I wrote or how I got to the end, and now the silly, endless epic is stretching out even more. Conversations and scenes snuck in here that didn't exist before, but now I can't seem to get rid of them and I've decided to stop trying. So here's what I've got for now. And, sadly, it ends with another TBC.

Disclaimer: The standard: the characters aren't mine, but the melodrama and overwriting are. Proceed at your own risk.

Best Forgotten 30

“Ryan’s family is here.”

Lucy recognized Felix’s voice. She even noted the broad smile that creased his face, but his words seemed to whip past her, like leaves in a wind tunnel. She couldn’t quite catch them. Dazed, almost afraid to believe what she had heard, she repeated the words: “Ryan’s family is here?”

Felix nodded. His grin widened. “Yes,” he said. “They are.”

At once a gust of pure relief surged through Lucy’s body. Every one of her muscles, tense and primed for defense, suddenly relaxed and she reached for Felix’s outstretched hand, clearing the entrance as she slumped against his side.

The instant she moved, a teenage boy pushed past her and bolted inside in the room, tootling like a bugle. “Ryan! Dude,” he caroled. “We’re here! The Cohen cavalry has arrived!” Gesturing wildly he pointed at the man and woman who crowded behind him, almost stepping on his heels.

Seth, Lucy told herself, gripping Felix’s hand hard. And Kirsten and Sandy. Finally, yes. Ryan’s family is here.

Too thankful to speak, she stood back, silent, as they rushed in. It didn’t matter. The Cohens didn’t even notice her. Oblivious of her presence—ignoring everything except Ryan--they hurried toward the bed. Seth tripped over nothing, banging into a metal cabinet in his eagerness. He didn’t care, did not even pause. His dimples flashed, and he continued to babble an incoherent greeting, but Lucy’s gaze slipped past him. It fastened on the adults.

She wanted to see them, these people Ryan trusted with his life.

Sandy especially. Lucy needed to know the man. “Just call Sandy,” Ryan had pleaded, reciting his phone number over and over, mumbling it even when he was half-conscious, as if the number was magic, an incantation that would return him to himself.

Lucy did not know what she expected, but the man who raced into the room didn’t resemble a wizard or even a hero. He looked rumpled, worn with worry, and profoundly tired. At the same time, Sandy’s eyes sparked an intense, electric blue, and his whole body radiated an almost feral tension. Even so, something about him warmed Lucy. Perhaps it was the way his gaze softened, glowing moist the instant that he caught sight of Ryan. She saw Sandy swallow and start to smile. Simultaneously, instinctively, he tightened his grip around his wife’s waist and placed the other hand on his son’s back, supporting them both as they approached the bed.

In that moment, Lucy recognized Ryan’s Sandy. She could feel the immediate sense of strength, of surety and safety that he conveyed.

Kirsten, though—the woman desperately clasping Sandy’s hand seemed to share none of those qualities. She almost vibrated with anxiety. Waif-thin and tremulous, her eyes looked hollow, and her skin stretched white over brittle bones. Even when she neared Ryan . . . Lucy watched closely, confused. She could see something melt in Kirsten’s face; it grew soft, aglow with mute joy as she caught sight of him, yet the tenderness that suffused it remained tinged with fear. Or perhaps, Lucy puzzled, that shadow is not fear at all. Perhaps it is some other emotion, darker and harder to dispel. She inclined her head, wondering, while across the room, Kirsten stumbled and clutched Sandy tighter.

The gesture made Lucy’s heart ache.

Kirsten reminded her of broken things, of torn leaves and eggshells, and tiny shards of glass.

In a strange way too, she reminded Lucy of Ryan.

At the same time, she thought suddenly, so does Sandy.

Lucy started at the realization.

How can they be only his foster parents? she mused. There is so much of Ryan in both of the Cohens: his strength and vulnerability, his wary reticence and his courage.

It seemed impossible to her that he was not really their child.

Well, Lucy chided herself, that is because it is impossible. The Cohens are Ryan’s real parents. They have searched for him. Ryan trusted that they would come, and they now they have done that. They are here to take him home.

The word “home” echoed in her mind and Lucy’s eyes filled. Blinking to clear them, she watched as the Cohens clustered around Ryan’s bed.

She wished so much that he was awake to see them.

“Okay, I know we’re late, dude,” Seth was babbling happily, “but it wasn’t exactly easy to track you down. We’ve covered, like, every inch of this stupid city, we’re here now so--”

He stopped abruptly, recoiling and rocking back on his heels, as it all registered: Ryan’s wan, shuttered face, his body lying still, and unresponsive.

For an instant, nobody spoke. They simply stared at Ryan. His head was turned to one side, his chapped lips slightly parted, his skin white as the sheets that covered him. Only dull purple bruises on his temples, wrists and arms disturbed that uncanny pallor. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest suggested that Ryan still alive.

Kirsten caught her breath. Her hand, trembling, flew to her mouth. A small, strangled whimper, muffled behind her palm, broke the heavy silence. It hung in the air, echoing.

Then Sandy edged closer to the bed. Leaning down, he chucked Ryan’s chin gently. “Hey kid,” he said. His eyes looked grave, but his voice sounded hearty, the same indulgent tone he used to call the boys for dinner. “It’s good to see you. But siesta hour is over, okay? Ryan? It’s Sandy. Can you hear me? Come on, you must have heard Seth shouting before. And you know how he is. He’ll just keep talking and pestering and annoying us all until you wake up. So how about you right now and save us the grief, okay?” Sandy gave Ryan’s ear a light, playful tug, but Ryan didn’t react. “Come on, kid,” he urged. “We need you here.”

Glancing up at Seth, Sandy gestured for his son to join them.

Seth licked his lips. Awkwardly shuffling forward, he cleared his throat twice. Even so, his words emerged hoarse, strained and forced when he spoke. “All right, one, I did not shout,” he claimed. “That, Dad? Is an outright slander. I simply called out a greeting in an enthusiastic but completely acceptable call-out-a-greeting tone. And two, I do not pester and annoy. I just, you know, keep the conversation flowing and lively and—feel free to tag in any time, Ryan. Back me up here, okay?” Making a fist, Seth bumped his knuckles against a fold of Ryan’s sheet almost, but not quite, touching his hand. “I mean, we all know you’re a man of few words, so we’ll settle for one right now. Or just a glare. How about that? A shut-up glare would be good. Come on, dude. Just . . . wake up, okay?”

The Cohens waited as if Ryan might reply, but he didn’t stir.

Kirsten took a shuddering breath. Her hand, still shaking, slipped down to touch his forehead. She stroked it slowly, smoothing back his hair, skirting an angry red area beside his left eye. “Oh Sandy,” she whispered. Her gaze, clouded with anxiety, flashed a plea to her husband before it fixed on Ryan again. “Look at him. He seems so . . . lost . . . and hurt . . . so far away. I know they didn’t go through with the operation, but what if we were too late anyway? What if—if he doesn’t wake up?”

Across the room, compassion and empathy flashed across Lucy’s face. Slipping away from Felix, she stepped closer to the Cohens and coughed a soft reminder of her presence. “You must not think that, Kirsten. Ryan,” she promised. “It is just the anesthesia. It will take some time to wear off.”

At the sound of Lucy’s voice, the Cohens whirled around, almost in unison. They stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Then Seth let out a triumphant whoop. He loped across the room and before Lucy could react, he threw his arms around her. “Lucy!” he exclaimed, engulfing her in a fierce, exuberant embrace. “We forgot you were here! Wait—you are Lucy right?” He took a half step back, barely allowing her to nod, before he smothered her close again. “Of course you are! And you? Are my hero!” he cried. “You are amazing and wonderful and smart and did I mention amazing? I love you, Lucy!” Laughing, Seth allowed her to catch a stunned, wordless breath. “Will you marry me?” he asked, hugging her again. “We’ll have to wait for a while—say at least until I graduate from high school—but Ryan will be our best man—Oh! and we’ll have to have the wedding in Utah or somewhere else that allows polygamy, because there’s this girl, Summer Roberts, and she doesn’t know it yet, but I plan to marry her too. You, though? Will totally be my number 1 wife!”

Seth loosened his grip, beaming, as Lucy blinked up at him. “Oh, by the way, I’m Seth Cohen,” he added belatedly.

Behind his son, Sandy shook his head wryly. A low chuckle simmered deep in his throat. It warmed his face—warmed the whole room—and Lucy, peering at him over Seth’s shoulder, realized that the creases bordering his eyes, ones carved deep by fear and worry over the past weeks, actually had begun as laugh lines.

It made her smile to see them.

Sandy stepped forward, his amusement channeled into a rueful sigh.

“Enough, Seth. Let the poor woman breathe,” he ordered. “Lucy, you’ll have to forgive our son. He has a tendency to be overdramatic sometimes. Although in this case I can’t blame him. Seth is absolutely right. You are amazing and wonderful and smart and if I weren’t already happily married, I’d propose to you myself.”

Peeling his son away from her, Sandy wrapped Lucy in a brief, grateful embrace. She blushed, overwhelmed and embarrassed. As soon as he released her, even before she could straighten her shirt or smooth her tousled curls, Kirsten took his place. She had lingered behind, hovering close to Ryan’s bed, but now she caught both Lucy’s hands in her own icy ones.

Unlike Seth’s impish grin or Sandy’s playful expression, Kirsten’s mouth still pinched tight at the corners.

“Lucy, we can’t ever thank you enough,” she murmured. She glanced over at Ryan. Still clasping Lucy’s hand, she edged back to his bedside, as if drawn there automatically as she spoke. “If it hadn’t been for you, if you hadn’t contacted us and stopped the –the operation before--”

With a shudder, Kirsten turned away from Ryan. All the fear, the muddled emotions of the past weeks, welled up in her eyes. Instinctively, Lucy rubbed her hands, warming them. Then, moving with deft gentleness, she eased Kirsten into the chair beside the bed and stepped aside so Sandy could slip into her place. He nodded gratefully. Standing behind his wife, he kneaded her shoulders as she sat, stiff and erect and motionless.

“You should talk to him, Kirsten,” Lucy suggested. “Let Ryan know you are here.”

Kirsten bit her lips. She lifted one hand. It hovered, trembling slightly, over Ryan’s forehead before it fell again, limp, onto her lap. “I don’t know what to say.”

His brows furrowed, Sandy glanced down at his wife. “Anything, sweetheart,” he urged. “Tell him about . . . about the special home-cooked dinner we’ll have as soon as he gets home.” A cloud of concern darkened his face even as he leaned down to ruffle Ryan’s hair and add a hearty, “How does that sound, Ryan? I’ll grill, Seth will toss the salad, and Kirsten will pour the drinks. We won’t let her near the food. Come on kid, we’re waiting. Join us. We can’t have a family reunion until you’re awake.”

At the phrase “family reunion,” Seth loped over to join his parents. He cocked his head, frowning as he studied their tense expressions. Then he plopped down in the other chair. Nudging Ryan’s arm with his elbow, he mustered his most enthusiastic voice. “True enough, dude,” he declared. “Besides, you’re missing the excitement here. I am—wait for it now—engaged! Not to Summer either. At least not yet. I proposed to Lucy. Although . . . come to think of it, I didn’t hear a ‘yes’.” Seth heaved a dramatic sigh. “Guess that means you’re turning down me down but you’re just too polite to say a flat-out no, right, Lucy?” Without looking at her or waiting for Lucy to reply, Seth nodded dolefully. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He hitched his chair closer to the bed and sighed again. “Rejected yet again, dude. Okay, so I guess I’m not sorry you missed that moment of humiliation but let’s face it: I could use some Ryan Atwood way-with-the-ladies pointers. So feel free to wake up any time. Like now. Now would be good.”

“Lucy said it would take time, Seth,” Kirsten reminded him.

“Yeah, but she said that like, three minutes ago. That’s time, isn’t it Lucy?”

Lucy chuckled softly. “I’m afraid I meant a little longer than that, Seth. And I want you to know, I am most flattered by your marriage proposal. It is just that we have known each other a very short time. Besides, your heart is clearly set on that young lady, Summer. And I am afraid I do not believe in polygamy.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Seth shook his head. Even though he was speaking to Lucy, he kept his attention focused on Ryan. “Never mind. It’s okay. I’m used to rejection. So we won’t get married. I guess I’ll settle for being president for life of your official fan club--” Leaning forward, he rapped Ryan lightly on the wrist. “Unless, of course, you want the office, dude. Tell you what, I’ll challenge you for it. Two out of three, rock, paper, scissors. Here we go, Ryan—one, two, three, shoot!”

Making a fist, Seth pounded the air three times before flashing his fingers in a V. Ryan remained unresponsive, his hand flat and inert on the sheet. “Okay, scissors cuts paper so that’s one for me,” Seth declared. “Although I’ve got to warn you, bro, if you don’t switch it up, I’ve pretty much got this game. Okay Ryan? You were warned. Ready, one, two--”

A current, alive with bubbles, rippled over Ryan, tickling his skin. He could feel the air change around him, stirring the curtain of darkness. The sounds in that vast black had changed too. There seemed to be more of them, closer and tangled and more insistent. He could still hear the cinnamon-scented one, but now other voices spilled over it:

A cantering babble with a kind of bright, citrus tang.

A firmer voice that felt strong, deep and resilient, like roots in clean soil.

And softer, a bit distant, delicate, wafting tones that beckoned him, that hinted of springtime, of buds about to bloom.

The sounds threaded around Ryan, weaving intricate patterns, drifting and returning, but always, always, repeating those same two syllables.

A breath out, a breath in . . .

They echoed in the air, pinpricks of light he could almost see.

Ryan tried harder to hold them, to float on the breaking wave of those sounds.

“Seth, stop!” Kirsten’s tone reproved her son, but a faint smile tugged at her pale lips. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Lucy chuckled softly. “No, I think Seth is doing the right thing,” she said. “We do not know how much Ryan may hear, but talking normally, even your laughter—it may comfort him. It will help him realize that it is safe to wake up.”

“Safe,” Kirsten echoed. Almost shyly, she reached over to caress Ryan’s face. At first she just rested her palm on his forehead, a mother checking her child’s temperature, warming his clammy skin. Gradually she grew more comfortable. Her hand skimmed down his temple to trace his cheekbone and circle gently around his ear.

Then Kirsten froze. Her fingers jerked away as if stung. She inhaled sharply, her face dimming as she stared at the spot: shaved and exposed, ready for incision. Confused. Sandy and Seth followed her gaze. A shocked, silent moment passed when they realized what she had seen. Then Kirsten took a deep breath. With a visible effort, she straightened her spine. Bending down, she touched the bald spot again, timid, barely making contact, but slowly growing surer, calming and comforting. Her eyes cleared, and she moved closer to Ryan. Strands of her hair brushed his, pale sunbeams on sand, as she leaned down. “It’s all right, sweetie,” she whispered. “You are safe, I promise. Can you hear me, Ryan? We’re here now, and you’re safe.” Her fingers continued to move, smooth and soothing. Without pausing, without looking up, she added quietly. “But I can’t bear to think what would have happened without you, Lucy.”

“Then do not think of it,” Lucy urged. “Think only of the fact that you will take Ryan home soon.”

Kirsten traced the line of Ryan’s jaw with her thumb. “Home” she murmured absently. “We will . . . Lucy, do you have any children?”

Lucy shook her head. “Not yet. I hope I will someday.”

“I hope so too. You’ll be a wonderful mother.” Kirsten’s eyes never left Ryan’s, but she reached over to clasp Sandy’s hand. He squeezed it in response as she added fervently, “And if your child is ever in trouble, I hope he finds a Lucy to help him.”

Lucy made a soft sound of demurral. “I believe Ryan would wish for him to find a Sandy and Kirsten.” Seth coughed, and she chuckled, amending, “And of course a Seth too.” Then her voice grew serious again. “Ryan never doubted that you would come if only you could find him,” she continued. Her words came slowly, low and grave. “It was his faith in you that gave him the strength to survive. He has had to deal with so much. Not just what he faced here . . . Sometimes when the doctors questioned him, when they had given him drugs or he was only half-conscious, Ryan told them things about his past . . . painful things about his childhood. He does not know that I heard . . .” A shadow flitted across Lucy’s face, and she busied herself straightening Ryan’s sheet before she looked up at the Cohens. She smiled then, tenderly. “But one thing he does know,” she concluded. “It is, I think, the great truth in Ryan’s life. He knows how blessed he is to be part of your family.”

All three of the Cohens had exchanged troubled glances at Lucy’s mention of Ryan’s childhood, but even though Seth’s mouth popped open, it instantly clamped shut again, and he swallowed hard. None of them asked her to explain. Instead, Kirsten just said quietly, “And we’re blessed that he had you here.”

“True that,” Seth agreed promptly. Anxious to dispel the cloud of solemnity, he mustered a blithe, playful tone. “Tell you what, Mom, I’ll put you down for secretary of our official Lucy fan club. Dad, how do you feel about being sergeant-at-arms? It’s kind of a Ryan position, but I’ve got him slated for the VP slot.”

Ruffling Ryan’s hair, his other hand still holding Kirsten’s, Sandy grinned across the bed at his son. His smile widened to include Lucy too. “I’d be honored,” he declared.

“But you all give me too much credit,” Lucy protested. “Do not forget, I had much help from Felix.” She glanced fondly at the orderly, who stood silent, legs braced and arms crossed, positioned like a sentry in front of the door. Then, eyes dark with affection, she gazed back down at Ryan, still unconscious and oblivious to the muted celebration surrounding him. “And I could not have done nothing at all without Ryan,” she declared. “Even when nobody believed in him, even when I did not, he never gave up. He is a fighter, your son, Mr. Cohen.”

Sandy raked back his hair. He exchanged a rueful glance with Kirsten. “We know. In fact, we’ve been trying to break him of the habit. But we’ll have to make sure Ryan knows there’s a self-defense exception from now on.”

“Yeah,” Seth said. He frowned dubiously. Wincing, he touched spots on his own face that mirrored the bruises on Ryan. “Kinda looks like he lost a few battles here though. Somebody landed a few hits. But who would do that? I mean, Ryan was a patient right? Don’t they have that whole Hippo-do-no-harm pledge at this place?”

At the door, Felix shifted uncomfortably. He flushed, his swarthy skin mottled with shame. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I did some of that. We weren’t trying to hurt him, though. The doctors said Brandon—Ryan—was a danger to himself. They said we had to restrain him for his own protection, but Ryan—he wouldn’t let us do it. He wouldn’t stop struggling, no matter what.”

“Yeah, that’s classic Kid Chino.” Seth nodded with satisfaction. Then he glanced at Felix and shrugged. His sheepish grin absolved both of them of blame. “Sorry if I made you feel guilty, man. We know none of this was your fault. It was all gra--”

Sandy’s eyes flashed a warning. Suddenly aware of what he was about to say, Seth stopped mid-syllable.

It was too late. Kirsten’s face froze, “Dad,” she concluded tonelessly. Her voice vibrated, a violin string plucked too hard. “Everything Ryan has gone through—it was all my father’s fault.”

Shuddering with anguish, she pulled away from Ryan. Her arms fell to her lap and her fingers knotted together, compulsively twisting her rings. Sandy covered her hands with his, stilling the frantic movement.

“Yes. Your father,” he said firmly. “But not you, sweetheart. You’re not responsible for what happened.”

Kirsten shook her head. She stared up at Sandy and then back down at Ryan, her eyes a desolate blue-gray. “Yes, I am,” she insisted. “I idolized him, Sandy. My father—I never saw the man he really is. If I had just realized what--”

“No, Mom. Come on,” Seth injected. “That wasn’t just you. I mean even Dad and me—we joked about Grandpa’s overlord tendencies, but none of us figured he could--”

There was a sudden sound, a short rasp and a click. Then the door opened. Cold light spilled into the dim room, startling Seth and Kirsten, stunning them all, into silence. Sandy sprang up, instantly vigilant, even as Felix turned, trying in vain to block the entrance.

A sudden wave crashed over Ryan. The darkness that cushioned him contracted and tumbled, gray and then black and gray again. It wheeled him with along it and he stretched out, reaching for something to keep his balance.

Ryan’s index finger twitched. It jerked up, just once, stabbing the air, but the Cohens and Lucy had all turned, intent on the door. They did not see him move.

TBC. Again.

Best Forgotten, Part 29. Still not "The End", but nearly

2011-07-31T22:53:09Z

have most of the last part of this story written, but I couldn't quite finish it and, well, it is the end of the month. So for those few die-hards still reading, here's the next part of "Best Forgotten."

Say it with me now: season 1 AU, not mine, except the clinic-related characters.

Best Forgotten, Part 29

“What are you doing down here?”

The question caught Lucy from behind. It froze her where she stood, one hand on the door of the maintenance area. Her fingers tightened convulsively on the handle. “No,” she moaned silently. In an instant she could picture it all: security guards converging, escorting her to the office, Dr. Keller’s condemning face, interrogations and delays and finally another eviction from the building. Possibly even an arrest. And all the time, Felix waiting for her. The Cohens waiting for her . . .

“This cannot happen now,” Lucy anguished. “I was so close . . .”

She had been mere moments from escaping. In just two more seconds, she would have been racing upstairs to see if she had stopped the operation, to find Felix and learn if he had reached Ryan.

And Ryan.

Lucy’s stomach clenched.

What if she had been too late, if Dr. Keller had done something and Ryan was already lost?

She had to get back to him.

She had to know that he would be all right.

That he was still, in his whole mind and soul, Ryan Atwood.

Every fiber in Lucy’s being strained forward, desperate to be gone.

Her body ached with accumulated tension. It felt as if she had been clenching all her muscles for hours while she stumbled, silently, stealthily, through the warren of the maintenance area. Every machine had looked the same, immense and foreign and threatening. It had been sheer luck that Lucy had even located the right control. When she did, she stood still for half a second, hands clasped over the lever, one on top of the other, feeling its perilous, metallic chill. Lucy’s eyes had closed in a wordless prayer. At last she had inhaled a long, shuddering breath, held it, and pressed down hard.

Only when she heard a decisive click did she dare to exhale and look around.

There was nothing to see. The whole world had turned black.

“Yes!” she had whispered triumphantly. Relief, gratitude and elation surged through Lucy. She had counted to twenty—long enough, it had to be long enough, she hoped—then pressed the control lever again.

Light spilled through the room. All the machines surrounding her sputtered back to life and Lucy had fled, blind with haste and worry, instinctively retracing the route she had taken through the maintenance area.

By some miracle, she had found her way back to the exit. Even more incredibly, although she had heard sounds—startled questions and orders, footsteps echoing in adjoining areas—she had encountered no one as she raced warily through maze of equipment.

Not until now, the last possible moment.

It took every ounce of self-control Lucy possessed for her to release her death-grip on the door handle. Flushed, straining for a smile, she turned to face the man behind her.

“I . . . I am sorry,” she stammered. “I just . . . I was looking for the way out of here. This my first day on the job in, in . . .” she glanced down at her white t-shirt, her nondescript blue pants. “In housekeeping here and I got lost. I am trying to find the employee parking lot. Can you tell me where it is, please?”

The man scratched behind his ear, his brow furrowing. “You were looking for the exit and you wound up here? How the hell did you manage that?”

Lucy bit her lip. Her blush deepened, frustration and impatience masquerading as embarrassment. “I do not know . . . the lights went out and I got confused . . . I think I got turned around somehow.”

The maintenance engineer still frowned, clearly bewildered, but the query forming in his eyes disappeared when someone called irritably, “Miguel, ¡apúrate! Le necesitamos!”

“Lo sé, Lo sé! I’m coming,” Miguel yelled over his shoulder. He blew out an annoyed breath before he turned back to Lucy. “Look, this is an authorized area, okay?” he told her sternly. “You don’t belong here. You want the parking lot, go out the door to your left all the way down the hallway, turn right at the end. The exit is down the ramp.”

“Oh!” Lucy exclaimed. Her smile beaming relief disguised as gratitude, she flung open the door and headed down the corridor. “Thank you so much,” she called, without glancing back. “Next time I will remember.”

“Wait!” Miguel said. He took a step after her, recovering his question as she hurried away. “This door requires a security code. How did you get in here anyway?”

Another loud summons from his co-worker half-swallowed Miguel’s voice and Lucy, already several yards away, pretended that she hadn’t heard him. She caroled a second “Thanks!” waved a quick, backwards farewell and turned left as if following the man’s directions. Once she reached the end of the hall, though, Lucy paused. Peering back over her shoulder, she checked to make sure the hallway was clear. Then she wheeled around to retrace her steps. She slipped warily past the closed maintenance door, her footsteps swift and soundless, sidling along the walls until she turned the corner that led to the stairwell.

Lucy sprinted down the hall, launching herself at the door.

As soon as she closed it behind her, all her caution disappeared.

Lucy sped heedlessly up the first two flights, heart pounding with each step. Dimly she heard the echo of footsteps above her but she ignored them, barreling around the third landing so blindly that she collided with the man coming down.

He emitted a muffled “Umph” as she slammed against his chest.

“Oh!” Lucy gasped. She recoiled, alarmed and defensive, before she looked up. Then all her taut muscles went slack. Her face lit, bright with relief. “Oh . . . Felix! It is you! I am so glad!” She grasped his elbows, steadying herself, her eyes glowing with mingled excitement and fear. “Did we--?” she asked breathlessly.

Felix nodded, engulfing Lucy in a hug before she could finish the question. “Yes,” he said, smiling broadly. “Dr. Keller postponed the operation so he can run diagnostic tests on the computer system. They never got started Lucy. I just settled Ryan back in his room.”

“Oh, thank God,” Lucy breathed fervently. She touched her fingertips to her lips. “Gracias, Virgen Madre . . . How is he, Felix?”

“All right, I think. He’d already been anesthetized so he’s unconscious right now,” Felix replied. “But I overheard Dr. Keller. They don’t want to risk sedating him too long so they’re going to let it wear off completely before they try the surgery again.”

As he spoke, Felix wheeled around and started back up the stairs, still holding Lucy’s arm. She trotted beside him, her expression intent, matching her strides to his longer ones.

“Then we just need the Cohens to prove that he is not Brandon so that he can be released—The Cohens!” Lucy exclaimed, interrupting herself. She pulled away from Felix, far enough to fumble for her phone. “They should be here by now. Did you see them, Felix? I realize that we do not know what they look like, but a frantic American family, searching for Ryan? You would notice them surely.”

Felix shook his head. “I came straight from the surgical wing, Lucy. Nobody but the staff was around.” He snorted, a sound thick with contempt. “Not even that bastardo Nichol or his shadow.”

“Then I must tell the Cohens where to find Ryan. They have been searching for him all this time—They must be there when he wakes up.” Clumsy, almost tripping on the last step in her eagerness, Lucy pressed the button to speak. “Kirsten?” she began breathlessly. “Ryan is all right. He has been--” She broke off, blinking in surprise. “Oh!” she gasped. “I have lost the connection.” Swiftly she redialed Sandy’s number, listening for a moment. Then she stared at Felix, her brow creased in consternation. “There is nothing. I cannot reach them, but they must have arrived . . .” She stopped, frowning her confusion, as they reached the fourth floor landing. Felix had already reached the door but he paused there, poised to open it, his head inclined in a silent question. Impulsively, Lucy covered his hand with hers, stopping him before he could push the handle. “Wait, Felix,” she urged. “Could you check the grounds of the clinic? See if you can find the Cohens and bring them here. I would do it myself but--” Her face crumbling, Lucy caught her breath. “Right now,” she said softly, “I must get back to Ryan.”

Felix nodded his understanding. “Just let me make sure the hall’s clear,” he said. Opening the door, he scanned the hallway, checking it up and down twice, then beckoned to Lucy. She darted out, smiled a quick, soundless “thank you” and sped down the corridor as Felix headed back downstairs.

At the corner, just before she reached the nurse’s desk, Lucy tucked herself into a small recess. She peered around cautiously. Only one person—Lucy recognized her as the head surgical nurse—was behind the counter. She was half-turned away from Ryan’s room and her head was bent, but she glanced up every now and then to check the monitors surrounding her. Lucy sank deeper into the alcove. Her fingers raking the wall beside her, she watched for endless moments as the woman entered data into her computer. Lucy couldn’t hear them but she seemed to feel every keystroke. They built inside her, momentous as the ticks of a countdown, and her nails dug deeper, gouging the paint. “Go!” she begged silently. “Finish your work and go!” At last the nurse typed a final command. The printer whirred, and she pushed away from the desk. Grabbing the print-out she looked up to study the screens above her again. Then she disappeared into the adjoining office, and Lucy exploded out of her hiding place.

An instant later, she was slipping into Ryan’s room.

The rhythm of the world changed once she was inside.

Someone—perhaps Felix—had turned off the relentless overhead light. Its absence left the room hushed and dim. Slim rays of waning sunshine slipped through the closed blinds, offering a promise of life outside, and a fragile sense of peace shimmered in the air. Lucy caught her breath, filling her lungs, letting that serenity calm her. Slowly, silently, she closed the door behind her and crossed, her steps mere whispers on the floor, to Ryan’s bedside.

Her hands gripped the rail hard, steadying herself, as she looked down at him.

“Please,” she thought. Just that. Only, “Please.”

He might have been sleeping.

Lucy released her breath in a grateful sigh. She stood for a moment, closing her eyes in prayer before looking down again.

Ryan lay under an eggshell white sheet. One hand was half-hidden in its folds; the other rested on his chest. His head had rolled to one side, nestling into the pillow, his lashes casting fringed shadows on his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. Only a few marks on his face suggested any trauma—blue-violet bruises from his struggles with the orderlies, the exhausted smudges circling his eyes, and now new, ruddy stripes that blistered his jaw where tape had held the intubation tube in place.

Lucy reached down. With one finger she traced those raw lines gently, soothing them.

“Ryan,” she whispered. “It is Lucy. I am back and I will not leave again. I will stay with you, I promise, until your family gets here. Can you hear me? Sandy and Kirsten and Seth—they are coming, Ryan.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the rear entrance of the annex, the Cohens stood still and disbelieving, suspended in a breathless moment of shock. Heat seemed to crackle around them, radiating off the white of the building, the white of its closed window blinds, the terrible, triumphant white of Caleb’s immaculate shirt and jacket.

It produced a blinding light that threatened to burn away everything: all safety and hope and family.

The stunned silence lasted only an instant. Then Sandy spoke. His voice, low and dangerous, seethed with fury.

“What did you say, Cal?” he demanded. He took two long, deliberate strides forward. Automatically, Grady moved between him and Caleb, assuming a protective stance that both Caleb and Sandy ignored.

“You can’t see him now,” Caleb repeated. His skin still blazed red everywhere Kirsten had slapped him, and unconsciously he reached up to touch his the darkest spot on his cheek. “The—that is, Ryan is already in surgery.”

He swallowed with difficulty, his mouth pinched. From behind the shield of Grady’s body, Caleb lowered his hand and held it out, open and placating, a gesture intended for Kirsten. Unfamiliar emotions mottled his usually unreadable eyes: appeal flickered there and uneasiness, even traces of apology and paternal concern, but no real remorse ever appeared. It hardly mattered though. As if he didn’t exist, Kirsten stared right through her father, through the opaque clinic walls. Her lips trembled and she shook her head, denying everything her father said.

Denying him.

“I’m . . . sorry,” Caleb added belatedly. He attempted one hesitant, half-step toward his daughter, then stopped as she shied away.

“No,” Kirsten whispered, shuddering. “No . . .”

“No!” Seth echoed, louder. He clenched his fists, pounding the metal sign beside the entrance. “You’re lying, grandpa! That blackout was supposed to stop the operation—”

“And you’d better pray that it did, Cal,” Sandy snarled. Shoving Grady aside, he grabbed Caleb’s lapels, yanking the man almost off his feet. Rage poured off him, hot and deadly as lava. “Because if they started that surgery and Ryan is already—is--” He broke off, unwilling—unable--to finish the thought. “Take us to him,” he ordered. “Wherever he is, we want to see Ryan. Right now!”

Sandy snapped the last word, releasing his grip so abruptly that Caleb stumbled backwards. Only Grady’s reflexive grab kept him from falling to his knees.

“Sanford, think about what you’re saying” Caleb protested weakly.

He pulled himself erect, trying to summon his accustomed dignity. Automatically he began to adjust his rumpled jacket. At the gesture, Seth gave a contemptuous snort and Kirsten emitted a strangled sound, half sob and half bitter, disdainful laugh. Caleb looked from his grandson to his daughter. Then, as if in surrender, he let his arms drop. The collar of his jacket remained in a crooked crease, its points neither fully up nor down. It looked like a white flag flying at half-mast.

“I’ll take you to the waiting area, fine,” Caleb conceded. He had to force the words out. They tasted caustic, fraying his voice and he paused, searching for the tone that he had perfected over years of practice, the persuasive one that had never once failed him, not when it really mattered. Somehow it eluded him, but Caleb tried anyway. “But Kirsten, Sanford,” he continued reasonably, “you can’t just barge into the operating room while the doctors are working. You need to wait until it’s safe for them to stop. Imagine what could happen if you startled the surgeons. Interrupting the procedure now could be dangerous--”

“For you!” Kirsten cried wildly, abruptly. “Not for Ryan! For you! You don’t give a damn what’s safe for Ryan. You just--” She wheeled around, grabbing Charlie’s arm. “Call the police,” she demanded. “Call them Charlie! I want him arrested right now!”

Caleb stumbled backwards. He lifted his palms. All the blood seemed to drain from his face. It looked old suddenly, blank, white and lined, like his crumpled jacket, like scrap paper bleached by a ruthless sun. His hands and voice both shook slightly when he spoke. “Kirsten . . . sweetheart,” Caleb stammered. “You don’t mean that.”

Kirsten inhaled sharply. Air escaped between her teeth, a feral, hissing sound. She did not even deign to look at her father when she answered. “Yes,” she insisted, “I do . . . Charlie, please—He’s not going to help us find Ryan! Just—I can’t stand to look at him anymore! I want him arrested!”

Charlie bit the corner of her lip. She pushed back her hair, her expression cloudy with doubt. “I don’t know, Kirsten,” she said gently. “I’m not sure the Mexican authorities will be willing involve themselves in this. The situation is so complicated. Your father may not even have broken any of their laws--”

“Exactly,” Grady injected. Unlike Caleb, he still retained his composure, and his tone sounded cool and rational. He even aimed a conciliatory half-smile at Kirsten. It was an expression he had seen Caleb use to disarm opponents and manipulate them, a weapon disguised an apology. “This is a family matter, Mrs. Cohen, an unfortunate misunderstanding. But I’m sure your father can straighten everything out. Obviously you’re upset right now but--”

Whatever excuse Grady intended to offer was lost in the sound of Sandy’s fist slamming into his face. He staggered back beside Caleb, stunned into silence, cupping one hand over the blooming bruise on his chin.

Seth bobbed his head with bitter satisfaction. “Go Dad!” he exclaimed. “That? Was totally an Atwood-worthy punch.”

“Thanks, Seth,” Sandy said grimly. At the same time, he turned to his wife. “We’ll deal with your father later, honey,” he promised. “Right now, let’s just get our son and take him home.”

Kirsten nodded. Her spine stiffened and she took Sandy’s arm. Seth grabbed her other hand and with Charlie following like a rearguard, they swept past Caleb and Grady up the steps to the entrance.

Just before they reached the door, it flew open, startling everyone.

“Mr. Nichol, there you are!” a nurse called in lightly accented English. Looking past the Cohens, she gestured to Caleb, waving him inside. “We’ve been trying to find you. Would you come with me for a minute?”

Grady gave a warning cough. “Cal, at this point, maybe we should--”

“Stay out of this Grady!” Sandy spat. “You said it yourself, this is a family matter. Let’s go, Cal.” Turning to the nurse, he extended his hand, his expression strained, a combination of warmth and urgency. “I’m Sandy Cohen. This is my son, Seth and my wife, Kirsten Nichol Cohen. We’re Mr. Nichol’s—family,” he said, stumbling a bit on the word. “We’ll be coming with him.”

“Oh.” The nurse took Sandy’s hand. She stood aside, letting everyone enter the lobby, but she looked uneasy. “Yes, but you see Dr. Keller only sent for Mr. Nichol himself. He is quite particular about his orders, so perhaps you could just wait--”

“Sandy Cohen?” an unfamiliar voice boomed. “Are you the Cohen family?”

Sandy, Kirsten and Seth spun around. A large, swarthy orderly was hurrying toward them from a back hallway. He was panting slightly and his forehead gleamed with sweat, but a wide, reassuring smile creased his cheeks.

“Yeah, we’re it—them—the Cohens,” Seth replied. His brow furrowed. “But . . . you’re not Lucy, are you? ‘Cause you’re not exactly what I pictured.”

The man laughed. It was a rich, relaxed sound, and it rolled through the room like waves of clean water, washing away layers of thick, murky tension.

“Nope, not Lucy,” the orderly replied. “I’m Felix. But Lucy sent me to find you.”

“Oh,” Kirsten breathed. Her eyes widened, and a faint, hopeful flush crept into her face. “And you’ll take us to her? To Ryan? Right now?”

Felix nodded, already striding to the elevator and pushing the “up” button. Immediately the Cohens broke away from the admitting nurse, sprinting across the lobby to join him. Caleb and Grady followed, and Felix held up a hand, scowling.

“Not you, Mr. Nichol,” he said. “You don’t need to come.”

“No!” Kirsten cried. Venom sizzled in her voice and she wheeled around to face her father. “You stay away from us!” she ordered. “I don’t want you anywhere around Ryan, do you hear me?”

“Kirsten . . . sweetheart,” Caleb pleaded. He seemed to deflate, bit by bit, with each labored word. His skin grew flaccid, and even the sharp lines of his face seemed to blur. “You don’t understand. I want to make this right—You need me . . .”

“I don’t need you or want you! And if you come near Ryan, if you even mention his name, I swear--” Kirsten choked. She turned away from Caleb, burying her face against her husband’s chest. “Sandy . . .?” she moaned.

He nodded, rubbing her back and glaring at Caleb. “You heard your daughter, Cal,” he said. “Stay away from our family. You’re not part of it anymore.”

The truth of that statement echoed, sharp and final. Dimly, Sandy realized that Kirsten had already said the same thing wordlessly. She had stopped addressing Caleb by name. After flinging a last “Dad” back in his face, she never called him anything but “you”, spoke to him like an unknown, unwelcome stranger, like the monster she had declared him to be.

She never said the words “father” or “dad” again.

It was as if those words, the relationship that they honored, had been burned away from her heart.

“Don’t worry, Sandy,” Charlie said. Her cool, crisp voice, like Felix’s laughter, dispelled a little more of the anguish still surrounding the Cohens. “Mr. Nichol and Mr. Grady and I are going with this nurse to see Dr. Keller. We’re going to make the arrangements to have . . . “Brandon McConnell” discharged immediately. Aren’t we Cal?”

Caleb clenched his teeth, jerked his head up and down.

“But . . . the operation . . . What’s going on?” the admitting nurse stammered. “Dr. Keller’s new procedure--”

“Is canceled,” Felix announced.

“Hear that?” Seth demanded. He danced in place, throwing his arms around his parents. “It’s canceled!”

As if to punctuate his excitement, the elevator bell pinged and the door slid open. Seth bounded inside immediately, bouncing in his eagerness, but Sandy hesitated. At the threshold, he released Kirsten into her son’s arms, but he stopped, one foot in the elevator, the other on the lobby floor.

“Dad!” Seth objected. “Come on! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

Sandy shook his head. “There will be legal issues in getting Ryan released,” he said. Kneading his palm against his forehead, he sighed and gazed wistfully at Kirsten and Seth. Then he looked back at Charlie, his voice wavering, his face dark with indecision. “Maybe I should go with you and Cal, Charlie, to make sure we get everything in order.”

“No,” Charlie replied firmly. “Not necessary, not even an option. I can handle things on this end. You’ve waited long enough for this. Go get your son, Sandy.”

She nudged his foot, grinning, as Seth prompted, “You heard the woman, Dad! Legal stuff later. Ryan’s room. Now. Let’s go!”

Sandy looked at his son. Then, without warning, he threw his head back and laughed. The sudden noise rolled through the quiet room, rich and euphoric and contagious. Seth's eyes widened. His dimples cracked open as he began to laugh too. Dazzling as sunshine on breaking surf, the sound dispelled all lingering traces of doubt and fear. It even reached Kirsten, who replied with a tender tremulous smile.

Still chuckling, Sandy caught her hand. "Let's go," he echoed and pulled her into a kiss as he sprang into the elevator. Felix pressed the button, the bell pinged and Seth whooped, fist-pumping. Then he swooped on his parents, engulfing both Sandy and Kirsten in a fierce, jubilant hug.

The door closed on their embrace. An arrow blinked bright green, pointing up, and the elevator rose, smoothly, swiftly, taking the Cohens to Ryan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was something tickling Ryan’s ear, some infinitely gentle swirl of air. A faint breeze or a sigh. It was more sensation than sound, but it felt warm and comforting and faintly exotic, the way cinnamon tasted whisked into hot chocolate. Ryan stirred. His hand twitched and his head moved sideways, seeking that same reassurance, again. It returned instantly, two soft, soothing breaths, lilting up at the end. A word hovered somewhere in the sound, like a bubble carried on the surface of a stream, but it was so small, so fragile, and so far way.

Still, it seemed to be swimming closer.

Or maybe Ryan was swimming.

Or no, maybe his limbs weren’t moving at all. Maybe he was being borne along rudderless on a slow, peaceful current: dark water under a dark sky, slipping toward a hazy, dark horizon, and Ryan, drifting directionless in that deep, unfathomable dark.

Alone, yet supported somehow by something unseen.

Supported and tranquil and, finally, unafraid.

Ryan relaxed, listening. He lay back, inhaling liquid sounds, letting them lap over, around, and finally inside him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucy had pulled a chair tight beside Ryan’s bed. She sat there, leaning close, one hand loosely covering his, the other stroking gentle circles behind his ear. The patch of shaved skin there reproached her and she felt herself will the hair to return beneath her fingertips. Still, “No incision, thank God,” she assured herself silently. At the same time she murmured Ryan’s name aloud, repeating it over and over, trying to call him back to consciousness.

The soft syllables, crooned like a song, lulled Lucy. They reminded her how exhausted she was, how worn with worry and fear and effort and hope and, finally, waiting.

Without realizing it, Lucy sank back in her chair, spent. Her eyes fluttered shut. Only her fingers continued to move, still tracing their patient circles, while she whispered, softer and softer, “Ryan . . . Ryan . . .”

Then there was a quick, coughing sound. The door lock released and she sprang to her feet, instantly alert, instantly protective. She crossed the room in two strides, positioning herself between Ryan’s bed and the door, her legs planted firmly, her eyes flashing a challenge.

“Who is there?” Lucy demanded.

The door opened to a spill of bright light and a jumble of voices, rushed and excited and almost incoherent. Felix stood in the entrance, smiling widely.

“It's all right, Lucy,” he said. “Ryan’s family is here.”

TBC (but almost there!)

Best Forgotten, Part 28. And still not "The End".

2011-06-30T23:29:48Z

30 days hath December, April, June . . . Wait, June? And it's already the 30th? Damn! My only excuse for another not-the-end update is that I've been taking classes since school let out. (Must do it to renew my license, and I rather enjoy them but--homework!)

In any case, for you wonderful die-hards who are still hanging with this, here's this month's rather-rushed chapter. I promise, you will at least glimpse the light at the end of the tunnel.

See, I'm reduced to cliches. Also to redundant disclaimers: Season 1 AU, not mine, etc. Oh--and none of the medical terminology and techniques are remotely realistic.

Best Forgotten, Part 28

Caleb’s eyes, narrowed anxiously, widened with relief as the dark windows of the clinic annex abruptly lightened again.

Grady, watching too, gave a derisive snort. “Must have been some kind of power glitch, Cal. You know, the systems in countries like this--” He shugged contemptuously and lifted his cigarette, but it never reached his lips. Caleb snatched it away and flicked it, still lit, to the ground.

“Your nicotine addiction can wait, Grady” he said curtly. “It’s a filthy habit anyway. Right now we need to go back inside and make sure that blackout didn’t disrupt the operation.”

“Cal, it only lasted a few seconds.” Grady shook his head, grinding out his wasted cigarette. “What damage could it have done?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. There have been enough setbacks already. This whole business should have been over by now.”

Caleb reached for the door handle to reenter the clinic. His hand closed around the metal bar. He had just started to pull when a sudden cry, shrill and vibrating violently, split the dry, oppressive air.

“Dad! Do you hear me? Dad!”

The voice struck Caleb like lightning. It surged through his body, searing and lethal, and he froze. His face blanched, white as his shirt, white as the sheets that had covered Ryan.

No, he thought. No. It’s not possible. It’s somebody else. It must be.

With an effort, Caleb forced his fingers to move. They splayed, releasing the door. It swung shut again and he wheeled around. Bracing himself, breathing hard, he squinted through the glare of the setting sun.

Four figures were rushing wildly toward him from the main building of the clinic. Backlit by the red setting sun, they appeared dark, faceless and unknowable. And there are four of them, Caleb told himself. Four. Get hold of yourself, Nichol. It's not your family. It has to be someone else. Still, he shivered. He couldn’t help it. The silhouettes reminded him of long-repressed nightmare shapes, deadly, impossible to outrun, impossible to escape. Long shadows stretched in front of them, like tentacles reaching across the parking lot. Caleb could feel them ensnare him, one and then another and another, coiling around his chest as two more voices joined the first one. The snarled tangle of shouts grew louder, sharper and more insistent.

