Sullen
by M. F. LuderPart eleven
Walking back into the room, Seth sees his mom sitting by Ryan's bed, his cast wrist in her grasp, and she whispers soft words. "I'm sorry," his mom says, "I'm so very sorry sweetie. I should have... I should have known. I should have called before."
She continues crying and the sound isn't new. Seth knows he should be freaked out because of this.
"I'm sorry."
It doesn't matter now, Seth wants to tell her. It doesn't matter that they didn't know. That Ryan spent a whole month here, like some charity case for a hospital, like the boy didn't have family who loves him and would die for him. It doesn't matter