“Dad!”

“ Don’t move, Cal!”

“It’s over, Grandpa!”

Beside Caleb, Grady stiffened uneasily. “Is that--? How the hell did they find us?” he muttered. Caleb didn’t answer and Grady’s gaze slid over, registering his boss’s pallor, his unfamiliar incapacity. “Never mind. I’ll handle them.

Stepping forward Caleb raised his voice. Automatically it slid into a tone of false concern, slick and unctuous, as he spoke. “Sandy, Kirsten, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in San Francisco? Is there a problem with the project? You could have called--”

“We did!” Seth yelled. “Mom called you like three hundred times, Grandpa.” He panted, stumbling over a parking barrier in his heedless dash. Unfazed, he ignored his father’s outstretched hand, picked himself up, and kept running. “You never answered.”

“That’s not your grandfather’s fault. We’ve had issues with the reception here, Seth,” Grady claimed. He started to add something else, but Caleb raised a hand, stopping him.

“Let it go,” he ordered.

By that time, the Cohens were close enough to see their faces, but Caleb only looked at one person. He paid no attention to his grandson’s flushed indignation or Sandy’s barely-contained fury, and he did not spare a glance for the red-haired woman who followed one step behind, her cool gaze condemning him as she approached. Caleb’s eyes were fixed on Kirsten. She had sprinted in front of the others. Even yards away, her father could see her clearly: the anguish carved deep into her ice-white skin, the way every line of her body was pinched with pain, the absolute desolation in her face.

“Kiki,” Caleb said. He held out a hand and Kirsten flinched. She jerked to a stop, holding herself rigid, just out of reach but infinitely far away.

“How--?” she whispered. The blue of her eyes submerged beneath unshed tears, and her lips trembled, shredding the question like ancient paper. “How could you, Dad? I believed in you, and all this time--” She broke off, swaying, and Sandy moved behind her, pulling her close. His own eyes blazed as he glared at Caleb.

“It’s done, Cal,” Sandy said curtly. “Take us to Ryan. Now.”

“You heard him, Grandpa. Now,” Seth echoed.

Caleb, staring at his daughter, didn’t answer. Grady did instead. “Ryan?” He mustered a confused, placating smile. “What are you talking about, Sandy? You’re foster son isn’t here. Cal just came to support his friend Brandon McConnell--”

“I said let it go, Grady,” Cal snapped. Shoving his friend out of the way, he moved toward Kirsten. Instantly, frantically, she recoiled, shrinking against Sandy. She shook her head, almost hissing, and Caleb hesitated, then stopped. For just an instant his controlled façade shattered. A trapped expression flitted across his face. His shoulders slumped, and he hesitated, swallowing hard. Then, with an effort, he pulled himself up. He lifted his chin, summoning the composure that saw him through angry board meetings and contentious negotiations, all those occasions when he had to find a way to manipulate the truth in order to survive.

Because, Caleb knew, lies wouldn’t serve him anymore.

He took a deep breath, looking deep into his daughter’s eyes, attempting to infuse a single glance with every happy memory, every moment of love in their entire history. Somewhere inside her, Caleb was sure Kirsten remained his little girl. He just had to remind her of that.

“Kiki,” he said gently, “that boy never belonged in our family. You know that’s true. He would never be accepted by Newport society, and as long as Seth continued to be associated with him, neither would he.”

“That’s bullshit!” Seth interjected angrily. He hurled himself at his grandfather. Charlie had to grab his elbow to hold him back. She shook her head in warning, and Seth stopped struggling even though he still muttered, “And like I ever wanted to hang with Newpsie pod-people anyway. Ryan was—is—a million times better than any of them.” Abruptly wheeling around, he faced his mother, pleading, “Mom, forget this, okay? We’re just wasting time here.”

“Seth’s right,” Sandy agreed. Contempt and impatience burned holes in his words. “We’re not interested in any of your excuses, Cal. Just tell us where we can find Ryan.”

Caleb ignored Sandy’s order. As if neither his grandson nor son-in-law had spoken, he continued to pitched his voice low, directing it only to Kirsten, riveting her with his laser-blue eyes. She stood like a statue, expressionless, silent, listening. “He was playing all of you, sweetheart,” her father insisted. “I know he put on a convincing front, but sooner or later his criminal instincts were bound to surface. How long do you think he could have resisted the temptation living there with you, seeing your cars, your jewelry, your money every day? It was just a matter of time before he betrayed all of you you, Kiki. He didn’t appreciate what you were trying to do for him. The disrespect that boy showed me was proof of that--”

“So you kidnapped him.” Kirsten’s sudden words vibrated, ominous, wire thin and sharp.

There was an instant of shocked silence, broken only by Sandy’s audible breath and Seth’s whispered, “Yes!” Then Caleb mustered an indulgent smile.

“Kiki--” he began, but his daughter did not let him finish.

“Ryan hurt your pride so you kidnapped him and lied to us and brought him here for—for—no.” Her voice crumpled. “I can’t--”

“It’s okay, Mom. Come on,” Seth urged. He tugged at Kirsten’s hand like a little boy. “We know Ryan’s here somewhere. We’ll find him ourselves.”

Kirsten nodded. She took a half-step, before Caleb’s voice stopped her. Seth tried vainly to pull her away, but his mother could not seem to move.

Her eyes were wide, white-ringed, trapped. She looked helpless, like a wild animal mesmerized by a snake.

“Kiki, listen to me. You and Seth and Sandy—you were all blinded by your compassion,” Caleb said. “You couldn’t see who that boy really is. I could. So I did what was necessary to protect you. But I tried to help that boy too.” Ignoring Seth’s and Sandy’s disbelieving protests, Caleb persisted. He used the approach that always worked for him at business meetings, skating smoothly and confidently on the thin edges of truth. “It was clear to me that he had dangerous, deep-rooted psychological and emotional issues. Doubtless they stemmed from his unfortunate upbringing, but he was never going to deal with his problems while he was living with you. They would just fester under the surface until he exploded. And who knows who would have been hurt when that happened?”

Seth made a strange, strangled sound, as if he were choking on rage. “God, grandpa, give it up! You’re the one who’s sick!” he exclaimed at the same time that Sandy ordered furiously, “Shut up, Cal. The only thing we want to hear from you is where Ryan is now!”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Kirsten shook her head. Without taking her eyes off her father she whispered, “No, Sandy. Let him talk. I want to hear what he has to say.”

Caleb’s lips twitched as he stifled a triumphant smile. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he replied over Seth’s garbled “But Mom--” and Sandy’s worried, “Kirsten?” “I admit, I brought the boy to this clinic. Yes, I wanted him out of your lives—that’s why I chose a place so far away and admitted him under a false name. And that’s why I had Grady mislead you about his location. But sweetheart, I got him professional treatment. I thought that the doctors here might be able to help him deal with his anger and violent tendencies before they destroyed his life. If they were successful, I was prepared to settle him with another foster family somewhere. Just not in Newport with you. Unfortunately, the boy . . .” Caleb sighed heavily. He let the sound linger, filling it with both exhaustion and regret. “Well, he hasn’t responded well to any therapy they’ve tried. In fact, I’m sorry to say that he’s gotten much worse. His childhood proved to be more traumatic than any of us suspected. You have to understand. That’s why I couldn’t tell you the truth, sweetheart. I wanted to spare you from knowing the worst about the boy.”

Caleb paused, grave and patient, waiting for his daughter’s response.

Behind Kirsten, Seth and Sandy stood rigid. They barely breathed as they waited too.

A long moment, fraught with lies and warped history and the burden of family, spun a sticky web around all of them.

It bound Kirsten where she stood, motionless in her husband’s arms. She stared at her father, her eyes glazed and unblinking, her skin cold beneath Sandy’s hands. Unconsciously rubbing her shoulders, trying to warm them, he glanced down at his wife.

The sultry evening breeze didn’t seem to touch her at all. Nor did the heat of his palms. Her body remained frozen, her impassive expression never changed, never even flickered.

She looks like a statue, carved from the inside out, Sandy thought. He ached, unable to force his wife away because he was afraid she might break if he tried, yet wondering if she would survive this encounter, and through it all agonizing over every second that kept them from finding Ryan.

At last, with an effort, Kirsten stirred. She swallowed. It was as if she had heard Sandy’s thoughts.

“Ryan,” she whispered.

The name splintered as it left her lips, catching on the air.

Caleb inclined his head solicitously. “What?”

“Not ‘that boy.’” Kirsten’s voice grew stronger. “I told you before, he has a name. Ryan.”

“Got it, grandpa? Ry. An. At. Wood,” Seth added tightly. He gave each syllable deliberate emphasis. “Not Brandon McConnell.”

Nodding, Caleb mustered a tight, colorless smile. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Ryan.” He paused. For the first time, he looked beyond Kirsten, letting his apparently contrite glance reach Seth and Sandy too. “I know this is an extremely painful situation and that you all must feel betrayed.”

“You think, grandpa?” Seth retorted. “Just because you’re a liar and a kidnapper and a fucking sadist?”

Grady’s eyebrows shot up, but Caleb simply sighed and nodded again. “I don’t blame you, Seth. You’re entitled to your anger. It’s true that I . . . persuaded th—“ At the last moment, Caleb caught himself, amended, “Ryan to come here with me and I deliberately concealed his whereabouts from you. But if I hadn’t, you would still feel responsible for his welfare, and I didn’t want you to make the . . . painful choices that required. I had your best interests at heart, all of yours, including Ryan’s . . .” A low growl escaped Sandy’s throat and Seth snorted audibly. Shaking his head sadly, Caleb shuttered his steely eyes for a moment. When he looked up, his gaze had become a tender, remorseful blue. Once again, he focused it solely on Kirsten. “I don’t expect you to believe me, Seth. Or you, Sanford. But you do, don’t you, sweetheart? . . . Kiki?”

Caleb barely finished his final word. He didn’t even get to shape another placating smile. Something in Kirsten’s face shattered.

“This is what I believe, Dad.”

She spat the last word. It snapped like a key breaking off in a lock, bolting something away forever. At the same time she jerked upright and shrugged off Sandy’s arm. Springing forward, blazing with rage, Kirsten slapped her father across the face. She did it again and again, faster and faster, harder and harder until Sandy and Seth finally pulled her back.

“You’re a monster,” she sobbed, writhing and fighting to escape their grasp. “A monster. A monster--”

Caleb rocked backwards, shocked into silence. His hand crept to his face, touching the bruised flesh. Furious palm-shaped stains spread across his chin and cheek, up beyond his temples. He blinked, dazed, his mouth working as if he could not comprehend what had just happened.

“Kiki--” he began at last.

“Don’t you dare!” Kirsten cried, still struggling in Sandy’s arms. “Never! Never call me that again! Just take us to Ryan. I want to see him! Now!” Caleb hesitated, breathing hard. “Now!” she screamed again when he didn’t move.

“You heard her, Cal. We want to see Ryan.”

Caleb’s lips parted, closed, opened wordlessly. The hand at his cheek fell limp to his side. Disbelief, then unaccustomed defeat blurred his sharply-honed features. “You . . . can’t,” he stammered. He swallowed with difficulty. The words seemed to scald him, and his gaze plummeted. He couldn’t endure the rage, the contempt—worse, the absolute hatred—in his family’s eyes. Their faces scorched him, Sandy’s and Seth’s, and especially Kirsten’s. They seared away his carefully constructed house of lies until at last he surrendered. “You can’t,” he repeated. “Not now. Ryan is already in surgery.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside the operating room, the blackout ended with a burst of bright, unexpected, overhead light. It momentarily blinded the people clustered around Ryan. Only he didn’t register the sudden glare, the surge of renewed energy. It glinted off Dr. Keller’s suspended scalpel, sparking silver, casting a thin scar-shaped shadow across Ryan’s forehead. A soft drone chased away the silence as all the equipment clicked and whirred back to life.

For a moment, though, only the machinery in the room moved. Except for his eyes, which scanned each monitor and screen, Dr. Keller himself remained motionless.

So did his surgical team. They held their positions, watching him intently, waiting for his signal to begin.

“It seems to have been just a momentary power glitch, doctor,” the nurse anesthetist observed quietly. Peering around, she checked off each piece of machinery in the room. “All the systems have been restored.”

Dr. Keller frowned, considering. Beneath his mask, his mouth tightened as he glanced down. Ryan lay apparently lifeless on the table. His head, tipped slightly downward, had been turned to the right. It faced an exit that he couldn’t see, and it was clamped into place by a metal frame, leaving it exposed and vulnerable. Smudges like erasures rimmed Ryan’s closed eyes and his lips were brittle, cracked in the corners around the breathing tube that snaked out of his mouth. A tiny crease ran between his brows as if, even unconscious, he was searching for something and his skin stretched parchment thin, almost translucent, over his cheekbones. Dr. Keller spent no time considering Ryan’s expression, though. He concentrated on a single spot behind his left ear, shaved smooth and marked with a tiny blue mark, the place where he planned to make the critical incision. Then, still not moving, the doctor scrutinized all the equipment again. At last his stare locked on the screen that displayed the imaging system, as if attempting to verify all the vital data stored inside.

The head nurse followed Dr. Keller’s intent gaze. “We’re operating normally again, doctor,” she assured him.

“We seem to be,” he conceded. Both the surgeon’s brow and his tone were shadowed with doubt. “But we don’t know what caused the blackout or what damage it may have done.”

“It was so short,” the surgical assistant noted. He lifted his chin, indicating the bank of monitors. Each one pulsed with clear, insistent, images. “And remember, doctor, we have fail-safe devices built into our systems. There’s no indication that any of them were adversely affected.”

“I can see that. But this is not a routine surgery. We’re undertaking a untried procedure, using original techniques. We have to be sure . . .”

“I can send someone down to maintenance to find out what happened,” the head nurse offered. “In the meantime do you want to proceed, Dr. Keller?”

He hesitated. His jaw worked, wrinkling the surgeon’s mask, mirroring the creases in his forehead. The anesthesiologist waited for a moment. The he looked up. “You need to make a decision, doctor,” he urged. “If we’re going to stop we should do it now. This operation will be a major strain on the patient, and considering his somewhat unstable condition I’m not sure how he’s going to respond to prolonged sedation. I don’t want to keep him under any longer than necessary.”

“I’m aware of the patient’s condition,” Dr. Keller snapped. His grip tightened on the scalpel, and the blade flashed again. It shone sharp, narrow and incisive as the doctor’s eyes as he stood, debating silently.

The team waited, poised and expectant. Two seconds passed, then three. Four. Five.

The surgical nurse cleared her throat. “Doctor?” she prompted.

Abruptly, almost angrily, he responded, slamming the scalpel down on the instrument tray. “Damn it!” Dr. Keller muttered. His voice throbbed, raw with frustration. “No. We can’t risk starting now. There’s too much at stake I want diagnostics run on every system before we begin. I am not going to have this procedure jeopardized by an electrical malfunction or compromised data.”

Everyone in the room knew what the words “too much at stake” implied. The patient’s survival mattered, of course, just as it would be in any operation, but Dr. Keller meant much more that: he was considering his own potential fame, his place in medical history, the fortune he would amass as the inventor of a new form of neurosurgery depended on the success of the surgery.

The entire team had committed to his project. They understood.

As soon as Dr. Keller spoke, the group sprang into action. They moved swiftly and surely, shutting down the monitors, removing the instrument trays, unclamping the frame that immobilized Ryan’s head.

Only the anesthesiologist remained in his place next to the table. “Doctor, running a complete set of diagnostics could take an hour. Maybe more,” he pointed out. “The patient can’t--”

“I know, I know.” Dr. Keller interjected curtly. “We can’t risk keeping him sedated if we have to. Discontinue the anesthesia and extubate him now.” Scowling with combined irritation and impatience, he backed away from the operating table and snapped off his gloves. Already striding out of the room, the doctor yanked down his mask to called one last order over his shoulder, “Nurse, get an orderly to move the patient back to pre-op. And notify me the moment we’re cleared to start.”

Moments later, Felix entered the operating room and moved behind the surgical table. His swarthy face remained blankly unconcerned. Only his eyes flashed a swift, secret smile, hidden beneath his lowered lashes as he wheeled Ryan the way he had been facing, toward the exit door.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 27. Yes, you read that right. No "Complete" quite yet.

2011-05-31T21:19:28Z

So here's the thing: this past month included three graduations, one wedding, six performances of the festival featuring my students' plays and poetry, one slam poetry competition (I was judging), and one prom (I was chaperoning. Oh, and two storms that cut off our power for hours.

In other words, I didn't get much writing done. But I know it's the end of the month, so rather than miss my deadline, I give you about half a chapter. (The school year ends next week, though, so I should have more time after that to end this story, finally!

Oh, and all disclaimers still apply. We'll call this

Best Forgotten, Part 17

The blackout lasted barely longer than four or five blinks. For those few seconds, though, everyone froze.

Outside the annex of the clinic, Grady had been tapping out a cigarette while Caleb idly fingered his phone. He had ignored its constant vibration during his heated discussions inside with Dr. Keller. All that had mattered was persuading the man to proceed immediately with the operation. In the quiet of the parking lot, though, Cal became aware that the persistent, annoying buzzing against his thigh had stopped abruptly. For some reason, that alarmed him. He had pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the long list of missed calls. “Kiki,” he noted with mild concern. “She’s called a dozen times . . . Of course she knows I’m waiting for news about an operation. She probably just wants to check in with me. She’s been on edge ever since that boy disappeared.”

He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing. An image of Kirsten, unbidden and unwelcome, flashed through his mind. That first night when Caleb had offered Grady’s services to help the “find” Ryan, she had walked him to the door as he prepared to leave. At the doorway, Kirsten had caught his hand unexpectedly and pulled him close. Her voice had been low and fervent. “Thank you so much, Dad,” she had said gratefully. Lifting her face, she had kissed Caleb’s cheek, and he felt her lips tremble against his skin. Then, although she still clung to his hand, Kirsten seemed to forget her father for a moment. She had looked past him, gazing into the starless night sky. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I just can’t believe Ryan would leave us,” she whispered. “Not now. Not like this, when we’re just becoming a real family.” The last words trickled off, thin as rainwater, and Kirsten shook her head. Rousing herself again, she squeezed Caleb’s hand, and her lips curved into a tremulous smile. “It means a lot to me that you’re helping us, Dad. Especially knowing how you feel about Ryan . . . it’s so good to know I can always count on you.”

The click of Grady’s lighter snapped Caleb back into the present. Even so, the trust in Kirsten’s voice lingered, haunting him. He frowned at the slim phone, watching it spark silver in the light, then tapped its display window thoughtfully. Grady’s eyebrows rose in a silent question.

“I supposed I should call her back,” Caleb explained. “I’m sure it’s nothing. If there were any problem with the project, I would have heard from the office. But I don’t want Kiki to worry, so--”

He broke off in mid-sentence and his chin jerked up. Staring past the swirl of Grady’s cigarette smoke he scowled at the clinic’s windows, gone suddenly dark. “What the hell just happened?” he muttered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the main building, the Cohens and Charlie jolted to a stop too, almost skidding into the power-locked glass doors. They glanced at each other. Shock and momentary dismay shadowed their eyes before they widened with slow comprehension. Half a dozen emotions—excitement, impatience, relief, hope, residual fear and anxiety—chased each other across their faces.

“She did it,” Seth breathed. His voice mounting giddily, he vibrated in place, his joy enveloping Seth and Sandy like a rapturous hug. “Mom, Dad, I think Lucy did it! She did it Charlie!” Seth’s laughter welcomed her into his embrace too. “She said she was going to cut the power and she did! Oh, I am so going to name my first kid after her. Lucy whatever-her-last-name-is Cohen! Even if it’s a boy! I’m sure Summer won’t mind—This means Lucy stopped the operation, right Dad? So now we can bust Ryan out of this place and take him home, right?”

Sandy didn’t answer right away. Out of nowhere, he found himself recalling the night Kirsten had gotten Ryan released from juvie. Despite the urgency of the moment, despite the sound of his son’s excited babble, he lost himself in the memory.

Sandy had been stunned to find Ryan there when he arrived home from work that day. He had been excited too, thinking that Seth’s pleas must have won Kirsten over, that she had reconsidered and would allow Ryan to stay with them. She wouldn’t, not then; she insisted that they had to find Dawn instead. Reluctantly, Sandy had agreed to look for the woman, but when he and Kirsten went to bed their goodnight kiss had felt strained and dutiful. Slipping away quickly, Kirsten had settled on her side, turning her back to him like a rebuke.

The tension only eased out of her body when she drifted to sleep.

Sandy had remained wide-awake beside her. Frustrated and miserable, he folded his hands behind his head, staring at the bedroom ceiling until finally, just past two a.m., he gave up all pretense of rest. Careful not to disturb Kirsten, he had slipped out of their room. He paused for a moment outside Seth’s door before, sighing heavily, he padded down to the dim, moonlight-streaked kitchen.

Echoes of their earlier argument lingered in every corner of the room—Sandy’s own voice protesting, “He doesn’t want to find her,” Kirsten countering “He’s a child! He doesn’t know what he wants!” and then Ryan, saying tonelessly, “I guess I won’t unpack then.”

His words sounded empty of all hope.

Sandy had shaken his head to dispel the ghosts. Yanking open the refrigerator door, he took out the milk and poured himself a glass, but then he left it on the counter. He simply stood, the drink forgotten, raking one hand through his pillow-rumpled hair and staring sightlessly at the floor. A long, audible breath escaped him as Sandy shook his head again.

“Know what, kid?” he murmured into the darkness. “I don’t want to find your mom either. Dawn doesn’t deserve to be found.”

Lifting his head, he gazed out the window toward the pool house. Its shades were drawn, keeping its secrets, and Sandy’s eyes drifted across the patio. A shape moved in the moonlight and he stiffened, eyes narrowed. He watched for a moment as the shadow settled by the pool. Then, quickly and quietly, Sandy poured another glass of milk, put a few of Rosa’s cinnamon-walnut cookies on a plate and, balancing everything on a tray, strode across the patio.

“Hey, Ryan,” he called softly. “Nice night to be out. Mind if I join you?”

Ryan, sitting on the edge of the pool, jerked around, startled. The water rippled as he started to scramble to his feet. Sandy put a hand on his shoulder, calming him, easing him down again.

“No, no, it’s all right, kid. Don’t get up,” he said. His voice was low, comforting, and warm as the night air. “I couldn’t sleep either. So I came down for a midnight snack—figured I’d get a few of Rosa’s cookies before Seth eats them all. Want one?”

Smiling reassurance, he held out the tray. Ryan’s face had settled into an expression Sandy had begun to recognize—shuttered and wary, waiting for some clear signal to react—but he accepted a cookie and a glass of milk.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Rosa’s the one we should thank.” Wagging his eyebrows, Sandy sat next to Ryan. He rolled the legs of his pajamas up to his knees. “I do this sometimes,” he confided, as he dangled his legs in the water. “Come out here to clear my mind after a rough day. It’s soothing, you know—the quiet, the moonlight, the smell of the ocean. If we’re lucky we even get stars . . . Not tonight though.”

Ryan nodded. He bit his lip, his eyes fixed on the silver-tipped water. Without looking up, he said softly, “I didn’t mean to cause problems between you and Mrs. Cohen.”

“What? What are you talking about, kid? You didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did,” Ryan insisted. “She doesn’t want me here. I mean, I don’t blame her, and I’m really grateful that she sprang me from juvie today, but now--” he shrugged, and Sandy saw him unconsciously crush the edge of his cookie. A small shower of crumbs dusted his bare legs. “It’s not gonna work with my mom, even if you can find her. Guess I’m gonna wind up in a foster home after all.” One corner of his mouth quirked, and Ryan glanced sideways at Sandy. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t run away this time.”

Sandy’s throat grew suspiciously tight. He coughed, trying to clear it and summon a light tone. “Good to know,” he replied. “But it doesn’t have to turn out--”

He broke off, abruptly interrupted by Seth, who came loping across the patio. His untied robe billowed behind him and he was calling reproachfully, “Hey, no fair! You guys decide to have a pool party and you don’t include me—Never mind. I’ll assume my invitation got lost in the mail, along with all those Newpsie party invites I never got.” Plopping down beside them, Seth plunged his feet into the pool, spraying water everywhere. He beamed at Ryan and Sandy. “So. This is cool!” he declared. “Seth-Ryan time plus one, the after-midnight edition. We can talk about manly things like Ryan’s super-stud magnetism and how I—hey, you’ve got cookies! And milk! Aw, look at that. You’re such a ‘50s-TV-show kind of father, Dad.”

Seth started to snatch a glass, but Sandy batted his hand away. “That’s mine, son. You want a drink, go get one of your own. This is a self-service party.”

Bundling his robe around him, Seth clambered back to his feet. “Fine,” he grumbled as he stomped back to the kitchen. “But I’m getting my own cookies too. And I’m not sharing.”

Sandy watched his son disappear. Then he turned back to Ryan, who had dipped one hand in the water, and was sketching a languid figure eight. An infinity of ripples followed the movement.

“Self-service?” Ryan asked. A faint smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “Really, Sandy? You brought me my drink.”

Sandy touched a warning finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he teased. “Don’t tell Seth.” Then his voice changed, turning low and grave. “But Ryan, listen, what you said about Kirsten--”

“No, Sandy, it’s okay. I get it,” Ryan said. “This is her home. And Seth is her son. She’s worried about him with me here.”

Sandy glanced up toward his bedroom. Somehow he wasn’t surprised to see Kirsten standing in the window, silhouetted by the thin light of their nightstand lamp. In the dark and the distance, he couldn’t read his wife’s expression, but Sandy thought he could sense her feelings anyway.

“That’s part of it,” he admitted slowly. “But I think she’s worried about herself too. Kirsten is very . . . reserved. It’s hard for her to let people into her life.” Reaching over, Sandy cupped Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “But listen to me, kid. No matter what happens with your mom . . . ” Ryan flinched, and Sandy tightened his grip. “No matter what happens,” he repeated firmly, “I’m going to make sure you’re okay. I promise you, Ryan. Trust me.”

In the lobby of the clinic, Seth plucked Sandy’s sleeve, ending his father’s seconds-long reverie. “Right, Dad?” he demanded. “Us? Ryan? Home soon?”

Sandy nodded curtly. His eyes bored through the window, fixed on Caleb’s distant figure. “Yes, son,” he replied. He leaned forward, willing the electric doors to open, ready to bolt the moment that they did. “We’ll all be home soon. Trust me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Across the parking lot, in the annex of the clinic, the operating room had been humming with carefully rehearsed activity, its choreography underscored by the doleful strains of Mahler’s music. Dr. Keller stood, poised and prepared, just behind Ryan. In a clipped, quiet voice, he fired off a barrage of reminders and questions, rechecking every bit of data.

His gaze never wavered from the spot at the base of Ryan’s skull where he would make his first, critical incision.

At last the doctor took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and wordlessly signaled that he was ready to begin. The surgical team surrounded Ryan, taking their positions as somber music surged in the background.

Then, in mid-note, the sound suddenly stopped. At the same moment, every bright, vital monitor went dark, every life-affirming display went dark, and the lights went out, plunging the windowless space into complete, instant night. The blackout halted Dr. Keller as his hand hovered, scalpel gripped securely, a scant half-inch from Ryan’s head. The darkness vibrated with shocked silence, broken only by a whisper of fabric as one of the nurses stepped away from the table. “Don’t move!” the doctor hissed. “Nobody move an inch, do you understand me?--Damn it!” Unconsciously he echoed Caleb. “What the hell just happened here?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only Ryan, the focal point of the blackout, failed to respond to it. The shock, the sudden cessation of light and sound, never touched him. Nothing changed in what remained of his world. Weightless and unaware, he continued to float on a wave of anesthesia, beyond pain, beyond panic, beyond any kind of comprehension at all.

And when the lights flashed back on seconds later, only Ryan didn’t spring into action.

TBC

Best Forgotten Part 26

2011-05-01T02:01:23Z

Whew. Just squeaked this in before May.

All the usual disclaimers apply. Do I really have to repeat them? The characters aren't mine, yada, yada, yada . . .

Best Forgotten, Part 26

The moment the service gate started to rise, Lucy ducked inside. Felix barely waited to lower it again before he wheeled around and started back up the ramp. Lucy had to run to keep up with him. Both of them spoke in hushed, urgent voices.

“I saw Ryan,” he reported, before she could even ask.

Lucy’s sigh of relief dissolved when she realized that Felix’s expression was shuttered and his gaze focused forward, avoiding her anxious eyes.

“Yes? You were able to speak to him?” she prompted uneasily.

Felix’s cursory nod revealed nothing. He still didn’t look at her. He just walked faster, his soft, thick soles soundless on the concrete floor. Lucy sped up too, but she moved without looking, her eyes locked on Felix’s rigid profile.

When he spoke, his reply sounded reluctant, labored. “I told him that his family was coming, but Lucy, I don’t know if he understood.”

“Why not? How was he, Felix?” she demanded. “Tell me what is wrong.”

At the insistence in her tone, Felix finally glanced down and met Lucy’s eyes. He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “The poor kid still had fight in him, but he was only half-conscious, so maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just muscle spasms or something, you know? He did seem to respond when I mentioned the Cohens. I just couldn’t be sure—Lucy,” Felix stopped short and took a deep breath. “Dr. Keller cleared him for surgery. He had me move Ryan to the operating room.”

“Now?” Lucy gasped. She stumbled, grasping Felix’s arm. “Oh God. If they are prepping him for surgery, we may already be too late--”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s that man, Caleb Nichol—he practically ordered Dr. Keller to do the operation now . . . I got here as fast as I could.”

Felix’s words bounced, dark and portentous, off the low ceilings. Automatically Lucy moved closer. Rubbing his shoulder, she smiled swift reassurance, although her voice drifted past him, low and abstracted.

“No, no, I know you did. Do not apologize,” she murmured. She continued talking, almost to herself as, still holding her hand, Felix began moving again. He turned right, leading her through a maze of gray corridors. “It may still be all right. Dr. Keller is very meticulous. He must have everything perfectly set before he operates, and this procedure relies greatly on computer imaging. If I can disrupt the service even for a moment before he begins--”

Felix nodded support as Lucy’s words trailed off into silent planning. At the same time he scanned the fortress-thick doors along the hallway. His brown furrowed with concentration. “There,” he announced, stopping abruptly. “That’s the facilities maintenance area. The electrical control shop is inside. But I can’t tell you much about the layout there, Lucy. I’ve only been down here one time.”

“It is all right,” Lucy said grimly. “I will find my way.” She inhaled, deep and long, as she stared at the door. Her fine brows drew together and her jaw set with determination. Pulling away from Felix, she grasped the handle. “No, you can’t--” he warned, covering her hand with his own, but Lucy yanked anyway. The door resisted her grip, and she belatedly noticed the touchpad on the wall. Her eyes flicked upwards. “Felix? Do you remember the password?” she asked hoarsely.

“I think so. Let’s see . . .” Touching his index finger to his lips, Felix thought for a moment, then pressed six digits on the touchpad.

Nothing happened.

Felix cursed under his breath and Lucy shuddered, sagging slightly. Despite the clammy basement air, she felt all at once as if she were still outside the clinic, the sun blazing down on her as she frantically tried one phone number after another in order to reach Sandy Cohen. In her mind an accusing loop seemed to play all the endless ringing, the curt dismissals, the abrupt hang-ups. Worst of all, Ryan’s broken voice threaded through her thoughts, insisting, “I’m Ryan. Not Brandon. I’m Ryan Atwood.”

Begging her “Make them stop.”

Lucy heard her own choked reply too.

“I am trying to do that. I promise you.”

The words slipped out again in a thin, ragged whisper. “I am trying, Ryan,” Lucy repeated. “I promise you I am.”

She clutched Felix’s sleeve, her fingers twisting the fabric, and he glanced down at her anxiously. “Wait,” he muttered. “I’ll get it . . . Maybe the combination starts six-two, not two-six . . . ?” His forehead creasing with concentration, he turned his attention back to the door. Carefully, quickly, he tried a new combination.

Holding her breath, Lucy watched his callused finger flash over the touchpad.

One number.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

This time, a green light flashed over the door.

At the first flicker, Lucy grasped the handle. In a single motion, she turned it, slipped into the cavernous room and spun around, ready to close the door. A swift, fervent “thanks” poised on her lips, but before she could say it, Felix followed her inside. Lucy’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Felix, you do not have to come with me,” she objected. “They will be looking for you upstairs. I do not want you to risk losing your job. Already you have done more than I could ask.”

Felix ignored her protests. Moving closer, he urged her into the shadows behind a bank of consoles. His mouth set in a firm, determined line.

“There will be workers in here,” he explained. “Somebody might see you Lucy. You may need me in case they try to stop you—Look, I’ve come this far. I’m not going to leave you alone now. Besides . . .” He paused, his eyes clouding. “I don’t understand exactly what’s going on with Dr. Keller and that Nichol guy, but I know it’s wrong, what they’re doing to that boy.”

Lucy exhaled a long breath of unconscious relief. “Yes, it is,” she said, pitching her voice so that it was almost inaudible under the steady drone of machinery, and a distant, rhythmic clanging. “I am most glad to have you with me, Felix.” She smiled up at him, her face lighting briefly with gratitude before its expression returned to stern resolve. “Only we cannot help Ryan by hiding here,” she added. “We must find the service controls right.”

Felix peered over the consoles, warily inspecting the area. Despite a steady thrum of activity through the low-hanging pipes, the room itself appeared blankly gray and empty. He waited a moment. Then, jerking his thumb, Felix signaled an “all clear” to Lucy.

She stepped out immediately. Her eyes narrowed, dark with purpose, trying to see everything at once.

“It’s that way,” Felix hissed. Without looking around, he cocked his head to indicate the hallway to their left.

Lucy nodded, instinctively pressing herself close to the wall, trying to be invisible. Already moving, she started to speak. Her voice, cautiously low, barely ruffled the air. “If I am able to disrupt the power, we must--”

She broke off, stiffening, as an unseen door opened and brisk footsteps started to approach. “Hector? That you?” someone called. “It’s about time you got back from break.”

“Go,” Felix urged curtly. He pressed one hand to Lucy’s shoulder, gesturing for her to leave without him. For half an instant she hesitated, biting her lip. Then she darted down the hallway.

She didn’t look back.

Felix watched her disappear around a corner before he stepped into the center of the room. His voice boomed off the tiled walls, hearty and unconcerned. “Nope. Not Hector. Sorry,” he replied. “Just came down to tell you we’re a problem with the intercom upstairs. It goes in and out--”

Lucy didn’t hear anything more. Felix’s dimming voice, all the mechanical clatter, even her own swift, soft footballs: they all receded into a vague hum beneath the adamant thought driving her.

“Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”

She sped along the corridor. In the distance, just before it dead-ended in a concrete, she spotted the sign for the electrical shop. Its flat black letters seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, growing larger and darker as Lucy rushed toward them.

I had not thought . . . What if this door is locked too? she wondered in sudden panic.

Without thinking, without even peeking through the window to make sure nobody was inside, Lucy yanked the handle.

It turned, and she practically fell into the room.

Then she froze, waiting for someone to accost her, for the inevitable questions that she couldn’t answer: Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here?

They didn’t come. No one seemed to be inside.

Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, another one hoping that Felix’s lie would keep any workers occupied, Lucy closed the door behind her and looked around the room.

Long consoles lined all four walls, each one studded with monitors, blinking lights, display panels, and controls. It was like a giant dashboard of some futuristic engine.

Lucy stared around in consternation.

In her imagination, the plan had seemed simple. All she had to do was interrupt service to Dr. Keller’s computers—just for a moment, just long enough for him to insist that they verify all the programs and data before proceeding.

Now, confronted with all the unlabeled equipment, Lucy stood frozen.

She had no clue what she could touch, no idea what to do next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ryan? Kiddo?”

“Ryan!”

“Hey, Ry.”

“Atwood.”

“You. Boy.”

“Hey, kid.”

"Chino!"

“Ryan?”

“Ryan.”

“Baby . . . Ry>”

Indistinct voices swirled around each other. They wafted, gossamer-thin, like threads of vapor in the air. Gray and shapeless, they grew dimmer and dimmer until they melted into a long soundless sigh.

All the ghosts living behind Ryan’s closed eyes gradually retreated. Frank Atwood and A.J. stomped past, their knuckles bruised, their steel-toed boots scuffed and heavy. They led a procession of Dawn’s drug-addled boyfriends, and finally Dawn herself, who tottered, tearful and unsteady on her worn high heels. Trey followed, flicking ash from his cigarette with blasé swagger, and then Theresa, who glanced back over her shoulder, her face full of longing and dusky regret.

Last, and all alone, Caleb appeared. He strode forward briskly, a slim silver attaché tucked under his arm, a cell phone clamped to his ear. Pausing just for a moment, he looked back. A contemptuous sneer twisted his lips and he shook his head. Then, pivoting on his heel, he turned and pushed past the people in front of him.

They all made their way through shifting sands, growing smaller and smaller as they neared a fog-shrouded shoreline.

One by one they disappeared into the slit of the horizon.

Still, for long moments, three pastel figures remained. They lingered, dim and silent, in the last sunlit corner of Ryan’s memory: Sandy, his brows wagging, his laughing eyes crinkled at the edges: Seth, grinning and gesturing widely; Kirsten twisting her rings, a tremulous smile warming her pale face.

Lifting their hands, they waved a greeting or a farewell.

Then, slowly, they vanished too.

Dusk fell, deep and fathomless, inside Ryan’s mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Keller stood in the operating room, his palms pressed together under his chin, his back to his patient, and his eyes half-closed. As the strains of Mahler Kindertotenleider swelled through the space, he took several long breaths, inhaling deeply, letting the air fill his lungs, releasing it slowly, completely before breathing again.

His surgical team stood by watching. At last the lead nurse moved to a spot beside Ryan’s head. She positioned herself there, one hand hovering over the instrument tray.

“Are you ready to begin, Doctor?” she asked.

Without looking around, Dr. Keller waved away her question. “In a moment,” he said. Lifting his chin, he nodded briskly toward the computer screen, indicating that he wanted it lowered. His assistant complied, and Dr. Keller moved closer, his lips pursed, studying the images there. After that he turned to check the video cameras and the levels on all the blinking monitors.

At last he leveled his measured gaze on his patient.

For just a moment, looking at Ryan’s face, the vulnerable curve of his mouth, the bruised shadows around his eyes, Dr. Keller’s expression flickered. Then it cleared again and he squared his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he announced briskly. He held out his hand, palm open, for his first instrument. “Let’s do it. Let’s make medical history here people.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on, come on, come on,” Seth muttered under his breath. He leaned forward, pressing an imaginary accelerator, his eyes locked on the white stucco structure just ahead. “There! Right there, Dad! That’s it!”

Even before his son spoke, Sandy spun the steering wheel, bouncing over the curb as he cut into the parking lot of the Santa Clara Clinic. Ignoring a “Reservado” sign, he swerved into the space closest to the entrance. The tires whined, protesting the abrupt turn, and the car rocked violently, jerking its occupants back and forth as he slammed on the brakes.

Almost before the car settled, Seth pushed his door open and bolted outside. His feet twisted traitorously as they hit the pavement and he landed on one knee, but the tumble barely slowed his instant, frantic sprint. “Guys, come on! Hurry up” he yelled, flinging the words over his shoulder as he ran.

It was an unnecessary order. Sandy, Kirsten, and Charlie were just one step behind him, his mother’s heels stabbing the pavement with fierce urgency as she ran. Together they raced up the stairs and into the lobby of the clinic, silent and deserted since visiting hours were over.

“Ry--Brandon,” Sandy called before the door even closed behind them. “Brandon McConnell.” He stumbled briefly over the name, recovered, and continued. His voice rang out sharp and assertive, the way it sounded in court when he faced hostile witnesses. “Where is he? We’re his family. We want to see him right now!”

“Don’t even try to lie to us,” Seth added. He leaned halfway across the counter, jabbing a finger at the clerk for emphasis “We know he’s here somewhere.”

The woman at the reception desk backed away, alarmed. “Las horas de visita son más,” she told them, shaking her head and making a small shooing gesture with her hands. “Volver mañana por la mañana.”

“She said visiting hours are over, that we should come back tomorrow,” Charlie translated swiftly.

“No!” Kirsten’s fingers clenched, talon-tight, around the forged guardianship papers that she held. She thrust them forward, waving them in the clerk’s face. “Tell her this is an emergency! We demand to see him right now! Tell her--”

“Tell her we’ll search every room ourselves if we have to,” Seth injected.

Sandy’s jaw tightened grimly. “Tell her we’ll call the authorities if necessary.”

He and Charlie both knew that was an idle threat—the police would never support them against the clinic and Caleb—but she nodded anyway. In rapid-fire Spanish that Seth could only half follow, she told the clerk something about “legal guardians” and “operation” and “no permission.” The only part he fully understood was “no dejar hasta que lo vea.”

“. . . not leaving until we see him.”

Seth gripped the counter, listening intently as the clerk answered, but his own fear roared in his ears, drowning out the woman’s reply, and he had to turn to Charlie for her translation.

She shook her head, looking at Sandy and lifting her hands helplessly. “She insists that he’s not here, Sandy.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. Snatching the papers from Kirsten, he placed them on the counter, smoothed them and held them flat. “Look,” he ordered. “Brandon McConnell. Don’t tell me he’s not in this clinic. I know he is. Look at the papers, damn it! We’re his guardians.”

The clerk stepped back, reaching for a phone, and Charlie gasped suddenly.

“Wait!” she exclaimed. “Sandy wait—I was wrong! She didn’t say Ryan isn’t in the clinic. She said he isn’t in this building.” Spinning back to the reception desk, Charlie leaned across the counter. In a barrage of Spanish she demanded, “Does the clinic have another building? Is that where Brandon is? In another part of the hospital?”

The clerk, frazzled and nervous, shook her head evasively. “I have no information about that patient,” she declared. “You would have to speak to Dr. Keller. But you can’t talk to him now. He’s in surgery.”

Despite her swift, accented Spanish, Seth, Kirsten and Sandy all caught the word surgery. Kirsten blanched. “No,” she moaned. “It’s started already? We’re too late?” At the same time Sandy commanded, “Call Dr. Keller! I don’t care what he’s doing. Let me speak to him now, or I swear to God I’ll have you all--”

Seth didn’t hear the rest. Unable to stay still, he wheeled away from the desk and started to pace around the lobby. He peered down the hallways, trying to decode all the signs, ready to bolt in any direction that might possibly lead them to Ryan. His head swiveled restively as he scanned the area.

All at once, he jerked to a stop in front of the window.

Squinting against the glare, Seth stared through the sun-streaked glass. Two men had just emerged from a nondescript building across the parking lot. They looked deep in conversation. Their heads bent together, obscuring their faces, and their bodies were partially blocked by a parked ambulance but there was something about them, about the square set of their shoulders, their firm, forceful strides . . . Seth felt his stomach clench as he watched.

Then the taller man stepped clear of the ambulance. He paused and waved for his companion to wait while he pulled sunglasses from the pocket of his crisp pale blue blazer and put them on.

Looking up, he smiled as if he owned the sky.

Even from a distance, Seth recognized that smile.

“Grandpa?” he whispered hoarsely. He licked his lips. Breathless, his heart pounding, he spun around. “Grandpa!” he shouted over his shoulder as he raced for the exit. “Mom! Dad! Grandpa is here! I saw him! He’s outside!”

“What? Seth--?”

“He’s here, Dad! With Grady in the parking lot! Come on!”

“Oh my God!” Kirsten gasped. “Dad is here--?”

She sprinted after her son, Sandy half a step behind her. They caught Seth just as he reached the door.

Just then, the lights flashed twice, and went out.

Things happened very fast after that.

TBC

And let me revise that last sentence--"Things happened very fast after that--unlike the way they've happened so far in this plodding, endless story." But yes, we really, truly, are close to the end: 2 more chapters, max. Swear on Mom.

Best Forgotten, Part 25

2011-03-30T21:06:52Z

Almost there, I swear! But I (pant) couldn't quite (puff) make the finish line this month. I couldn't hurdle that damned writer's block. Who put it there anyway?

Disclaimer 1: The characters, as always, as ever, belong to Josh & company.

Disclaimer 2: This update may be riddled with errors. I refuse to proof/revise it because I'm afraid if I do I'll just toss the whole thing in the trash. But I promised not to Dawn this story, so . . .

Best Forgotten Part 25 *blushes* That's right. 25

“You! Orderly!” a voice barked.

Felix felt the words buffet his back. They clearly commanded him to stop, but without looking, he recognized the speaker—Mr. Nichol, “Brandon McConnell’s” supposed guardian--so he did not even pause. Instead Felix continued walking down the hall, his posture relaxed, his pace deliberately unhurried.

His brow, though, furrowed uneasily.

He had done what he could to fulfill his promise to Lucy—pushing his way to Ryan’s bedside, trying to sooth the blindly thrashing boy—but the whole experience troubled him. When Felix had bent over Ryan to deliver Lucy’s message, the boy’s half-open eyes had stared past him, blank and bottomless, and he had looked exactly like what Dr. Keller diagnosed him to be: the clinic’s worst case—frenzied and demented, less a whole person than a body containing broken pieces of a mind. Felix had felt a moment of doubt. Even if the boy wasn’t Brandon McConnell, even if nothing they had been told about him was true, perhaps the teenager in the bed, his mind and body both battered by drugs and isolation, had been irredeemably damaged.

Perhaps Ryan Atwood was already lost.

But then Felix murmured Lucy’s message, and it seemed to him that the boy’s face changed. A light flashed behind his eyes and for a moment they focused, lucid and intent, as if something deep inside him wanted to respond.

Certainly his body reacted. First he lay still, seeming to listen, and then he jerked into fury of movement—fighting, just as Felix had urged.

As if he had heard, maybe even understood.

Or . . . maybe not, Felix thought. Perhaps Ryan was simply convulsing again, and he had just imagined that flicker of comprehension.

It was so hard to be sure what reality, if any, the boy could grasp now.

Felix sighed and increased his pace. Either way, he reminded himself, Lucy was waiting. He had to hurry and let her in.

Mr. Nichol issued a louder, more irritated command. “Orderly, stop!” he snapped. “Now!”

Lost in thought, Felix scarcely heard the words, but a different voice finally penetrated his preoccupation.

“Felix!” Dr. Keller called, halting him just as he reached the stairs. “Where are you going? I need you here.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Felix turned around. He fumbled for an excuse, simultaneously composing his expression as he returned. “Sorry, Doctor,” he said. “Just thought I had time for a quick bathroom break.”

Dr. Keller waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t,” he said. “I need you to assist with the patient. We’re moving Brandon McConnell to the operating room.”

“Now?” Felix asked. He shook his head, startled. “But I was just with him. I thought--”

“Now,” Dr. Keller cut in curtly. He appeared tense and distracted, not even glancing at Felix as he spoke. A muscle in his jaw pulsed, and his fingers worked unconsciously, weaving around each other as if rehearsing some tiny, precise surgical move.

Automatically, Felix’s gaze darted to the two men next to him. The one he recognized from outside the clinic stood immobile, even bored, staring over his head, but Caleb Nichol returned Felix’s glare coolly. In contrast to the doctor, he appeared completely relaxed, and a satisfied smile played in the grim line of his lips. It only wavered when Felix turned back to Dr. Keller and demanded, “Shouldn’t the boy’s family be here? Do they know you’re going to operate now?”

He wasn’t sure what prompted the questions, but for just a moment, Mr. Nichol’s face clouded. Felix saw a faint shadow of doubt drift across his eyes. Then, as if a lock snapped shut, they cleared, blazing a sharp steel-gray again. “That’s hardly your concern, is it?” Caleb retorted, before Dr. Keller could reply. He inclined his head, and his assistant stepped aside, pointedly clearing the space in front of Ryan’s room. A contemptuous half-smile returned to Mr. Nichol’s face. “I believe you have your instructions--?” he said.

Felix sucked in a defiant breath, his fists clenching. He still didn’t move, but beside him Dr. Keller looked up, roused from his mental preparations. He gave a terse, decisive nod. “Now, orderly,” he demanded.

Without waiting for a response he strode down the corridor toward the surgery prep area. At the last minute he shot peered back, commanding, and Felix, resigned, turned and shouldered his way past Caleb Nichol into Ryan’s room. He took brief satisfaction in the man’s disgruntled huff, but it did not change the fact that Felix knew he had to deliver Ryan to surgery.

Now.

Before he’d gotten Lucy into the building.

Before the boy’s family had arrived.

For a long moment, Felix lingered, holding the door half open, staring at the patient inside that antiseptic room. Brandon—Ryan—looked different than he had just minutes ago. His features slack now, his eyes closed, he lay flat and uncannily still—as if, Felix thought, that sputtering light inside the boy had been extinguished. Along with his spirit.

Sighing heavily, Felix dropped his hand and let the door swing shut behind him. Just before it closed completely, Mr. Nichol’s voice cut through the air again.

“Finally!” he declared with icy triumphant. “All right, Grady, let’s see if we can find somewhere civilized where we can wait . . . The chairs in this place are damned uncomfortable.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You know,” Seth declared glumly as he stared out the car window, “this trip is totally killing my enthusiasm for Mexico. It’s going to put a serious damper on the whole TJ experience.”

The abrupt announcement startled everyone, including Seth himself. His eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his own voice. Sandy and Kirsten both glanced back sharply, and even Charlie peered up from her computer, confused.

“TJ? What are you talking about, Seth?” Sandy demanded.

Shifting awkwardly, Seth fished for a reply.

What was he talking about anyway?

For several minutes, he had sat mute in the back seat, his gaze darting from the back of his father’s head to his mother’s profile, both of them frozen between fear and anguish. Nobody spoke. They just sat, focusing on the silence emanating from Sandy’s phone, hoping for some word from Lucy, some clue about what was happening at the clinic. None came, and the strain of waiting grew unbearable. It moved through the car like a vacuum, sucking up the air, filling the space with an empty soundless roar.

Twice Seth had opened his mouth, desperate to break the tension, only to clamp his lips shut again.

Words almost never failed him but for once Seth could not think of one thing to say. Every harmless subject that occurred to him sounded ridiculous.

Social commentary in graphic novels?

The artistic value of Japanese anime?

Indie-rock music versus Broadway show tunes?

No, no, and also no.

Frustrated, Seth placed the phone in his cup holder. He stared at it, unconsciously thumbing his window control, pushing it back and forth and making his window roll down an inch and then up again, over and over, so that outside noises spilled in like radio station static. His parents did not seem to notice, but Seth intercepted a compassionate smile from Charlie. Embarrassed, he closed the window one last time, leaned against it, and stared out at an endless stretch of dusty sunshine. That was when, without thinking at all, he blurted out his random comment about Tijuana.

Now, awkward and uncertain, Seth tried to explain.

“It’s just, okay, I had this plan,” he stammered. “See, at the end of the summer, pretty much everybody from Harbor goes down to TJ for a weekend. Just to party and you know, hang out, have a good time, dance--”

“Drink and carouse,” Sandy interjected dryly.

Seth sketched a small, sheepish grin. “Maybe that too, a little,” he conceded. “Although carouse, Dad? Who says that anymore? Besides you, obviously. Anyway, the trip is just a final chance to blow off some steam before school starts and we have to conjugate French verbs and analyze obscure poetry again. It’s just . . . fun. I’ve always wanted to go, but up till now . . . ” His voice thinned, and a thread of remembered loneliness ran through it. “A guy kind of needs a wingman, you know,” he mumbled. “And I never had one. But this year Ryan would be there so I figured--”

“What?” Kirsten demanded sharply. “You figured your father and I would let you boys go to Mexico on your own?”

Seth blinked and jerked upright, alerted by an unexpected note in his mother’s tone. She sounded upset, but upset in a way that Seth recognized. This was standard-issue Kirsten Cohen maternal response: familiar, almost comforting Mama Bear-type, anger-slash-disapproval over-protectiveness. He flushed, feeling a rush of triumph.

His unintentional mention of Tijuana had worked.

For a moment, at least, Seth had pulled his mother out of despair. Talking about TJ inspired less threatening emotions. It reminded them all of their normal lives.

Replaced the life-or-death tension with something more ordinary, more manageable.

Seth caught his father’s eye in the rearview mirror. Sandy’s eyebrows climbed, disappearing into his dark hair, and the strain in his face began to ease. He had noticed the change too, and his expression telegraphed a clear message to his son: keep the conversation alive. And keep it as ordinary as possible.

“Answer your mother, Seth,” he prompted. “Did you seriously think we’d approve you guys going for a wild, unsupervised weekend in a foreign country?”

Seth leaned forward, doodling invisibly on the back of Sandy’s seat. “Um, no,” he hedged. “Probably not, if I put it to you that way.”

“And exactly how did you intend to put it?”

“Well . . .”

Seth poked the upholstery harder, unable to produce an instant cover story yet instinctively reluctant to resort to the truth.

But why not? he chided himself. We’re never going to need the plan now. Once we finally get Ryan home, it’s not as if any of us will want to go back to Mexico.

He stopped himself from thinking “if we get Ryan home.”

“You see,” he began, deliberately rambling, “ as it happens, the trip to TJ is the same weekend as Comic Con—a trip you already approved, by the way—so I kind of thought Ryan and I might just, oh, take a little detour. Instead of stopping in San Diego,--”

“Seth Ezekiel Cohen! You lied to us about where you were going!” Kirsten exclaimed.

“Lie is a such an ugly word, Mom,” Seth protested. He offered his mother his most ingenuous grin. “I prefer to think of it as a fib. Or a fiction—you know, just a harmless, slightly less than factual, creative writing approach to the truth.”

“Harmless,” Sandy repeated ironically. “Right. And tell me son, was Ryan going along with this creative writing request of yours?”

Seth shrugged, and managed another weak smile. “Well, to be honest--”

“For a change.”

“Dad! Anyway, to be honest, I hadn’t run everything past Ryan yet. He’s not really big on the secret-plan-deceive-the-‘rents system and I kind of wanted the whole business with Donnie to die down first.” Seth stopped abruptly and his gaze fell. He hadn’t meant to mention Donnie. The name just slipped out, dragging painful memories with it. Staring down at his sneakers, Seth bit his lip. “That wasn’t his fault you know—Ryan’s, I mean,” he mumbled, his voice curdled with emotion. “I’m the one who thought it would be cool to hang out with Donnie. Ryan warned me about him, but I went ahead anyway and you know, everything that happened at the party—the gun and then Luke getting shot—Ryan was only involved because I called him, and he came to get me out of there. He tried to stop Donnie . . .”

Kirsten reached back to pat his knee. “Your father and I know that, Seth.”

Seth nodded bleakly, but he didn’t look up to meet his mother’s eyes. “I know you do—at least I know you do now—but I’m not sure Ryan does.” Swallowing hard he retrieved Sandy’s phone, holding it carefully, willing it to life, but its silence persisted, an ominous undercurrent to all their conversation. “I think,” Seth continued with an effort, “ . . . he keeps expecting you to believe the worst, just to give up on him if anything goes wrong. Even if it’s not his fault. At the hospital that night, while we were waiting for you guys, he was sure you’d send him away. Ryan said he was so gone . . .”

Seth stopped again. That was another thing he had not meant to say.

Gone.

Ryan.

He was so gone.

The phrase hung in the air like a balloon, over-inflated and filled with toxic gas. It was deadly. Seth knew it. Slumping back, he held his breath and waited for the poison to escape.

One second passed, and then two.

In the quiet all the Cohens could hear it clearly—the stubborn silence of Sandy’s phone, still cradled in loosely Seth’s hand.

“Disneyland!” Sandy blurted. He pounded the steering wheel with his palm, shooting a swift smile toward his wife and son, and snatching it back before they could sense its desperation.

His outburst was so abrupt, so wildly unexpected, that Seth jerked up and Kirsten spun around to face her husband.

“Sandy?” she demanded as Seth spluttered, “Wait, what now? Say again, Dad? Disneyland?”

Their voices, tangled in confusion, obliterated the echo of Seth’s last words. The air in the car slowly cleared again.

“You guys will not be going to Tijuana or to Comic Con,” Sandy explained. He swerved deftly into the left lane to pass the slow-moving bus in front of them. “And you definitely will not be going to Tijuana by way of Comic Con. Instead I’ve decided we’ll go somewhere together. All of us. We’re going to take a fun-filled family vacation to Disneyland.”

Seth’s forehead puckered beneath his matted curls. “Okay Dad, A, Ryan and I are not seven years old, and B, may I remind you what happened when I was seven years old? Disneyland was not exactly the happiest place on earth.”

“Oh sweetie,” Kirsten murmured. A wistful smile curved the corners of her mouth. “We had no idea you’d be afraid to meet Mickey, or that the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ ride would scare you. You had been a pirate for Halloween. We thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Well, I didn’t. It was dark and long and claustraphobic and yo-horrible. Finding out I hate pirates should have warned me what a nightmare Harbor would turn out to be. Also, Mickey? Is a ginormous, manically smiling rodent. Any sane child would run screaming, Mom.”

“But you always like to watch him on TV.”

“On TV, he’s three inches tall, Mom. He’s two dimensional and safely trapped behind the screen. In person, wrapping those big gloved arms around you—and why is he wearing gloves anyway?” Seth shuddered. “Never mind. And I’m not even going to discuss ‘It’s a Small World,’ and its inane, endless song. Or the Mad Tea Party--”

Sandy held up his hand. “I promise we won’t make you go on the teacups again, Seth. Trust me, none of us want a repeat performance of that. In fact, maybe we should skip Fantasyland altogether. It might be a little young for you and Ryan. But we can check out the areas we missed before. Your mom and I always meant to take you back again. We just never got around to it. But better late than never, right?”

“Better never than late, Dad,” Seth countered. His hand slid, loose and sweaty, around his father’s phone, and he checked to make sure it was still safe in his grasp.

It was still there. But when Seth glanced down, no reassuring light winked back at him. The display screen was totally dark. Seth blinked hard and stared down again. His eyes widened with panic, and he jiggled the phone furtively, then pressed the on button, jabbing it again and again, trying to bring the device back to life again.

He couldn’t. Sometime--he had no idea when--the battery had died.

No wonder they had heard no word from Lucy.

Seth stifled a silent moan. He felt the way he had once when the Summer Breeze had capsized, trapping him briefly under its hull. His lungs burned, airless, and his heart pounded wildly in his chest. Sandy’s voice receded into a distant drone. All Seth could hear was his mother saying “Don’t lose the connection.”

But he had.

He had been given one job to do, one task that might help them save Ryan. And he had failed.

Desolate, Seth slumped down in his seat, still gripping the useless phone, wondering how to tell his parents that the phone was dead. It took him a moment to feel Charlie molding her hand gently over his fist.

“Not your fault, Seth” she mouthed when he finally glanced up. Then she lifted her chin, gesturing at Sandy who was still talking, oblivious. Seth swallowed hard, and she smiled, gently nudging him back into awareness.

He nodded slowly and took a deep breath. Okay, Cohen, he told himself. That much you can do: distract your mom with mindless chatter.

“—always kind of wanted to go to the Country Bear Jamboree,” his father was saying. “Of course I’d prefer it if they sang show tunes, but still, it sounds like fun, right Seth?”

Seth licked his dry lips. “Let’s see. Country? Bear? Jamboree? Yeah, dad, I can’t imagine enjoying an experience involving any of those words. Also? I admit we’ve never discussed it, but Ryan doesn’t seem like a bear or country or jamboree fan either.” The conversation was beginning to fray at the edges. Seth could feel himself straining to maintain their forced banter, but for his mother’s sake, he couldn’t let it unravel completely. Besides, he dreaded the laden quiet too. Especially now that he knew they would hear nothing from Lucy. Glancing over, met Seth met Charlie’s encouraging gaze, and cast about for something else to say. “Okay, here’s an idea,” he began, before he had any idea at all. “If we’re going to take a family vacation, how about, how about . . .? I’ve got it. Las Vegas! Seriously, guys, think about it. That’s practically a world tour in one stop. The Sphinx, showgirls, the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, showgirls, gondola rides. It would be a cultural experience. Plus, I hear there are showgirls.”

“Do you think Ryan has ever been there?” Kirsten asked abruptly. Her voice sounded distant and tight, wrapped around itself. She looked back at Seth, her eyes suspiciously moist. “Disneyland, I mean.”

Seth shook his head. “Yeah, since his childhood seems to have been pretty much all bruises and broken promises, I think that’s a safe bet no, Mom.”

“All the more reason that we should go,” Sandy insisted. His hands locked in a chokehold around the steering wheel, but his voice remained buoyant. “Every kid should have the theme park experience once. It will be fun, spending time together, relaxing, taking silly souvenir photos--

“Great,” Seth groaned. “I can see those pictures now. Me arm in arm with Goofy and Ryan surrounded by every single Disney princess. Nope. Not happening, Dad.”

Ignoring his son’s objections, Sandy continued blithely. “We could get a weekend pass and do the whole tourist bit. I’ll wear Bermuda shorts and sandals with socks, your mom can wear rhinestone sunglasses, and you guys can roll your eyes and pretend not to know us.”

“Yeah, no, Dad,” Seth said, wrinkling his nose. “I mean, I get the appeal of a family get-away, but somehow I just can’t picture Ryan strolling around the Magic Kingdom.”

Sandy’s tone changed. “But that’s the whole point, son,” he said gravely. “The kid could use some magic. We all could.” Reaching over, he clasped Kirsten’s hand. She answered the gesture with a faint, wistful smile.

“Yes, we could,” she whispered. “I think Disneyland is a wonderful idea, sweetheart.”

Sandy nodded. Then he glanced back at Charlie, who had followed the conversation in silence, her face flushed with sympathy. “What do you say, Charlie? Want to be an honorary Cohen for a couple days and come with us? The men in the family outnumber Kirsten three to one. She’d probably appreciate some female companionship.”

Taking a deep breath, Kirsten rallied, trying to keep up the charade of normalcy. “Definitely, Charlie. You should come along,” she urged.

“Sounds like fun. I haven’t been to Disneyland since--” Charlie’s voice broke off abruptly, then rose again, vibrating with excitement. “Sandy! Take the first right around the curve. That’s the entrance to the clinic. We’re there.”

She no sooner spoke than Sandy hit the horn and accelerated, wheeling through the turn in a tornado of dust. An instant later they could all see it.

The Santa Clara Clinic, looming bleached and innocuous in the late day sun.

They had arrived.

And this time they knew Ryan was inside.

But they had no idea exactly where to find him.

And they had no clue what was happening to him within those opaque white walls.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 24

2011-02-27T22:54:43Z

I won't waste your time with apologies, just a warning that my muse if officially off the payroll. This was supposed to be the last chapter, but she refused to report to work. But here's this month's update anyway.

Disclaimer: Yes, Josh, still yours, even though I doubt that you'd recognize the characters anymore.

Best Forgotten, Part 24

“Lucy?”

Lucy’s attention had been riveted to her phone, but Felix’s voice ripped it away from the distant noise of the Cohens’s car speeding around a turn. Instantly alert, she wheeled to face him.

“I’m due back on duty now,” Felix told her. “As soon as I report in, I’ll meet you at the service entrance and let you in. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Thank you, Felix.” A shadow crossed her face and her eyes darkened, conflicted. She placed one hand on Felix’s arm. “I know we must hurry, only could you—do you think you could stop first to check on Ryan? If he is aware at all of what is happening, he must believe that I have deserted him. And the Cohens! Perhaps you could let him know . . .?”

She didn’t finish but Felix nodded his understanding. “If I can, I’ll tell him his family is coming,” he promised. “But we’d better get moving now.”

Lucy smiled, reassured, and clasped Felix’s hand between both of her own. She pressed it once, swiftly and gratefully. Then, without another word, she released him, straightened her shoulders purposefully, and turned to go.

“Lucy, wait,” Felix called. “Dr. Keller notified security about you. Maybe you should take that off.” He gestured to the pocket of her pale green uniform as she spun back around.

Confused, Lucy frowned and glanced down at herself. Her ID tag winked up at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, you are right. It might be best if I did not announce who I am.” Instead of removing the pin, she ripped off her entire tunic, her lips crimping as she stuffed it into a nearby trashcan. “I think I will not need that again,” she said, smoothing down the flowered t-shirt that she wore underneath. “Go ahead, Felix. Hurry. I will be waiting for you.”

With a wave of farewell, Lucy sped toward the clinic’s service entrance. She lifted her phone again as she ran. The area appeared deserted but she instinctively kept her tone low anyway. “Mrs. Cohen--” she began.

“Kirsten. Please, call me Kirsten,” Kirsten injected. She sounded breathless, her words fraying into thin threads. “What’s going on? You were talking to someone, but we couldn’t hear--”

Even though she spoke swiftly, Lucy’s smile warmed her reply. “Thank you, Kirsten. And I am Lucy. I was speaking to Felix, the orderly who is helping us. He is going to get me back into the clinic through a delivery entrance. But I am not permitted to be inside, so once I am there, I must call no attention to myself.”

“Oh.” Kirsten bit her lip, immediately comprehending. “Then the phone--?”

“I will keep it on so that perhaps you will hear enough to know what is happening,” Lucy assured her. “But I can not speak to you directly, and I am going to mute the volume so you will not be able to speak to me either. Not until we . . . not until it is safe.”

Lucy’s words hung in the air like rain-thick clouds. Kirsten sensed the doubt inside them. Not until we have stopped the operation. If we can stop it. Not until Ryan is safe. If we can save him. Automatically she swayed toward Sandy. He glanced over, his eyes anxious, and took one hand off the wheel long enough to rub her shoulder. Kirsten’s lips trembled at his touch almost, but not quite, managing a grateful smile. She sat up straighter and spoke into the phone again.

“I understand, Lucy,” she said thickly. “But I need to tell you—that man you were talking to before? The one who told you the operation had been delayed? We could hear his voice. His name is Patrick Grady.”

“You know him, Kirsten?”

“He works for my father. Try to stay clear of him, Lucy. He’s a dangerous man. And so--” Kirsten swallowed, choking on the truth, but she forced herself to finish. “So is my father,” she concluded painfully.

Lucy shuddered at the anguish in her voice, heard it echo in her own response. “I know,” she admitted. “Kirsten, I am sorry, but I am at the service door. We should stop talking now. Drive safely. I will see you, all of you I hope, very, very soon.”

“Yes,” Kirsten repeated. “Soon.” Her expression dazed, nearly numb, she lowered her arm, letting the silent phone slip out of her grasp.

Seth stared at his mother’s lap, as if trying to will the device lying there back to life. “So that’s it?” he demanded. “We’re just supposed to sit back and listen? But what if we have to talk to Lucy? What if we have an idea or we need to warn her about something? We might be able to help! Now all we can do is--”

“Get to the clinic as fast as we can,” Sandy injected sharply. “And we’re doing that, Seth. Charlie? How far?” He shot a probing glance backwards, his gaze flitting from the road to the backseat as Charlie bent over her computer to study the directions.

She calculated swiftly, her eyes narrowed with concentration. “About sixteen miles,” she reported. “So maybe . . . twenty-five minutes on this road? Less if traffic lets up.”

Sandy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but he sped up, veering sharp left to pass the lumbering truck in front of them and swinging back into their own lane just in time to avoid an oncoming car.

Kirsten gasped, and the sudden force of the move sent Seth rocking sideways, throwing him against the door. His skin tingled with alternating currents of hope and fear. He stared out the window, his feet jittering again, his curls matted flat against the glass. The dusty world outside looked odd, ordinary and askew at the same time. It reminded Seth of the alien world he had glimpsed when Luke’s water polo friends had dangled him upside down on the beach at Holly’s party. A gritty, acrid taste filled his mouth at the memory. He could almost feel the blood rush to his head again, the way his muscles tensed, bracing for pain and humiliation, how his fingertips swept the sand, futilely searching for something he could hold onto.

An awful realization thundered through Seth at the memory. Maybe, he surmised grimly, that’s kind of how Ryan feels now—powerless and scared and deserted. Only like, ten thousand times worse.

His own helpless panic had just lasted only a couple minutes. Then, out of nowhere, he had heard Ryan’s voice, cool and assertive, ordering, “Put him down.” And just like that, the guys had. Turning their attention to Ryan—targeting him instead—they had dropped Seth. He had landed hard and halfway stunned, his cheek mashed into the sand, grit coating his lips, his ankles throbbing and his right eye stinging. In that instant on the beach, though, Seth was barely aware of any pain. What he had felt most—even more than relief when Luke's friends had released him—was awe and a deep, dazed gratitude.

For the first time somebody had his back.

He didn’t have to face his tormentors alone.

And you just did it, Ryan. You didn’t even have to get involved, Seth thought. His cheeks reddened with remembered shame. I mean, you barely knew me, and I’d acted like an ass, accusing you of coming on to Summer, and broadcasting the fact that you were from Chino to all those junior-league Newspsie snobs. But you helped me anyway. And I swear, dude, we’re going to help you now. I don’t know what lies Grandpa told you—well, I probably could guess a few—but what happened with Gabrielle? It doesn’t matter. The ‘rents don’t give a damn about that. They haven’t abandoned you, Ryan. You just have to hang on. We’re on our way . . . I just wish to hell that this car could go faster.”

Automatically seeking support, Seth reached for his mother again, but this time instead of taking his hand, Kirsten abruptly thrust Sandy’s phone at him.

“Here. Hold this, Seth,” she ordered. “Don’t lose the connection.”

“Mom?” Seth blinked, confused, even as he cradled the handset protectively.

Kirsten ignored the question in her son’s voice. Leaning forward, she rummaged in her purse and pulled out her own phone.

Sandy glanced sideways, his brow puckering in consternation. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Calling my father,” Kirsten replied. “He’s there, Sandy. At the clinic. Grady is there and so is Dad. I know it.” Rushed and anxious, she fumbled with the buttons, accidentally cutting off her first call before she could speak. When she tried again her nerve-slick fingers slipped twice as she dialed and she had to start over. “He told me that he wanted to be there for Brandon McConnell’s operation,” she murmured absently, “only, only he made me believe Brandon was a friend of his and instead he—Dad?” she cried, interrupting herself. “Dad? Damn it, Dad! Pick up! Pick—up!” Kirsten’s breath caught. Her next words sounded strangled, all the life squeezed out of them. “Listen to me. I know what you’ve done to Ryan. I know you have him in that clinic and that you—Dad, you have to stop that operation right now! Do you hear me? You can’t let—Oh God, Sandy! It’s his damn voice mail!--Dad! Pick up! Talk to me! You have to talk to me, Dad, please! Just tell me that Ryan’s all right, that you’re going to stop this before it’s too late, before he . . . he--”

Her voice heaved and then shattered.

Sandy reached over, gently removing her phone, as Kirsten collapsed in tears—deep, gasping sobs that threatened to choke her, that convulsed her body, making it shudder under her husband’s comforting hand.

Seth shivered, watching. He had seen his mother cry that hard only one time before, on the day when his grandmother had died.

But maybe, Seth though, this was kind of the same thing. Maybe for Kirsten, her father had just died too.

And Ryan?—Did his mother think that Ryan--?

Seth sat back, his hands suddenly clammy, clutching his father’s phone. He began to rock back and forth, silently chanting words like a mantra, as if repeating them would make them true: “We’re coming Ryan. We’ll get there in time. I promise we will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan could see lines of light dancing, white and blue and red, crisscrossing, vibrating and flashing overhead. He thought his eyes were open but he wasn’t sure anymore. The rest of the space was black. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out any other shapes in the darkness—just those sharp, throbbing patterns. The streaks appeared random, manic and insistent, and somehow he could feel them inside him, like bursts of flames only icy-cold.

He twisted back and forth to avoid them, but they found him anyway.

Somebody was urging him to calm down, to lie still, but Ryan didn’t recognize the voice, didn’t trust it.

He wished he could obey—he was so, so tired—but how could he calm down when he didn’t understand what was happening to him, or why? He needed to know. And lying still wouldn’t help. It had never worked as a defense against his dad or A.J., or any of Dawn’s other asshole boyfriends. They enjoyed hitting him even when he was down.

Only . . . none of them were around anymore, were they? Ryan sensed that somehow. They were all far away—too far away to hurt him—but he still felt the urge to flee. Something wanted to destroy him. He had to escape, he knew that much, so he kept trying. Except his body resisted. It twitched vainly, mocking his urgent commands, dragging him down into a soft, heavy darkness.

“There, that’s right. Relax,” the strange voice—no, a chorus of voices--crooned.

“Just relax now, Brandon.”

“Lie still.”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t fight it, Brandon.”

“Brandon.”

“Brandon.”

Ryan jerked, every nerve ending seared by the name. “No!” his mind screamed. “Won’t—I won’t--”

He wouldn’t relax or calm down or lie still. He wouldn’t do anything those unctuous voices wanted.

How could he when his brain buzzed with an unrelenting alarm? It kept whirring, warning him: something very wrong is happening. You’re Ryan, remember? Not Brandon. Ryan. You have to get up, get out, get away. Right now, no matter what, before you disappear . . .

“You gotta fight back, Ry.” Something cold stung him, and Ryan heard Trey’s half-sneering drawl. “You may still get your ass whipped—shit, you probably will—but at least you may land a few shots of your own before you go down. And who knows? You keep fighting, maybe sometime you might actually win.”

Except . . . except what would Sandy and Kirsten think if he did? “No more fighting,” they had cautioned, and Ryan had promised that he wouldn’t. Fighting, hurting people, that was what Atwoods did. He had to stop if he wanted to be part of Cohen family.

He had to . . . stop.

His fists slowly unclenched, and the fitful rhythm of a distant beep grew steady, like a clock counting down, lulling him . . .

As Ryan watched, the lights sparking above him began to flow together. Their sharp edges dissolved and their harsh colors softened, weaving their way into one clear, shimmering pool. Or perhaps not a pool at all. Perhaps they had become the sky. Ryan gazed up, rapt, and his reflection, dazzling bright, almost unrecognizable, smiled back at him.

“What’s going on here?” somebody demanded from a cluster of shadows beyond the sky-pool. The voice sounded sharp and upset, but Ryan didn’t care. He focused on his own image, trying to make it hold still as it wavered in the water.

It had looked so happy, so serene at first—a boy with a home, security, a chance for a future. But now it kept bobbing beneath the surface, searching for something, emerging eyes frantic, distraught and desolate.

Sandy and Kirsten and Seth . . .

Where were they? If they were his family now, they should all be together, shouldn’t they? They should be somewhere close beside him. But they weren’t, they weren’t anywhere that he could see.

Ryan’s fists closed again. Grasping air, trying to keep it from seeping through his fingers, he scanned the sky-pool for the Cohens’ faces. He peered between liquid shards of sunlight, until he found them at last, Sandy and Seth and even Kirsten, submerged in the depths, gilt-edged and insubstantial as illustrations in a fairytale. Slowly, slowly they floated upwards until at last they reached the surface, smiling, extending their hands out to him. No, not to him: to the Ryan-image in the water. Still as he watched, Ryan could feel the warmth of each gesture, solid and real against his own skin—Seth’s abrupt, heartfelt hug when he was going back to Chino, Sandy’s palm on his back, guiding him out of his abandoned house, Kirsten’s arms, embracing him with shy restraint, welcoming him into their family.

The Cohens had reached out to him, rescuing him, and all they asked in return was that Ryan not fight. And he didn’t want to disappoint them. He didn’t.

But the sky-pool had darkened suddenly and its water was churning now, producing waves angry and dangerous as pummeling fists. In a split-second frenzy, they washed away the Cohens, crashing over Ryan’s own image and shattering it the same time.

He moaned, a long, keening sound and rocked forward, his fingers unfurling into the ebony-streaked emptiness, but Sandy and Kirsten, even Seth, were gone. And the reflection that stared back at him from the midnight sky-pool, eerily still and unfathomable now—

Ryan reared back in horror.

Its eyes were holes, sightless and soulless.

That person had no face at all.

Ryan gasped. Strong hands seemed to circle his throat, cold and vise-tight. They began to squeeze, cutting off his oxygen, pushing him toward the edge of the sky-pool, and the lights inside it began to sizzle, and Ryan realized that if that electrified water touched him, it would burn his face away too. It would obliterate him completely. He would become a blank visage, nameless, unknowable, lost forever, even to himself.

Ryan had no choice. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to fight back.

Maybe, he told himself desperately, maybe just this one time the Cohens would understand and forgive him.

It wasn’t really fighting after all. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. All Ryan wanted was to go home, to be himself again.

Summoning all his strength, he kicked back, but his heels thudded uselessly. They hit nothing but air.

From behind him, Ryan heard a derisive snort. “You lie so much, now you even do it to yourself, don’t you, boy.” Caleb sneered. “You don’t have a home. Your own mother didn’t want you. You seriously think that my daughter would? Admit it: even for Sanford, you were never anything more than a charity case. Now that you’ve shown your true colors, they’re done with you too. I told you, didn’t I? You’re nobody.”

“No!” Ryan flailed, his back arcing, every muscle straining for release. “Stop it! Not true—they didn’t--” His voice clotted, stuck in his throat, and he sank back, panting. Caleb’s mocking voice had vanished and he could hear other, unknown people instead, fragments of speech that refused to make sense.

“—should be fully sedated--”

“—never seen this reaction--”

“Have you increased the dosage?”

“—keep thinking we’ve got him under control, doctor, but--”

There were noises too—beeps, a sinister buzzing, muffled clicks like a lock opening and snapping shut again—but Ryan couldn’t connect them with anything he understood. He shook his head frantically. “ Want . . . Sandy,” he gasped. Twisting back and forth, he strained to escape the lights, the ominous sounds, the traitorous prison of his own unresponsive body.

Why couldn’t he move? He had to keep moving--

“Doctor!”

“Wait. Let me try,” someone said. Hands pressed—gently, persuasively—against Ryan’s shoulders, easing him down, and a man bent over him, close, blocking the lights, his mouth next to Ryan’s ear. The voice deepened, became lullaby-soft and soothing. “Lucy sent me,” it whispered, so low Ryan wondered if it was really speaking at all.

“Lucy?” he slurred.

“Shh. Listen. The Cohens are coming for you. They’ll be here soon. You just have to keep fighting a little longer, Ryan.”

Keep fighting?

Ryan?

For the space of a few breaths—long enough to hear “Lucy” and “The Cohens”—Ryan had gone still, but at the plea to keep fighting, the sound of his name, a bolt of hope shot through his body. He didn’t think, didn’t will it. He just began thrashing again.

Instantly, the cacophony of voices resumed.

“—more agitated than before”

““Not doing any good, Felix--”

“Out of the way--”

“Page Dr. Ertman . . . Get him down here now!”

The hands holding Ryan’s shoulders kneaded them once and released him. There were a dozen new noises, quick footsteps, the sound of a door sliding open then closing again, but all Ryan heard were those hushed, earnest words.

The Cohens are coming.

They felt solid and real, and his mind clutched them desperately:

They’ll be here soon, he told himself. They’re coming for you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scowling, Caleb rubbed his side again. He could feel a bruise forming where that oaf of an orderly had elbowed him as he pushed past into Ryan’s room. The man had not even paused to apologize. In fact, implausibly, he had appeared almost amused when he glanced back over his shoulder. It was as if he had enjoyed seeing Caleb’s discomfort.

Probably some semi-illiterate bully, hired simply for his physical strength, No doubt he’s jealous of anybody with intelligence and breeding, Caleb thought irritably. His jaw tightened. He made a mental note to identify the man and have him officially reprimanded once the operation was over. In fact, he should be fired. Caleb nodded to himself. After all, he mused, smiling at the door placard that read “Brandon McConnell, actions have consequences, don’t they boy?

A sensation like static, insistent and annoying, interrupted his thoughts. It took Caleb a moment to identify the cause. Then he realized phone was vibrating. Slipping it out of his pocket, he tore his attention from the observation window into Ryan’s room long enough to glance down at the display. Kirsten. Surprise flickered briefly in his eyes. Then his gaze cleared. Of course. By now the Cohens would have arrived in San Francisco. No doubt Kiki just wanted to check in with him before they went out to dinner.

For a moment, Caleb considered taking the call, but then he shook his head.

Kirsten, he suspected, would ask him about the success of “Brandon’s” operation, and he would prefer not to deal with that question now. Better to wait until he was sure that his current anger and impatience would not seep into his tone.

Besides, he didn’t want to put a damper on his daughter’s evening by reporting that, sadly, the patient had died on the table. He could give her that news later, after she had enjoyed time with Sandy and Seth—with her real family.

Without even checking his daughter’s message, Caleb put his phone away and turned back to Ryan’s window. He could barely see the boy through the cluster of medical personnel bunched around his bed, but his gaze was fixed on Dr. Keller in any case.

Tapping the face of his watch absently, Caleb studied the doctor for some indication that he was ready to act.

It had seemed like such a simple, albeit expensive, solution to the problem of the delinquent who had finagled his way into Kiki’s family—Caleb’s family: deliver him to a ruthlessly ambitious doctor who could make “Ryan Atwood” vanish forever, even from Ryan Atwood’s own mind. It would be, Caleb thought, a kind of poetic justice. The boy used the supposed pain of his home life to prey upon Kirsten’s and Sandy’s sympathies; now Dr. Keller would insure that all those awful memories disappeared completely.

Isn’t that what Kirsten had said she wanted to do? “You don’t understand what he’s been through, Dad—the neglect, the beatings,” she had claimed. “And if you had seen his face when his mother abandoned him here—I just wish we could make that hurt go away.”

Well, once Dr. Keller operated, it would. Only now the man was vacillating, delaying the surgery merely because the boy seemed to be having some kind of adverse drug reaction. This was the third time he had gone to check “Brandon’s” condition and frankly, Caleb was tired of waiting.

He expected decisive, timely behavior from his employees, and Dr. Keller worked for him now. After all, Caleb was paying for this operation. He wanted it done according to schedule.

Deep in his jacket pocket, his phone vibrated again, but Caleb ignored it. Instead, he impatiently adjusted his cuff links, glancing at his watch and then back at Dr. Keller, who was studying some graphs on a computer screen.

Grady strode down the hall, his pace brisk and soundless. “Cal?” he called, as he neared the room. “Any news?”

Without turning from Ryan’s window, Caleb shook his head. “Not yet,” he said shortly. “Took you long enough to get back, by the way.”

“Sorry. I stopped outside to have a cigarette,” Grady explained. His tone, crisp and intolerant, echoed Caleb’s own. “All this standing around doing nothing got to me, and now evidently, we’re supposed to wait some more. Listen, Cal, I tabled our flight plans for tonight, but I left word that we might reinstate them. Would you like me to cancel them completely and--”

Caleb gestured sharply and Grady broke off as Ryan’s door opened and Dr. Keller stepped out.

“Well?” Caleb demanded.

Dr. Keller’s brow furrowed for a moment, and he rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Brandon is still somewhat agitated. Frankly, his reactions baffle me,” he confessed. “I don’t even understand how he’s finding the strength, but he’s fighting all our attempts to calm him.”

“Is he? Well, it sounds to me as if the boy is becoming increasingly violent. Don’t you think that indicates the surgery should be done immediately?”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Killer conceded. “I just hate to begin the operation with his condition so unpredictable. It’s such a sensitive procedure. I would prefer to wait until I identified the source of his agitation, but his vital signs are stable and Dr. Ertman believes he can withstand the anesthesia. So if you think that we should--”

Caleb didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. “Do it now,” he ordered. He shot out the words. They seemed to ricochet, bullet-lethal, through the silent hallway. Their sharp echo gave Caleb a sudden pang, a frisson of unexpected, unfamiliar guilt. Out of nowhere, he pictured Seth loping into the kitchen with Ryan, laughing, happier and more animated that Caleb had ever seen him. Even worse, he recalled Kirsten’s luminous smile later that evening. She had been watching by the door as the boy slipped outside and, haloed by the pool lights, padded across the patio toward the pool house.

“Sleep tight, Ryan,” she had called. Her eyes had shone, warm and maternal, when he paused at the door, lifting one arm to wave a shy good night.

Caleb’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, remembering. At the time that moment of quiet tenderness had angered him. Now its memory produced a nagging worry.

All her life, Kirsten had been reticent with her affection, but once someone gained her love, Caleb knew, she gave it unstintingly. Still, he reassured himself, the situation was different with the boy. Kirsten could not really love him. After all, she had not even wanted him in the family. Kiki had been forced to accept him, first by Sandy and Seth, finally by her own innocent compassion. And now that she knew the kind of person he really was, surely she would realize how misplaced her sympathy and emotional investment were. Surely she would forget him—

“Mr. Nichol? Are you sure?”

The question sounded like a challenge. Caleb wheeled around, frowning, to confront Dr. Keller. He stood for a moment, silent, tamping down his own doubts. Then his shoulders stiffened and he drew himself up, satisfied. “Yes, doctor,” he said coldly. “I’m sure. Start the surgery now.”

TBC (again!)

Best Forgotten, Part 23

2011-01-30T23:41:03Z

Well, this is closer to the end of the story, but not by nearly as much as I expected. Most of this update I wrote the first week of January when I was still on break. Since then . . . well, life has gotten demanding on several fronts. (I won't bore you with all that here.) But this weekend I realized that it's the end of the month already, so I tried to cobble together a new chapter. Instead I wound up writing in circles. To maintain the tradition of once-a-month updates, though, I'll post anyway.

You know the drill: nothing is mine except the preposterous plot, a couple original characters, and any errors. Also the story is wildly AU (see "preposterous plot".)

Best Forgotten aka "The Story That Apparently Never Ends", Part 23

“Lucy?” Kirsten’s fingers tightened, clutching Sandy’s phone the same desperate way that she still held Seth’s hand. “We’re on our way. Can you stay on the line and let us know what’s happening?”

Lucy nodded tersely and started to turn to Felix. Then, realizing that the Cohens couldn’t see her, she replied, “Yes. Of course, I will, as long as I can. Only, Mr. Cohen, hurry please.”

“You heard her Dad,” Seth declared. “Hurry!” Slamming his foot down, he ground an imaginary accelerator to the floor, trying to will the car through traffic. His face clouded, first fierce and then bleak, and he pounded his clenched fist against his thigh.

Charlie glanced at him, concerned. “Seth?” she asked quietly.

His mouth twisted. “I hate this,” he muttered. He stared out the window into the sun—the same sun, he knew, that even now was glinting off the pool house, dappling the waves at Newport beach, shining on the people strolling along its boardwalk. He and Ryan should be there, Seth thought. They should be weaving through the crowd, Ryan on his rusty bike, Seth on his skateboard, laughing and racing each other to the Crab Shack.

He shut his eyes. For a moment, he could almost feel the ocean breeze tickle his face, smell the salty, baked-butter scent of the beach, hear wheels clacking along the pier, see the crab logo on Ryan’s t-shirt.

It seemed so real. So normal. Then Seth opened his eyes again, and it all disappeared, along with his brief, film-thin euphoria.

He was still trapped in a car with his parents, too miles away from Ryan.

True, they knew for sure where to find him now. They even knew that Ryan somehow had made an ally, that Nurse Forde believed in him and was trying to help him too.

All that was great. But none of it would matter if they couldn’t reach Ryan in time.

Seth shook his head, swallowing. “Being stuck in here --” His voice caught in his throat and he struggled to untangle it before he continued. “I mean, I know we’re going as fast as we can, but it feels like we’re not getting any closer. I just wish I could . . . do something. Like get out and run or fly there or teleport or . . . something. I mean, Dad--what if we’re too late?”

“We won’t be,” Sandy said curtly. His eyes never left the road, but he shoved his sunglasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The rigid contours of his face relaxed and his voice seemed to soften as he added quietly, “Just hang in there, kid.”

“Yeah, but--” Seth blinked, abruptly interrupting himself. Kid. Dad never calls me that, he thought with surprise. So . . . he wasn’t talking to me. Dad's talking to Ryan. And he’s saying that we’ll get to him on time.

Somehow that realization comforted Seth It sounded like a promise, and his father, he told himself, had never broken a promise. Not to Seth, or to his mom, or anybody he loved.

He wouldn’t break a promise to Ryan either. Not even one that Ryan couldn’t hear.

Sinking back, Seth exhaled audibly. Next to him, Charlie smiled. She patted his still-clenched fist as Sandy sped up to pass a truck and two cars in front of them.

“See?” she whispered. “We’re definitely getting closer.”

Seth nodded and closed his eyes again. He licked his dry lips, vaguely aware how thirsty he was. We should have packed something cold to drink, he mused absently. Some Mountain Dew or O.J. or something.

The thought ricocheted through his mind. Seth flushed, hearing himself, ashamed of caring about his own comfort, almost afraid that he had said the selfish words aloud. In the next instant, though, he smiled to himself.

O.J., he repeated silently.

He was reminded, suddenly, of Ryan’s first real morning as an official—well, not yet legal-official, but parent-approved—member of the Cohen family.

Seth had gotten up early, eager to start the day. He loped downstairs, his bathrobe swinging loose on his lanky frame, ready to sprint across the patio. At the last moment, he detoured to the refrigerator. Flinging the door open, he stood, rummaging through the shelves, and swigging orange juice directly from the carafe. Ryan padded inside just as he paused, in time to see Seth wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, breathe a satisfied “Ahhh” and lift the juice to his lips again.

“Um—Seth?”

At the sound of Ryan’s voice, Seth stopped in mid gulp. He wheeled around, beaming. Ryan squinted in reply, his hair rumpled, his face still sleep-flushed. Personally, Seth didn’t feel tired at all, but he understood a little emotional jetlag. After all, Ryan’s mom had just left him—again—the day before. Then Kirsten had announced that he would stay with them, and Seth had launched an instant, day-long celebration. After a sailing trip, lunch on the pier, afternoon pool time, a cook-out on the patio and a movie with the ‘rents later, he and Ryan had stayed up until almost three. They had played video games, eaten contraband junk food Seth had stashed in his room, and talked. Not about the stupid Newpsie fund-raiser or Dawn leaving again, or even about Kirsten’s decision to let Ryan stay. They had just . . . talked. Like friends.

Or, okay, maybe Ryan mainly listened while he had done most of the talking, but still . . . It had been, Seth thought, a seriously awesome night.

The first for the brand, shiny-new Cohen-plus-one family.

“Hey,” Seth caroled happily. He grinned at Ryan, waving the bagel he held in greeting. “You’re up! Excellent! Ready for your first official day as a Cohen-in-training? I’ve got to warn you, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.”

Ryan frowned. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the half-empty pitcher and Seth followed his gaze quizzically.

“Oh--Want some?” he offered, holding out the half-empty decanter. “An orange juice toast to your new Orange County home?”

Ryan’s head moved a scant half inch from side to side. “You drank from that, Seth.”

“I—what?” Seth examined the pulp-smudged lip of the pitcher. “Oh yeah. How do you like that. I guess I did—”

As he spoke, Sandy strolled into the kitchen one step behind his wife, his arm wrapped around her waist. “Aw, look at that, sweetheart,” he observed warmly. “Our kids are already up. And you thought they’d sleep past noon today.”

Kirsten nodded, smiling at Ryan, who had ducked his head shyly at the words “our kids.” Then she turned her attention to her son. “Did what, Seth?” she asked.

“I—say what now, Mom?”

“Your father interrupted you when we walked in. You were telling Ryan that you did something. What did you do?”

His cheeks turning an embarrassed red, Seth stashed the container back into the refrigerator. He closed the door hastily. “Oh that. Nothing important,” he claimed, tearing off a piece of onion bagel. “Just, um, you know. I kinda drank most of the orange juice.”

“Straight from the pitcher,” Ryan added. He studied the counter. His voice sounded innocent, but his downcast eyes flickered impishly.

Seth choked on the bite of bagel he’d just swallowed. “Dude!” he protested. “That’s just—I—okay, I did. But still.”

“Seth Ezekiel Cohen!” Kirsten exclaimed. She snatched the carafe from the refrigerator and put it in the sink. “I’ve spoken to you about that a hundred times. It’s rude and inconsiderate and unsanitary!”

A tiny smile tugged the corners of Ryan’s mouth at the sound of Seth’s middle name, and Sandy clapped his shoulder. “It’s for his great-grandfather,” he whispered, shaking his head ruefully. “But I know—Ezekiel?”

Seth glowered at them both before he managed to look contrite again. “Yeah, but Mom, I mean, it doesn’t really matter. You drink cranberry or blueberry or some weird health juice concoction and Dad drinks apple, so it’s not like I’m contaminating anybody else’s beverage of choice.”

Kirsten looked pointedly from Seth to Ryan. “Really?” she demanded. “Ryan, what kind of juice do you prefer?”

The question confused Ryan. So far in the Cohen home, he had eaten and drunk whatever the family offered him. As for his selections back in Chino—besides beer and Jack Daniels, there had been tap water, instant coffee, and sometimes Kool-Aid over-diluted frozen orange juice.

He had never been offered a choice of flavor before.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Orange, I guess.”

Seth moaned. “Dude,” he said. “You couldn’t have picked pineapple?” He slumped against the counter and Sandy patted his shoulder with feigned sympathy.

“Don’t worry, son,” he grinned. “I’m sure after a little practice you’ll master the art of drinking from a glass. And now you’ve learned the first rule of having a sibling: you have to share.”

“I don’t trust him,” Kirsten declared. Reaching into the cabinet, she pulled down another carafe, its rim edged with green instead of yellow. “This one,” she said firmly, “is yours, Ryan. I’m sure I can trust you to drink from a glass. Just wait. I’ll make you some fresh juice.”

Ryan’s head jerked up. “Mrs. Cohen, wait. You don’t have to--”

“Don’t worry, kid,” Sandy assured him. “It’s safe.”

“True,” Seth added. “Juice is one of the few edible things Mom can prepare. Although I’d still watch out for seeds.”

“No, I meant I could--” Ryan stopped abruptly. He had expected to see Kirsten reach for a can in the freezer, the way Dawn did on the rare occasions when she made juice for a morning screwdriver. Instead Kirsten scooped half a dozen oranges from a bowl on the counter and pulled a machine he had never seen before out of the cabinet.

“Do you like pulp in your juice or not, Ryan?” she asked, as she sliced the oranges in half. “I can make it either way.”

Ryan blinked, as if trying to translate the question. “I—with pulp, I guess,” he said at last. “Thank you, Mrs. Cohen.”

She smiled over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “I think we’re past that now. Why don’t you just call me Kirsten?”

In the Cohen car, recalling the scene, Seth’s smile gradually sobered. He remembered the dazed look on Ryan’s face, the slow, solemn way he repeated Kirsten’s name when he thanked her again, how he closely he watched her work, his eyes following every movement, as though marveling that she would care what he wanted, that she would take the time and effort to see that he got it. To make sure that he was happy.

It had been such a simple, everyday thing—just his mom making juice, asking Ryan to use her first name—but it somehow, Seth realized, it meant so much more than he’d realized at the time.

Impulsively, gratefully, he squeezed his mother’s hand. Kirsten turned around, looking at him with surprise. “Just because,” Seth explained, shrugging. “And Dad, by the way, nice lane change back there. But could you go just a little faster maybe?”

On her end of the line, Lucy barely heard the Cohens’ conversation. Her expression abstracted, she clipped the phone to her tunic and stood for a moment, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. Then she wheeled around. “Felix,” she said, looking up at the orderly and taking his hand again. “I am so sorry to involve you in all this. I know it is not your problem and I will not blame you if you must refuse. But I do not think I can manage alone. I must stall this operation, long enough at least for Ryan’s family to get here. Please, is there any way you can help?”

Her gaze, at once pleading and apologetic, seared Felix’s face. He rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed gravely. “There’s the delivery entrance,” he mused. “I should be able to slip you in there. But once we’re inside--”

Seth bolted upright, listening. From Lucy’s phone came the rushed, eager sound of his voice. “Okay, so I have an idea. What if you pulled a fire alarm?” he suggested. “That always stops everything when it happens at school. Or, wait, how about this? We could call in a bomb threat to the clinic? They’d have to evacuate the building, right? Or at least put everything on hold inside while they checked it out?”

Lucy dipped her chin close to her phone. She could hear Seth’s parents demurring, even as she told him, “We cannot do those things. They might jeopardize the care of the other patients.” Still, her eyes narrowed speculatively as she considered the idea. “Perhaps we do not need anything so drastic,” she said. “Felix, do you know where the electrical control system for the Annex is?”

“You’re thinking that we cut the power? But the back-up generator would just kick in right away, wouldn’t it?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes,” she conceded. She looked past Felix, her eyes boring through the thick walls of the clinic almost as if she could see inside. “But remember the blackout we had during that storm last month? Even though the power came back on almost at once, it took several minutes for the clinic’s computers to reset completely. Nurse Cree was afraid that we would lose some data. We did not, but I do not believe the problem was ever resolved. And Dr. Keller must rely on computer imaging for this surgery. If he has any doubt that the program is accurate, I am sure he will not proceed until he has run the diagnostic. It will not take long, but perhaps it will give us enough time to--”

Abruptly, her jaw tightened and she broke off

“To what?” Seth demanded. “A computer glitch sounds great. So what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Hush!” Lucy ordered tensely. Pulling Felix with her, she sank into the shadow of an alcove and stared at the side exit of the Annex. Puzzled, Felix followed her gaze. A tall man had just emerged. He was slim, his shoulders ramrod-straight, and even from a distance he exuded an imperious, impatient attitude. When he paused to light a cigarette, he stopped directly outside the door, in the center of the sidewalk, where he could command the entire space.

“Lucy?” Felix prompted softly.

“That man,” she whispered. “I have seen him before, Felix.”

Her voice was too hushed to carry into her phone. On the other end of the line, the Cohens strained to hear, but no sound at all reached them from Lucy’s side. All they could hear was the vibration of the engine, the beat of Seth’s feet bouncing against the floor and the faint rush of traffic, seeping through the windows from the highway outside. Even those noises seemed distorted and far-away, muffled beneath a pulsing blood-rush of fear.

It gripped all the Cohens at the same time.

Why had Lucy stopped speaking so suddenly?

Kirsten caught her breath. She gripped the phone tighter, studying its display as if an answer to the question might be hidden just inside. Next to her, Sandy inhaled sharply. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, while in the back seat Seth’s knees jittered frantically and his face reddened, almost as if the silence was strangling him. Kirsten glanced back at her son. Her own throat constricted, and she squeezed his hand gently, both in comfort and as a warning.

For whatever reason, her gesture reminded him, Lucy had halted the conversation. Seth couldn’t risk speaking. None of them could, not until she let them know it was safe.

In the clinic parking lot, Lucy licked her dry lips. Then her chin lifted, suddenly resolute. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed her wrinkled tunic. “Wait for me,” she mouthed to Felix. Slipping past him she stepped out of the alcove and hurried down the path, her head downcast. At the same time, she lifted her phone to her ear and, as if talking to an old friend, caroled loud enough for the man by the exit to hear, “I cannot wait to tell you all the details, but I am already at the clinic and I am late for my shift. I will call you back on my break. Bye.”

Instead of hitting the end button, though, Lucy simply pocketed the phone, leaving the connection live. She raised her head, her smile evaporating into reproach as she neared the man. “Sir!” she called, frowning as if she had just seen him and waving her hand to dispel the smoke from his cigarette. “Sir, I am sorry, but you will have to put out that cigarette. Smoking is not allowed in this area.”

The man stared down Lucy, his gaze dismissive. “That’s ridiculous. I’m outside the building.”

Lucy inclined her head with apparent apology. “Yes, I know” she conceded. “But I am afraid it is still a rule. You must be at least one hundred feet from the clinic. Perhaps if you would like to step over there by the trees? I could show you--”

“Don’t bother,” the man snapped. His voice, flinty and impatient, sliced through the air.

In the Cohen car, Kirsten’s eyes widened just as Sandy’s head jerked around and Seth slammed his feet down flat. Even Charlie sat up straight.

“Mom!” Seth hissed. “Did you hear him? That man—it’s Patrick Grady!”

Kirsten nodded, her eyes glazed, her face ashen. For an instant, she seemed about to speak. Then she shook her head. Cupping her fingers over her lips, she silenced herself as well as Seth, and the Cohens, tense and mute, resumed listening.

Tossing his cigarette to the ground, Grady ground it out with his heel and turned, but before he could step back inside the clinic Lucy moved, adroitly blocking his way. She stooped to pick up the stub, dropping it into the trash even as she placed a sympathetic hand on Grady’s arm.

“I do understand,” she claimed. Smiling companionably, she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “I only recently quit smoking myself, and I know how hard I must fight the urge to start again. It is especially strong when I am stressed. Some of our cases are so tragic, and I have to--Oh! I am so sorry! I just realized. You came from this building? The surgical wing? Does that mean—are you waiting for news about someone? I am just on my way inside. If you would tell me the patient’s name, I would be glad to check for you--?”

“That’s not necessary,” Grady said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some calls to make.”

Lucy turned pale at his tone and the finality of his words. “I hope—you have not had bad news?” she asked. Despite her attempt to sound professional, her breath caught as she spoke.

The Cohens heard it waver, heard the flinty pitch of Grady’s voice, so much like Caleb’s, and waited, breathless, for his reply.

“There’s no news at all,” Grady said curtly. He shrugged off Lucy’s hand and glanced at his watch, his lips thinning with irritation. “The operation hasn’t even started yet. They keep pushing the damn thing back.”

“Oh.” Lucy exhaled. “Is there a problem?”

Grady shrugged. “Something about the boy getting agitated when they were going to administer the anesthesia. I don’t understand why that should be an issue. All they have to do is put him under. Problem solved.”

All they have to do is put him under? Lucy thought, horrified. What kind of unfeeling monster thinks this way? With an effort, she swallowed her rage and contempt, mustering a dispassionate tone instead. “But surely it will only be a short delay,” she prompted.

“It’s supposed to be. But damned if I understand what they’re doing in there. All I know is that I have to change all our plans. So if you don’t mind--”

“Oh! No of course,” Lucy murmured, stepping out of Grady’s way. “I hope,” she added, her voice tightening despite herself, “that . . . everything works out as it should.”

Grady didn’t seem to notice the change in her tone. She watched him stride past, waiting until the clinic door closed behind him before she moved. Then, pulling her phone out again, she rushed back to Felix.

“It has been postponed again!” she gasped, simultaneously speaking to him and to the Cohens. “Did you hear? The operation has been delayed! If you can get me back in the clinic, Felix--”

Kirsten’s voice, edged with panic, cut her off, “Nurse Forde, wait! Grady said Ryan is agitated. What does that mean?” she demanded. “Is he in pain? Is he having some kind of convulsion? What is it?”

Lucy pictured Ryan the way she had seen him last, his body seizing and thrashing. At the same time she heard his voice, weak but determined, pleading with her.

"Lucy . . . give me something—make me sick. Please. Won’t operate if I’m sick . . .”

“No. I think--” she said slowly, “I hope—it is a good thing. I think, even if he is not fully conscious, Ryan’s agitation means that he is trying to resist the operation.”

“It does,” Sandy declared flatly. “It means he’s fighting.” Once again, his voice took on that distant tone. The sound of a tender, admiring smile shimmered just below its surface “Good for you, kid,” he murmured. “Keep it up, okay? Just a little bit longer--”

With that, he sped up, swerving around two cars, peeling over to the exit ramp, and making a sharp, squealing right-hand turn onto the road that led back to the Santa Clara Clinic.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 22 And Happy New Year!

2010-12-31T15:36:02Z

Please forgive me, flist. With all the holiday celebrations, continued school responsibilities (yes, even over break) and my pitiful (failed) attempt to keep up with the Advent challenge, this update was written sporadically over the last few days. It's not revised or even proofread, but since it's the last day of the month--and the year!--I'm posting it anyway.

May 2011 be wonderful for all of you.

And once again, thanks to Josh & company for the use of the characters. Now the AU adventure continues . . .
Best Forgotten, Part 22

Best Forgotten, Part 22

“This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just call me?”

The instant she heard that name, Lucy stiffened. The air froze around her and she became aware of everything at once: the weight of her phone in her hand; hazy, shimmering heat bouncing off the pavement; all the wrinkles in her pale blue scrubs; the sweat beading on her forehead, salty on her lips; an aching twinge in her right ankle—how long had it hurt?—the clinic’s dark shadow slicing through the parking lot; Felix, solid and silent beside her; the perplexed pucker between his brows; a small stain—was it blood?—on his sleeve; the lonely caw of a seagull overhead; the slam of a distant car door; even the drone of an insect near her wrist.

She recognized all of those things. They were real. For an instant Lucy could not connect them to the strained voice on her phone or the words she thought she heard the caller say.

Then, with a rush, they became real too.

“Sandy Cohen?” Lucy gasped. She swayed, clutching her phone like a lifeline, and Felix slid a supportive arm around her waist. “I—yes, I called. I--are you—Mr. Cohen, do you have a foster son named Ryan Atwood?”

In the hushed Cohen car, Kirsten and Seth leaned close to Sandy. Three seconds stretched into an eternity as they waited, breathless, for him to speak. He inhaled sharply.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you know Ryan? Where is he? Is he all right?”

Abruptly, even roughly, Kirsten pulled the phone from Sandy’s ear and pressed the speaker button. Seth grabbed her hand, squeezing it in thanks and pressing as close to the front seat as he could. His whole body strained, almost vibrating with the effort of sitting still and listening. Charlie edged forward next to him. Her eyes glinted, absorbed and appraising, ready to assess each word.

For a moment all the Cohens and Charlie could hear was a faint, crackling sound. Then Lucy answered. Her voice wavered, sometimes hesitating between words, sometimes racing through them.

“Yes. I think . . . I hope . . . physically at least, I believe that Ryan is fine for now. But I am afraid that . . . Oh, I do not know how to say this! It is all so complicated, so unbelievable! I do not know how to explain, Mr. Cohen.”

“Just say it,” Sandy ordered. “Whatever it is—we have to know.”

There was another brief pause and the Cohens could hear Lucy’s long, bracing breath. “Yes,” she said at last. “You must. Let me start at the beginning. I am . . . I have been Ryan’s nurse.”

The word “nurse” crackled, alive and ominous. It seemed to suck the air out of the Cohen car. Despite the fact that they were searching clinics, that they expected—even hoped—to find Ryan in one of them, somehow that single syllable gave substance to all of their fears. Kirsten blanched. One hand flew to her mouth and the other tightened around Seth’s. He clutched it frantically, the way he had as a child when they were in crowds and he was afraid he might get lost. Sandy’s jaw clenched. “Go on,” he rasped. His voice rose, snapping out each question with urgent concern. “Why would Ryan need a nurse? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Sandy’s desperation sizzled through the phone. Lucy could feel it surge through her own body, warming and frightening her at the same time. Ah, Ryan was right to believe in this man,> she thought. I can hear it in Mr. Cohen's voice. He is so worried. He cares so much for his son. Only now . . . how can I tell him he has found Ryan, but not in time to save him?

Instinctively Lucy huddled closer to Felix. He continued to hold her, standing mute and still. Only his eyes moved, watching with bewildered anxiety as, in the space of a heartbeat, a thousand emotions flitted across her face. Then her expression became eerily calm, a sky after a storm. Her gaze cleared and Lucy drew herself upright. Remembering her promise to Ryan, concentrating only on that and summoning all her strength, she launched into a full explanation.

“He is here,” she said evenly, “at the clinic where I . . . where I worked. But you will not find him as Ryan Atwood. He was admitted as Brandon McConnell. This is a psychiatric hospital, Mr. Cohen, and Ryan—He is not hurt physically, at least not more than some bruises from struggling with the orderlies, but he has suffered very much emotionally.” Although she could hear a jumble of sound—harsh exclamations, gasps, a strangled burst of profanity—Lucy raced on before anyone could interrupt. “You see, he was wildly incoherent when he came to us, raging, seeming to suffer from violent and disturbing hallucinations. The doctors. . . they diagnosed Ryan as paranoid and dangerously psychotic. They did have cause, Mr. Cohen! We were led to believe that Ryan—Brandon, as we knew him—had suffered a complete psychiatric breakdown, that he had killed the real Ryan Atwood and assumed his identity—not just publicly, but in his own mind. He was brought to our clinic for treatment as an alternative to life in prison. I am so sorry. I know this must sound unbelievable.”

“I wish it were,” Sandy muttered, too low for Lucy to hear. He reached for Kirsten’s and Seth’s clasped hands, cupping his own over it, holding them both as they listened.

“Ryan tried to tell me the truth,” Lucy said. “When I was caring for him, over and over he begged me to call you but for so long—for too long—I thought that he was delusional . . . I did try once to reach you, Mr. Cohen, to appease him mostly, even though I did hope . . . but the number listed on our records—whoever I spoke to told me—he said that Ryan was dead.”

“You spoke to an imposter,” Sandy said grimly. “It wasn’t me.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, Lucy nodded, pale with shame. “I know this now,” she admitted. “Ryan—he was so earnest, so desperate. I could see nothing but honesty in his eyes. He finally convinced me to research his story on my own. But when I did learn the truth, I could not prove it to anyone. And now--”

For the first time, Lucy faltered, unsure how to continue, reluctant to reach the painful conclusion of her story.

“Now we’ll handle it,” Sandy injected. “Just tell me exactly where Ryan is.”

“Yes. Yes, I am sorry. Of course.” Swallowing hard, Lucy licked her lips. “He is at the Santa Clara Clinic, in Cozumel Mexico. But Mr. Cohen--”

A triumphant yelp, Sandy’s sharp “Hold on!”, and the sound of an engine revving cut Lucy off. She stopped, startled, staring at the phone.

“What is it?” Felix whispered. “Lucy? What’s going on?”

Lucy shook her head, shrugging, afraid even to speak while she waited.

In the Cohen car, Sandy tossed the phone on the dashboard, simultaneously starting the car and glancing back at Charlie for directions.

“Make a U-turn,” she told him, bending over her computer. “We need to head back the way we came. I’ll have the rest in a minute. Go!”

“Go Dad!” Seth echoed. His fist clenched and he pounded the back of his father’s seat. “Damn! I knew that was the right clinic! I knew it!”

Not bothering to answer, Sandy checked his mirror, his hands locked around the steering wheel. He barely waited for a break in traffic before he yanked the wheel hard left, swinging the car onto the road with an angry squeal of tires. In the back seat, Seth jerked sideways, bumping into Charlie and knocking her computer on the floor. At the same time, Kirsten caught the phone just as it started to slide off the dash. She lifted it to her mouth, closing her eyes, breathing hard. Her hand and her voice both shook as she spoke.

“Ms—Forde?” she stammered. “This is Kirsten Cohen, Ryan’s—Ryan’s foster mother. We’re on our way now. Please—could you tell Ryan that we’re coming for him? Let him know that we’ve been looking for him, that we want to bring him home and that we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Kirsten’s words, the frayed sound of her voice, splintered Lucy’s brittle resolve. Ah no, she thought, leaning against Felix again. Kirsten Cohen? But then this is the woman whose father brought Ryan here, the one who is trying to destroy him. It would have been difficult enough to tell Mr. Cohen, but to speak to his wife? How can I do this—to tell her such horrible truths about her father? Only, yes, she is also Ryan’s mother, is she not? So she must know.

“Mrs. Cohen?” Lucy said numbly. “I am sorry. I wish I could speak to Ryan for you but I cannot. I have been fired and barred from the clinic.”

“What? Why?” Kirsten demanded, but Lucy didn’t hear the questions. She was lost in her own anguish, aching with the awful futility of it all—to reach the Cohens now, to know that they were on their way, but to know too that it was too late. By the time they arrived, Ryan would no longer exist.

Even if he survived the operation, he would not remember the Cohens. He would not recognize them, would never even know that they had loved enough to come.

“Please,” Lucy whispered. “I must tell you. Mrs. Cohen . . . Ryan—Dr. Keller has been treating him, but he still believes Ryan is Brandon McConnell, and that his psychosis is irreparable, so now he is preparing to--” She stumbled to a halt, unable to make herself say the word “operate.” Instead, awkwardly, urgently, Lucy fumbled her way towards the truth. “I tried,” she stammered. “But the bits of evidence I found, they were not enough—I could not convince him that his patient really was Ryan Atwood. There was so much proof otherwise—legal documents, court transcripts, medical records! And Dr. Keller—he is a neurosurgeon and he has been refining an experimental procedure. So since the conventional therapies appeared to fail, he, he--”

Before Lucy could force out the final words, Sandy did it for her. “He’s going to operate on Ryan,” he concluded flatly.

Lucy released a slow, anguished breath. “Yes,” she admitted. She shuddered, steeling herself to continue. “The surgery . . . it is a new kind of—lobotomy. It is intended to eliminate all violent, destructive impulses, but to do that . . . If it works, the operation will erase all of Ryan’s memories, all his personality. He will be--I am sorry. The Ryan we know will be gone.”

“Oh my God,” Kirsten whispered.

“What? No!” Seth cried. “They can’t do that! You can’t let them do that to Ryan, Lucy!”

Sandy shot an urgent look backwards, silencing his son. “When?” he demanded. “When is he going to operate?”

Lucy reached for Felix’s hand, holding it for support.. “Today. Soon,” she said. She shut her eyes against the pain in her own voice. “Too soon, Mr. Cohen. By the time you could get here from California--”

There was a sudden exuberant cry and the younger male voice, the one Lucy didn’t know, cut her off.

“But we’re not in California! We’re already here, in Cozumel, on—oh hell, I don’t know what road we’re on exactly, but we’re on our way to the clinic right now” Unconsciously, Seth slammed his foot on an imaginary accelerator, urging the Cohen car faster, even though a truck blocked the lane in front of them. “Drive faster, Dad!” he ordered. “Come on—greased lightning! Warpspeed, like, now!”

Dazed, Lucy gripped her phone. “You are—I am sorry, what?” she stammered. “I do not understand.” Then, slowly, a tingling warmth, equal parts shock and hope, flooded her body. For the first time since the clinic door closed behind her, Lucy allowed herself to envision the scene she pictured when she first called Sandy Cohen—Ryan reunited with his family, released the clinic, able to claim his own name once again. “You said you are here? In Cozumel? Dieu merci!” she breathed. “But wait. Mr. Cohen, where are you exactly? How long until you can get here?”

“How long until we get to the clinic, Charlie?” Sandy prompted.

There was a burst of excited conversation, questions and directions and interjections. Lucy couldn’t track the jumble of voices. She just held Felix’s hand, nodding numbly in reply to his whispered “That’s really the boy’s family, Lucy? Then you were right about him—he really is Ryan Atwood? And they’re on their way here now?”

“Yes,” she said. “They are coming, Felix.”

Shaking his head, Felix heaved a deep breath. “Damn,” he muttered, scratching his chin. “I didn’t know what to think before when you told me the kid’s story. But now--I really hope that his folks can get here in time.”

Lucy didn’t answer. She just glanced down at his wrist, at the fierce black numbers on the watch Felix wore and her stomach clenched with anxiety. At the same time Sandy’s voice emerged from the distant cacophony, coming to her clearly. “Lucy? Nurse Forde? Stay on the line,” he ordered. His tone had the force and focus of a missile bearing down on its target. “We’re trying to figure out the fastest route now. Charlie?” There was another spurt of indistinct conversation and then Sandy continued, “All right. It looks like it will take us about forty minutes. How much time do we have before the operation?”

Lucy’s mouth went dry. The numbers on Felix’s watch blurred and then seemed to flash as she stared at them. “Not enough,” she answered raggedly. She had to force the words through her clogged throat. “It will—it is scheduled to start in twenty-five minutes.”

There was an instant of absolute silence. It shattered with an intake of harsh breath, more muttered profanity, the sound of a choked sob. Lucy couldn’t tell whether it was on the Cohen’s end of the line or on her own. Then Sandy’s voice sliced through the din. “All right,” he said tersely. “Give me Dr. Keller’s number. I’ll call him and--”

Lucy shook her head. “It will do no good, Mr. Cohen,” she warned helplessly. “He will not speak to you. And even if he did, it is not possible to prove who you are over the phone. He will not believe that you have the authority to stop the surgery.” Her voice trailed off, becoming almost inaudible. “Already he has permission to perform it . . .” she whispered.

As if responding to her despair, a seagull suddenly screeched overhead. It sounded desperate, bereft and hopeless. Lucy looked up. She watched the bird swoop, scan the ground, and then wheel upward, soaring into the sky again. Her jaw tightened suddenly. Something congealed inside Lucy forming a core of steely resolve.

Over the phone she heard a muddle of voices: the boy who must be Seth declaring fiercely, “Then we’ll send the police in to stop it, or I don’t know—somebody! We’ve got to do something, Dad!” At the same time, Mrs. Cohen moaned “We’re so close . . . Oh God, Sandy, we can’t lose him now! Do you suppose . . . if I call my father?” Meanwhile the car’s engine revved louder and the other woman, the one Lucy did not know, announced curtly, “I can’t find a faster route. Sandy, you have to slow down! It won’t help Ryan if you have an accident.”

Sandy muttered something incoherent. Then his voice rose. “Ms. Forde,” he began, but before he could finish Lucy interrupted.

“I will stall the operation somehow,” she said. She grabbed Felix’s hand, squeezing it when he looked down and nodded gravely. “We will not let Dr. Keller operate before you get here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan felt something stir inside him, pushing through the darkness that seemed to fill his lungs. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he was aware of cool, smooth sheets underneath him and draped across his chest, clamps holding his head in place, the tiny sting of a needle in the back on his right hand, a hushed bustle of people surrounding him, a man saying, “Tell me when to start the anesthesia, doctor.”

Some small alert part of his brain recognized it all. “Clinic,” he thought. “Operation.”

Ryan waited for a wash of panic, but it didn’t come. Instead, he felt something lift him up. He had a sense of flying. Then a playful ocean breeze ruffled his hair, and moist sand, cool as the sheets, pushed between his bare toes.

“Beach,” Ryan thought gratefully, and in his mind he stretched his arms, tilting his face up into sunlight he could sense but not see.

It was as if he was caught in the space between waking and dreaming, but he couldn’t tell which was which. Then he heard Sandy’s voice, warm and cajoling.

“So what do you say, kid? Gonna try it?”

Suddenly the sand was gone, and Ryan found lying on something waxed and wooden while water lapped over his body.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He licked the drops of spray on his lips. They tasted salty. “Why me, Sandy? Seth doesn’t surf.”

“Seth doesn’t have to. He rides a skateboard,” Sandy replied.

“Right,” Seth’s voice added helpfully. “And don’t bother asking about Mom, dude. She can walk in high heels.”

“Yeah, but I bike,” Ryan protested. “I can do that.”

“Then you can surf,” Sandy insisted. “It’s all in the balance, kid.”

Ryan dangled an arm off his surfboard, searching for something solid, touching eternity. “But there’s nothing underneath,” he whispered.

“That’s why you have to do this, Ryan,” Kirsten called. “It’s the fastest way back to us.”

Ryan squinted through gauzy white sunshine, speckled silver with water. He could see all the Cohens standing on the shore. They were waiting for him. Seth was bouncing in place, waving both arms like a semaphore, while Kirsten shielded her eyes, watching Ryan and smiling.

“Okay, ready” Sandy asked. He gestured with both hands, the “All rise” motion Ryan had once seen the priest make when he went to Mass with Theresa. “Wait for the right wave and then stand up . . . Trust me kid. You can feel it coming. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, lean into the movement, and you can ride it all the way home.”

Ryan glanced behind him and saw the water swell. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up.

“Stop!” a voice cried sharply. “What's going on? I need some help here!”

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 21.

2010-11-30T17:40:19Z

Yes, I'm still slogging alone with this story, but it's been a very hectic month, so I'm afraid this short and unsatisfying installment was the best I could manage. And at that it took me until the very last day to get it done! But for what it's worth, here is

Best Forgotten, Part 21

(And yes, it's still wildly AU, ands I still claim none of Josh's characters.)

Stunned, Lucy stared at the phone in her hand. It had gone dead so abruptly, cut off in mid-ring. Almost, she thought, as if someone had hung up on her deliberately.

But that made no sense—why would someone hang up before even identifying the caller? No, it must have been a mistake, Lucy assured herself, a problem with the service provider perhaps, or a dying battery. It could not have been intentional.

Still, the dead silence felt like another defeat, like the door to Ryan’s room locking behind her, like Mr. Nichol dismissing the proof she had found of his lies, like Dr. Keller ordering her removed from the clinic.

Lucy’s finger, poised over the redial button, faltered, then fell off the keypad.

She couldn’t bear to be cut off again.

Perhaps, she concluded wearily, it is not worth my time to place this call again right now. The person, whoever it may be, is not likely to answer. And I can always try later if I must.

If I do not reach Sandy Cohen with another combination of numbers.

But surely, surely I will.

Surely one of them will be right.

Still, Lucy could not shake the sick feeling that none of them would work. She had done so much wrong already. Perhaps she had erred with this too, misheard Ryan’s mumbled entreaties, or reversed some of the other digits. It was so hard for her to be sure anymore.

Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Ryan had told her all that she needed to know, Lucy thought numbly.

Why hadn’t she listened?

Sweat beaded on the nape of her neck. Unconsciously, she reached back, rubbed away the moisture, and moved around the building into a sparse square of shade. For a moment she just stood, fingering her phone like a talisman, taking long, deep breaths of the heavy afternoon air.

At last, slowly, her jaw muscles tightened and she stiffened her spine.

There was nothing she could do now except keep her promise to Ryan. No matter how long it took, she had to keep trying until she reached Sandy Cohen.

Pulling a pen from her pocket, she scrawled a star—the third on her list--beside the number she had just called, reminding herself that no one had answered. Then, swiftly and firmly, she dialed the next combination.

Nobody answered that call either. Lucy listened to only the first words of the message—a blithe female voice caroling, “Hey, hi. It’s Alicia. Sorry I missed you--” before she hung up. Her shoulders slumped again. Biting her lip, she tilted her head back against the rough annex wall, her gaze searching the cloudless sky.

The sun blazed down, blinding her, burning away her last thin shreds of hope. Still, automatically, she began to dial again.

In the distance, she heard footsteps, faint at first, then growing quick and heavier, but she paid no attention until a concerned voice called, “Lucy?”

“Felix?” Lucy blanched, jerking to attention and dropping her phone. She spun around so fast that she nearly fell off-balance.

Felix rushed over, catching her elbow to steady her. His face was grave and warm with concern. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Are you all right? I heard what happened inside with Dr. Keller.”

“Oh! Yes. I’m fine,” Lucy stammered. Clasping his hand between both of her own, she clutched it tightly. Her breath quickened and her nails pressed into his flesh. “But you—you are leaving now? It is not time for a shift change. Does that mean . . . Ryan? What is happening to him? Felix, please tell me the operation has not already begun!”

The orderly shook his head, sighing, and Lucy’s grip tightened.

“Felix,” she demanded. “Tell me.”

He gave her a slight smile, equally rueful and reassuring. “No,” he said. “It hasn’t started yet.”

Lucy exhaled. Closing her eyes, she crossed herself swiftly, then looked at Felix again. Her gaze was marbled with relief and entreaty, and he answered her next question before she could ask.

“I don’t know why exactly,” Felix told her. “The doc was all set to go, but I guess the last blood tests showed something he didn’t like. Anyway, he decided he needed to wait another half hour and run the tests again.”

“A half hour,” Lucy repeated. “And Ryan? Where is he now, Felix? Is he conscious? How is he?”

A shadow crossed Felix's face. "Still in his room. The doc is with him now. Ryan was awake, or almost, when I left and he--"He stopped, startled into silence by a short, chirping sound at his feet. Then he bent down to pick up the phone lying there.

"Lucy?" he asked. "Is this yours?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seth stared at his father’s phone, still and black in his palm. In the silence, he could still hear echoes of its jaunty ringtone. The “Greased Lightning” refrain bounced through his mind and all at once he recalled the afternoon he had programmed it.

Ryan had been with him in the kitchen, his head tilted to one side, watching bemused as Seth considered different songs.

“Didn’t you just change your ringtone yesterday, Seth?” he had asked.

“That is correct, dude. I did,” Seth affirmed. “But today I thought to myself, who in this house knows music better than I do?”

Ryan poured a bowl of cereal, shrugging. “I don’t know. Rosa?”

“Ha. And also no,” Seth retorted. “Nobody does. I happen to be the resident musical expert of Casa Cohen. So I decided to take on the daunting task of finding appropriate ringtones for the ‘rents.”

“Uh-uh,” Ryan murmured dubiously. He reached down to touch Kirsten’s slender silver phone. “So for your Mom--?”

Seth beamed. “Ah yes. The Kirsten. I already finished hers. For Mom, I selected a few bars of ‘Pictures at an Exhibition.’” Pushing a button, Seth played the opening notes. He nodded judiciously as he listened, then reached around to pat himself on the back. “It is, if I do say so myself, the ideal choice. Classical, classy, and also a tribute to Mom's art history background. You know that she loves art, right?”

Ryan glanced at the model and roll of blueprints lying on the table. His eyes softened. “I know Kirsten loves architecture,” he conceded. “And that song--”

“Uh-uh-uh, bro!” Seth injected. He held up an admonishing index finger. “That? Is not a mere song. That? Is the promenade movement from a suite for piano by Mussorgsky” Ryan glared and Seth lowered his hand hastily. “Although you’re perfectly free to call it a song. Or, you know, whatever”

“Fine,” Ryan said dryly. “This 'whatever' is actually pretty nice. It sounds like Kirsten.” He spooned up a dry piece of cereal, chewed it and swallowed. So what do you have for Sandy?”

Seth frowned at his father’s phone. “I’m working on Dad's right now,” he replied, scrolling through selections. “You’d think he’d be easy, wouldn’t you? But there are almost too many possibilities. So finding just the right song--”

Ryan didn’t glance up, but a corner of his mouth lifted slyly. “Or promenade movement from a suite for piano,” he injected.

“Whoa! More Atwood humor. Okay, I’ll give you that one, R.A. But just wait until we get you a cell phone and I program your ringtone. I think maybe a little—hold on! Eufreakingreka! I’ve got it!” Grinning widely, Seth jabbed a button and turned up the volume. “What do you think? Dad, right?”

John Travolta’s slick, Danny Zuko baritone barreled through the kitchen.

Ryan listened, his eyes narrowed skeptically. “First of all, I don’t need a cell phone,” he said. “Your mom has already bought me enough stuff. And if I had one, I would not let you program it. Second, ‘Greased Lightning’? Seriously, Seth? You’re going to put that on your father’s phone?”

“I am indeed,” Seth murmured, his fingers working deftly on his father's keypad. “Aaaand--done! Now I just need to slip this back in Dad’s briefcase before he gets back from surfing.”

Grabbing Sandy’s briefcase, Ryan slid it out of Seth’s reach. “Wait a minute. Do your parents even know you’re doing this, Seth?”

Seth shrugged blithely. “No,” he admitted. “But have you heard Dad’s phone, Ryan? All it does is ring. A boring, generic, no-personality, standard-issue, just-like-everybody else ring. I figure Dad needs something more suited to his unique Cohen-ness.”

“Cohen-ness,” Ryan repeated. He shook his head, still doubtful. “Seth . . .”

“No, seriously, think about it, Ryan,” Seth urged. “Dad’s a rebel from the Bronx—well, the Bronx by way of Berkeley—and he loves Broadway shows, plus he played Danny in a high school production of ‘Grease’. This song has got energy and that whole defiant, retro vibe. It’s perfect for him.”

Ryan studied the worn leather of Sandy’s briefcase. His brow creased uncertainly. “Yeah, but Seth, your father is a lawyer,” he said. “You think he’ll really appreciate John Travolta announcing his calls in the office?”

“Trust me, Ryan. He will love it.”

Grinning, Seth flipped his father’s phone closed and tossed it to Ryan. He caught it easily, turned it over and rubbed it with his thumb, erasing a small cream-cheese smudge Seth had left.

Ryan’s touch, Seth recalled, had seemed almost reverent. Unconsciously, he mimicked the gesture, tracing small circles on the screen of Sandy’s cell phone as he remembered the rest of their conversation.

“You know,” he had continued. “Dad’s seen that movie like eight thousand times. He even made you watch it twice, remember? And anyway, Ryan, Sandy Cohen is not exactly your average, staid, stuffy, capital L lawyer.”

Ryan had tilted his head, considering. A small smile tugged at his mouth and he nodded slowly.

“That’s true,” he murmured. His voice was so quiet that he might have been speaking to himself. “Sandy is not average at all.”

Recalling Ryan’s words the quiet rental car, Seth could hear it clearly—that note of hero worship. He could picture it too, in the expression he saw when he met Ryan’s eyes. They had been focused somewhere in the distance, or maybe somewhere inside, and they appeared different than Seth had ever seen them before.

He had noticed it at the time, but only now could he define the change.

They had looked unguarded. That was it.

All their normal wariness, the opaque, protective shield that so often masked his feelings, had disappeared completely from Ryan’s eyes. They had been shining, a clear, defenseless blue.

And they blazed with absolute admiration and trust.

Ryan, Seth realized, had trusted Sandy completely.

He had trusted all of the Cohens.

Meanwhile, everybody in stupid, superficial Newport assumed Ryan was just an opportunist, taking advantage of the Cohen’s charity. They believed the only issue was whether Sandy and Kirsten should trust him in their house, with their money and their car, with everything they owned.

But that wasn’t true, Seth concluded. His own eyes clouded as he thought about it.

Ryan was risking a lot more than they were. He had to trust the Cohens, too, and with something more important than just material stuff. He had to take it on faith that they wanted him, that they wouldn’t change their minds and kick him out or abandon him the way his mother had done.

And Ryan had trusted them. He had allowed himself to believe that he had found a real home with the Cohens, that, for the first time, he could relax. He was safe.

Except, Seth thought bitterly, they didn’t deserve Ryan's trust. They had let him down. Otherwise he wouldn’t be missing, trapped somewhere and suffering who-knew-what, and they wouldn’t be driving through Mexico with forging guardianship papers, searching psychiatric clinics for somebody named “Brandon McConnell.”

And they were doing it so damned slowly.

Seth glanced up from the phone. He could see Sandy hunched over the wheel, his body tense with urgency, but even so their car still sat trapped in traffic, inching its way along the dusty, pot-holed highway.

There was nothing Greased Lighting about it at all.

Seth gritted his teeth. I hate that damn ringtone, he thought. I should just change it now. His eyes stinging, he rubbed his thumb over the phone’s keypad. Its display panel flashed for an instant but, lost in his own thoughts, Seth didn’t glance down. Instead, abruptly, he shook his head, jabbed the “Off” button, and slammed the phone shut.

Almost at the same moment, Charlie grabbed Seth’s wrist.

“Hey! Ow!” he yelped, confused. “What are you doing, Charlie?” He tried to pull away but she held on, ignoring him,

“Pull over, Sandy,” she ordered.

Sandy frowned into the rearview mirror. “What?”

“Pull over!” Charlie repeated. She leaned forward. “Do it, Sandy. Now! Seth, turn on your father’s phone.”

Her voice flared, white-hot and insistent, and an electric current seemed to surge through the car.

Seth’s mouth opened, speechless. In the front seat, Kirsten stiffened and Sandy glanced back sharply. His jaw tightened. Without another word, he cut across a lane of traffic onto the shoulder of the road. Horns blared, tires squealed, and rocks crunched, splitting and spitting angrily as the car skidded to a rocking stop. It had not even come to rest before Sandy and Kirsten wheeled around.

“Charlie?” Kirsten breathed. She gripped the back of her seat, her knuckles taut and white, her eyes wide and unblinking. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“The caller ID—I think I saw something on the screen—Seth, bring up your father’s missed calls.”

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” Seth agreed numbly. He sounded dazed, and he fumbled with the phone. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as his thumb pressed the wrong control. “Wait, here, I got it. Charlie, what--?”

“52,” she said tersely, snapping open her computer. “That’s what I thought I saw. It’s the country code for Mexico. That call came from here. Sandy, do you know anybody--?

Sandy shook his head before she could finish the question. “No,” he replied. “I don’t. Seth, what’s the rest of the number?”

“It’s um--” Seth licked his lips and squinting at the screen. He swallowed hard. When he spoke, he sounded grim and years older than himself. Taking his time, enunciating deliberately, he recited the number.

The Cohens waited, barely breathing, as Charlie scrolled through an online directory. There were several seconds of silence. At last, she looked up. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, and her eyes flashed.

“The number belongs to someone named Lucy Forde. It’s local, Sandy, here in Cozumel.”

Kirsten covered her mouth. The small, stifled sound that escaped between her fingers could have been a whimper or a prayer. “Sandy?” she whispered, but the word was lost under Seth’s barrage of questions.

“Then this has got to be about Ryan, doesn’t it? This Lucy Whoever, she must know something about him, right? Who is she, Dad? Do you know her? Do you want me to call back?

Sandy inhaled sharply. “No—Give me the phone, Seth,” he ordered. “Now.”

Nodding, suddenly mute, Seth passed the phone forward. He winced slightly as his father grabbed it. Then he clutched the back of Sandy’s seat, peering over his shoulder, pressing as far forward as he could. Reflexively, his fingers moved along with his father’s as Sandy re-opened the phone, scrolled to his missed calls, and highlighted Lucy’s number.

An interminable half-second passed while he pressed the “call” button, and another one followed after that. Seth could see his mother inhale and go still, her eyes closed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucy grabbed her phone from Felix. One hand reflexively clutched her throat as she answered it. "Hello?" she gasped. That was all. She didn't have the breath for more than one word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sandy stiffened. His grip choked the phone, and his voice, raw and ragged, cut through the silent car.

“Hello?” he rasped. “Lucy Forde? This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just try to call me?

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 20.

2010-10-31T17:08:10Z

Trick or treat. You decide. Anyway, just in time for Halloween, here's this month's chapter of my AU OC horror story. But sorry, no zombies here. And yes, I'm still borrowing the characters Josh.

Best Forgotten, Part 20

Lucy heard a final, sharp click as the door to Ryan’s room closed. Instantly she swung around and pushed the handle. It didn’t move. But no, she thought, confused, that cannot happen. These rooms only lock from inside. We cannot be shut out from our patients. She tried the handle again, pressing harder, but it still refused to budge. Her breath hissed and Lucy bit her lip, her fingers clutching her computer printouts so tightly that she almost tore them.

“Dr. Keller,” she called, “you must let me in! I have found information about Ry—about this patient that you must know right now. It is most urgent! Just let me show you, please!”

Nobody answered.

Lucy’s jaw tightened. She raised one hand, her fist already closed and prepared to pound for reentry, when the orderly who had escorted her out grabbed her elbow. Holding it firmly, he began to propel her away from the door.

“I think you need to leave, Nurse,” he said. “Dr. Keller obviously doesn’t want you here.”

“But you don’t understand!” Lucy protested. “He must speak to me! Look--” Wrenching free of his grip, she wheeled around to face the man, simultaneously holding up the photo and articles. “The boy in there,” she explained breathlessly. “Mr. Nichol admitted him to the clinic as Brandon McCullough. He told us the boy was criminally insane, that he had killed Ryan Atwood, the foster son of Mr. Nichol’s daughter, and then he had assumed Ryan’s identity. But that cannot be true! I could find no evidence that any such murder took place. But I did find these.” Hastily smoothing the printouts, Lucy thrust them at the startled orderly. Her words began spilling faster, tumbling over each other in her urgency. “Just see,” she urged. “You see, here is a photo of Ryan—only look, there is his name in the caption—and I know it is not the best picture, but that is the same boy we left inside that room. It is! And this article, it is about a business rival of Mr. Nichol’s, a man named Brandon McCullough, who tried to take over his company. That cannot be a coincidence, that this patient has the same name as a man he hated! Don’t you see? The boy in there really is Ryan Atwood! Dr. Keller must know this. Please, I must get this information to him before it is too late.”

The orderly shook his head, and Lucy saw bafflement cloud his face. Her own darkened with despair.

“Please,” she begged, stammering. “I know it is confusing, but you must believe me.”

Even as she spoke, though, she sensed the futility of her plea. There was sympathy in the man’s expression, even some regret, but he was shaking his head again, and moving to block her access to the door.

How could she make him understand?

“Look, Nurse,” he began, “I’m sorry you’re upset, but none of this makes any sense to me, and I’ve got my orders. Maybe you should just--”

“No!” Lucy grabbed the man’s hand. Taking a deep breath, she made herself slow down, speaking more slowly and more deliberately. “I do not know how or even why exactly, but Mr. Nichol has lied to us. I am sure of it. Dr. Keller cannot operate on that patient. He is not Brandon McConnell. He is Ryan Atwood, and he is not insane. This surgery, it would be the same as killing him.” She moved closer, forcing the photo into the orderly’s fingers. At the same time, she scanned the man’s ID. “Felix,” she said, reading his name, fixing her importunate eyes on his. “You have worked with the boy. Please, only look at this picture. The newspaper identifies him as Ryan Atwood. But that is the same boy who is inside that room, the one we were told is Brandon McConnell. Just look there, at his profile. Surely you recognize him . . .”

She held her breath, waiting.

Felix frowned for a moment before, reluctantly, he studied the picture. As he did, the furrow between his brows deepened. He rubbed a knuckle into the crease. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It does kind of look like him, but . . .”

His voice trailed off, curving into a question, and Lucy pounced on it eagerly.

“You are not positive,” she said. “I understand. You have only seen the patient when he is most agitated, and being confined here, drugged and frightened and isolated—he cannot look exactly as he did at this party. So it is perhaps difficult for you to be certain. But I have been his primary nurse. I have spent much more time with him, and I am sure.” Lucy squeezed Felix’s hand, a gesture of simultaneous confidence and entreaty. “That patient is not Brandon McConnell. He is Ryan Atwood, and Dr. Keller will realize this too if I can only speak to him.” She paused, fixing Felix with a dark, desperate gaze. “Please,” she whispered, “will you help me?”

He shrank from the intensity in her eyes. Shifting uncomfortably, Felix glanced at the door to Ryan’s room and then back at Lucy. He scrubbed his forehead for several long moments. “Even if you’re right,” he replied at last, “I don’t know what I can do, Nurse.”

“Lucy,” she said, clutching at a thread of hope. “My name is Lucy.”

“Lucy,” Felix repeated. “If I let you back in there, the doctor will just kick you out again before you can say two words—probably have both of us fired. Dr. Keller don’t stand for people who defy his orders.”

“That is true,” Lucy murmured. She bit her lip. Without looking, she pressed the printout she about Brandon McConnell between her fingers, ironing out its wrinkles. There must be a way, she thought. I have evidence now—not absolute proof, perhaps, but enough to raise questions. But how can I get Dr. Keller to listen?

Lucy searched her mind, scrambling for an idea, but nothing at all occurred to her. A numbness seemed to have seized her brain. All she could hear was a mocking refrain: How, Lucy, how?

And, underlying it, drifted the echo of Ryan’s faint voice.

“You promised to help, Lucy. You promised.”

Lucy’s guilt throbbed in her ears, so loud that she barely heard Felix speak again. “Damn,” he mused, “it really does look like him, don’t it?”

Lucy started to attention. Peering up sharply, she found him examining Ryan’s photo again. He squinted, studying it one last time before he handed it back to her. His lips pursed, considering.

“The whole thing sounds crazy to me, but . . . You’re really sure about this kid, Lucy?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes wide. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Okay then.” Felix’s heavy shoulders rolled back and he frowned again. “I don’t like it myself, what I’ve heard about this surgery. Seems like Dr. Keller cares more about being the first to do it than how risky it is. And now that Mr. Nichol is in there, pushing the doc to go through with it when they don’t even know what’s going on with that poor kid . . . It just don’t feel right.”

“Because it is not, Felix.” Lucy clasped her hands together tightly. “You will help me to stop it?”

He glanced down at her, chewing his lower lip. “Like I said, I don’t know what I can do, but well, maybe this will help. The operation is scheduled for OR 1—not the room in the main building. It’s here in the Annex, down the hall to your left and then right at the end. Dr. Keller always heads down early before an operation. I hear he likes to be alone for a while, review his procedures and clear his head or something. Maybe you can catch him and talk to him then.”

A surge of hope lit Lucy’s face. “Yes,” she said on a long, fervent breath. “Oh yes, if I can just see him alone, I will at least have a chance to make him listen. Thank you so much Felix. I think perhaps you may have just saved Ryan’s life.”

She reached for the man’s hands, taking them both in hers and pressing them gratefully. His cheeks creased in a slow smile.

“Doctors and nurses like you do that—save lives, Lucy. Me, I’m just an orderly. All I do is move patients around.” Felix inclined his head toward Ryan’s door. “And speaking of that, I’d better get back inside before the doc calls for me.”

“Yes,” Lucy agreed soberly. “I must go too. But Felix, you should know this—you are not ‘just’ anything. You are a fine, thoughtful, compassionate man. And I am most, most grateful for your help.” Impulsively, Lucy lifted the orderly’s hands and pressed her lips to them in a soft, fleeting kiss. Felix flushed, surprised, but before he could respond she spun away and raced down the corridor toward OR1. He watched, his gaze warm and anxious until she disappeared around the corner. Then he turned, punched in the code to unlock Ryan’s room and stepped inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Damn it.” Craning his head out the window, Sandy peered through the dusty sunshine at the line of cars stopped in front of him. In the distance, he could see a construction worker blocking the lane, his caution flag drooping in the heat. “This is taking forever. Charlie, isn’t there another route we could take to the clinic?”

Charlie bent over her computer, impatiently scrubbing back the hair that fell forward as she checked the directions. “Sorry, Sandy, no,” she reported. “We’d have to backtrack to pick up the other road, and that would add at least twenty miles to the trip.”

“So we just sit here and wait.” Frustrated, Sandy pounded the steering wheel. Then he slumped back in his seat. A gust of hot tar-scented air shoved its way inside before he rolled his window shut, and cranked up the AC.

Beside him, Kirsten breathed a small, stifled moan while Seth heaved a long sigh from the back seat. After that, the Cohens and Charlie all lapsed into silence. Each of them stared bleakly outside. The dusty fields surrounding them seemed to waver in the sun, endless and empty. Nothing else moved until at last the flagman signaled the cars forward.

“Finally,” Seth muttered glumly. “You know, I’ve decided I hate Mexico.” He raked his matted curls off his forehead, turning them into a tangled thicket. “Seriously I hate the heat and I hate the traffic and I hate the heat and I hate the stupid sunshine and did I mention that I hate the heat? Because I totally do.”

Charlie chuckled. “Southern California has all those things too, Seth.”

“Well, Mexico has more of them,” Seth retorted. “Remind me never to come back here once we--” He stopped, incredulous, at the sound of his Sandy’s dry laugh. “What?” he demanded. “There’s nothing funny here Dad.”

“No, I know. It’s just that you were talking about the heat,” Sandy explained, “and I suddenly pictured Ryan’s face the first time he tried wasabi. Remember--?”

“How red he got, and the way his eyes kept watering, and he couldn’t stop coughing and spluttering? Oh yeah!” Seth’s eyes lit with remembered delight. He turned to Charlie. “That? Was totally a You-Tube worthy moment,” he told her. “You should have seen it. Strong, stoic Kid Chino, struck down by a Japanese condiment.”

Kirsten had been leaning wearily against the window, but she turned around, a faint smile flickering across her face. “You were terrible, Sandy,” she chided. “You and Seth both, telling Ryan it was like guacamole and tricking him into eating that big spoonful of it.”

“Well, wasabi is kind of like guacamole,” Seth insisted. “They’re both green and gloopy and generally served on the side. Anyway, we didn’t tell Ryan to take so much. Also anyway, it was all Dad’s idea.”

“Hey! All I said was that we should get him to try wasabi,” Sandy protested. “You’re the one who handed him the tablespoon.” Still chuckling softly, he reached across the console and patted Kirsten’s hand. “And then you sweetheart, rushing in and thinking there was something really wrong with Ryan. I haven’t seen you like that since Seth took a header off his skateboard when he was twelve.”

“Yep. You were in full-on smothering-mama mode there, Mom. Rubbing Ryan’s back, running to get him water, making him put his head between his knees, scolding me and Dad for laughing . . . And the whole time, Ryan just kept getting redder and redder and redder.”

Kirsten shook her head, her lips crimping. “I thought he couldn’t breathe,” she recalled. “It was awful.”

“It was funny,” Seth countered. “Totally worth all the death glares Dad and I got just to see Ryan’s expression when you were fussing around him like that.”

Sandy edged around the construction area and began to accelerate. At the same time he flashed Kirsten a small, tender smile. “The poor kid was so embarrassed, he couldn’t look you in the face for days,” he said. All the laughter drained from his face, leaving it grave and reflective. “But you know, honey, deep down I think Ryan really appreciated how you looked out for him.”

Kirsten nodded wistfully. “He kept thanking me,” she murmured. “But he was so uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t used to anybody caring about his well-being. I know Dawn wasn’t the best mother but, Sandy . . . is it possible that nobody ever took care of Ryan before?”

Sandy stiffened. His mouth opened as if he was about to answer, but at the last moment he seemed to catch himself. Instead he sighed heavily and shook his head.

That small gesture appeared to be answer enough.

From her corner of the back seat, Charlie watched, her eyes dark with sympathy, as another tense silence settled over the car. Each of the Cohens seemed to retreat into private anxiety. Kirsten turned away, her lips folded shut, her profile rigid; Seth slumped, absently picking at a hole in his t-shirt, drumming his toes erratically against the floor, while Sandy stared straight ahead, his jaw set, his hands strangling the steering wheel as he drove.

They sat that way, locked in themselves, alone with their memories and their own wordless fear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucy realized that she was running just as she turned the corner to the operating room. She could feel a hitch in her side, an anxious flush on her face, the hectic, uneven catch of her breathing. Stop this, Lucy, she ordered herself sternly. There has been no call to make you rush here. If you wish to face no questions you must look professional, a nurse who is just doing her job. Deliberately, reluctantly, she forced herself to slow down. Slipping into alcove, Lucy paused to smooth her tunic, take several deep calming breaths, and fan the heat from her cheeks. Then, her expression carefully neutral, she stepped back into the hallway. A nurse she did not recognize was just wheeling an instrument tray into the OR as she approached. Lucy gave her a brief nod of greeting and walked past into the scrubbing area.

The room was still empty. Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, Lucy spread her computer printouts on the counter and smoothed out their creases carefully. Then she sat down, rereading the articles about Brandon McConnell, studying Ryan’s cotillion photo, mentally debating how she should present them to Dr. Keller.

He would be furious to find her here, Lucy knew. No, more likely he would not waste time on anger. He would simply dismiss her, intent on preparing for the surgery. She would have to be ready, quick and composed. Somehow, in just seconds, she had to explain the facts clearly enough so that he would understand.

So that he would look past his own ambition.

So that he would believe the truth about Ryan.

The door swooshed open suddenly, sooner than Lucy expected. It caught her off-guard and she jumped to her feet. “Dr. Keller,” she began. The words poured out, terse but urgent as she moved to greet him. “I know that you do not wish to see me, but it is essential that we speak. Only give me five minutes--”

A short, dry laugh startled Lucy to silence.

With shock, she saw that Dr. Keller wasn’t alone. Mr. Nichol was just behind him. He raised his eyebrows at the doctor, his mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “Well, Stephen,” he drawled. “Apparently you needed to be more precise when you ordered this nurse removed earlier.”

Lucy’s eyes flashed, but other than that she didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge Mr. Nichol in any way. Instead, she launched into her rehearsed argument. “Dr. Keller,” she said, positioning herself firmly between him and Mr. Nichol, “if you proceed with this operation you will jeopardize all your years of research. Your innovative procedure, your professional reputation—you will destroy everything you worked so hard to create.”

His hand already lifted to wave her away, Dr. Keller paused. A flicker of doubt crossed his face and his arm fell to his side.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “Explain yourself, Nurse.”

“Come now Stephen,” Caleb interjected. “Surely you’re not going to let this girl--”

Lucy heard the autocratic sneer in his tone, but she cut Caleb off anyway. Her own voice cool and sure, she steered Dr. Keller towards the counter where her printouts were displayed. “I tried to show these to you earlier. Look,” she urged. “Here is proof that your patient is not delusional. He does not need your surgery, Doctor, because he has been telling us the truth all along. He really is Ryan Atwood.”

Lucy reached for the cotillion photo, but as she did Caleb snatched it from her hand, pushing her aside in the process. He studied the picture, his expression both scoffing and dismissive.

Only Lucy had felt his alarm when he shoved past her. For an instant, she could even see it etched in a thin white line around his mouth. Then Caleb regained his control.

“What is this?” he demanded. His lip curled derisively. “Oh I see—a blurry picture from the party where that whole Jimmy Cooper debacle came to light. What exactly does this purport to show us, Nurse?”

It took a supreme effort, but Lucy ignored him. She focused on Dr. Keller. “It is a newspaper photograph of Ryan Atwood. You see, Doctor? Look at the caption and the boy in the picture. You must realize, that is our patient.”

Dr. Keller’s brow furrowed. “It’s not possible,” he muttered, poring over the photo. “There's a similarity, yes, but we have the boy’s case history, all his legal papers. He may resemble the real Ryan, but he’s Brandon McConnell. You’ve seen his records, Nurse Forde. Our patient is criminally insane. He killed Ryan Atwood.”

“No, he did not! Those documents are all false, Doctor. I l searched, but I could find no record of any such murder, nothing more than Mr. Nichol provided. As for Brandon McConnell--” As if he were invisible, Lucy swept past Caleb to retrieve the articles she had printed. “Only look, doctor. Mr. Nichol did know such a person, a man who once tried to steal his company. How is it possible, for two people who share the same name to cause him and his family such harm? Is it not too extreme a coincidence to be true?”

“Let me see that.” Intercepting the article, Caleb scanned its contents swiftly. Then he gave a dry, mirthless chuckle and tossed the paper aside. “Garbage," he declared. "People can post anything on the Internet, can’t they?”

Dr. Keller tapped the other printout on the counter. “It is . . . curious, Caleb,” he mused.

“No it’s not,” Caleb snapped. “It’s ridiculous. This nurse brings you some obviously manufactured stories and a blurry picture that clearly was photoshopped and you give her credence? After you’ve seen Brandon’s medical reports and his legal records? Which documents do you imagine could have been falsified more easily?” With a sharp, scathing sound, Caleb slipped the papers from under Dr. Keller’s palm. He crumpled them and dropped them into the trash. Then, very coolly, he adjusted his cuffs. His eyes, a laser-like blue, seared Lucy as he turned back to Dr. Keller. “Think, man,” he said. His voice was edged with steel. “Do I have to remind you what this operation will mean for your future and for the funding for your clinic? You’re a scientist, Stephen. This woman—well, at best she’s a naïf who fell for the boy’s insane story and concocted these ‘facts’ in an attempt to prove his case. At worst, she’s deliberately trying to derail your career.”

Caleb paused, giving his words a chance to take effect. They did. With despair, Lucy saw Dr. Keller’s face start to harden. She shook her head, trying vainly to catch his hand as the doctor pressed the call button.

“No! Do not believe him, doctor!” she begged. “I am only trying to prevent a tragedy!”

Caleb’s lips twitched with amused contempt. “You see? This woman is an overwrought romantic. Tragedy indeed. Perhaps you should screen your clinic’s applicants more carefully, doctor.”

Lucy spun around. “Perhaps you should tell the truth, Mr. Nichol!” She started to retrieve her articles from the garbage, but the door opened suddenly, stopping her.

“That will be enough, Nurse,” Dr. Keller said flatly. He beckoned to the security guard who appeared in the doorway. “Escort this woman from the premises,” he ordered. “She is no longer employed by this clinic. Then make sure this area is completely secured. I want no interruptions during my surgery.”

“No!” Lucy cried again. “You must not do this! It is wrong!”

She fought against the guard’s grip, continuing to struggle, pleading desperately, even as she was pulled out of the room, even, finally, as she was marched out of the building and into the mocking glare of the late-afternoon sun.

The clinic’s door locked behind her.

Only then did Lucy fall silent.

Defeated, she slumped against the white stucco wall.

She had failed. Ryan had trusted her, but she had failed him.

Even now, she feared, Dr. Keller’s team was probably clustered around him, prepping him for surgery. All too soon, they would wheel him into the OR. The room would bustle, then hush and Dr. Keller would lean over the table, his eyes fixed only on an exposed area of skull and carefully, precisely, he would make his first incision. And with that, Lucy knew, it would be all over. Because even if Ryan lived through the operation he could not survive, not in any meaningful way.

Ryan Atwood would cease to exist.

And Lucy could not keep that from happening.

She tilted her head back, her unseeing eyes staring straight up at the sun. I am so sorry, Ryan, she whispered silently. I did not mean to leave you alone, to break my promise to you. I should have believed you from the first. You tried to tell me the truth. If I had only trusted you, this would not be happening now . . . We would have had time to expose Mr. Nichol’s lies, to get you out of this place . . .

Unconsciously, she fingered the phone in her pocket.

Beneath the litany of her own guilt, the distant hum of traffic, she seemed to hear Ryan, his voice faint, rusty and urgent. He kept repeating the same refrain.

“Call Sandy,” he pleaded. “Call Sandy. Please.”

Lucy stifled a sob.

But it is too late now, she thought. It will do no good. I still do not know the last two digits of Sandy’s number and the Cohens are too far away. Sandy could never reach Ryan in time.

Even so, she pulled out her phone.

She could think of nothing else to do.

It might take her a hundred tries to come up with the right combination, and once she did reach Sandy Cohen, Lucy dreaded the words she would have to say: Your father-in-law is about to destroy Ryan. Unless you can somehow produce a miracle, you will lose him forever.

But there would be no miracle, Lucy knew. It was hopeless. The phone sat in her hand, hard and cold and impossibly heavy. Lucy stared at it, her heart hollow. Then she stiffened.

It may be too late, she told herself. But you still must try, Lucy. Call Sandy. You owe Ryan that much.

She pressed the “on” button, lighting up the display.

Deliberately, firmly, Lucy began to dial.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seth slammed his feet down and sat upright, abruptly breaking the silence in the car. “I’ve been thinking,” he announced. He shifted sideways in his seat, accidentally jarring Charlie’s coffee cup. Diving forward, he steadied the plastic mug as it teetered back and forth in the holder. “Oops, sorry! I got it. Nothing spilled, Charlie.”

She chuckled, relieved to hear someone speak. “That’s because the cup’s empty, Seth.”

“Oh. Well, that would explain it. So, anyway, Mom and Dad, I--” As if he couldn’t recall what he meant to say, Seth stopped. He chewed his lip and his feet jittered again, beating the floor in an uneasy cadence.

Sandy peered back through the rearview mirror. “You were thinking?” he prompted.

“Right. Yeah, right, I was. Three things actually.” Seth took a deep, bracing breath. “Okay, number one, I just realized that I like you guys. I mean, you know I’ve always loved you and everything but--”

This time Seth seemed to trip over his own words. They trailed off, dangling in the air for an awkward half-second. Then Charlie nudged his arm with her elbow. He peered over, and she grinned, nodding her support.

“But . . .” she mouthed silently.

Encouraged, Seth bobbed his head. He licked his lips and continued. “Well, okay, here’s the thing, guys,” he explained. “What I mean is, I like you a lot better since Ryan came. I mean, face it, Dad, you’re funnier now. Also just more fun, even if I could do without you bursting into Broadway tunes at completely random moments. I’m probably explaining this all wrong but before--”

Sandy braked at a traffic light, and met Seth’s gaze in the mirror. They looked identical, both of them sober and thoughtful.

“You acted like you were at war with the system,” Seth said, choosing his words carefully. “But it never seemed like you thought that you could win. Since you found Ryan, though . . . it’s kinda like you know that you can.” Sandy raised his eyebrows slowly. His eyes smiled, and the corners of Seth’s mouth quirked in response. Taking another deep breath, he turned to his mother. “And you, Mom,” he continued, even more earnestly. “You’ve gotten a lot more approachable since Ryan started to live with us—less Ice Princess-slash-Newpsie socialite-slash-The Kirsten and more, I don’t know . . . mom-ish. It’s like, you’re softer inside now. But in a really good way.”

Kirsten covered her mouth. “Oh,” she whispered. She turned around to face Seth. Her voice trembled, emerging tight and thin. “You really think we’ve changed that much, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” he replied simply. “I mean I know I have.” His shoulders hunched in a quick, self-conscious shrug. “Because I like me better too. Maybe it just comes from having somebody like me back. I don’t know. I just keep thinking . . . yeah, Ryan was grateful to have a place to stay when you brought him home, Dad. But he could have resented us too, me especially: you know, here I am living in a mini-mansion with no money worries and two parents who don’t hit or abandon their kid. Ryan could totally have written me off as a spoiled rich comic book-nerd. He didn’t though. He just . . . became my friend.”

Seth flushed, squirming slightly and sank into silence. Then Sandy nodded at him in the mirror.

“That’s two,” he said quietly.

“Two?”

“Things you were thinking. You said there were three, Seth.”

“Yeah. Yeah, there are.” Slipping down further in his seat, Seth picked at his t-shirt again. His voice sounded hollow when he finally spoke. “I’m worried,” he confessed. “I mean, not worried the way we all are, although that too. I’m worried that if we find Ryan--”

“When,” Kirsten interjected. Her voice cut, razor-sharp. “When we find him, Seth.”

“Right,” Seth conceded hastily. “When. Which is totally what I meant to say. But, well, when we find Ryan—you think there’s a chance he won’t want to come home with us? I mean I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t. As bad as things were for him in Chino, this has got to be a gazillion times worse. And you know how Ryan acted when his mom showed up in Newport. He didn’t want anything to do with her. So . . .” Seth shrugged, his voice sinking to a doleful mumble. “Maybe he’ll feel that way about us. Because I’m pretty sure even his mom never hurt him this bad.”

Sandy’s eyes flashed, meeting his son’s through the rearview mirror. “Yes, she did, Seth,” he said sharply. “Dawn abandoned Ryan. We’re looking for him. There’s a huge difference. Ryan will know that.”

Kirsten touched the window, her eyes blank as she traced a rivulet line down its surface. “He forgave her,” she said softly.

“What sweetheart?”

“His mother. Ryan forgave her. Even after she left him, he gave Dawn another chance.” Kirsten’s whisper dwindled into a thin, almost inaudible thread. “I understand that. Children always want to forgive their parents. But some things . . . some things are unforgivable. My father--”

Whatever else she meant to say was lost under the sudden peal of Sandy’s cell phone. His jacket muffled the sound but still Kirsten winced, shrinking away from the trill, further away from Sandy.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbled. Grimacing, he fumbled in his pocket and yanked out the phone. It promptly fell out of his hand, wedging between his seat and the center console. “Damn it!” he muttered. He reached down, trying to retrieve it, but instead he just pushed it further down.

The ringing continued, shrill and insistent, the brash notes of “White Lightning” incongruous in the stress-filled car.

Dad really needs a new ringtone, Seth thought dimly as aloud, he said, “I’ll get it, Dad.” Scooting forwarding, he foraged between the seat cushions. His fingers closed around the phone and he wiggled it back and forth, trying to slide it out as it continued to chime relentlessly. “Wait, it’s kind of caught on the seatbelt strap or something—”

Just as he jerked it free, the car hit a pothole and Seth fell backward. Automatically, his grip tightened on the phone.

The ringing stopped mid-note. Seth peered down in consternation, studying the silent phone in his hand.

“Oops, sorry, Dad,” he said. “Got the phone, lost the call. I guess I pressed the “end” button or something. Want me to see who it was?”

Sandy glanced at his wife, registered her wan profile, her arms wrapped tightly around her midriff. He shook his head wearily. “Don’t bother son,” he replied. “It was probably just my office. You were right, what you said when Marissa called before. Charlie’s in touch with everyone we need to contact right now and Ryan--”

He paused, but Seth sighed bleakly, finishing his father’s thoughts. Ryan was the only person they wanted to hear from.

But he couldn’t call.

And they didn’t need to be bothered by anybody else.

Sandy turned back to face the road. “You know what, Seth?” he concluded flatly. “Why don’t you just turn the damn thing off?

His father didn’t see him, but Seth nodded grim agreement. He bounced the phone on his palm twice.

Then he reached for its “off” bottom.

TBC

chazper @ 2010-09-29T17:12:00

2010-09-29T21:20:20Z

Part 19? What is this, the nightmare that never ends? Apparently. Anyway, here it is the end of the month again (minus a day; hey, I'm early!) And here's the latest dose of melodrama.

As always remember: The story is wildly AU and the main characters? So not mine!

Best Forgotten, Part 19

Ryan told himself he was dreaming.

Something shapeless and sinister was looming over him. It burned his eyes, blazing with ice and flame, but no, Ryan thought, no, it couldn’t be real. He must be dreaming, he had to be. He shook his head, blinking hard, sure that the—thing—whatever it was would disappear. Instead, it simply smiled. Then it inhaled, showing its teeth, slowly sucking away all the air, threatening to suffocate Ryan if he couldn’t wake up.

Why couldn’t he wake up?

He tried, thrashing, attempting to push past the nightmare but the harder he fought, the closer it bound itself around him. Tangled and tight, it shrouded his body, the way his sheets used to do sometimes when he was sick and tossed back and forth in bed. Ryan remembered how, for an instant, it would feel like he was wrapped in one of his mother’s rare hugs. But then the sheets would squeeze, and they wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let him raise his arms and wrap them around his mother’s neck.

Only she wasn’t there anyway.

And the sheets would trap him, binding him in place, making his breath come hard and fast and hurting—the way it was now—but Ryan would have to pretend not to care.

Even if he could find his smothered voice, he couldn’t call out for help.

He didn’t want his father to storm in, furious at being disturbed, his eyes blazing, his knuckles already stretched white and primed to hit.

He didn’t want to risk his mother not coming at all, ignoring the sound of his pain or yelling a slurred, impatient, “Would you shut up in there, Ry? I’m tryin’ to sleep!”

And Trey—if Trey was home, Ryan didn’t want to hear his caustic laughter. “What are you, Ry? A baby?” he’d sneer. “You got yourself into that mess. Get yourself out.”

Ryan jerked, abruptly hopeful and uneasy.

The voice sounded close, right there in the room with him.

Through the thick, mottled gray mist, shapes began to emerge, blurry at first, then razor-sharp: window blinds, glass walls, a door open to a sliver of white-blue water. Trey was there, lounging against the door jamb. One corner of his mouth curled, and his thumb idly flicked the top of his cigarette lighter, making it spark on and off, on and off, over and over as he watched Ryan struggle.

He shook his head, but he made no move to help.

“Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it little brother?” he drawled.

“Trey.”

Ryan’s lips formed his brother’s name, but before he could say it, before he could even sigh in relief, a chill ran through his body. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not here. You can’t be.” He started at the sound of his own voice, thin, rusty, barely recognizable. Something about it frightened him and he braced himself before he spoke again. “You’re in prison, Trey.”

“Damn straight I am, Ry.” Trey’s eyes narrowed. He held up his lighter, letting it burn a weak blue. Cocking his head, he studied the flame until it sputtered and died. “And now you are too. Kinda funny how that worked out, isn’t it?”

Ryan shook his head, confused. “No. I’m not. I’m--”

“Where?” Trey scoffed. “With the Cohens, tucked all nice and cozy in their cushy pool house?” He leaned back, his greasy hair smearing the immaculate glass door. “Shit, little brother, did you really think that would last?”

“I--” Ryan began, but something squeezed him, stealing his breath, and he couldn’t answer. His face darkened, blood-filled and desperate for air. Ryan strained, eyes pleading, but his brother just shrugged.

“You really think that was right, little brother? You pullin’ that lost little boy crap with Sandy Cohen and gettin’ yourself a whole new family? Thought you scored big time, didn’t you? Got your own mini-mansion—pool right outside your door, those soft, expensive sheets, all the food you can eat—what is it now? Lobster and paté? And you just settle right in, dressin’ up in fancy clothes, goin’ to parties like a fuckin’ prince of Newport—while all the time I’m behind bars, wearin’ handcuffs and a damn jumpsuit, getting my ass kicked.” Silently, suddenly, Trey crossed to Ryan, reached down and grabbed his leather choker. He twisted it, cutting of Ryan’s air. “You think that’s fair? Huh, Ry?”

“No,” Ryan gasped. “I—I don’t know Trey.”

Trey’s eyes flashed, dangerous as a lightning strike. He released the choker and patted Ryan’s cheek, a touch like a warning, before he stepped away. Propping one foot against the wall, he leaned back again. “Sure you do, Ry. You were always the smart one, remember? You and me stole that car together. You know damn well you didn’t deserve to get off.” His mouth twisting, Trey muttered, “Get off? Shit, that’s an understatement. You get maid service, a sweet little piece of ass right next door, a resident lawyer-slash-father treatin’ you like his long-lost son and what do I get? Three to five years hard time. How about it, Ry? That sound right to you?”

Trey spat out the last words. They sounded like gravel, crunching under heavy feet.

Ryan bit his lip. He tasted blood, guilt and shame and anger. “I didn’t want to steal the car, Trey,” he whispered.

Something silver—Trey’s lighter?—shot through the air and struck Ryan in the shoulder. He felt it burn, searing his skin, boiling into his blood and his muscles. The pain forced his eyes shut.

Or maybe they had never been open at all.

He couldn’t see anything, but he could still hear Trey’s cold, accusing voice.

“Thought you hated lies, little brother. Don’t tell me you didn’t want to jack that car with me. Gettin’ ourselves a sweet ride, bookin’ out of Chino, settin’ up on our own—that was always our plan. All those times we’d hide out from dear old Dad or Mom’s boyfriend-of-the-week, that’s all we talked about. Getting’ away. You wanted it as much as I did.”

“Not that way,” Ryan insisted. “I never meant . . . steal . . .”

“No? How the hell else would we get a car, Ry? Wait for your fairy godmother to make one for you out of a pumpkin? How many times I got to tell you, we’re Atwoods. Nobody’s gonna give us anything. Not for real. Not to keep. You think the Cohens will? Dream on, little brother. We want somethin’, we got to take it.”

“Not--” Ryan hissed, trying to roll away from the pain, the dream, the fear, the shame, that kept tightening around him. “Not what I want--”

He needed to see Trey, needed to make him understand. It hurt, but he forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light, searching for his brother.

Trey was still there, slouching carelessly, but somehow he had turned into a steel-gray shadow. Only his hard, derisive smile flashed crystal-clear.

“Maybe it’s not what you want to be, little brother,” Trey said. “But it’s who you are. An Atwood, a thief. Just like me. Admit it. Hell, here you are with the Cohens, you claim you care about the Cohens, but it didn’t take you long to start stealin’ from them, did it?”

“No! Trey, I wouldn’t do that! I never . . .”

Ryan heard his brother snort, felt Trey’s shrug in his own aching shoulders. “Oh yeah, I know. You didn’t rob the Cohens. Not technically. But Caleb Nichol still counts. Kirsten’s daddy, Seth’s grandpa, Sandy’s father-in-law--What? You didn’t think he was family?” A note of admiration slithered, snake-like, through Trey’s implacable tone. Ryan couldn’t move, but he still recoiled, cringing. “Of course I realize, you weren’t exactly thinkin’ at the time. I gotta hand it to you, little brother. That Gabrielle? That is one damn fine piece of woman. And hookin’ up with her right there in the house Caleb Nichol owns during a party in his honor—shit, that is pretty cold-blooded.” Nodding his approval, Trey whistled, low and long. “And here I thought you were such a boy scout at heart. Didn’t think you had it in you, Ry.”

“It wasn’t like that, Trey. Gabrielle—it just happened. She was lonely, and I—I--”

Trey continued, uncaring, as if he had not heard Ryan at all. “Even so,” he drawled, “I think you shoulda held out for the little Newport princess next door. What’s her name? Marissa? Gabrielle may a sweeter piece of ass, but I don’t know if she’s worth a straightjacket and a loony bin. And now what? Bein’ a guinea pig in some weird operation?” Trey chuckled dryly. He cracked his knuckles, loud and sharp, but his voice grew faint, iron-edged but very far away. “Mom always said that you were the smart one, Ry. Looks to me like you finally got too smart for your own good . . .”

Straightjacket? Loony bin? Operation?

Ryan heard nothing after those words.

Everything seemed to stop. Then a thousand muddled questions churned in his mind. Why would Trey say that? He had to be lying. Trey did lie, Ryan knew that, he lied all the time and anyway his words made no sense . . . except in some horrible, shadowy way, they did. “What--” he gasped. “Trey, I don’t understand. What are you talking about--?”

He waited, but there was no answer.

Just like that—like a window shade snapping up—Ryan’s gaze flashed back into focus. He looked around, horrified.

Trey was gone.

Everything was gone.

Ryan was surrounded by white—a cold, colorless silence, opaque, padded white walls and, binding his body, the coarse, unforgiving straps of a straightjacket.

Where Trey had been standing, slouched against the glass pool house door, there was nothing at all. No trace of his brother remained, not the ashes from his cigarette, not his lighter or a smear of dirt from his hair, a smudge from his shoe against the wall.

Even the glass was gone.

So was the view beyond it, sky and sunshine and clear, blue ocean water.

Only white remained.

And Ryan could feel himself disappearing into it, one little piece at a time, disappearing slowly into nothingness.

Unable to move his arms or legs, Ryan bit his bottom lip. He clamped down hard, puncturing the skin, desperate to feel something, anything, solid and real.

Rusty blood filled his mouth.

Ryan smiled to himself.

He bit harder, savoring the thick, acrid taste, the sting of raw flesh, the dull ache in his teeth.

Blood and pain meant he still existed.

He was still alive.

Something or someone was gripping his arms, ordering him to lie still, but he refused to listen.

Stillness felt like death.

Ryan did not want to lie still.

Whatever was happening to him, he intended to fight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Got it?” Seth demanded, bobbing impatiently on his toes, as his parents and Charlie emerged from the back the Internet café.

“Got it,” Sandy affirmed. He tried for a grin, but it slipped sideways, bitter instead of reassuring. “Thanks to Charlie and her friends in low places, your mother and I are now officially the legal guardians of Brandon McConnell.”

Folding the papers he held, he nodded to Charlie. She smiled wryly in response.

“If you ignore the ‘officially’ and ‘legal’ parts of that statement,” she amended. “But the document should be good enough to get us past the reception desk at the clinics . . . Thanks, Seth,” she added, taking a coffee that he handed her.

Seth turned to offer another cup to his mother, but Kirsten shook her head wearily. She lifted one hand as if to push back a strand of hair, but instead her arm fell limp to her side. “No thanks, sweetie,” she murmured. “I’m not thirsty.”

Sandy exchanged a glance with Seth over his wife’s head. His brow puckered, anxious, as he put a soothing hand on her shoulder. Kirsten jumped as if burned.

“Sweetheart? Are you all right?” he asked.

“What?” Kirsten blinked, staring at Sandy as if she scarcely recognized him. Then she mustered a weak smile. “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. I’m fine . . . We should be going.”

Without looking back she hurried outside, but once there she simply stopped, standing at the curb, staring into the white-gold afternoon sun. Sandy moved behind to her. Very gently, he slid her sunglasses down to cover her eyes.

“Kirsten?” he prompted. His tone was cautious and quiet. A pointless “What’s wrong?” drifted silently through the hot air.

“It’s just—being here, looking for Brandon McConnell, when all the time, he’s really—I still can’t believe it!” Kirsten blurted. Almost instantly, though, her lips tightened and her tone turned steely-hard. “No. That’s not it. I still don’t want to believe it. He’s my father, Sandy! He’s my father—but if he did this to Ryan—I just . . . I don’t know how I can . . .”

Her voice trailed away. Sandy and Seth both imagined the missing words.

How I can stand it.

How I can deal with it.

How I can ever face my father again.

How I can face Ryan.

How I can face myself.

“Kirsten--” Sandy began helplessly, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“No,” she said. The sharp edge in her voice grew stronger. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is finding Ryan . . . Charlie, you have the directions to the other clinic, right?”

Charlie nodded, patting her laptop in assent. Kirsten unlocked the car. Her hand was reaching for the driver’s door when Sandy covered it with his and slipped the keys out of her grasp.

“Why don’t I drive now, sweetheart?” he suggested.

Automatically, Kirsten shook her head. Her mouth opened to protest, but Seth bounded over, sloshing his own untouched coffee. “Good idea, Dad,” he said brightly. Taking his mother’s arm, he led her around to the passenger side.

“I’m fine!” she objected, even as he opened her door and ushered Kirsten inside. “I can drive, Seth.”

He crouched down, pitching his voice low. His upturned gaze was pleading. “I know, Mom, but just—let Dad do this for you, okay? He kind of needs to do something.”

Taking his mother’s hand, Seth sketched a faint, hopeful smile, but it didn’t quite reach his earnest eyes. Kirsten looked at him for a long moment. Then, her own eyes moist, she nodded and settled into the car. Instantly, Seth bounded to his feet. Closing the door, he flashed his father a swift “Go” signal, spun around and scooted into the back seat.

Sandy took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, turning on the ignition. “Let’s check out this other clinic. Which way, Charlie?”

“Right,” she said promptly. She had just started explaining how to reach the highway when the opening notes of Death Cab for Cutie’s “A Lack of Color” trilled through the car. Seth started. Then he whipped out his phone, juggling it in his haste. Without glancing at the display he snapped it open and blurted, “Ryan?”

There was a half second of silence. Sandy stepped on the brake, waiting, and Kirsten clasped her hands tightly. Then the flush of excitement drained out of Seth’s face. “Oh. Marissa,” he muttered. The word acted like a trigger. Kirsten turned to the window, her eyes set in a blank stare, while Charlie leaned forward to whisper directions as Sandy, his shoulders slumped, pulled out of the parking lot.

Seth shifted the phone to his other ear. His jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth. “No, he’s not,” he snapped. “Look, Marissa, if Ryan were here would I have—never mind . . . What do you want anyway? . . . No, I won’t. I’m not giving him any message from you . . . Ryan is . . . Ryan is not your business, all right?” Seth’s grip tightened, strangling the handset, and his tone turned bitter. “You’re back with Luke, so why don’t you just, I don’t know, string him a new puka shell choker or buy the coke for your next date or something and stay the hell out of Ryan’s life . . . No! I don’t care! You’ve done enough damage already.”

Without a goodbye, without waiting for Marissa to answer, Seth clapped his phone closed. For good measure, he reopened it, jabbed his finger on the “off” button, and then fiercely flipped it shut again.

“I don’t know why I had it on in the first place,” he mumbled. Slouching down in his seat, he shoved the phone in his pocket. “You guys are right here, and it’s not like Ryan can . . . like Ryan’s gonna call.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Kirsten’s gaze sought Seth’s in the rearview mirror. “You know,” she said quietly, “it’s not Marissa’s fault, Seth.”

His mouth twisting, Seth snorted under his breath. “Sure it’s not,” he retorted. “Just like it’s not her fault that Luke and his water polo posse almost killed Ryan at the model home. Shit, Mom, she’s been playing them against each other ever since Ryan came to town! Like it’s some kind of game for her or something. You think Ryan would have hooked up with Gabrielle if Marissa hadn’t shown up at the party with Luke? And if he hadn’t, well, maybe Grandpa wouldn’t have--”

“Seth!”

Already slumped in his seat, Seth crumbled completely at the sound of his father’s warning voice. His gaze darted to his mother and then plummeted to the floor. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I know, Ryan going missing isn’t Marissa’s fault. Not exactly anyway. It’s just that . . .”

Seth stopped, shrugging helplessly. Her face creased with compassion, Charlie reached over to pat his knee.

“You want someone to blame, right?” she observed.

Seth nodded. “Yeah. Somebody besides myself,” he explained. At first he sounded distant, almost numb, but almost at once his tone became agitated, and his words tumbled over each other. “I mean, this is kind of all my fault. I thought it was über-cool when Gabrielle hooked up with Ryan. I encouraged the whole thing! It was kind of like, vicarious, cool-by-association for me, you know? There’s Gabrielle, and she’s a model and older and, and looks really, really hot in a bikini, and Ryan is, well, Ryan, and girls naturally like him, and anyway Grandpa always shows up with a new woman, you know he does, Mom! Every visit it’s somebody different. So it never occurred to me that he--”

This time, breathless, Seth stopped himself from finishing. He saw his mother’s shoulders stiffen, but Kirsten didn’t turn around to face him. When she spoke, her voice sounded flinty and razor-thin.

“Of course it didn’t, Seth,” she said. “This isn’t your fault, either, or Gabrielle’s or--” She stumbled a little over his name. “Or Ryan’s. And you don’t have to worry about saying it. None of you do. Whatever has happened to Ryan, my father is the one to blame . . . Sandy, how long until we get to the The Ocaranza Psychiatric Institute?”

At the mention of the clinic’s name, Seth’s mouth bobbed open but he promptly clamped it shut again. It had surged back, that strange, persistent feeling that they were heading the wrong way, that really they should be returning to the Santa Clara Clinic.

But he was just being stupid, Seth told himself. He just wanted so much to have been right when he suggested going there first. He bit back his impulse to say, “Turn around!” Instead he sat silent, watching his father reach across the console to clasp Kirsten’s hand.

“About forty-five minutes,” he told her. Glancing back at Seth through the rearview mirror, Sandy added firmly, “We’re going to find Ryan today. I promise you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her pulse pounding in her ears, Lucy raced up the stairs into the Annex. She didn’t pause at the reception desk. She simply sped down the hall straight into Ryan’s room.

The small space throbbed with noise and it so crowded that she could barely find him inside. Voices were snapping orders. Someone rushed past her carrying vials of blood and two other people elbowed her aside as they wheeled a crash cart, but Lucy ignored them all. Intent on reaching Ryan, she pushed through the people clustered around his bed.

“Ryan?” she called breathlessly, but she knew at once that he couldn’t hear her.

Between the figures in front of her—Dr. Keller and someone else, somebody tall and imposing, dressed in a muted, gray suit—Lucy managed to glimpse Ryan. He looked nothing like the boy she had left. His eyes were slits, not quite closed but not open either, and where his skin was not splotched an angry red, it glowed a damp, deathly white. A sheen of sweat covered his entire body.

She understood why instantly. Ryan was convulsing, his body thrashing furiously against his restraints even though two orderlies gripped his shoulders hard, pressing their weight against him, trying to hold him down.

Already Lucy could see vivid purple bruises forming under their hands.

She had expected seizures, but nothing like the spasms that she witnessed. “They should not be this violent, surely!” she thought. “Surely Ryan is suffering too strong a reaction.” Lucy clenched her fists, distraught, almost crushing the articles and photos that she carried. “I was too hasty. I must have given him too large a dose—It was wrong, I knew it. I should have found another way--"

Her self-accusations jolted to a stop when she heard Dr. Keller’s voice.

“Take that out,” he ordered, gesturing to the crash cart. At the same time he began to prepare a syringe. “We don’t need it. His vital signs are still strong. This should stabilize him until we can determine what’s going on.”

“And then, I assume, we can go forward with the procedure,” the man next to him observed dryly. “I see no reason for any lengthy postponement. After all, you said, the boy’s vital signs are still strong. Isn’t that your main consideration at this stage?”

“As a general rule, yes, Mr. Nichol. Of course, we will have to see--”

“Mr. Nichol?” Lucy gave a silent gasp, suddenly recognizing the man next to her. “He is here? And despite what Ryan’s condition, he is still pushing for the surgery?” She recoiled, accidentally brushing against his jacket. Its soft, expensive fabric seemed to blister her skin, and it took a moment for her to realize what Dr. Keller was saying.

“ . . . ready to go as long as there’s no undue risk. Once we get the results of the patient’s blood tests, we should be able to--”

“No!” Lucy cried. “You cannot do this!”

Dr. Keller wheeled around, glaring, syringe in hand. “What are you doing here, Nurse?” he demanded irritably. Then, as if the answer didn’t matter, he waved dismissal. “Get out,” he ordered. “You’re no longer on this case.”

“But you do not understand, Doctor. Ryan . . . You cannot perform this operation on him.”

Beside her, Caleb Nichol turned around. He adjusted his cuffs, his brows arched, his ice-blue eyes assessing hers coldly.

“As Brandon’s guardian--” He seemed to stress the name, tossing it in Lucy’s face, “I believe that is my decision, Nurse. Go ahead, Doctor. Do whatever is necessary to prepare him for the procedure.”

“No! Don’t!” Lucy protested again. “I have found information—things that you must see. Dr. Keller, please, if you would just listen--”

For half a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then Dr. Keller’s face shuttered and he nodded to one of the orderlies. “Show Nurse Fordé out,” he ordered. “We can manage here.”

The man promptly released Ryan, took Lucy’s arm and propelled her to the door.

She resisted, struggling vainly and craning backward, pleading with Dr. Keller to stop. Instead, he inserted the needle. Lucy saw Ryan go limp. Then the door closed behind her, shutting her out.

TBC

chazper @ 2010-08-31T09:55:00

2010-08-31T14:03:09Z

Well, it's the last day of the month, so here's the next update of Best Forgotten. I'm sorry to be dragging this story out so long and posting such incomplete updates, but it's been hard to find time to write (much less revise. Essentially, you're getting a rough draft here.) This chapter was supposed to have another section, but rather than miss my deadline, here's what I have.

And as you know . . . AU, don't own, etc.

Best Forgotten, Part 18

“Lucy! There you are! Nurse Cree has been looking all over for you. Didn’t you hear your page? You were supposed to start handing out the afternoon meds ten minutes ago--”

The nurse paused, her friendly voice turning quizzical when Lucy failed to respond. “Lucy?” she prompted, calling even louder when Lucy did not even look at her. “Hello? Lucy?”

Intent on reaching the break room, Lucy continued striding down the hall. A dozen turbulent emotions darkened her face, and all she could hear were her own hectic thoughts.

“Perhaps I should try to call Mr. Cohen first. No, no, that will not help Ryan, not right now. Even if I am able to reach him, Mr. Cohen is in California. He could not get here in time to stop the operation, and he could do nothing over the phone. No, I must find some proof, something Dr. Keller will believe. There must be some record online--”

“Lucy!”

A hand caught Lucy’s arm, stopping her mid-step. She spun around, her cheeks flushed, her gaze unfocused. It took her a moment to recognize the woman staring at her and another second to register her obvious concern. Lucy shook her head like a diver emerging from deep water, surfacing, trying to catch her breath. When she spoke the words came in soft gasps.

“Celia” she stammered. “I am sorry. I did not hear you . . . But I am in a great hurry. Is something wrong?”

“That’s what I was about to ask you, Lucy. The afternoon meds? Remember?” Celia gestured a reminder, pointing to the cart beside her. “My shift is over. You’re supposed to take over and dispense these, not race through the halls, training for a track meet. Or is it a marathon?” Chuckling softly, she tried to coax an answering smile, but instead Lucy stiffened. Panic flitted across her face and Celia’s laughter dissolved. “Lucy, what is it?” she asked, quiet and concerned. “What’s going on?”

A wave of scalding guilt broke over Lucy. She covered her mouth, flinching. “Oh no! My shift. All my patients,” she murmured. “I forgot, but . . . No. No, I cannot, not now . . . Celia, please could you cover for me? I do not have time to explain right now but it is--” Lucy bit her lip. Her eyes pleading, she cast a longing glance backwards toward the break room. “It is an emergency.”

Celia hesitated, troubled. “An emergency?” she repeated. “What kind of--” She broke off, startled, as Lucy grabbed her hands, squeezing them in entreaty.

“Please,” she begged. “If you could just handle my shift for the next—I cannot say how long, perhaps all afternoon—but if you could do this for me . . .”

“Lucy, you’re scaring me. Are you ill? Do you need to go home? Because Nurse Cree would--”

“No! I just—I need to do something here. Right now. Please!” Lucy’s voice, hushed and earnest, trembled slightly and she clasped Celia’s hands tighter. “Just do me this favor. I will make it up to you. Celia, I promise, it is so important.”

Celia studied Lucy for a second. Her brow puckered, anxious and wondering. Then she nodded. “All right. Go ahead, Lucy. Whatever it is, I’ll cover for you.”

Lucy exhaled a swift breath of relief. “Thank you,” she sighed, already starting to turn away. All at once, she stopped. Her gaze swept the area anxiously and her body tensed again. “Celia,” she added, almost whispering, “you will not tell Nurse Cree about this? Please? I do not wish anyone to look for me now.”

“Tell her what?” Celia shrugged, smiling reassurance. “Lucy, I’ve got no idea what’s going on. But I do know you. And you wouldn’t neglect your duties like this unless it was a matter of life or death. Just go.”

“A matter of life or death,” Lucy said softly. “Yes. That is it.”

She clasped Celia’s hands again, pressing them gratefully before she wheeled around and dashed down the hall.

The break room was just around the corner. When she reached the door, Lucy peeked inside first, murmuring a prayer of thanks when she saw that the room was empty. She slipped inside, falling onto the chair in front of the first computer and simultaneously turning the monitor so that it blocked her face. Her fingers fumbling, she logged onto the computer.

It took Lucy three clumsy tries to produce the right password.

“Slow down,” she warned herself. “You cannot afford to be careless. How will you help Ryan if you make mistakes and waste time this way?”

That one word, time, echoed ominously in her mind. Lucy’s eyes flitted to the clock on her screen for an instant. As she did, the number changed, and she felt her throat start to close.

Another second lost.

“Ah, mon Dieu. Ryan,” she moaned silently. One hand slipped off the keyboard. It fell to her lap and she touched the syringe and small vial, now empty, hidden in her pocket. “How could I have done this to you? It was wrong . . . But I could not think of any other way to stop the surgery. . .”

Abruptly, fiercely, Lucy yanked her hand away, and sat up straight. Her eyes narrowed. She forced herself not to think about the time ticking away, not to think about Dr. Keller or the surgical team on their way, probably at that very moment, to Ryan’s room. She did not even allow herself to think about Ryan himself. It hurt too much to recall the way she had left him and how she saw him last, lying deathly still in his bed. Only his eyes moved. A bottomless, agonized blue, they had locked on hers, dark with entreaty, struggling desperately to stay open, but slowly, inexorably, emptying.

Closing.

The image made Lucy’s heart clench. Her body buzzed, shot with a of hot, heedless panic, and her muscles jumped.

But she could not afford to act impulsively.

Lucy needed control.

She needed to be cool, careful, methodical.

She needed to find something, right now, that would make Dr. Keller stop the operation.

And she needed, right now, to decide where to start.

Lucy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She allowed herself a half-second of silent debate. She wanted to begin with Ryan, but even though she had not found the news story Mr. Nichol had fabricated, there still might be something . . .

With quick, decisive strokes, she typed “Brandon McConnell” into the search engine.

Almost immediately, she felt a tingle of cold despair.

It was too common a name.

Over 400,000 results appeared, most of them apparently about some spray paint graffiti artist. Lucy tried adding a qualifier, “murder,” but all she found were blurbs declaring that the painter was “guilty of making art” and entries about another Brandon with a different last name, who had been accused of killing somebody named Lawrence King.

Scrolling swiftly from page to page, Lucy scanned the results, adding the names “Cohen” and “Atwood” in an attempt to narrow the search further.

She found nothing.

There were no links she could follow, nothing about Brandon McConnell murdering Ryan Atwood, nothing at all to connect their names.

Lucy sat back, shivering, simultaneously relieved and horrified.

“He lied about everything,” she concluded grimly. “Mr. Nichol lied. Surely if such a crime occurred, there would be notice of it somewhere. But there’s not. And if there was no murder that means everything else Mr. Nichol told us about Ryan—about ‘Brandon’—all of the medical records and legal documents he produced—they must be lies too. Only. . .” Lucy shook her head, struggling for comprehension, “Why would he do that? How could he destroy an innocent boy? To claim he is crazy and arrange for this operation . . . What kind of man is Mr. Nichol? And, oh God . . .” She took a hissing breath. Her hands clenched into fists and she stiffened, rigid with defeat. “How can I prove all this to Dr. Keller? There is nothing here I can print, nothing that I can show him . . . Ryan! Perhaps if I can find something about Ryan--”

Lucy moved her cursor with feverish haste. She started to delete Brandon McConnell and insert Ryan’s name, but then, struck by a sudden hunch, she typed “Brandon McConnell + Caleb Nichol” instead.

She found nearly two dozen results that matched.

Her skin tingling, Lucy skimmed the summations. Most of the reports went back more than thirty years. Several of them concerned an aborted takeover of Mr. Nichol’s company, The Newport Group, by a businessman named Brandon McConnell.

“So Mr. Nichol knew a man named Brandon McConnell—a man he must have despised,” Lucy concluded, wondering. Automatically she hit the print command, saving the article, but she didn’t take time to puzzle its significance. She just clicked back to the search page, skimming down to the other articles, almost holding her breath.

It exploded in a rush as she read.

The other articles reported Brandon McConnell’s suicide.

Lucy pulled up the first one that included Caleb Nichol’s name, her gaze flying over the first paragraphs, then jolting to a stop when she came to short interviews with people at the funeral.

“Brandon McConnell invested everything he had in his effort to gain control of my company,” Mr. Nichol was quoted as saying. “When he failed, he went bankrupt, I’m afraid. That’s the risk someone takes in situations like this, but obviously McConnell couldn’t deal with his losses. It’s a shame. I can imagine what a tragedy his death must be for his family.”

Lucy stared at the screen. She reread Mr. Nichol’s words four more times, trying to infuse them with some compassion, some basic humanity, but it was impossible. They remained the same: calibrated, smug, and completely cold.

A slow chill spread through Lucy’s body as their meaning registered.

Caleb Nichol had known a man named Brandon McConnell—a man he had obviously seen as a threat, a man he had hated.

A man whose death he had clearly welcomed.

It could not be a coincidence.

He had chosen that name, assigned it to Ryan for a reason.

Rushing now, no longer trying to contain her urgency, Lucy printed the page. It was something—not enough yet, not proof of anything exactly, but at least a start. Without pausing to retrieve the copy, she began another search, this time using “Ryan Atwood + Sanford Cohen.”

Once again, Lucy was overwhelmed by the results.

There were so many Cohens, so many entries about Sandy himself—his cases, his activism at Berkeley, legal articles he had published, his marriage to Kirsten Nichol, all the charity events they attended in Orange County. Lucy examined the blurbs quickly, looking for any that highlighted Ryan’s name as well.

She found only two. The first was a legal record, a terse announcement that Sanford and Kirsten Cohen had become the legal guardians of the minor ward of the state, Ryan Atwood. That much corresponded to Mr. Nichol’s story, so it told her nothing that she did not already know. Lucy sped on to the second link, headlined “Chaos at the Cotillion: Jimmy Cooper Attacked at Daughter’s Debutante Ball.” Sandy’s name appeared in connection with the fight at the event, and Ryan was identified as “escort of Marissa Cooper.”

Her fingers trembling slightly, Lucy clicked onto the full article. She started to read, but then her eyes widened and she scrolled down rapidly.

The article included two photographs.

One was a shot of Julie Cooper, vivid, elegant, and glowing with apparent pride as her daughter was introduced. She was seated next to another couple: a slim, almost fragile blond woman with a slight, wondering smile, and, holding her hand, a broadly grinning man. His alert eyes crinkled under thick brows and a shock of unruly dark hair tumbled on his forehead.

The caption identified the couple as Kirsten Nichol Cohen and her husband, Sanford Cohen.

Ryan’s Kirsten and Sandy.

Even in the brief glimpse she got of them, Lucy could sense couple’s warmth. She wanted to study them more closely, but the companion photo commanded her gaze.

It showed the scene that the Cohens were watching: Jimmy Cooper with his daughter Marissa at the moment that she was being presented to Newport society. They were the focus of the picture, but Lucy barely glanced at them. Instead, she stared at the corner of the picture because there, bowing, was Marissa’s escort.

Ryan Atwood.

It wasn’t a good photo.

His face was half-hidden, ducked away from the camera, and his body was masked by an awkward, formal bow, but it didn’t matter. Lucy recognized him anyway. The curve of his cheek, the tumble of dark-blond hair, even the sturdy line of his shoulders—she was sure that the well-dressed teenager in the picture, that debonair, uncomfortably proper Ryan Atwood was the same boy she knew, the one in their clinic.

The same boy who now lay unconscious in the Annex.

The one about to have brain surgery that would destroy him forever.

But not now—Lucy’s breath quickened—not when she could prove exactly who he was.

Her lips parted. Raising one finger, Lucy touched the computer screen, as if trying to keep the image from disappearing.

For a moment she worried: Did she have enough, even now? The articles about Brandon McConnell proved nothing by themselves—Caleb Nichol could claim that the name was nothing more than an awful, bizarre coincidence. And the cotillion picture was blurred. Ryan appeared almost out of frame, vague enough to be mistaken for any one of a dozen other attractive blond teens.

Perhaps that is what Dr. Keller would do: shrug away the article and the photo.

Lucy’s nails bit into the flesh of her closed fists. Opening her hand, she touched the monitor again, tracing a line from Sandy Cohen to Ryan and stopping there.

Ever since “Brandon McConnell” had been admitted, she had seen an obsessive glint grow in the doctor’s eyes. Lucy recalled all the times she had been with him in Ryan’s room, watching as he conducted his examinations. Never once had Dr. Keller listened to Ryan or empathized; never once had recognized the living, suffering boy in front of him.

All he saw, Lucy feared, was the passport to his future and beyond that, his own life after he completed the surgery: acclaimed, respected, admired, juggling interviews, accepting endowments and praise and job offers.

Dr. Keller had become so intent on proving that his procedure would work that these flimsy bits of evidence might not be strong enough to stop him.

How could he recognize Ryan in the picture if he did not see him even now, not as a person?

Lucy sank back, sick with certainty. Her gaze flitted to the clock on her computer screen.

“I do not have enough to stop him,” she thought. “And I do not have time to look further. Dr. Keller will proceed with the surgery anyway.”

The image on screen seemed to waver under her fingertips. Jolted, Lucy yanked her hand away. She straightened her shoulders, her jaw tightening.

“You cannot give up, Lucy,” she told herself sternly.“You promised Ryan. This operation is so very wrong. If you cannot stop it, you must stall it at least. Dr. Keller might dismiss this evidence, but perhaps members of his surgical team will find it suspicious. They could force him to postpone the procedure so that they could confirm Ryan's identity.”

She had no doubt that Mr. Nichol would find some way to dispute the evidence she had found, but even a delay, Lucy decided, might be victory enough. If Dr. Keller rescheduled the surgery she would have time to reach Mr. Cohen, the real Sandy, the compassionate man she glimpsed in the photo.

He would come to the clinic just as Ryan hoped. Sandy would identify Ryan, arrange his release and, finally, take him home.

Where he belonged.

Warmed by the image of their reunion, Lucy’s uncertainty disappeared. All she and Ryan needed was time. The information she’d found must be enough to give them that.

Galvanized, breathless with excitement, Lucy pressed the print command and sprang up from her chair. Already starting to sprint out of the room, she grabbed the sheets so rapidly that she tore the papers in half. “Merde,” she muttered, wheeling around to print them again. She was waiting, impatiently counting the seconds while the machine whirred out the copies, when the intercom sounded.

This time Lucy heard the code and the terse, urgent page.

Room 2-D.

Ryan’s room.

She wasn’t called, but she ran anyway.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 17

2010-07-31T21:45:41Z

Yes, it's that time again. The end of the month, and time for another installment of this apparently endless melodrama. Let me start with an apology. This isn't much of an update, but this past month has been really, really busy. (I know! It's summer! Whatever happened to those lovely long, lazy days?) Also I haven't revised or edited this chapter--those time constraints again. But for what it's worth, here it is.

Same disclaimers: the Cohens + 1 belong to Josh & Company. And this story is completely, totally and shamelessly AU.

Best Forgotten, Part 17

Late afternoon sunshine baked the Santa Clara Clinic, outlining it sharply against the cloudless white-blue sky. Sandy squinted, trying to peer past its austere facade as he steered the Cohen’s rental car pulled into the parking lot. The building offered him no clues. It remained opaque, just a solid four-story structure with a few tired palm trees flanking its entrance. Sandy exhaled, a long breath of mingled hope and fear.

They were there, finally. Finally, they were someplace where they might find Ryan.

And whatever came after, whatever had happened to Ryan, whatever Caleb had done . . . Sandy’s gaze turned grim. “We’ll just have to deal with that later,” he thought.

Then he cut the ignition.

Almost before the engine stopped, Seth bounded out of his seat and sprinted towards the entrance.

“Seth! Son, wait for us,” Sandy called, but Seth didn’t pause. He ran heedlessly, swerving around a “No Parking” sign, stumbling over a small flower bed. Sandy raced after him. He grabbed his son’s arm, catching him by the elbow just as Seth was about to charge up the steps.

“Dad!” Seth jerked to a stop, panting. “What are you doing? Let go!”

Sandy shook his head. His eyes narrowed with warning. “Wait for your mother, son,” he cautioned. “And slow down. We need to do this calmly, as a family.”

“Calm. Family. Right. Got it,” Seth huffed. He tried to pull away, his face flushed with urgency. “Let go, Dad. ”

“I don’t know,” Sandy said slowly. He held on to his son’s arm, steadying him, noting his manic expression, the way Seth practically vibrated in place. “We need to handle this right. Maybe you should let Charlie do the talking here.”

“Why? I told you, Dad, I want to help!”

“I understand that, Seth. But--”

“But what? You think I’ll do something stupid or say the wrong thing?”

Seth glared at his father, furious. In the next moment, though, his attitude changed. He noticed a dozen things at once: the lines carved in Sandy’s forehead, the weary slump of his shoulders, and the gray-smudged shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes. He saw how stricken and unsteady Kirsten looked when she joined them, how she reached for Sandy’s hand, and how he closed his arm around her like a shield.

Seth heard the whimper that escaped his mother’s crimped lips when she leaned against Sandy. He heard his father’s consoling whisper.

In that instant, all of his anger dissolved into shame.

“They look . . . old,” Seth realized, with shocked concern. “Mom and Dad both. They look old and exhausted and really, really scared.”

His gaze softened and he drew himself up. Despite his wrinkled shorts and ComicCon t-shirt, his colt-like energy and unruly curls, Seth suddenly appeared adult, even efficient. “No, Dad” he said softly. “It’s okay. I know this is important, but I can handle it. Really.”

He eased himself out of his father’s grasp and nodded once, making his point. Then he marched deliberately up the steps into the clinic. Sandy’s arm tightened around Kirsten and they followed matching their steps to his. Charlie trailed behind them, walking more slowly. Her sharp, green eyes narrowed, scanning the bland surroundings, studying the faces of the few people they passed.

A shock of cool air greeted them when they entered the lobby. It seemed strangely quiet inside and nearly deserted, unlike any hospital any of them had ever visited. Seth faltered for a second, remembering the night Luke had been shot, the scurry and sound of HOAG, and the way Ryan had glanced at him in the waiting room, his eyes equally resigned and desolate.

“I am so gone,” he had said. “Back to Chino or worse.”

Seth shivered, recalling that conversation. At the time he had reassured Ryan, but now he could hear an awful omen in those words “gone” and “worse.”

They had come true, in a way he and Ryan had never imagined.

But Ryan, Seth reminded himself sternly, might here right now. It was his job to find out.

“Come on, Cohen,” he ordered. “You can do this. Ryan, the ‘rents—everyone’s counting on you.”

Taking a deep breath, Seth summoned everything he had learned during his six years of Spanish. He wished desperately that he had spent less time studying Summer’s pert profile and more time listening to Señor Mendez. Still, he had gotten all A’s. That had to mean something.

With another quick, bracing breath, Seth led the way to the reception desk. A woman wearing a starched blue tunic sat behind the counter. She stood up, apparently surprised, when the Cohens approached.

“Buenas tardes,” she said politely. “¿Puedo ayudarle?”

“Buenas tardes,” Seth replied. He peered back at his parents, lifting his shoulders in a hopeful shrug before he continued. “¿Hablas Inglés?”

The woman shook her head ruefully. “Lo siento. Yo no.”

“Okay then,” Seth murmured to himself. “Here goes. He exhaled and looked up again. His smile flickered slightly he tried to mimic Señor Mendez’s musical accent. “Me gustaría saber si usted tiene un paciente aquí de nombre Ry—de nombre Brandon McConnell?”

The clerk shook her head. “Lo siento,” she said again. “Os divulgar información acerca de los pacientes sólo a los familiares inmediatos.”

Sandy edged over to Charlie, a question on his face.

“They only give information to family members,” she explained, in a swift whisper.

Sandy’s jaw tightened. “Oh God. Of course they would.” He wheeled around to face Seth. “Listen, son--” he began, but Seth was already speaking. Composure forgotten, he bobbed on his toes, almost babbling with eagerness.

“Pero estamos Ry— Quiero decir que son la familia de Brandon! O soy su hermano y --” Hands flailing, Seth gestured toward his parents, who pressed close to him, trying to follow his quick Spanish. “Este es su madre y su padre!”

Recognizing the words “madre” and “padre,” Sandy and Kirsten turned toward the clerk. “Sí,” Sandy confirmed, pointing to himself. “Brandon’s padre.” He flashed a warm, friendly grin and drew Kirsten closer. “His madre,” he added.

“Sí,” Kirsten said softly. “Madre.”

The clerk inclined her head, mollified, and moved to her computer. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she looked up expectantly. “Antes de dar cualquier información, ¿puedo ver alguna identificación, por favor?” she asked Sandy.

“I’m sorry, I don’t . . . Son?”

Seth leaned over to answer, nearly knocking his forehead against his father’s. “She needs to see your ID, Dad.”

“Right, right. Of course.”

Sandy fumbled for his wallet, but almost instantly his hand faltered in his pocket. He drew it back out, empty. A groan caught in his throat. Swallowing hard, he turned to Kirsten and shook his head. For just a moment, she looked at him blankly. Then her eyes widened with shocked consternation.

“Oh no, Sandy,” she moaned.

At the same time, Charlie pivoted abruptly and pulled out her phone. She took several steps back, scrolling through her address book.

Seth stared at his parents, then over at Charlie. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, bewildered. “What’s going on, Dad? Show her your ID so she’ll tell us about Ryan.”

“I can’t, son. I don’t have anything to prove we’re his family.”

“Yes you do! Come on, Dad! What about those legal papers, the ones you and Mom signed in court? I know you had them this morning. Are they in your briefcase in the car? ‘Cause I can run out and get them--”

Sandy clasped Seth’s shoulder, silencing him. Frustration and anguish seeped through his quiet voice. “I have those documents, Seth” he said. “But they’re for Ryan Atwood, remember? We don’t have anything to connect us with Brandon McConnell . . . Why didn’t I think of this? I should have expected--”

Sandy broke off. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, kneading the heel of his hand into the furrow between his brows. Instinctively, consolingly, Kirsten stroked his arm, even though her own eyes darkened with despair.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” she whispered. “The name . . . It didn’t occur to any of us.”

“Wait,” Seth protested. “No, guys, we have to—! Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll make her understand.” He spun back to the reception desk and leaned across the counter, his whole body tense with entreaty. “Nuestro apellido no es McConnell,” he admitted. “”Es Cohen. Y no tenemos los documentos judiciales, pero aquí es Brandon, es Brandon--” Suddenly blank, Seth bit his lip, searching for the right word, but he could not think of any Spanish phrase that would explain Ryan’s standing in their family.

Foster son? Legal ward? Abandoned teen placed in their custody? How was he supposed to say any of that?

And those terms didn’t describe Ryan’s place in the family anyway. They sounded so cold, temporary and court-imposed, like the group home Ryan ran away to avoid. Nothing in them suggested life in the Cohen home: all the laughter on the patio, in the den, around the dinner table; Seth sitting shoulder to shoulder with Ryan and munching cold cereal as they played video games or shared late night talks in the pool house; Sandy slinging his arm around Ryan’s shoulder while they watched a movie, sniffing eagerly when he prepared bacon, showing him how to schmear a bagel; Kirsten’s contented smile when she arranged new clothes on his shelves or sat beside him, her blond head bent next to his, so that they could examine blueprints together.

All those moments—that was the Cohen family since Ryan came to stay. And his place in it was not just legal, it didn’t depend on the courts, and it was not temporary. Ryan belonged with the Cohens. He was an intrinsic part of their happiness. Seth wanted to convey all that. He wanted to make the clerk realize how much Ryan—Brandon—mattered to them.

Huffing with frustration, he shifted from foot to foot. Charlie hung up her phone and edged next to him.

“Just say 'hijo adoptivo',” she whispered.

“What?” Seth blinked, jolted back into the moment. “Oh, okay, Charlie, right. Adopted,” he repeated. His face brightened as he listened to the word, noting its personal, permanent ring. “I guess that works, yeah . . .” Placing his hands flat on the counter, he fixed the clerk with an earnest, imploring gaze. When he began he spoke in careful, measured Spanish, enunciating each word, but as he talked, his speech picked up speed, his syntax and accent tangling until the clerk’s brow puckered with confusion. “Él es adoptado, ¿de acuerdo? Pero nosotros somos su verdadera familia. De lo contrario, ¿por qué llegamos hasta aquí? Mira, es muy importante. Se está perdiendo y tenemos que encontrarlo—What?”

Seth broke off abruptly as Kirsten seized his wrist.

“Stop, Seth,” she begged. “Please. Just ask her if Ryan—if Brandon is here. Maybe she can tell us that much.”

His mother’s words fluttered in the air, thin and torn as shredded tissue paper, and her fingers, icy and dry, seemed to vibrate against Seth’s skin. Instinctively, he slid his hand around to hold hers. The touch braced them both. Seth took a deep breath, trying to still all his hectic emotions.

“Okay, Mom,” he agreed. He nodded, abashed, and turned to the clerk, smiling an apology before he spoke. “¿Podrías decirnos si es un paciente en esta lista? Brandon McConnell? Por favor?”

The woman looked at each Cohen in turn. Her shoulders lifted regretfully. “Lo siento,” she told them. “Sin su identificación, no puedo hacer pública ninguna información. Es la política de la clínica.”

Sandy and Kirsten needed no translation. They could see the answer in her face.

“Pero si solo--” Seth began, but before he could finish Sandy put a gentle hand on each shoulder and began to steer him across the lobby.

“Let it go, son,” he advised quietly.

Beside him, Kirsten laced her fingers through Seth’s. She said nothing. She just gave him a sad, tender smile and squeezed his hand lightly as they walked.

“Dad! Mom! What are you doing?” Seth pulled against his parents, craning his head backwards and searching the empty room as if Ryan might suddenly appear. “We can’t just leave. What if Ryan is here? We have to find him!”

Sighing heavily, Sandy urged his son toward the exit. “W know that, Seth,” he insisted, even as he opened the clinic door and nudged his son outside.

A fierce blast of sunlight greeted the Cohens when they left. Momentarily blinded, they paused on the top step of the clinic.

Seth’s jaw tightened, and he yanked free of his parents’ grip.

“So that’s it?” he demanded coldly. “We just give up? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure the other clinic will have the same policy.”

Kirsten shook her head, surprised and reproachful. “Oh sweetie. Of course we’re not giving up.”

“It feels like it to me.”

“Seth--” she warned.

The hint of Corporate Kirsten in her tone, steely and resolved, reassured Seth. So did the sight of his father’s intent courtroom face. “Okay then,” he conceded. “What do we do now?”

“We get the papers we need,” Sandy declared. His jaw set into a hard line, he strode down the steps. “Can you help us with that, Charlie?”

She nodded, jogging beside him. “I’m already on it, Sandy. I reached—well, let’s say, an acquaintance of mine who can help us. He’s working on it now.”

“Mike Hollister?”

“That’s the man . . . Sorry, Sandy. He's the only person I know who can handle this. Any problem with using his services?”

Sandy smiled grimly. “No. None at all. Desperate times . . . ”

“Right. Desperate measures,” Charlie concluded. “That’s what I figured. But we need access to a fax machine. Maybe in an Internet café or a copy shop, if we can find one around here. I’ll check my computer when we get to the car.”

“Papers, Dad?” Seth prompted. He loped down the steps, taking them two at a time to catch up to his father. “You mean, like guardianship papers with Brandon’s name instead of Ryan’s? So in other words--”

“Forgeries,” Sandy concluded evenly. He clicked the car doors open, and Charlie raced ahead, retrieving her laptop from the backseat and perching there sideways while she turned it on.

Seth flashed both his parents an admiring grin as they joined her. “So how do you like that? You guys are consorting with criminals, forging legal papers. You’re lawbreakers now. Awesome. That’s awesome,” he observed, nodding appreciatively. “I cannot wait to tell Ryan--” Seth broke off. His smile faded and he slumped against the car. “That is, you know, if I get the chance.”

“Oh, sweetie, you will.” Kristin patted Seth’s cheek, her gaze fixed on the horizon, her voice wavering just a little. “We’re going to find him.”

Seth rubbed his thumb over the car’s chrome trim, smudging its glossy finish. His mouth twisted. “I thought maybe we had,” he mumbled. “But now . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Charlie sat up abruptly. She waved, gesturing for the Cohens to join her. “Okay guys, we’re in luck,” she announced. “I found a cyber café.” Reaching blindly into her bag, she pulled out a comb and jammed it into her hair, raking her matted bangs off her face. At the same time she explained, “VIGO Net—I’ve got the directions, but it’s actually a lot closer to the other clinic than it is to this one. There’s nothing at all around here.”

“Damn,” Sandy muttered. “But you’re sure we can get a fax there?”

“Absolutely.”

He hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded judiciously. “All right,” he declared, “change of plans.” Sliding into the driver’s seat, Sandy turned on the ignition. He raised his voice to speak over the engine and the hum of the air conditioner. “We’ll get the papers and check out the other clinic. What was its name?”

“The Ocaranza Psychiatric Institute,” Kirsten replied as she got into the car. At the same time Charlie swiveled around, simultaneously closing her door and clicking another website.

Only Seth still stood outside. He froze, frowning, one hand on his door handle. “So wait, what? We’re going to that place first?” he protested. “But Dad, Mom, I just have this feeling—I think Ryan is here. I mean here here, somewhere in this clinic. Can’t we get the papers we need and come back? Or Charlie could go, and we could, you know, wait here.”

Kirsten turned around. She shook her head, her face creased with sympathy. “Oh, sweetie,” she sighed. “A feeling isn’t proof. It could be that you just want so much for Ryan to be here.” Her voice wavered and she glanced back at the clinic. A shadow briefly erased the clear blue of her eyes. “I understand that,” she said. “But the fact is, he could be in the other clinic or—well, we just don’t know. But it makes more sense to check the other place first . . . Please, honey, just get in the car.”

Charlie patted the seat beside her. “It’s okay, Seth,” she added. “We’ll come back if we need to.”

“Yeah, right,” Seth muttered darkly. “Okay, I’m coming.”

He collapsed into the car. Then he sat back, staring bleakly out the window as they drove away.

The clinic grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely. Seth turned back around, his face shrouded. Beside him, Charlie was speaking on the phone, her voice hushed, her back half-turned. In the front seat, Seth could see his father reach over, squeezing Kirsten’s hand once, before he put both hands on the wheel again.

He knew they were all right. Logistically, logically, once they got the forged papers, they should go first to the place with the weird name, the one like a resort, Ocaranza.

But somehow Seth couldn’t help feeling that they had just left Ryan behind.

Six minutes after the Cohens left, a town car pulling into the space that they had just vacated. The driver slid out, moved to the back door, and opened it with a quick, discrete bow. Caleb eased out of the back seat. A second later, Patrick Grady followed.

“Five hours,” he told the driver curtly. “We’ll call if there’s any change.”

The driver touched his hat. “Of course. Good evening, Mr. Grady, Mr. Nichol.”

Caleb didn’t reply. Lifting his chin, he smiled into the fierce sunlight, removed his dark glasses and adjusted the cuffs of his impeccable French silk shirt. Then he nodded at Grady. As if summoned the other man stepped beside him and together, both smiling, they strolled into the clinic.

TBC

Best Forgotten, Part 16

2010-06-21T03:42:29Z

Tomorrow--well, Tuesday; it's not Monday here yet--I leave for my summer vacation. (I'm taking a river cruise up the Danube from Budapest to Munich, ending with the Passion Play in Oberammergau.) So even though it's not my customary last-day-of-the-month posting, I thought I'd update this endless WIP for whatever die-hard OC fic readers remain.

Disclaimers: The characters still aren't mine, the mistakes still are, the story is still wildly AU and melodramatic and oh--I don't speak French and I know nothing about medicine.

Now that you've been warned, here's the latest chapter of

Best Forgotten

“Whoa!” the orderly whistled. He reared back, startled. The laundry cart he had been leaning against outside the service elevator began to roll and he caught it with his foot, simultaneously reaching out to steady Lucy. “In a hurry, huh?”

Lucy blinked. Intent on finding Ryan she scarcely realized that she had run into anyone when she raced around a corner. “What?” she murmured, absently shaking off the orderly’s arm. “Oh. Yes, I am.” She cut around his cart and rushed on, her soft soles beating an urgent tattoo on the tile floor. Suddenly she stopped, alert again. Already halfway down the hall, she wheeled around. Her voice regained its usual lilting courtesy. “Excuse me,” she called, walking back to rejoin the orderly. “Perhaps you might help me? I am looking for the room of a patient who was just moved to this wing. Ry—that is, Brandon McConnell?”

The man shrugged. “McConnell? Sorry. Can’t help you there. I’m not much with names.”

But names count for so much! Lucy thought, recalling Ryan’s desperate attempts to claim his. Aloud she prompted, “You might remember this patient though. He is American, blond, only sixteen years old . . .? He was moved here perhaps half an hour ago?”

“Oh yeah, him.” The orderly’s eyes widened with comprehension. He sighed, tsking softly and scratching his chin. “It’s a damn shame, a young kid going crazy like that. We had a terrible time transporting him. He fought us the whole way. Kept claiming that his name is Ryan and calling for Sandy somebody. Yeah, he’s in the isolation unit. Room 2-D. Took us forever to get him settled in there. I hated having to be so rough on the kid, but . . .”

The man shrugged again, and Lucy caught her breath. Ah, Ryan no. You should not have fought, she mourned. At the same time she nodded, sketching a faint, grateful smile. “2-D,” she repeated. “Thank you. Could you also direct me? I have been on staff here for only a month, and I have never worked in this wing.”

“2-D isn’t in this wing,” the orderly told her. “Isolation is in the annex.”

Lucy stared at him blankly. “The annex? I am sorry . . . I do not know where you mean . . .?”

“Yeah, that’s not surprising. It’s the old clinic building—the one across the parking lot. They don’t use it very much now. Just for a few hardcore cases.” The elevator pinged, its light flashing. Jerking his head right, the orderly angled his laundry cart in order to steer it inside. “Go down that hall, then left to the elevator just before the exit sign. Take it to the basement. There’s a door past the supply room that leads to an underground passage below the parking lot. You follow it to the annex and then--”

The door closed, cutting off any further directions, but it hardly mattered. Lucy had already rushed away, propelled by the words “underground passage.” Something about that phrase filled her with dread. It sounded sinister, conjuring visions of darkness, damp walls, tortured cries and death. Lucy shook her head, trying to erase the image, but it only grew more ominous, propelling her faster, down the hall to the elevator, to the basement and finally past the annex to an unmarked gray door.

Instinctively, Lucy held her breath as she bushed the button beside it. The door slid open and she walked through, into a sterile, bone-white corridor. It seemed oddly vacant—she heard no sounds and saw no other people, no equipment, no signs of life at all—but other than that, the passage looked like every other hospital hallway.

Lucy exhaled, relieved. “You see,” she scoffed, scolding herself silently. “You are just being over-dramatic. This hall is no different than the ones upstairs. And the annex where Ryan has been moved? It is simply a different part of the clinic. That is all. Just another building. It means nothing that you did not know of its existence before.”

Still, the silence in the empty space chilled her and with each passing second her sense of urgency increased. She moved forward purposefully, eager to reach the end of the passageway.

All along, Lucy had been haunted by the thought that she was missing something vital, some important information that had slipped past her somehow. She felt sure that it would help Ryan if she could just fathom what it was. Now her footsteps echoed, metronome-like, as she walked, taunting her with a more ominous thought.

Time was passing. She might be too late to help him.

If she even found Ryan at all.

Lucy began to run.

Unwilling even to wait for the elevator at the end of the passage, she raced up the stairs instead. She paused for just a second at the top, breathless and bracing herself before she turned the door handle.

It is simply another part of the clinic,” she reminded herself sternly. Then her chin raised, her face determined, she pushed the door open.

The small lobby that she entered did appear identical to the ones in the main clinic. Like the passage below, though, it felt strangely quiet, removed from the life in the other building. Lucy’s eyes narrowed, scanning the area, searching for signs to the patients’ rooms. She saw none, and at first even the nurse’s station appeared abandoned, but then a woman emerged from the office area. Frowning, preoccupied with a chart she was studying, she sat down at the desk and began to input data into her computer.

Lucy waited a moment, but when the woman did not look up, she coughed softly, announcing her presence. “Excuse me, please,” she called as she crossed to the counter. Mustering a polite smile, she checked the woman’s ID tag. “Nurse Baldrich? I am looking for room 2-D. Brandon McConnell?”

Nurse Baldrich jerked upright, startled and evidently displeased by Lucy’s presence. “This is a restricted area,” she announced. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave. There are no visitors allowed here.”

Unconsciously, Lucy touched her own nametag. “Yes, but I am not a visitor,” she explained. “I am Lucy Forde, the attending nurse of--” Ryan’s name automatically rose to her lips and she had to bite it back. “Brandon McConnell. I have come to see how he has handled his transfer. So if you will direct me to room 2-D?”

The other woman’s frown deepened. “That patient is now in the care of our department. We are monitoring his condition here.”

“Yes, of course you are.” Impatience and anger simmered just below the surface of Lucy’s courteous reply. It took all her strength to summon a respectful tone. “I simply came to look in on him.”

Unmoved, Nurse Baldrich returned to her charts. “That is unnecessary, thank you,” she said. Clearly dismissing Lucy, she began typing again.

“Yes, but--” Lucy glanced down, unsure how to proceed. She pinched a fold of her pale green tunic between her fingers, twisting it as she searched for a compelling argument. Her mind echoed with the orderly’s words, the ones that so alarmed her. “He fought us the whole way . . . Took us forever to get him settled . . . Hated having to be so rough on the boy.”

She had to reach Ryan. She had to see him before Dr. Keller—

“Of course!” Lucy thought. Her eyes flashed with decision. Thinking quickly, she moved closer to the counter, at the same time assuming her most deferential expression. “I was informed that Brandon became extremely agitated when he was moved here,” she explained. Her voice lowered, as if sharing a secret. “I am sure you understand how precarious his emotional state is, and how vital it is that he be in optimum condition for his operation. We must avoid any undue stress that could jeopardize its success. Since the patient developed a bond with me when he was in my care, we thought that I might be able to soothe him.” Lucy gave a delicate shrug and tilted her head. Smiling again, this time confidentially, she let the ambiguous “we” linger in the air.

It would, Lucy hoped, imply orders from Dr. Keller.

Nurse Baldrich pursed her lips, considering. “I see,” she said. “In that case, yes, you may see him. Room 2-D is the third room on the left. Would you like me to come with you?”

“Thank you, no. I think it might be best if I go alone.” Giving a quick, bland nod of farewell, Lucy turned to go. Her face flushed with combined victory and apprehension, but she forced herself to walk at a normal pace to Ryan’s room and to open the door calmly.

The moment she stepped inside, though, Lucy wished she had paused to glance through the window first. She wasn’t prepared for the sight of the boy inside. The glazed eyes and ashen skin, she expected. She had seen those before, but not the mottled bruises on his upper arms and wrists, not how utterly defeated he looked, his muscles flaccid, his body sunk into the unyielding mattress.

Lucy barely recognized the boy in the bed.

She wondered if he even recognized himself anymore.

A sound, half-gasp and half-sob escaped her, and she covered her mouth with both hands. Behind her the door swung shut with a sharp, decisive click. The sound startled Lucy, but Ryan failed to react at all. He didn’t even stir at the sound of her voice.

“Ryan?” she called as she crossed to his side. “It is Lucy. I am so sorry that I could not come sooner.”

The boy lay still, unblinking, and she inched closer.

“Ryan?” she repeated. Leaning down, Lucy touched his temple very carefully, avoiding a long, livid mark just above his right eye. Even then, Ryan remained motionless, his face averted, his breathing so shallow that it barely registered at all. Only when she reached down to remove his restraints did he react. Then he flinched, jerking away from her touch.

Distressed and remorseful, Lucy recoiled too.

“Shhh. Shh now, it is all right,” she murmured. With an effort, she kept her voice calm. As gently as possible, Lucy released Ryan’s wrists. Then, still moving with the same wary care, she sat on the bed next to him and began to stroke his forehead.

At her touch, Ryan’s fingers opened and closed and opened again, his pulse fluttering. His lips trembled, and small, tentative flickers of comprehension crossed his face. “Luh . . . Lucy?” he asked thickly.

She nodded, smiling, her hand soft on his brow.

Ryan swallowed. Very slowly he turned his head, trying to focus on her face. She had to lean closer to hear his voice. “You really . . . here?”

“Yes, I am really here. Remember? I promised you that I would come back.”

“Where--?” Ryan stopped, shuddering, and swallowed again. Whatever he meant to ask, Lucy noticed, the question seemed to taste bitter.

“Where are you?” she guessed, trying to spare him. “It is just a different room. You are in another wing in the clinic, that is all, Ryan.

He shook his head. “No,” he mumbled. He licked his lips, his fists clenching. “Where . . . Mr. Nichol?”

“Mr. Nichol?” Lucy repeated blankly. She frowned, confused. “I do not know, Ryan. Why do you ask? Do you wish to see him?”

“No!”

Ryan’s voice hitched, his chest heaving, and she rushed to soothe him. “It’s all right,” she crooned. “Relax, Ryan, relax. There is no need to worry about Mr. Nichol.”

“Was . . . just with me. Here.”

Lucy recalled the deserted passage she had traveled, the almost eerie desolation of the annex itself, even the “no visitors” rule Nurse Baldrich had cited. “Ah Ryan, no. Perhaps you were dreaming. I do not believe he was here.”

“Was!” Ryan insisted. “Talked to me. Said . . . going to pay . . . said I would--”

His voice rose and Lucy heard his breath catch again, felt his muscles tense. “Shh . . . hush now,” she urged, alarmed. “It is all right. Hush.” Tilting her head to smile down at him, she stroked his face softly until Ryan quieted. “Mr. Nichol is gone now,” she murmured. “You see? It is all right. He is nowhere around. I am here with you now.”

Ryan stilled, listening. For the first time, Lucy’s presence truly seemed to register. With a long, unsteady sigh, he turned his head to rest his cheek in the curve of her palm.

“You came,” he whispered. “Thank . . . you.”

“You are very welcome, mon,” she replied, summoning the soft Jamaican patois that always made Ryan smile. It did now. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards for a second, and Lucy could feel his whole body relax. She smiled in response. Then, still brushing his hair with her fingertips, she lapsed into silence. Lucy wasn’t sure what she should do next. She wanted to tell Ryan that he had been right about the newspaper article, that it had been a fake, and to ask him more about the Cohens, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. He had obviously been sedated, and he appeared so bewildered, barely clinging to consciousness, scarcely aware of his surroundings.

Lucy wasn’t sure if he would even understand what she said.

Still, she decided to try. “I have some news,” she began, before she realized that Ryan was struggling to sit up. Immediately, Lucy stopped talking. Slipping off the bed, she rushed to remove the straps on his ankles and ease him higher on the bed, bracing his back with the pillow.

Ryan’s head fell back instantly and his lashes fluttered. “Tired,” Ryan slurred. “But don’t wanna sleep . . . wanna know . . .”

“Know what, Ryan?” Lucy prompted.

With an effort, he forced his eyes open. They glinted for a moment, a slash of sunlight through clouds. “Something . . . going on. Tell me, Lucy.”

“Going on? I do not understand. What do you mean?” She leaned closer, keeping her tone reassuring, trying to follow his slow, labored explanation.

“Stopped—stopped giving me drugs,” Ryan mumbled. “The ones . . . played with my mind . . . Now just these—kind, keep me sleepy. Dr. Keller, Dr. . . . Gall—look at me, talk so . . . so I can’t hear. Gonna do something. Have to tell me. Please?”

Lucy blanched. “Oh, Ryan. Dr. Keller has not spoken to you about any of this?”

“Nobody . . . talks to me. Nobody ‘cept . . . ‘cept you.”

Ryan’s hand moved, his fingers curling around Lucy’s. The weight of trust in that gesture, the loneliness in his last, fractured words, drove the air from her lungs. He knows nothing of the operation, she realized, despairing. But how can I tell him of it? To explain what it will do—that he will lose all he knows of himself and become nobody at all? It is too cruel!

No, it would be kinder to say nothing.

“Lucy. Please?” Ryan’s tone changed, growing stronger even as a thin thread of entreaty wound through it. “Tell me, please. Whatever . . . wanna know . . . truth.”

She gazed down at him, her eyes liquid and tender, her lips crimping.

“You must,” she told herself. “Ryan is right. He deserves the truth.”

Lucy slid closer, clasping his hand between both of hers. “Dr. Keller plans to do an operation,” she began carefully.

“Op . . . eration? On me? When? Why?”

“Soon,” Lucy admitted, half choking on the word.

Ryan shook his head. “But . . . not sick—don’t need--”

“No, I know, but this . . . It is a brain operation, Ryan. To—to take away all the painful memories.” He shook his head again, breathing faster, tensing, and Lucy rushed on, trying somehow to balance truth and mercy. “When it is done, you will just—you will not remember any of those things that have hurt you. It will be as if they never happened.”

Murky images flooded Ryan’s mind. They surged by in a rush, dark and tangled, but somewhere in the shadows he could see flashes of his father’s drunken rages, of Dawn crying or passed out on the couch, Trey slamming the door, leaving Ryan alone, A.J., throwing him against a wall, all the other clenched fists and blows, the screams and drugs and empty rooms and loneliness and pain.

And yet.

That’s who I am, Ryan thought. I need to remember! Who am I if I don't?

“No!” he cried. Abruptly alert and frantic, he tried to pull away from Lucy. “Can’t do surgery! He can’t! Needs –Needs consent. Doesn’t he, Lucy?—I never said--”

Blinking back tears, Lucy held him tighter “Ryan, you are a minor,” she explained helplessly. “And in any case. you have been ruled . . . The decision is not yours. It belongs to your legal guardian, and he has already agreed.”

“Sandy . . .? No!” Ryan’s voice broke, shocked and scraped raw. “That’s a lie. Sandy wouldn’t--”

“No, not Mr. Cohen. Mr. Nichol signed the consent form. After you were arrested, he became your legal guardian.”

“No! ‘s a lie! He’s lying—Have to stop him . . .” Ryan struggled, thrashing, trying to get out of bed. “Not Brandon! I’m not!”

“Ryan, please,” Lucy begged, attempting vainly to hold him. “You must stop this. You will injure yourself.”

“Don’t—care--!”

With a final effort, Ryan twisted free of her grip and heaved himself to his feet. He took a single step toward the door. Then his legs buckled under him. Lucy cried out in alarm. She caught him just in time to cushion his fall, but even so Ryan’s shoulder hit the bed frame. Lucy winced at the sound. Slowly and very gently, she began to ease him back onto the mattress.

“No,” Ryan protested. “Lucy, don’t . . . got to get out of here.” He tried to push against her, but already the brief rush of adrenaline ebbed and the sedative started to reclaim him. It sapped his strength until he couldn’t resist any longer. With a strangled cry, Ryan collapsed against the pillow. “Thought you’d . . . help,” he slurred. “Shoulda known . . . don’t believe me.”

His eyes, glazed with pain, lifted to hers. Then he turned away, and the thin thread of doubt that had stretched taut inside Lucy suddenly snapped. “Yes I do,” she said fiercely. “Ryan, look at me.” She cupped his chin in her hands, tilting his face toward hers. “Look at me,” she repeated. “I believe you, Ryan. Do you hear me? I know that you do not belong here.”

He licked his lips, nodded slowly. “Then . . . help me? Make them stop?”

“Ah, Ryan, I am trying to do that. I promise you.”

Lucy wanted to sound reassuring, but she heard it in her own voice: a faint note of frustration, of impotence and fear.

Ryan, she realized, must have heard it too. His hand caught hers, clutching it more forcefully that Lucy had thought possible. “Can’t let them do . . . operation. Lucy . . . have to stop them.”

His head moved feverishly, his eyes darting around the room as though searching for an answer. They stopped at a locked metal cabinet. Lucy’s gaze followed, confused, until Ryan looked up at her. Suddenly comprehending, she recoiled, chilled. Before he even spoke, she began to shake her head.

“Please,” he whispered. Desperation cracked Ryan’s voice. “Said you’d help, Lucy . . . give me something—make me sick. Please. Won’t operate if I’m sick . . .”

“Ryan, no! To deliberately harm you . . . No!” Lucy protested, horrified. “I cannot do that.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but Ryan held tight. “Just . . . so he won’t operate. Wouldn’t hurt me. Would help.”

“Listen to me, Ryan. That is not the way.”

“How then? Can’t get out . . . can’t call . . .” Ryan’s voice started to fade, and the clutch of his fingers loosened. “Promised you’d help. Sandy . . . Sandy will stop them . . . Lucy. Call Sandy. Please.”

His hand slipped from hers and fell limp on the pillow.

“I did call, Ryan” Lucy said softly. “I am so sorry. I already did. Mr. Cohen, he--”

Her eyes filled. She did not want to tell him. How could he bear it—losing his last hope, hearing that Sandy Cohen had lied about him just like Mr. Nichol? No, it was too much. All Lucy could make herself offer was a thin thread of the truth. Her voice sank to an unsteady whisper. “He is not coming,” she admitted.

Ryan’s eyes fluttered closed.

With relief, Lucy thought, He did not hear me. Perhaps that is for the best. I do not want him to know that this man he so counts on has abandoned him this way.

At a loss, she slipped off the bed and stood for a moment, her hands twisting around each other. She hated to leave Ryan again, but she could do nothing more for him here. All she could do was search for more information—some evidence about Brandon or Ryan or Caleb Nichol that would make Dr. Keller cancel the operation.

It was Ryan’s only chance.

She knew he couldn’t hear her, but Lucy had to say the words anyway. “I will come back, Ryan,” she promised.

Just as she started to turn away, though, she saw Ryan’s lips move and heard a faint, indistinct mumble. It was that series of numbers again, the same pattern she had heard him chant several times before. Nine . . . four . . . nine . . .

Lucy froze.

It sounded like a phone number.

She leaned closer, straining to hear. Ryan’s voice was shredding so that she could catch only fragments, but her heart clenched, tighter and tighter with each fractured refrain.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. Suddenly she was sure that the digits Ryan was repeating, the ones he had chanted so urgently, so many times—they must be Mr. Cohen’s phone number.

And they were not the same ones that she had dialed.

Lucy’s mind raced, sorting through the facts.

Of course! she realized, flushing with comprehension. That is what I have been missing! Ryan has been reciting his foster father’s phone number. And if that is true, the contact number I found in ‘Brandon’s’ file is a sham, just like that newspaper article about Ryan’s murder. And the man to whom I spoke—that must not have been Sandy Cohen at all!

All I have to do is call him now, only, only--

In a frenzy, almost panicked, Lucy grabbed Ryan’s hand. She squeezed it hard, desperate to rouse him, to summon him back to her. “Ryan,” she ordered, her voice clarion-clear. “I cannot hear the last numbers. Say them again! Please, only one more time.”

He blinked, his eyes clouded, his fingers lying limp against her palm.

“Mr. Cohen,” Lucy said forcefully. She cupped Ryan’s chin, turning his face to meet hers. “You want me to call him, do you not? Tell me his phone number, Ryan.”

“Call San . . . Sandy?”

“Yes. I will do that right now. Just tell me the last three numbers.”

She held her breath, listening.

To her dismay, he started from the beginning again, as if he could not recall the numbers any other way. “Nine . . . four . . . nine,” Ryan slurred. Lucy could hear the effort, how he struggled to shape each word and force it out of his mouth. She stroked his wrist, nodding encouragement. “Fuh—five . . .” he added thickly.

His voice trailed off, too soon.

What was the rest of it?

Lucy had heard the whole sequence so often before. Why could she not remember all the numbers herself? She shook Ryan’s shoulder. “Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Just a little longer. Five–what comes after that? Ryan? Ryan?”

“Thu—three,” he murmured finally. Then his lashes fluttered and his head fell to one side. The faint litany of numbers stuttered to a complete stop.

“Ah no,” Lucy moaned, as Ryan’s hand went slack in hers.

With frantic intensity, she closed her own eyes, repeating the first five digits, committing them to memory. She was sure of those at least. Perhaps, she told herself, I can find Sandy Cohen’s real number—now that I know to look. And if not—I am only missing the last two numbers. Surely I can discover the right combination. I just need to reach Mr. Cohen and he can make Dr. Keller—

The abrupt opening of the door interrupted Lucy’s plan.

“Ah,” Nurse Baldrich said, smiling approval as she entered. “Excellent. I see that the patient’s vital signs did stabilize while you were here. I was concerned because they did spike for a while, but you must have been able to calm him after all.”

“I—what? Oh. Oh, yes,” Lucy stammered. She clasped Ryan’s arm protectively. “He is asleep now.”

Nurse Baldrich nodded, checking the various machines in the room before looking at Ryan. She frowned slightly when she saw that his restraints had been removed. Her brows arching, she turned to Lucy, the question apparent on her face.

Lucy flushed. “Brandon reacts badly to being bound to the bed,” she explained tightly. “And it was no longer necessary in any case. As you can see.”

“Indeed.” Nurse Baldrich pursed her lips. “Well, it is a moot point now. I’ve just heard from Dr. Keller. His team will be arriving in fifteen minutes to prepare the patient for surgery.”

“Fifteen minutes--?” Lucy’s eyes widened and she blanched, tightening her grip around Ryan’s wrist. “But that is more than an hour earlier than scheduled, is it not?” she demanded. “Why has the time been changed?”

“Dr. Keller didn’t explain. I was just told to expect the pre-op team shortly.” A light flashed on the callboard and Nurse Baldrich glanced up, sighed, and shook her head. “Problems in 4-D. Again,” she said, turning to go. At the door she stopped and looked back. Seeing Lucy still lingering by Ryan’s bedside she added pointedly, “Aren’t you coming, Nurse? It seems to me that your work here is done.”

“Oh.” Lucy swallowed. “Yes. Of course.” The cold hand of despair gripped her heart, freezing her, but somehow she made herself move. Slowly, reluctantly, she released Ryan’s hand. She stroked it twice, very gently, before she followed Nurse Baldrich to the door.

A single thought throbbed through her mind.

“I cannot let this happen!”

In the few seconds it took Lucy to cross the room, she made her decision. Nodding a farewell to Nurse Baldrich she closed Ryan’s door, but she did not leave when it clicked shut behind her. Instead, she waited in the lobby, one hand still gripping the handle, watching while the other woman walked down the hall.

As soon as Nurse Baldrich moved out of sight, Lucy slipped back inside the room. Without a moment’s hesitation, without even glancing at Ryan, she strode over to the drug cabinet and fished out her key. She held her breath as it slid into the lock, but it turned easily. Jerking the door open, Lucy scanned the contents of the cabinet. She seized a single vial and syringe, relocked the door, and, in a single movement, wheeled around and returned to Ryan’s bedside.

Only then, gazing down at him, did she start to waver. Her hands, suddenly shaking, folded around the small bottle.

Ryan lay asleep, still and bruised. His lips were parted, his hair tumbled on his wan forehead, and his lashes shadowed a face etched with pain.

He looked like an injured child.

And now she was about to harm him even more.

Lucy whimpered softly. She almost turned to leave. Then she recalled Ryan’s desperate, broken voice. “Please, Lucy . . . Won’t operate if I’m sick . . . Promised you’d help me . . . Promised, Lucy. Please.”

A choked cry escaped her and Lucy raised her clasped hands to her lips. “You must,” she told herself. “Ryan is right, there is no other way. It is just so you will have enough time to reach Sandy Cohen. Do it, Lucy. Now, before it is too late.”

She bowed her head, her eyes closed.

Instinctively reverting to her native French, Lucy uttered a hushed, fervent prayer. “Mon Dieu,” she murmured. “Permettez-moi de faire la bonne chose.”

Then she injected the contents of the vial into Ryan’s IV.

TBC

P.S. I'll be cut off from the Internet until July 2, so please don't expect replies to comments until then! Thanks for reading though.

Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 15 of ?)

2010-05-31T17:15:38Z

This chapter is dedicated to famous99 in honor of her birthday. I'm sorry I missed the actual date, famous, but I hope it was amazing and I wish you a most wonderful year.

I'm also sorry that this isn't much of an update. This past month has been beyond busy, with our play festival, an all-city arts festival and a fundraising gala, all of which I've had to help present, since I had poets and playwrights involved. Plus, we've had prom and the seniors awards dinner, so I'm afraid I've had little time to write. I did start the next section (Lucy and Ryan). However, I know I won't finish it today (off to Memorial Day picnic in an hour) and this is my end-of-the-month deadline, so . . . here's a mini-chapter just so you know I haven't abandoned this story.

The disclaimers (AU, characters not mine) all remain the same. Oh--and thanks for reading!

Best Intentions, Part 15

Best Forgotten, Part 15

Seth bounced on the edge of the backseat, his foot pressing an invisible accelerator. He craned forward, trying to decipher his father’s terse remarks, although his head kept swiveling sideways to peer at Charlie’s computer screen. Periodically, he glanced at his mother too. Every time he did, she looked the same, her white face carved from ice, her gaze almost unblinking and focused fiercely on the road.

Kirsten was driving.

It had stunned them all when they reached the parking lot and she snatched the car keys from Sandy’s hand. Phone pressed to his ear, intent on his conversation, he had been about to toss them to Seth when Kirsten abruptly grabbed them instead.

“I’ll drive,” she declared, already sliding into the front seat. Sandy had looked at her, dubious. and her mouth tightened. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just finish your call, Sandy. Charlie, are you--?”

“Coming with you? Yes.” Charlie squinted up from her open laptop, reading and walking at the same time. “Seth, could you get the door for me?”

Opening it was the last useful thing Seth had done. Frustrated and impatient, he squirmed in his seat.

“Mom? We’re on a highway here, you know,” he muttered. “You could drive a little faster.”

“And we could lose time getting stopped by the police,” Kirsten snapped. Then her voice softened. “I’m doing seventy already, Seth.”

“You are? Oh. It didn’t feel like we were . . . Oh. Okay then. Yeah.”

Seth sighed the last word. His eyes turned a bleak, sunken brown and he slumped sideways. Fingers drumming the upholstery, he watched the coastline shimmer past under a relentless sun.

All at once he jerked to attention. Across the highway, a boardwalk jutted into the surf, waves sloshing beneath it against the support beams. It wasn’t his pier, Seth knew, but it looked eerily similar, studded with benches and shops and bustling with tiny, bright people, the colors of their clothes dazzling in the sun. Their blithe voices didn’t carry that far, but Seth heard them anyway. Swiveling in his seat, he stared plaintively at the scene. He could feel himself on the pier, the wind whipping his curls into a tangled froth, a fine spray speckling his favorite Spiderman t-shirt. Unconsciously he leaned right and then left, picturing himself balanced on his skateboard, weaving smoothly through the crowd, grinning at Ryan who pedaled beside him.

Because of course Ryan was there too.

Seth imagined him in his familiar hoodie, bent over the handlebars of his bike, darting a swift glance sideways and flashing one of his sly, fleeting smiles before, without warning, he raced ahead, laughing.

The sound gradually trailed off, poignant and haunting.

Ryan’s laughter, Seth realized, was even more rare than his smiles.

A spear of sunlight suddenly stung his eyes and Seth blinked. When he looked back again, the boardwalk had disappeared.

His memories didn’t though.

Ryan had always been there for him. Whenever Seth needed help—at the beach after the fashion show, at the party when Donnie pulled out a gun, all those small moments when he had saved Seth from loneliness, listening when he launched into an epic ramble, playing video games in the pool house, helping him muster the courage to talk to Summer, playfully glaring across the breakfast table when Seth made lame jokes, going with him to parties or to the pier . . . just being a friend.

Seth’s hands tightened into fists.

Ryan’s always had my back, he reminded himself fiercely. I’ve got to do something to help him now. Only . . . what exactly?

Lost in a mire of pensive thoughts, he jumped at the sound of his father’s voice.

“All right, we’re set. I chartered a plane,” Sandy announced. Flipping his phone closed, he exhaled a breath of mingled worry and relief. “It will be fueled up and the pilot will be ready for us in forty-five minutes. I managed to confirm Caleb’s flight plan too. He is flying to Cozumel.”

Without taking her gaze off the road, Kirsten nodded. “Good,” she muttered tersely. “At least we know that much.” She glanced up then, her eyes meeting Charlie’s in the rear view mirror.

Kirsten didn’t have to speak. Seth asked the question for her.

“So okay, Cozumel. Where do we head after we land, Charlie?”

Next to him, Charlie frowned. She sat up, finger-combing her tangled bangs off her forehead. “I wish I could say for sure,” she replied. “This Dr. Keller doesn’t seem to have a primary affiliation. He’s listed on the surgical staff at the Santa Clara Psiquiátrico Hospital, at the Ocaranza Psiquiátrico Instituto and . . .” Her voice trailing off, Charlie tugged at her hair again.

“Where else?” Seth demanded. “You only mentioned two clinics before.”

“This place isn’t a clinic. Dr. Keller apparently works at a prison hospital too.”

Sandy spun around to face her, straining his seatbelt, his brows knotted in concern. “A prison?” he repeated sharply. His mind flashed to the first time he saw Ryan. Clad in an oversize blue jumpsuit, he had walked in and stopped, his head lowered, revealing nothing at all, unlike so many other juvenile offenders Sandy had represented. His jaw clenched, his face shuttered, Ryan had simply stood in the dank chill of the detention center, waiting with rigid compliance for the guard to unlock his handcuffs. Sandy registered his entrance and then resumed rifling through his papers, but he glanced up when the lock clicked, just in time to see Ryan’s arms fall free. As soon as they did, his whole body relaxed. He exhaled, his eyes flitting up, a pure, transparent blue.

It had only been a second, a single moment when his bravado slipped and revealed the real Ryan, but that had been time enough. In that instant Sandy glimpsed the boy hiding behind the challenging façade. Smart, wary, honest and frightened—Sandy recognized and liked Ryan even before he finished his social security speech, darted a sideways glance across the table, and quirked one corner of his mouth in a quick, lopsided grin. He felt protective even before Dawn, all shrill voice, sloppy clothes, and contempt, screeched up to the curb and ordered Ryan into the car, ready to drive him from one prison to what was obviously another, even before the boy’s bleak despair prompted him to fish out his card and thrust it in Ryan’s hand.

Sandy shuddered, remembering, wondering. Caleb knew all about Ryan’s past. Could he have been cruel enough to imprison that boy again?

“Dad, no,” Seth protested, reading his face. “I mean, I know but you’re thinking and yeah maybe Grandpa might but . . .” He saw his mother flinch, just a little, and Seth’s voice caught. “The note said ‘operation,’” he continued unsteadily. Shouldn’t we check the clinics first?”

His gaze clearing, Sandy nodded slightly and reached back to pat his son’s knee. “You’re right,” he murmured with a faint, grateful smile. “You’re right. Thank you, Seth . . . Charley, do you have phone numbers for the clinics? Maybe we can find out if they admitted Ryan. They might--”

“No. Not Ryan, Sandy.” The sudden sound of Kirsten’s voice sent a shock through the car. It vibrated with tension. Everyone stopped, facing her, but her own gaze didn’t waver. It remained fixed resolutely on the road. “You need to ask about Brian McConnell,” she said.

Sandy paused, bouncing his phone in his hand. A sad and reverent tenderness slowly suffused his face. His eyes moistened as he looked at Kirsten and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something to her, but at the last moment he turned back to Charley instead.

“I’ve got the clinics’ numbers right here,” she said. She steadied her computer, which slipped on her knees as Kirsten veered onto the exit ramp. Then she scrolled up on the screen. Her voice sounded crisp and business-like, belying the warm compassion in her face. “Are you ready? This first one is the Santa Clara Clinic.”

Sandy’s tone matched Charley’s, just as his expression did. “Go ahead,” he ordered. Flipping his phone open, he tapped in the numbers. He barely waited for somebody to answer before he started to speak. The words tumbled out in an urgent rush.

“Santa Clara Clinic? This is Sandy Cohen. I’d like to know—English, por favor? No, no habla Espanol. I—Hold on. Un momento.”

His brows furrowed with frustration, Sandy swiveled around. “She only speaks Spanish,” he reported, bouncing the handset helplessly in his palm. “You’d think I would have learned more but--”

Instantly comprehending, Charley reached for the phone, but Seth bolted forward to snatch it away. His eyes gleamed, and his jaw set with sudden purpose. “Yo lo estudié durante seis años,” he explained earnestly. “I’ve got this, Dad.”

“But son, Charley is fluent--”

“C’mon, Dad. Please? ” Seth spoke in a rush, his voice serrated with desperate entreaty. “Mom’s driving, you’re planning, Charley’s researching. But I’m like, I don’t know, excess baggage here. And Ryan’s my best friend. I want to do something useful. Let me do this, okay?”

Understanding and a glimmer of pride flashed across Sandy’s face. He nodded. Before he even finished the gesture, Seth was on the phone, his Spanish as swift as his normal English, but his tone deeper, more urgent and adult. Sandy caught the name “Brandon McConnell”, repeated once more with more emphasis, followed by a fierce “es una emergencia” and finally “Ryan Atwood.”

A minute later, Seth hung up, his mouth tight.

“She said that they don’t release patient information over the phone,” he reported. “Company policy or something. What’s the number of what’s-its-name, the other clinic, Charley?”

“The Ocaranza psiquiátrico instituto. Ready?”

Charley dictated the numbers and Seth jabbed them into the phone. His greeting sounded polite, but with each exchange his voice rose, rough with frustration, and his expression grew darker and more despairing. At last he lapsed into English. “Look, I just want to know if he’s a patient! Okay? Dígame justo si está allí! . . . No, Dígame justo si está allí!”

Seth flung down the phone, furious.

“Same thing,” he explained, his lips trembling. “Can’t tell me, won’t tell me . . . I’m sorry, Dad. I thought I could help, but . . .” He shrugged, slumping forward and bowing his head against the back of his father’s seat. “Maybe I should have let Charley talk.”

Reaching back awkwardly, Sandy patted Seth’s leg. “It’s not your fault, son,” he assure him. “They wouldn’t have given the information to any of us.”

“Yeah, but we still don’t know which hospital Grandpa—which hospital Ryan is in.”

“We know a lot more than we did this morning. We’re going to find him, Seth.”

Kirsten pulled to an abrupt stop at a red light. “But are we going to find him in time, Sandy?” she demanded.

The question, sharp and unexpected, stunned everyone in the car. Sandy turned back to his wife. “Sweetheart,” he began, but Kirsten cut him off.

Still staring straight ahead, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her husband or son, she continued. “I remember this story I heard once on NPR. It was about psychiatric asylums in Mexico.” Her voice, taut as a fine, thin wire, began to shake. “This woman—her sister was a patient—she was trying to reform them. She said they were hellholes, worse than prisons, Sandy! Patients were neglected, abused—If Ryan is really in one of those places—And with this operation, whatever it is—”

The light changed, and Kirsten sped through the intersection. Sandy had to place a hand on her knee to signal her to slow down. “I know,” he murmured. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But we can’t give up hope now . . . Look, we’re almost at the airfield, but if you’d like me to drive--”

Kirsten shook her head, breathing hard for a moment, straining to regain her rigid control. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure, Mom?” Seth asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” she repeated. For just a second, Kirsten met her son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. The naked panic she saw there made her blanch. A rush of maternal concern surged through her, love and fear and a fierce, unflinching protectiveness for her sons, for Seth and for Ryan. She sat up straighter, strong again. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie,” she said tenderly. Then, lifting her chin, she became The Kirsten, sure and purposeful. “Charley, you have the locations of the clinics there, don’t you? Which one is closer to the airport in Cozumel?”

His brows rising, Sandy nodded respectfully. “Good idea, sweetheart,” he said. “We don’t have anything else to go on. We should start with the nearest clinic.”

Charley had been typing swiftly, her green eyes scanning her computer screen. “I’ll figure out which one that is,” she said, glancing up briefly. “But Kirsten, just so you know, I found that NPR story you heard. It’s old, from 2002, and it’s about public mental health institutions. The ones Dr. Keller works at are private, so the conditions there shouldn’t be so bad. I realize that’s not much comfort, but . . .”

Kirsten managed a small, tight smile. “No, it’s good to know, Charley” she said. “Thank you. Thanks.”

For some reason, the simple words sounded familiar. Then Kirsten remembered: Ryan, that first night in the pool house, looking around in wonder, as if the futon, the shelves, the clean linens and towels, the quiet, empty, space, represented something foreign, something that he could not comprehend.

Safety, maybe, and a home.

“Thank you. Thanks,” he had said. His voice had been low and respectful. Almost, Kirsten recalled, reverent.

And meanwhile she had just stood there, untrusting, her eyes cold, her arms clasped against this intruder in her life.

Her heart ached at the memory.

The road curved, left and then right, and suddenly the airfield gates loomed just ahead. Kirsten made a sharp turn, nodded to the guard, pulled into the first available parking space, and turned off the ignition. A sudden, hot silence flooded the car, like a moment of suspended animation. Seth wasn’t sure about his parents, but as much as he wanted to bolt out the door and race to the waiting plane, he felt as if he couldn’t move. His feet, which had been tapping restlessly the entire trip, settled into the floor, apparently stuck there, and his fingers gripped the edge of his seat

So much seemed to ride on the next instant, the next decision.

He took a breath, waiting.

“Charley?” Sandy prompted. “What did you find?”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Seth leaned forward, peeling from his seat, and for the first time, Kirsten turned around to face her family.

“What should we start looking?” she asked.

Twisting her hair in one fist, Charley looked up in dismay. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “The clinics are pretty much equidistant from the Cozumel airport, but they’re in totally different directions. I guess . . .” She peered back at her screen, scrunching her forehead as she studied it. “The Ocaranza Psychiatric Institute is a few miles closer. I suppose we should start there.”

“That makes sense,” Sandy agreed.

He and Kirsten unlatched their seatbelts, ready to leave the car, while Charley slipped her computer back into its case. Seth fidgeted in his seat.

“No,” he blurted abruptly, stunning the others, surprising even himself. Both of his parents stared at him, and he fumbled for an explanation. “I think we should go to the other place first. It’s just,” Seth shrugged. “I don’t know, a feeling. The other hospital, that Santa Clara Clinic? It just sounds more . . . California, more like . . . Grandpa. So if they’re pretty much the distance from the airport . . . I don’t know. What do you think, Dad?”

Sandy’s shoulders lifted and fell. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in thought for half a moment. Then he dropped his arm, looked at Seth and mustered a faint smile.

“I think you’re right, son,” he said. “We’ll start at the Santa Clara Clinic.”

He wanted to sound confident, but somehow the echo of Kirsten's question threaded through Sandy's voice.

What if we're too late?

TBC

Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 14

2010-05-01T02:57:29Z

Getting this in just under the wire (meaning the end of the month.) I've actually written about 1,000 words more of this story, but that part isn't finished, so I decided just to incorporate it in the next (final? No, probably not) chapter. So, for now, here is part 14.

Feel free to provide the disclaimers yourself. I'm sure we all know them by heart.

Best Forgotten, Part 14

“Kirsten? What are you talking about?” Sandy demanded. “What about Ryan?”

Kirsten gave a strangled sob. She couldn’t breathe. Her head shaking convulsively, she stumbled backwards. If Sandy hadn’t caught her, she would have fallen.

“Sweetheart, tell me,” he begged. Instinctively, he cradled her close, a current of panic singing his voice. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

Kirsten’s eyes darted up, glazed with horror. “My father,” she gasped. “I can’t . . . Oh my God, he is a monster. How could he . . .” With a low, anguished moan she clutched Sandy, clinging so frantically that her fingernails pierced the fabric of his shirt straight into his skin. The gesture made his heart twist. Once before, he recalled Kirsten clutching him the same way, tortured and heedless of any hurt she caused him. That time, though, all their pain had been laced with happy anticipation. Kirsten had been in labor, squeezing Sandy’s hand in the vise of her own, but she had managed a breathless smile after every contraction, and her eyes glowed with the promise of their son’s birth. Now her face was gray, drained and despairing. Sheer anguish choked her, cracking every word. “Dad . . . Oh God, Sandy, you were right. He’s been lying to us all along! He knows where Ryan is!”

Behind him, Sandy felt Seth lurch forward, and his own body vibrated with the same violent urgency. Still his embrace remained gentle, and he forced his voice to stay measured. “What makes you say that, honey?” he asked carefully. “You didn’t think so before. Why did you change your mind?”

“It was that note—talking about an operation. I thought it might be about my father’s friend, the one who needs brain surgery. Dad told me his name. Brandon McConnell. That’s what he said. Brandon McConnell,” Kirsten whispered. “But . . . it can’t be.” Shell-shocked, she shook her head, blind to Seth’s confusion, Sandy’s tense concern, the sudden, shrewd narrowing of Charlie’s eyes. “That name . . . it kept bothering me. It sounded so familiar and I couldn’t understand why until just now . . . I remembered—Sandy, Brandon McConnell is dead! When I was a little girl, I overheard my parents arguing—he committed suicide. And he was never my father’s friend. Dad hated him! He was glad that he died just like he was glad when Ryan. . . Sandy, we have to find out where Dad went!” Kirsten’s head jerked up, her voice suddenly sharp and clear. “Brandon McConnell doesn’t exist! That operation—You’re right! It has something to do with Ryan!”

A galvanizing shock ran through the room, and in an instant, everything changed. His face set into granite planes, Sandy hugged Kirsten closer even as he pulled out his phone. “Seth, call the airfield,” he ordered. “Find out what time your grandfather’s plane will take off. I’m going to check charter flights. Charlie, that Dr. Keller in Cozumel--”

“I’m already on it,” Charlie replied, flipping her laptop open as Seth dove for the desk phone. Her tone turning gentle, she added, “We’ll find him, Kirsten. We’ll find Ryan. I promise.”

Spinning around, Kirsten wrenched herself away from Sandy. Like his, her expression had become rigid, and when she spoke, her words clipped the air. Their tone made Seth shiver. He could hear The Kirsten, only magnified, her steely voice as indomitable as his grandfather’s. “Yes,” she declared. “We will.”

Abruptly leaning across the desk, she reached for the phone in Seth’s hand. He hesitated, surprised, his gaze jumping from his mother to Sandy and back again.

“Um, Mom?” he stammered. “Yeah, it’s okay, really. I got this.”

“Use your cell for your call. I need to speak to your grandfather . . . Phone, Seth. Now,” Kirsten demanded, when he continued to waver.

Seth jumped, nodding obediently. “Right, cell,” he babbled. “Forgot I had it.” He dropped the phone in his mother’s palm and backed away, his head still bobbing as he fumbled with his pocket. Admiration and respect shone in his eyes, but Sandy’s brows furrowed anxiously.

“Sweetheart, we can handle this,” he said. “I don’t think you should--”

“I have to, Sandy. I have to make him tell us the truth. My father . . . he . . . when I think that . . . ” For half a moment, Kirsten’s resolve faltered, allowing a glimpse of the shattered daughter inside. Almost instantly, though, she dispelled it again. Her spine stiffening, she lifted her chin. “No,” she said fiercely. “What matters right now is finding Ryan. I can do this.”

She raised the phone, but before she could dial, Sandy placed his hand over hers. “I know you can,” he said gently, as he stilled her fingers. “And I know you want to help--”

“Yes! I do. Sandy, please--”

“Kirsten, wait,” he urged. “What do you suppose will happen if you accuse Cal now? Do you think he’ll just admit what he’s done? He’s still in control of this whole situation. If he could make Ryan disappear once . . .” Sandy’s voice thickened with compassion and regret. “We’re not there,” he reminded her. “We can’t stop your father from doing the same thing again.”

“Oh!” Kirsten dropped the phone, recoiled as if it burned her. “Oh God, he could. I hadn’t thought . . . But we have to do something, Sandy! Maybe we can stop his plane! I could say that there’s an emergency here, that I need him to come back to the office. Then we can--”

“Mom?” Seth injected grimly. “Sorry. Too late.” He shoved his cell phone into his pocket, his whole body slumping in defeat. “I just reached the airfield. They told me Grandpa’s plane took off twenty minutes ago. So what do we do now?”

There was half an instant of silence, broken only by the click of Charlie’s cursor and the harsh tattoo of Seth’s toe kicking the side of the desk. Then Sandy raked back his hair, his eyes blazing. He looked the way he did in court, intent, determined, and indomitable. “We charter a plane and follow Cal,” he announced. Even as he spoke, he began scrolling through numbers on his phone. Pulling a notepad from Kirsten’s desk, he dialed swiftly, a pen poised to jot down information. “I’ll find out his flight plan, but I’m sure he’s going back to Cozumel. Whatever he has planned, Ryan must be there somewhere. The question is how we find them once we--” Abruptly, he started speaking into the phone. “This is Sandy Cohen. I need to charter a six-seater as soon as—Wait, what? No!” he snapped. “Don’t put me on—damn it!” He slammed down the handset, almost cutting it off. “I’m on hold!”

“Hold? Dad, what the hell? Hang up and call again. Tell them this is an emergency!”

“Sandy, what you said about when we get there—you’re right,” Kirsten injected. Her brow was knotted, her voice frayed with worry. “Even if you’re right about Cozumel, we still don’t know exactly where Ryan is, and we can’t just search the whole city. We need some clue where Dad’s going. Maybe if I contact Grady--”

“Kirsten?” Something in Charlie’s voice, a note of combined triumph and warning, silenced the Cohens. They wheeled around to face her. “I have an idea where we should start.”

She paused for a second, taking a breath before she looked up. Her face betrayed nothing, but instinctively Sandy slipped an arm around his wife’s waist and stepped closer to Seth. The phone, briefly forgotten, hung limp in his hand. “Just tell us,” he said grimly.

Charlie nodded, lips compressed. “I found information about the Dr. Keller in Cozumel,” she told them tightly. “He’s on staff at two mental health clinics there. Sandy, the man is a neurosurgeon. He’s famous—infamous really—for his experimental treatment of the criminally insane.”

Her last words lanced the air, scalpel-sharp.

Mental health clinic

Experimental treatment.

Criminally insane.

“But,” Seth stammered, “that doesn’t make any sense. A guy like that—he can’t have anything to do with Ryan. He can’t, can he Dad? I mean, Ryan’s not . . . he isn’t . . .” He sputtered, barely able to force out the words. “Criminally insane.”

Sandy shook his head. “No, son, he’s not,” he replied. His voice sounded strangely flat and detached, but his fists clenched, and his eyes glinted, dangerous as a lit fuse. “But there have been cases of people who were unjustly committed. Grady could have done something--”

“Not Grady,” Kirsten interjected. “Dad.” She breathed the word, whisper-soft, but it broke anyway, spilling a murky pool of love, loss and betrayal. When Sandy looked at his wife, he barely recognized her. All he saw was Caleb’s Kiki, stunned and bewildered, unable to comprehend how her hero-father had become a villain. The image broke Sandy’s heart. He understood her anguish, even ached for her, but he couldn’t let that little girl-weakness linger.

He and Seth needed Kirsten’s strength too much.

Ryan needed it even more.

His brows knotted anxiously, Sandy juggled his still toneless phone. He tried to summon some bolstering words, but before he could react Kirsten took a long, quavering breath. Then she lifted her chin, scrubbed a palm across her face and just like that, all trace of the tortured child vanished. “Dad did something to Ryan,” Kirsten declared fiercely. Grabbing her bag, she pulled a startled Seth to his feet. “And we’re wasting time, Sandy. Finish your call on the way to the airport. We have to go. Now. We have to find Ryan.”

She didn’t add, but they all heard the warning anyway.

“Before it’s too late.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan yanked at his restraints, twisting his wrists inside the soft straps, rubbing his skin raw.

It was no use. Already the room—a different room, he knew, but horribly, tauntingly the same—had begun to blur again. He blinked hard, shaking his head, but his vision wouldn’t clear. Thick, deceptively soft warmth spread through his body, and he could feel wadded-cotton sluggishness settle in his limbs.

Again.

Ryan recognized that feelings. He knew what it meant. Those drugs, whatever they gave him this time, had begun to claim him. There was no way to resist them. No matter he fought, he would lose—lose control, lose consciousness. Lose, in the end, even more of himself.

He shuddered, opening his fists, but he found nothing but air to grasp. Nothing solid anywhere. Nothing he could hold on to.

Lucy had warned him: Cooperate, she had urged. Do not defy the doctors. Give them no trouble, Ryan.

Ryan. He recalled the word, wondering, letting the sound of it sooth him.

Despite everything, Lucy had still called him Ryan. She still believed in him.

And he had tried so hard to follow her advice.

Even though it seemed he had said the same things a thousand times, he had answered all of Dr. Gall’s questions; he had gritted his teeth silently while a nurse—not Lucy; why wasn’t it Lucy?—drew more vials of blood; he had submitted without protest to still another CAT scan, another pointless EEG.

Gradually, though, an eerie sense of foreboding crept into Ryan, chilling him. The exam felt different than all the ones before, less painful but more ominous. Other people—doctors, nurses, psychiatrists; he wasn’t sure who they were—observed each procedure. Their razor-sharp eyes studied him, probing, but Ryan knew they never really saw him. They saw some kind of specimen. Without speaking, the people would peer at him, heads cocked, nodding sometimes, or frowning quizzically. Then they would cluster together and exchange notes, but always just out of earshot, one step too far away.

Ryan could see them talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All he could do was imagine the worst.

Only he had no idea what the worst might be. His dread grew, threatening to suffocate him from within.

At last, an orderly wheeled him back to his room. Everyone left except Dr. Keller and Dr. Gall. Alone with them, abandoned on his bed, Ryan felt the last remnant of his self-control start to shred.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” he had begged. “Why did you do all these tests? There’s nothing wrong with me. You have to see that.”

Except for one glance in his direction, both men ignored him completely. Bent over some charts in the corner, they continued their own conversation, animated but hushed, pitching their voices too low for Ryan to follow.

Still, he caught a few isolated phrases.

“Six centimeter incision”

“Possible aphasia”

“Neural activity compromised”

“Physical condition optimal, but no guarantee”

“Lack of brain lesions still a concern”

“Medical records explain”

“Agree that we should proceed”

“Need to wait for Mr. Nichol”

The name triggered a fresh rush of fear in Ryan. Despite himself, his voice rose, at once fearful and menacing. “Tell me what you’re saying,” he ordered. “You’re talking about me! I have a right to know what you’re saying! Tell me!”

The sound of his frantic rage throbbed through the room, and he saw the doctors, brows arched, exchange a swift, knowing look. It stunned Ryan into silence. In his mind, he heard Lucy again, first her hushed admonitions, and then, all at once, her last, earnest words before she left his room:

“Trust me,” she had pleaded.

Something broke inside Ryan. He had to trust someone.

He knew that he could not trust himself.

Biting his tongue, drawing blood, Ryan pushed himself back on the bed until its headboard pressed into his spine. “Please,” he gritted, between harsh, shallow breaths. Under the blanket, he grabbed thick folds of the sheet, crushing the fabric within his fists. His fingers flexed, clenching and releasing, tighter and tighter. “What are you going to do? Whatever it is, I want to know.”

He forced himself to sit still, to wait for an answer.

Finally Dr. Keller turned around. The corners of his mouth curved into a bland, appeasing smile. “Now, now,” he reproved. “There’s no need for you to get so agitated. This is just a routine check-up, that’s all.”

“No it’s not.” Ryan gritted his teeth. With an effort, he kept his tone low, but he couldn’t quite suppress its accusing edge. “I heard you. You’re planning to do something when Mr. Nichol gets here. You were talking about it with him.” He jerked his head toward Dr. Gall and the men did it again: they traded another ominous glance, their lips twisting in a way that made Ryan tremble. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?” he demanded.

“There’s nothing to tell. Dr. Gall is your psychoanalyst. Naturally we discuss your condition.”

“I don’t have a condition. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

The words emerged in a whisper, barely audible, and Dr. Keller ignored them. Brisk and business-like, he typed a note into his computer, then crossed to the bed. “All right. Almost done. I just need to check your eyes one more time.” Putting a heavy hand on Ryan’s shoulder, the doctor leaned forward and pulled out his penlight. “We’ve done this before,” he said coolly. “Sit still and relax. It’s a simple test, Brandon.”

Brandon.

The penlight flicked on, white-hot, blinding him.

Ryan flinched.

“No!” he snapped. “I am not Brandon!”

Without thinking, without even realizing what he was doing, he wrenched himself out of Dr. Keller’s grasp. The sheet ripped as he pulled his clenched hands free.

That tearing sound was the last thing he remembered clearly. The next few moments whipped by in a blur.

His fists shot up, shocking Ryan, slapping the penlight aside, slamming loud and hard into the instrument tray.

Somehow they hit Dr. Keller’s face too.

Ryan never even felt the contact. He saw it happen, though, and for an instant, time froze.

Horrified, his knuckles throbbing, he watched Dr. Keller’s head snap back. A drop of blood oozed from the man’s split lip, a bright red accusation, and Ryan’s mind flooded with reproachful memories. He tried to will them away, but they only echoed louder, Lucy’s soft Jamaican lilt, and much more painful, Kirsten’s sad, distant voice.

“You must cooperate, Ryan.”

“I want my husband to be right about you.”

“Do not defy the doctors.”

“No more fighting, Ryan . . . Ryan, no more fighting.”

“I’m sorry,” he moaned to himself, to them. “I didn’t mean to hit him. I’m sorry!”

Then the room roared to life again. Before Ryan could move or explain, there were shouts, strong hands pinning him to the mattress, the sound of his own hectic breathing as he tried to twist away. Through a haze, he saw the door fly open. More men in white rushed into the room. They converged on him, grabbing his hands, strapping him down, muffling all of his wordless protests.

Something sharp and cold pierced his thigh.

His bed rocked underneath him. Ryan had a sudden sense of movement, of foreign forces propelling him through space. He lay still, eyes clenched shut, but the sensation didn’t stop. It felt as if he were floating on some inflated raft, the way he did in his nightmares, all those awful dreams when the infinity pool stretched forever and he could not reach the edge, when the Cohens ignored his cries and turned away, laughing—joking with some stranger—leaving him to drown.

Ryan’s panic mounted. He couldn’t wake up this time, couldn’t make it not real. Panting, gasping for air, he started to struggle again, straining against the belts that held him, until finally, exhausted, he felt himself begin to sink.

It was the stillness that woke him. Sometime, he wasn’t sure when, the floating sensation had stopped. Licking his dry lips, Ryan forced his eyes open. He blinked in the eerie silence, clearing his vision, slowly scanning the room.

Something was wrong.

He saw the same white walls, the same sterile metal cabinets, the same observation window in the door—everything he had grown used to, but now the whole space felt out of focus somehow.

Dizzy, disoriented, he looked around again.

It didn’t make sense.

Nothing in the room was where he remembered it. The IV stand used to be to his right, the door had been on his left, and the window, the window . . .

Ryan’s heart clenched.

His window had only been covered with a thin wire mesh. It had not been barred.

The room hadn’t changed at all. He had.

They had taken him somewhere, to a strange, new place. And they had left him there.

Why? he wondered frantically. Why had they moved him?

What was going on?

Where had they taken him?

Ryan couldn’t even be sure he was in the clinic anymore. He didn’t know how much time had passed while he had been submerged in darkness. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days.

Maybe Caleb had moved him to another hospital.

Somewhere more like a prison.

Somewhere farther away from the Cohens.

Somewhere even Lucy couldn’t find him.

Ryan struggled one last time, but even before he tried to move, he knew it was hopeless.

He was trapped in this room.

He was alone.

And he was so very, very tired.

His lashes fluttered for a few, lonely moments. Then slowly, reluctantly, they drifted closed.

“So boy,” Caleb drawled. “I knew it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later you were bound to show your true colors . . . Now, now, no need to exert yourself. I’m not staying. I just wanted to stop in to say good-bye.”

TBC

Yes, I know. But if I'm going to write melodrama, I might as well go all the way, yes? I'll have no chance if I ever try any Southland fic.

Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 13

2010-03-31T22:36:35Z

Disclaimer:You already know, the characters (well, the main ones!) aren't mine. And you may vaguely remember this evil!Caleb story. On and on it goes . . .

Best Forgotten, Part 14 (14? Seriously?)

“Nurse Cree!” Lucy heard her voice rise, quivering, as she rushed to the nurse’s station. Deliberately she slowed her steps. She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, willing herself to appear dispassionate. “I just went to check on . . . on Brandon McConnell, but his room is empty. I do not understand. Has something happened?”

Nurse Cree shot Lucy an appraising look before resuming her paperwork. Her tone sounded like dismissal. “The patient has been moved to pre-op so he can be prepped for surgery.”

A fist clenched around Lucy’s heart and her fragile composure shattered. “But . . . surely not yet,” she stammered. “The operation is not scheduled for another four hours, unless –it has not been moved forward, has it?”

“No,” Nurse Cree replied curtly. She didn’t bother to glance up from the desk. “However, the patient became combative—again—during his last examination and Dr. Keller thought it best to move him now.”

Lucy shook her head. “But . . . why?” she demanded. “I do not understand.”

“Nurse Fordé, may I remind you that you are not on the surgical team. That means Brandon McConnell is no longer your concern.” Nurse Cree stood up, her lips pursed with disapproval. “I suggest you give your attention to patients who are still on your case load.”

Before she could contain it, anger flared in Lucy’s eyes. “You are wrong,” she snapped. “Ryan is my concern until the surgery is performed. I am charged to care for him and I shall do exactly that.”

Without waiting for a response, without even realizing that she had used the name “Ryan,” Lucy turned and marched away. Nurse Cree’s voice followed her, sharp and imperious, but Lucy ignored it. She did not even pause to knock when she reached Dr. Keller’s office. Instead, she stormed inside.

The receptionist jerked upright, startled. “Nurse Fordé? Is something wrong?”

Lucy nodded, trying to still her hectic breath. “I need to see Dr. Keller. It is about his patient, Brandon McConnell.”

“I’m sorry. The doctor is not available right now, but Dr. Snowden is taking his calls, and he could relay a message. Would you like--”

“No!” Lucy blurted. Striding past the reception desk, she headed towards the inner office. “I must speak to Dr. Keller!”

“You can’t! Nurse, wait! He’s not here!”

Already poised to push open the door, Lucy glanced back, her gaze both a question and a dare.

“Dr. Keller is in seclusion with his surgical team,” the receptionist explained warily. “They’re rehearsing for the procedure that they’ll perform later today. The doctor left strict orders not to disturb them under any circumstances.”

“Rehearsing--?” Lucy’s hand faltered, then fell from the doorknob. Her shoulders slumped, deflated. “Oh,” she whispered. “How long then? Until they are done?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that I am supposed to route all communication through Dr. Snowden or security. If you would like to leave a message--?”

Lucy swallowed, shaking her head. What message could she possibly leave? “You must cancel this operation. The medical and legal records are wrong and your patient is not delusional. He is not Brandon McConnell at all. He is actually Ryan Atwood, the boy he is supposed to have murdered”?

No. How could she expect anyone to believe that? It was too bizarre an idea. Lucy had to find incontrovertible proof before she confronted Dr. Keller.

First, though, she had to find Ryan.

Seeing him, reassuring him, perhaps learning more about Caleb Nichol—somehow Lucy felt that was urgent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirsten sat alone in her office, still and silent, hands clasped on her lap, her body stiff and turned to the window. Only her fingers moved, twisting around each other as she stared at the cloudless sky. She didn’t stir when the door eased open behind her.

“Mrs. Cohen?”

The gentle prompt seemed to startle Kirsten. She jumped, spinning around in her chair. “Charlie?” she exclaimed hopefully. Then she saw her secretary, and all animation drained from her voice. “Oh. What is it, Helen?”

“I was just wanted to let you know that I’m going to lunch,” the woman replied. She studied Kirsten, her brow creased with concern. “Are you all right? Did you need anything before I leave?”

Her lips crimping, Kirsten thought of all the things she needed: the sight of Sandy’s contented grin, the sound of Seth’s laughter, the sense that her family was safe, happy and complete.

She needed Ryan home with them, where he belonged.

Rousing herself, she forced a faint, apologetic smile and shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Thank you. I’m fine. Just . . . thinking, that’s all.”

Helen nodded dubiously. She hesitated for a moment, but when Kirsten said nothing more she finally retreated.

Kirsten watched as the woman left. Then, reluctantly, she turned back to her desk. The Shoreway Project Proposal lay abandoned exactly where Caleb had left it. Kirsten glanced down at it, shuddered, and looked away. Her gaze fell on a set of familiar twin frames. Abruptly pushing aside all the business papers, she pulled the photos closer.

Kirsten had thought she knew them by heart, but all at once the people in those pictures looked like strangers. Her fingers traced the smooth silver frames as she studied them.

Seth’s picture had been taken in the spring at Harbor. From a distance, even in the quick glimpses she had given it every day, her son’s wide grin looked cheerful, but when Kirsten examined it closely she detected no real happiness. Seth was just posing. The smile she had taken for granted was actually strained and stretched thin. It would disappear with the flash of camera, leaving just the shadow of loneliness in his eyes.

Kirsten caught her breath, ashamed. Why, she wondered had she failed to notice her son’s misery before? And why hadn’t she spotted Sandy’s frustration? His picture had been snapped at some formal Newpsie function. Kirsten couldn’t even remember which one, but in the photo Sandy was wearing a tux, his shirt collar pinched around his neck, his bow tie tilting awkwardly to the left. He had one arm looped around Kirsten and he wore a practiced grin, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, Sandy’s shoulders slumped and his eyes, glazed with weariness, gazed past her, beyond the country club terrace, beyond its manicured grounds, to some private spot far away.

Kirsten recognized that distance. Slowly, silently, it had grown between all of them over the years, an invisible gulf keeping them apart. Seth stayed in his room, Sandy went surfing or, like Kirsten, spent long hours at work, while she devoted her spare time to social affairs, events with near strangers, not family.

At the end of the day, their lives barely intersected at all.

Until Ryan arrived, and everything in the Cohen home changed.

Kirsten fingered the photos of her husband and son.

She didn’t understand how, but she realized suddenly that Ryan had brought her family together. From the very beginning—even when she still distrusted him and insisted that he could not stay—Ryan had made them reconnect. Something about his quiet presence, his rare, wary smile, compelled them to talk to each other, look at each other, recognize the need in each other’s eyes.

Kirsten’s lips trembled. Her fingers, blindly tracing the picture frames, fumbled as they touched the hinge between the two photos.

Ryan, she thought wistfully. He was the missing piece, the one that completed her family.

And she didn’t even have a picture of him.

“Mom?”

Kirsten started, dropping the frame. It fell with a sharp, accusing clatter, landing face-down on the desk.

“Whoa.” Seth paused just inside the office, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just, there’s nobody out there and the door was open—well, partway—so I thought it was okay to walk in.” His smile teetering uneasily, he jerked a thumb towards the reception desk.

Kirsten’s heart clenched. “Oh, sweetie, of course it’s okay. Come in and sit down. Is your grandfather--?” She stopped. Her eyes clouding with guilt, she straightened the Shoreway Proposal portfolio on her desk. Without realizing it she gouged its leather cover with her fingernails.

“With me? No.” Slinging one leg across its arm, Seth slumped into a chair. He frowned quizzically. “He left the yacht club before me, so I figured he’d be back here already. Or at least call and check in.”

“No . . .” Kirsten murmured. Her brow puckered and her voice drifted off.

Seth waited impatiently, but she said nothing else. He was just about to launch a barrage of questions when her phone rang. The sound made them both flinch. Kirsten caught her breath. Her hand shook as she answered and Seth scooted forward, halfway off his seat, shamelessly eavesdropping. His mother barely sounded like herself. She stammered, her face flaming when she spoke.

“Dad! We . . . I was just wondering what . . . when you were coming back . . . Oh. No, that’s fine. I understand . . . Of course I will . . . Please tell your friend I’ll keep him in my thoughts . . . Yes I will, Dad. I’ll . . . call you.”

Clumsily, her hands still shaking, Kirsten hung up. She fumbled with the phone as she replaced it in the cradle, then sat silent, staring down at her desk.

“So . . . what? Grandpa’s going straight to the airfield?” Seth prompted.

Kirsten glanced up sharply. “How did you know that?”

Seth shrugged, scuffing the toe of one sneaker into the plush, cream carpet. “He said something about having to catch a flight this afternoon, but I figured he’d check in with you first . . . So where’s Charlie? What’s been going on here?”

Kirsten’s brow puckered, and she didn’t appear to hear her son’s questions. “He told you that he had a flight? That’s odd,” she mused, almost to herself. “I got the impression that this trip was an emergency. Dad said--”

She stopped, rising abruptly as Sandy walked into the office. He looked harried and preoccupied, but his face softened at the sight of his wife and son. Without breaking stride, he squeezed Seth’s shoulder, half-hugging him fondly, on his way Kirsten. She made a tiny, mewing sound as he wrapped his arms around her.

“I know,” Sandy murmured. “It’s been a rough day for you here, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

Kirsten nodded into his shoulder. Then she stepped back. Visibly steeling herself, she lifted her chin and took a deep breath.

“Has it been worth it, Sandy?” she demanded. “Are we any closer to finding Ryan?”

Sandy sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Then he stroked his wife’s arm, urging her back into her seat and simultaneously settling himself on the edge of the desk. “Let’s talk when Charlie gets here,” he said cautiously. “I called her. She’s on her way.”

“From where?” Seth hitched his chair closer to his parents. His knees knocked into a drawer handle, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Shouldn’t she be here? I thought the whole idea was to give her a chance to check Grady’s office and--” Belatedly catching his father’s eye, he concluded “you know, sound out the people he works with and . . . things.”

“She did,” Sandy assured him. “She just needed to check something with a source of hers. But she’ll be back--”

“Right now,” Charlie announced, rushing in. Her jacket swung open and her hair tumbled out of its tight, business-like knot. Shoving it back impatiently, she pushed the door closed. When she turned around, Charlie smiled at the Cohens, but just as a brief, automatic greeting. Her eyes looked opaque and except for a sharp glance over at Sandy, her face betrayed nothing at all.

Seth instantly slouched further down in his seat.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Charlie said as she joined the family.

Sandy inched closer to Kirsten. He reached over to take her hand. “It’s all right. We’re all here now,” he said quietly. “So let’s try to sort out everything we learned--”

“Wanna know what I got? Sunburned,” Seth blurted. He snatched a pad off his mother’s desk and began viciously shredding post-it notes. Bright yellow strips rained down on the carpet. “That’s about it. Oh . . . and a pep talk from Grandpa about how I should always choose my friends wisely. As if I had friends to choose. Tell me you guys found something. Charlie?” He looked up, his face taut with entreaty, his gaze wavering between hope and fear.

Charlie hesitated, taking a deep breath. Her eyes flashed a warning to Sandy before she answered. “I may have a lead,” she reported, each word measured and even. “We were right about Grady. He’s not just trying to make you abandon your search for Ryan. He . . .”

She paused again, but Sandy nodded. “Just tell us,” he ordered flatly.

Charlie nodded back, her lips tight. “Grady had a new, private phone line installed the day after Ryan disappeared,” she told them. The cadence of her voice increased, as if she had decided it would be best to deliver the news as quickly as possible. “I managed to find the number, but when I called, I got his voice mail. And Sandy? The message he recorded? Grady made it sound as if he were you.” The Cohens stared at her, shocked and alarmed, but Charlie did not give them time to respond. “It says,” she continued, “‘You have reached the Cohen residence. Kirsten, Seth and I are not available to take your call.’”

“Oh my God,” Kirsten whispered. “Charlie . . .”

“Wait. Why would he do that?” Seth demanded. Pushing aside the Shoreway portfolio, he leaned across the desk, his fists clenched around the remnant of the post-it notes. “Grady can’t keep Ryan from calling with some bogus number and message. This doesn’t make any sense. Ryan knows how to contact us. He’s got our home number, my cell, Dad’s, my email . . And hell, it’s not like he wouldn’t know that’s not Dad’s voice.” Seth’s voice dissolved in confusion, and his gaze circled, frustrated, from Charlie to his parents and back again.

Her eyes warmed with sympathy. “That’s true, Seth,” Charlie conceded gravely. “But Grady is obviously determined to prevent someone from reaching your family. Not Ryan himself or any of your friends, but someone else, somebody--”

Sandy broke in, grim comprehension edging his voice. “Somebody who doesn’t know us, but who knows what happened to Ryan, and might try to get in touch with us,” he concluded. “That means Grady had to give the person that number--”

“Which also means Grady must know where Ryan is!” Seth jumped to his feet, shedding bits of yellow post-it notes and knocking aside the Shoreway Portfolio. “So now we call the police, right Dad?” he asked eagerly. “They can arrest him and make him confess and--”

Without looking, Sandy rubbed his son’s arm in slow, calming circles. His shrewd gaze remained locked on Charlie, seeking some message in her impassive face. “Slow down, Seth,” he urged quietly. “We can’t go to the police with just a misleading phone message. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Your father is right, Seth,” Charlie agreed. “Especially since Grady is bound to have some excuse.”

“What?” Seth demanded. He still stood, his whole body bristling with frustration. “The guy is pretending to be you, Dad. That’s like identity theft or something isn’t it?”

“Grady could claim that he using the number to screen calls to your family from a tip line. He could say he was just trying to spare you grief by weeding out the cranks.”

A fine white line appeared around Kirsten’s mouth. “But you don’t believe that’s why he did it,” she said flatly.

Charlie shook her head.

“All right then. Let’s sort this out.” Sandy swiped his hair back from his forehead, his voice blurred and weary. “Seth? Sit down son, please.” He waited until Seth dropped down into his chair. Then he added slowly, “Charlie . . . did you find anything else?”

A current of apprehension buzzed through the question. Automatically, Sandy glanced at Kirsten who sat beside him, one cold hand clasped in his, the other, white-knuckled, clenched on her lap. Charlie caught the gesture. She paused, fingering her notebook, a deep, silent sympathy flitting across her face.

“Tell us,” Kirsten ordered, when Charlie didn’t reply right away. Her voice sounded tissue-thin, torn from her throat, but it grew stronger as she spoke. “Whatever it is . . . We already know, that night after Dad’s party, Grady must have done something to Ryan to get him to leave. If he hurt him—whatever he did, we need to know.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “Yes,” she agreed. “You do.” Very slowly, she pulled out a slip of paper. Its rustle, like the hiss of a fuse, ripped through the tense silence. Seth crowded closer, trying to make out the writing, while Kirsten stiffened and Sandy’s arms tightened around her. He closed his eyes briefly before he looked at Charlie, his gaze asking a question. She nodded her reply. Then she turned to Kirsten.

“I still don’t know exactly what Grady did,” she said quietly. “But Kirsten, I don’t believe he was acting on his own. I think that your father is involved.”

For a moment, the words sizzled in the air. Beside his father, Seth stiffened. He opened his mouth, but he instantly shut it again, swallowing hard. Like Sandy, he waited, watching his mother.

Kirsten didn’t move. She barely seemed to breathe, and Sandy felt her skin grow icy. When she managed to speak, a sharp edge of desperation rimmed her reply. “Yes,” she whispered. “Because Grady did it for him. We talked about that. But it was all his idea—he acted on his own, without Dad’s knowledge. He must have . . . Charlie?”

“No. Kirsten, I’m so sorry, but I think Grady has been acting on your father’s orders all along.” Charlie slid the note she’d been holding across the desk, smoothing the crease before she released it. “I found this in Grady’s desk,” she said gently. “It is your father’s handwriting, isn’t it?”

Kirsten recoiled. Her fingers knotted around Sandy’s, she stared at the slip of paper almost as if hoping it would disappear. Slowly, reluctantly, she read the cryptic message. “Op now set late today. Trans funds, Keller imm . . .” Her eyes darted up and then fell again. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

Charlie ignored the question. “Kirsten,” she prompted, her tone more urgent, “Did your father write that note?”

Sandy could feel his wife shiver as she answered. “Yes,” she admitted. “I think so. But why does it matter? He doesn’t mention Ryan. This is—they must be directions for some kind of business transaction. After all, Grady works for my father. Dad gives him orders all--”

Kirsten stopped, blanching, horrified by what she had just said. A small, wordless whimper escaped her lips and she shrank further into Sandy’s arms. He started to speak, but Charlie shook her head. “Let me,” she mouthed. Aloud she said gravely, “That’s true, Kirsten, he does, but think about it. How many of the Newport Group’s legitimate business dealings involve private messages from the CEO directing his security chief to transfer funds?”

Kirsten shook her head, ashen and uneasy.

“Grady isn’t even authorized to touch any of the company’s holdings. I checked,” Charlie continued. Her tone remained carefully bland. “That means any money he handles must come from one of your father’s private accounts. But what kind of Newport Group business transaction involves the use of Caleb Nichol’s personal funds? And why have Grady manage a money transfer at all? Your father has accountants on staff to do that.”

Unable to keep still any longer, Seth snatched the note, nearly tearing it in his eagerness. “It’s obvious, right?” he blurted. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a combination of excitement and dread. Sandy tried to silence him but Seth, oblivious, babbled on. “Grandpa is using Grady to pay off this, what’s his name, Keller guy. But who the hell is he? And what does he have to do with Ryan?”

Reaching around Seth, Charlie retrieved the message before his wild gestures shredded it. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. She paused to rub his shoulder, sighing an apology. “I can’t find anyone named Keller working for any branch of the Newport Group or its foreign divisions—not that I expected to—but the name is so common. It would be easier to find out who he is if we had a starting point--”

“We have one,” Seth insisted. “Grandpa. He must know. Come on, Dad, if we confront him—”

“No,” Sandy said slowly. “Charlie . . .We should try Cozumel, Mexico.”

The suggestion surprised Seth into a brief silence.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Cozumel,” she repeated speculatively, testing the idea as she opened her laptop.

“Okay, that? Sounds totally stick-a-pin-in-a-map random, Dad,” Seth protested. “Why there? Keller isn’t even a Latino name. Shouldn’t we—Wait! You found out something at the airfield, didn’t you? What is it? What did Grandpa’s pilot say?”

Kirsten didn’t move, but at Seth’s question a tremor, like an electric shock seemed to run through her muscles. Instinctively, Sandy traced calming circles on her arm. When he replied, his voice sounded grave and reluctant. It brimmed with unspoken remorse. “Jake mentioned . . . He told me that Cal has flown to Cozumel several times recently, quick trips, just two or three hours turnover. But Jake has no idea why. The Newport Group doesn’t have any holdings in Cozumel, and the first time they went Cal wouldn’t let Jake come along. He had Grady pilot the plane instead . . .” Sandy hesitated, raking back his hair. In the instant before he continued, he seemed to age a decade. “That was the morning after Ryan disappeared.”

At the sound of Ryan’s name, Kirsten’s mute stillness shattered. She whirled around, furious, to face her husband. “What are you saying, Sandy?” she demanded. “That my father, that he and Grady--” She stopped, half sobbing, half choking on her own words. “You think that he didn’t want his pilot to see that they had Ryan with them? That Dad . . .” The word seemed to strangle her but Kirsten forced it out, “kidnapped him? And all this time, knowing how worried we are . . . No—no, that’s not possible! He’s my father! He couldn’t do that!”

“Sweetheart . . .” Sandy whispered, “I’m so sorry. I wish it wasn’t true--”

“It’s not! I know him, Sandy!” Kirsten grabbed her husband’s shirt, bunching it in her fists. Her words tumbled over each other, tangled, rushed and desperate. “Dad can be manipulative and controlling and ruthless. He has, sometimes he has a God-complex, I admit that. I can imagine him trying to get Ryan out of our lives, but not by force! Not lying to us or—Dad wouldn’t hurt Ryan, Sandy! That’s what you think he did, don’t you? How can you? He wouldn’t! He’s my father!”

Exhausted, despairing, Kirsten dropped back in her chair. Kneeling in front of her, Sandy took her hands in his. She shook her head blindly, but she didn’t resist, and she didn’t seem to notice when Seth sidled behind her, shuffling from foot to foot as he rubbed her shoulders.

“Nothing else makes sense, sweetheart,” Sandy said quietly. “We know Grady lied to us about Ryan’s fingerprints on the note in the pool house and that he forged those police reports from Mexico. Now we find out that he set up a new phone line to intercept calls to our house--”

“Yes! He did! But that’s all Grady!” Kirsten protested. Her voice quavered, pleading, and her tear-glazed eyes burned with mingled rage and entreaty. “It’s not Dad. I know you don’t like him, but to do something like this . . . You’re acting like Dad is some kind of a monster! He’s not, he’s just . . . Grady is the one responsible! Seth is right! We need to have him arrested and--”

Profound sadness filled Sandy’s face. “Kirsten, honey, think,” he urged. “Do you really believe Grady would have done this on his own? Especially now that we find out about Cal’s note and the trips he’s been taking to Mexico?”

“But . . . There has to be some explanation, Sandy,” Kirsten whispered. “It can’t be connected to Ryan. It can’t . . . This . . . Dad may not want us to find him, but that’s all. He wouldn’t . . . abduct him. He couldn’t.”

Shooting Seth and Charlie a helpless glance, Sandy got heavily to his feet. “You try, son,” he murmured.

Seth bit his lip. Then he leaned down close to Kirsten’s ear. “Mom,” he said, “All my Lex Luthor and Machiavelli jokes aside—I mean, this is my grandfather we’re talking about. I don’t want to believe it’s true either, but everything adds up. Grady’s been following grandpa’s orders. . .” He flinched, unable to finish, when his mother wrenched away from his touch.

“No! It’s not true,” she insisted fiercely. “It’s not.” Kirsten twisted her rings, ramrod stiff in her chair, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “It’s not true,” she repeated, but the certainty began to drain from her voice. “It can’t be.”

Behind her, Charlie picked up the note and inspected it again. Absently, she pushed back her hair, her brow furrowing with concentration. “Op now set late today,” she read aloud.

“What do you think that means?” Seth asked. “Op? Is that some kind of code?”

“It don’t think so,” Charlie replied. Squinting thoughtfully, she scrolled down her screen and highlighted a name. “I found twenty-three people named Keller in the Cozumel area. One of them is a doctor . . . Maybe ‘op’ is just short for operation.”

Seth swallowed hard. “Operation? Like, you mean, a medical procedure, Charlie? Because that does not sound--”

“Oh!” Kirsten sprang to her feet, interrupting. She grabbed Sandy’s hands, her face flushed, her words racing urgently. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Sandy, Seth--don’t you see? You were wrong about Dad. I knew there had to be an explanation! That note—it has nothing to do with Ryan. It’s about the friend Dad told me about, the one who need brain surgery. That’s the operation. Dad must be paying for it. And those trips; they must be hospital visits. That’s what all this is about, it’s about his friend--”

Kirsten’s voice sputtered, then stopped abruptly. The color drained from her face. Her hand, shaking, fluttered to her throat and her eyes widened as a fragment of memory, knife-sharp, suddenly pierced her consciousness.

Her parents had said something else, that night long ago when Kirsten lingered in the dark hallway outside their room and overheard them arguing.

All at once, she could hear them again.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you, Cal,” her mother had cried. “You can be so vindictive, so cold. I look at you right now, and I see a monster.”

There was the sound of ice splashing into a drink, and then her father’s frosty, dismissive voice. “You’re overreacting, Rose. That man is not worth your concern. Trust me, the world is better off without--”

“No!” Kirsten cried. “Oh God, no! Ryan . . . !”

TBC

Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 12 of ?)

2010-02-28T17:07:56Z

We had a snow day on Friday. Yay! It was called late, after I'd already gotten up, exercised, showered, and dressed for work and of course I did have to spend several hours of my surprise free day shoveling (our driveway had to be cleared four times, taxing even my enthusiasm, and I rather like shoveling.) Still, I got to spend a chunk of the afternoon writing, and this update was the result--completed just in time to meet my self-imposed "Post at least once a month" deadline. So, for those of you still following this story, here is the latest (and nearly the last) installment of my blatantly AU Best Forgotten.

BTW: the Cohens, Ryan, Caleb? Still not mine. Also, forgive any mistakes. I had time enough to write, but not to revise or edit.

Best Forgotten, Part 12

Lucy scanned the computer screen impatiently. She scribbled a quick note and clicked the next link, so absorbed in the text on her monitor that at first she didn’t feel the light tap on her shoulder. It came again, a little firmer, and she peered up, startled.

The nurse next to her smiled an apology. “Sorry to disturb you, Lucy, but you’re being paged. Didn’t you hear?”

“Oh! No, I did not!” Biting her lip in dismay, Lucy listened as the announcement repeated: “Nurse Forde, report to room 206-E. Nurse Forde to room 206-E.”

206-E. Not Ryan’s room. A wave of relief rushed through her, followed instantly by frustration. Mr. Ameido, Lucy thought. He must have had another episode, and it took so long to calm him the last time. But I need to finish here. I am so close, I know it . . .

She cast a longing glance back at the monitor. At the same time the announcement, sharper and more forceful, summoned her again. Her brows creased with disappointment. Sighing deeply, Lucy logged off. “Thank you, Dana,” she said, as she pushed back her chair.

“You’re welcome.” The other nurse gazed at the blank screen, then studied Lucy, her expression both curious and concerned. “You seem frazzled, hon, and you were awfully engrossed just now. Is something wrong? Anything I can help you with?”

Lucy hesitated, the word “Yes,” teetering on her lips. Perhaps, she mused, Dana could continue checking for me? I could ask her . . . But no, I could not begin to explain what I am doing. Regretfully, she shook her head. “No,” she murmured. “I was just doing some research . . . Excuse me. I must go.”

Hastily slipping Ryan’s torn newspaper clipping into an envelope with her notes, Lucy gave Dana an absent nod. She hurried to her locker and thrust the papers inside. Then she wheeled away. Even as she rushed toward room 206-E, though, Lucy still mentally reviewed what she’d found.

With each step, a silent voice warned, Do not become excited. You can prove nothing yet, Lucy. Before you approach Dr. Keller, you must find all the facts and make sure that he cannot refute them.

This is a start, nothing more. You have answered only one question, and you have so little time to solve the rest before . . .

For a moment, the cadence of Lucy’s thoughts faltered. She slowed, her eyes darting toward the surgical wing.

Before it is too late to help Ryan, she concluded grimly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirsten opened her desk drawer, started to reach inside, and abruptly stopped. Her gaze was dull blue and bleak when she looked at Charlie and her hands shook, empty.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “This feels so wrong. Searching Grady’s office . . . it’s like spying on my father.”

“You said that you didn’t trust Grady, Kirsten,” Charlie reminded her gently. You wanted me to investigate.” She didn’t mention Sandy’s directive: check Caleb’s office too.

“That’s true,” Kirsten admitted. Her voice wavered. It had an odd, echoing quality as if she were alone in a canyon, listening to her own words bounce back to her. “And we need to do this. I realize that. We have to find out what he knows about Ryan, because I’m sure he’s hiding something important. It’s just that Grady is so close to Dad and . . .”

She didn’t finish and Charlie didn’t push her. Instead she just stood there, silent and supportive.

A shuddering breath shook Kirsten’s slim frame. Staring vacantly, she sank back in her chair. Her hands rested on the thick portfolio that Caleb had given her five minutes before. Under the Newport Group logo, bold silver letters proclaimed “Stearns-Shoreway Project.”

For the last hour, Kirsten had sat, nearly mute, while her father reviewed every page of the proposal with her. Most of the time, he had been all business, brisk and methodical. Occasionally, though, Caleb had injected some incongruous remark: how much he was looking forward to spending time with his only grandson, how proud he was of Kirsten for stepping in to represent the Nichol name, how pleased he was that her whole family could relax together in San Francisco.

He said that: her whole family.

With each personal comment, Kirsten’s tension increased. Her nods grew more perfunctory, her replies to his questions more terse. She had to stifle a sigh of relief when, at last, Caleb rose to leave.

Automatically, she had walked him to the door.

Kirsten pictured her father just before he turned to go. She recalled the satisfaction that shaped his smile, the triumph that had colored his voice.

“Kiki, you have no idea how happy I am that you’re doing this,” he had declared. “Seeing you back in this office where you belong . . . and Sanford, agreeing to the trip, Seth, offering to go sailing with me--Our family is finally back to normal.” Caleb had nodded, his eyes glinting approval. Then with a different smile, this one fond and familiar, he had kissed her forehead and left for the yacht club.

Kirsten’s gaze drifted to the space where he had stood. Her heart plummeted. She was about to betray her father. The thought made her feel sick and ashamed, so much that she wished she could stop what they planned to do.

Only . . .

He had sounded so callous.

“This family is finally back to normal.” Her father had actually said that. How could he, when he knew how they all felt about Ryan—how Kirsten herself felt? She had told Caleb, “He is my child now.”

Why did he refuse to accept that simple truth?

Ryan existed. He was part of their family, and he was missing. Her father couldn’t pretend that he didn’t matter. He had to know nothing was normal, nothing was right.

It wouldn’t be until they found Ryan.

Kirsten’s mouth tightened with decision. Sitting up straight, she yanked open her drawer and pulled out her master key. It flashed in a shaft of sunlight as she handed it to Charlie.

“Here,” she said, biting back a leftover quaver in her voice. “I already checked. Grady isn’t scheduled to be here today. Of course, you’ll still have to get past the secretary who guards his office.”

Charlie took the key. At the same time, she smoothed her jacket and pushed her glasses up on her nose, grimacing at the unaccustomed pinch. “No problem,” she promised. “I’ll handle that.”

“Oh—and take this.” Kirsten thrust a file at Charlie adding, at her look of surprise, “You’ll need a reason to be there in case someone asks. You can say I sent you to deliver this to Grady. It’s just a letter telling him that we no longer need his services, but at least it gives you an excuse to be in his office.”

Charlie nodded, smiling her admiration. “Thanks, Kirsten,” she said as she tucked the file under her arm and turned to go.

“Charlie?”

Already halfway to the door, Charlie stopped and glanced back. All the authority had drained from Kirsten’s voice. She sounded lost, and her hands twisted anxiously on her lap.

“What should I do while you’re gone . . . to help?”

Charlie’s face softened, suffused with sympathy. “You’ve already done so much, Kirsten,” she replied softly. “Just try not to worry. I’ll take it from here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sandy rubbed his palm along the sleek interior wall of Caleb’s private jet. He blew out a deep, appreciative breath, ruffling the shock of hair that fell on his forehead. “Damn, Jake,” he sighed, loud enough to catch the pilot’s attention inside the cockpit. “Don’t tell Cal. It’ll ruin my bleeding-heart liberal image if he knows I said it, but this jet of his? It is one sweet machine.”

Jake grinned, glancing back briefly before he jotted some numbers on his clipboard. “Your first time on board, Mr. Cohen?”

“Call me Sandy. And yeah,” he admitted dryly. “As a rule, I’m strictly a coach man. I haven’t had a lot of occasion to travel Caleb Nichol style. That’s why I figured I’d better check in, make sure everything was a go on this end.”

“Yep. All set for tomorrow at two, Sandy.”

“Good to know . . . But now that I’ve seen the plane . . . tell me, do I need to wear a tux on this trip?”

Jake chuckled. “Formal dress is optional. Even Mr. Nichol loosens his tie now and then. But no question, he does know how to live. Top of the line all the way.” Jake paused to pat the instrument panel fondly, then returned to his checklist.

As unobtrusively as possible, Sandy stepped into the cockpit behind him, trying to peer over the pilot’s shoulder. “Sorry that we’re cutting into your weekend,” he said, squinting at the figures Jake was noting. They meant nothing to Sandy, and his mouth tightened with frustration. With an effort, he kept his tone light. “I imagine free time is hard to come by. From what I hear, Cal keeps you pretty busy.”

Jake shrugged, his flight jacket crackling. “Lately, yeah,” he said absently. “The Newport Group must be doing big business in Mexico these days. We’ve been going back and forth so often, it’s getting so I might as well just Xerox my flight plans. Kind of boring, actually.”

“Mexico?” Sandy’s eyes narrowed, sharp and speculative. Without realizing it, he gripped the back of Jake’s seat. His fingers dug into the butter-soft leather and his face set into shrewd Sanford Cohen, Litigator, lines. A faint, probing edge began to thread through his words, although they still sounded casual. “Oh that’s right,” he said. “I did hear something about Cal expanding the company’s holdings into . . . Culiacán , right?” Sandy threw out the name randomly, then stood rigid, waiting for Jake’s response.

Still intent on his paperwork, the pilot shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ve been flying into Cozumel. Gorgeous area. I never heard of it until Mr. Nichol started flying there. . .”

“Cozumel. That’s it.” Sandy nodded, mentally filing the name, the way he did with each new piece of evidence. “I need to start listening more when Kirsten talks business. She did say something about a new project Cal’s launching there. . . A resort area, I think” He let his words drift off, an invitation for Jake to say more.

“All I know is, whatever he’s doing, Mr. Nichol must be about to close the deal. He sounded pretty pleased when he called to tell me he needed me to prep for a trip there this afternoon.”

This afternoon. And Cal is pleased.

For a moment, Sandy went rigid. Why a sudden trip? he wondered. And why would it make Cal happy? Desperate for answers, but dreading them at the same time, he scanned the plane’s cabin, searching for clues.

He found nothing. Just like Caleb’s office, the interior of the jet was elegant, immaculate, and utterly impersonal. Somehow it even felt cold.

Sandy took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Surprising how spacious this plane is,” he mused. “What’s its capacity—six passengers?”

“Eight if we change the configuration. Never had to do that, though. Mr. Nichol prefers to travel alone, unless he’s with Mr. Grady.” To Sandy’s surprise, Jake laughed shortly, almost caustically. “Maybe I should worry about my job. One of these days, the guy might replace me.”

“Yeah?” Sandy prompted.

“Turns out, Mr. Grady is a licensed pilot. Seems to know his stuff. He flew Mr. Nichol the first time he went to Cozumel. I offered to do it, but Mr. Nichol told me to relax, take a long weekend . . . He wouldn’t even let me co-pilot the flight.” Sticking his pen behind his ear, Jake straightened his clipboard and stood up. “I’ve got to file these papers, Sandy. You all set to go?”

His brows furrowing thoughtfully, Sandy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Excuse me! This is a private office. What are you doing in here?”

Charlie peered up from Patrick Grady’s desk, flashing a flustered smile. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “There was at the reception desk, so I just came in. I’m here to drop off a file for Mr. Grady.”

“His door was open?”

Charlie nodded, blinking owlishly behind her oversized glasses. She neglected to mention the fact that she hadn’t found the office open. Instead, she’d simply waited in the hallway until the secretary stepped out and then slipped inside, unlocking the door with Kirsten’s master key.

“That’s odd,” the secretary murmured. “I thought sure . . . ” She glanced from the door back to Charlie, frowning dubiously. “Do I know you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around The Newport Group before.”

“Oh, you haven’t! It’s my first day,” Charlie confided. She leaned across the desk and thrust out her hand, simultaneously nudging shut the drawer that she had opened before the secretary came in. “I’m Charlotte Kepler. I’m assisting Mrs. Cohen on the Stearns-Shoreway Project.”

Automatically, the other woman shook Charlie’s hand. “Gail Walburn,” she said, introducing herself. “Mrs. Cohen is back? I understood that she was on leave.”

“She was. Well, technically, I guess she still is. She’s just here today because she’s filling in for her father at the Shoreway presentation in San Francisco this weekend.” Charlie lowered her voice, making it confidential. “I heard what’s going on in her family. It’s such a shame isn’t it, and so odd—their foster son just disappearing like that.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gail replied stiffly. “We don’t gossip in this office although--”

Arching her eyebrows, Charlie waited expectantly. It took just a second for Grady’s secretary to continue.

“From what I understand it’s all for the best. That boy—Ryan?—never did fit in to the Nichol family.”

“The Nichol family? But I thought the Cohens—oh,” Charlie breathed, widening her eyes with apparent comprehension. “You mean her maiden name.”

“The Nichol name is the one that counts in this community. And it’s very clear that Mr. Nichol believed that boy was trouble from the beginning. I know that he--” Abruptly catching herself, Gail broke off and reached for the papers Charlie held. “Well. I’m sure you need to get back to work. If you’ll just give that file to me, I’ll make sure Mr. Grady gets it.”

Shaking her head, Charlie took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching the papers close “I can’t. Mrs. Cohen gave me strict orders. Mr. Grady is working on a personal case for her and this is for his eyes only.” In fact, it was just an innocuous note, a claim that the Cohens had decided to suspend their search for Ryan, thanking Grady for his efforts and returning the police reports he had produced. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He won’t be in the office at all today, Ms. Kepler. Mr. Grady is preparing to accompany Mr. Nichol on a business trip later this afternoon. But I assure you that I can be trusted with confidential material.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can! Only--” Charlie gave a disingenuous shrug, managing to look abashed and determined at the same time. “I promised Mrs. Cohen,” she insisted. “And she wanted me to explain something in the file. She seemed very insistent that I do it right away. Do you have a number where Mr. Grady can be reached? I mean, besides this one? I’ll just call him and relay her message. Then I’ll leave the file here for him if that’s what he wants.”

Gail huffed slightly, but she jotted down two numbers on a notepad and started to hand it to Charlie. At the last second, she pulled the paper back and scrawled something else. “The first one is his home, and the second is his cell,” she explained. “The last one is a new number. Mr. Grady told me it’s a direct line for Mr. Nichol’s use, but since Mrs. Cohen is his daughter--”

“Thank you so much!” Charlie produced an appreciative smile, this one genuine. “Now if you don’t mind? I’ll just be a couple minutes.”

Taking out her phone, she inclined her head to the open door. Gail hesitated a moment, obviously debating. At last, reluctantly, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. As soon as she heard it click shut, Charlie’s face changed. Her eager-apprentice expression vanished, replaced by grim intensity. Moving swiftly and silently, she reopened the desk drawer she had nudged shut earlier and copied a cryptic note in what appeared to be Caleb’s tightly controlled writing: Op set late today. Trans funds, Keller imm. Then, using her prepaid, disposable cell, she dialed the third number on the list Gail had provided.

Charlie skipped Grady’s home phone and his cell. She knew she’d learn nothing by calling those numbers, but she hoped the “for Mr. Nichol’s use” only contact might provide some clue. Just in case, she rehearsed a giggling “Oops! Sorry! I must have misdialed!” excuse as the phone rang, but she didn’t need to use it.

The call went to voice mail.

Charlie listened, motionless, except when she jabbed the “end” button just before the tone. Very slowly, she put her phone away and centered Kirsten’s file on the center of Grady’s desk. Then she took one step toward the door and stopped.

Chilled, her mind racing, she recalled the message she had just heard delivered in Grady’s flat, flinty voice:

“You have reached the Cohen residence . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Seth! There you are!” Waving a brisk greeting, Caleb strode down the pier to the railing where his grandson sat, fingers drumming his thighs, his knees bouncing an anxious tattoo. “I trust I’m not late.” He clasped Seth’s shoulder, giving it a hearty squeeze. “Perfect day to go sailing, isn’t it?”

Seth scrambled to his feet, trying to cover his reflexive flinch. “Yeah, I mean no, you’re not late, but yeah, perfect day,” he mumbled. With an effort, he mustered a weak, belated grin. “Thanks for coming, Grandpa. I know you didn’t really have time since you’ve been so busy with, um, business.”

Caleb shook his head. “Never too busy for my family.” He clapped Seth’s back again, almost knocking him off balance. “That is the first key to success, my boy: prioritize. Focus on what matters most. For me that has always been family.”

Right. If by family you mean authority, status, and your ginormous ego, Seth thought. Lost in bitter reflection, it took him a moment to realize that Caleb was still speaking.

“So . . . why don’t you take the tiller this morning? Show me what you can do.”

Without waiting for an answer or bothering to look behind, Caleb breezed past and led the way to his boat. Seth had to scurry to match his grandfather’s purposeful strides. His smile tightened and he gritted his teeth, biting back a retort.

“Really? You’ll let me captain? Aye-aye,” he managed to babble. “Excellent!”

After that his normal stream of words trickled to a near-stop.

Seth had no idea how to talk to his grandfather anymore.

“Don’t bait him,” Sandy had warned. He had taken Seth aside the night before while Kirsten had been on the phone with Charlie. “And be careful what you say, son. You don’t want to give anything away accidentally. In fact, it would be best if you didn’t mention Ryan at all.”

“Right,” Seth had agreed, his tone etched with acid. “We’ll just discuss all the things we have in common—let’s see, the rate of the yen versus the dollar, the stock market, capital gains taxes, four star restaurants, tailor-made shirts with French cuffs, belittling people and controlling their lives—Oh wait, that’s right, those things only matter to Grandpa. You think he might be interested in indie music or graphic novels or video games or, I don’t know, anything besides money, power, and getting what he wants no matter who he hurts?”

“Just talk about sailing,” Sandy had urged wearily. “We need you to keep your grandfather out of the office, Seth. That’s all.”

His father made it sound simple, but by the time they docked again, Seth felt completely drained. It had been exhausting, keeping a smile plastered on his face, keeping his mouth clamped on everything he really wanted to say. As the morning went on, he grew increasingly grateful for the sunglasses that obscured his eyes and, he hoped, flashes of anger and accusation too. He pretended to concentrate on the sails, adjusting them or staring out to sea as much as he could. That way, he could just toss mechanical comments over his shoulder without actually looking at Caleb.

Seth couldn’t stand the sight of his grandfather.

Everything about him seemed smug: his crisp polo shirt that never wilted in the sun, his relaxed body language, all ease and confidence, the way he tipped his head up as if he owned the sky, even the fizz of the champagne that he poured.

“What do you say, Seth?” Caleb had asked, extending a glass. “A toast to oh, a willing foe and sea room?”

“No thanks. Kinda busy here, you know, sailing,” Seth muttered. Then he replayed the words of the toast and his tone sharpened. “What does that even mean anyway?”

Caleb had sipped his drink, shrugging. “Just an old Royal Navy saying, that’s all,” he had claimed, but his lips curved in a slow smile that chilled Seth.

His own mouth tightened. With an effort, he swallowed his automatic response. ?Don’t challenge him, Cohen, he reminded himself. You're just supposed to keep him out of the office, that’s all.

It was so hard, though. Seth found himself carrying on two conversations, a terse, inane one, comprised mostly of one-word answers to his grandfather’s questions, and a silent one that included his real thoughts and feelings.

Just once he had slipped and let them overlap.

“So . . . you’ll be a sophomore in high school this fall,” Caleb had observed. “You know, by the time I was your age, I already had a clear plan for my life. What about you, Seth? Have you given much thought to your future?”

“Yeah, no, not so much,” Seth had muttered. Mentally he had added, I’ve been kinda busy thinking about my past—you know, like a week ago, when I had a friend and a brother, and my family was actually happy, and you were somewhere in Japan, where you couldn’t destroy our lives.

Pursing his lips with disapproval, Caleb shook his head. “You can’t just drift through life,” he admonished. “You need to have a goal so you can utilize your time wisely, Seth. Start networking, make the right contacts. Now, frankly, I would love to have you join your mother and me at the Newport Group. I understand that you’re interested in art, but--”

Before Seth could censor himself, he blurted, “Ryan is the one who should work for the Newport Group. He’s interested in all that stuff—buildings, zoning codes, blueprints, construction. He wants to be an architect.”

Instantly, Caleb’s voice turned glacial. “Really?”

“Yeah. He told Mom. They’re going—they were going—to tour some of the historic buildings in Newport together.”

“Well of course, he would pretend to share your mother's interests. He was trying to ingratiate himself with her."

"Ryan wasn't pretending," Seth protested. "Just because you--" At the last moment, he stopped himself. Choking back an accusation he mumbled instead, "You know what? Never mind. Just forget it."

"No, Seth," Caleb said crisply. "We might as well deal with this. Now I know you believed that boy was your friend so it's painful to face the truth. But you have to realize, he just wanted what he could get from our family. And people with ulterior motives—well, they will say anything that serves their purpose.”

Seth stared past the horizon, his eyes prickling behind his sunglasses. “Yeah,” he said tonelessly. “I guess you’re right, grandpa. They do . . . So, um, anyway . . .” He paused, his mouth dry, searching for something safe to say. “You planning to enter the Newport regatta next month?”

Caleb smiled, mollified. "I am indeed," he declared and to Seth's relief, he launched into a monologue about sailing for the next twenty minutes. Then, draining the last of his wine, he checked his Rolex.

“I hate to cut this short, Seth,” he said, “but we’re going to have to head in. I’ve got a flight in less than two hours. Maybe sometime next week we can make a day of it, though—head over to the island, have lunch, play some golf. What do you think?”

Seth muttered a vague answer, letting the breeze whip his words away, and turned to trim the mailsail.

By the time they reached shore, all of his curls drooped, his t-shirt was wet with sea spray and sweat, the muscles in his neck and arms burned, and his cheeks ached with the strain of smiling.

“Thanks again for coming, Grandpa,” he said, as they finished tying up at the dock. “This was . . . great.”

“Indeed it was. Good-bye, Seth. Enjoy San Francisco.”

Caleb reached out for a one-armed hug, but Seth ducked down, pretending not to see him, that he needed to tie his shoe. He crouched there, playing awkwardly with his shoelace, until his grandfather walked away. Then he collapsed into a forlorn heap. His shoulders slumping, he blew out a morose sigh.

So that’s it, he thought. And I got nothing. Not one clue.

Seth couldn’t help it. He had hoped all along that somehow during his time alone with Caleb, he might learn something that would help them find Ryan. But he hadn’t.

All he had managed to do was keep his grandfather away from the Newport Group for—Seth checked his watch—two hours and forty-six minutes.

He just hoped that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucy heaved an exhausted sigh as she left Mr. Amiedo’s room. She glanced at the clock over the nurse’s station. Almost an hour, she noted with dismay. I hoped it would not take so long to quiet him—not now, when I have so little time to find the answers that Ryan needs . . .

For a second she stood still, debating.

She could go back to the staff lounge and try to continue her search, but she had only eight minutes until she had to dispense mid-day medications, scarcely enough time to find anything.

Perhaps, Lucy thought, it would be better to check in with Ryan. At least I can offer him hope. I can assure him that he is right, that newspaper Dr. Keller gave him must have been fabricated.

She didn’t know what that proved exactly. The page summoning her to Mr. Ameido’s room had interrupted before she could check for other reports of Ryan Atwood’s murder. Perhaps they existed, but Lucy found no such story in The Orange County Register, not in the online archives from either date: the one at the top of Ryan’s torn fragment, or the one that aroused her suspicions—a completely different date that she noticed in an advertisement on the back.

The page Ryan had been given must have been pieced together, with a false story attached to a real newspaper page. That would explain why there were no pictures.

But if that account was a lie, what else about Brandon McConnell might not be true?

Ryan might know. And no matter what, he deserved to know what she had found. She pictured how he would look when she told him, the surge of relief that would light his eyes . . .

With sudden resolve, Lucy spun around and rushed to Ryan's room. Already smiling a greeting, she unlocked his door and stepped inside, but in the next instant all the warm reassurance drained from her face. She paled, gasping, and her hand flew to her lips.

“Oh no,” she murmured. “No.”

The bed in front of her was stripped to its mattress, clean and empty. Lucy scanned the room frantically, but there were no charts, no equipment or medications on the counter, no sign of any patient at all.

Ryan was gone.

TBC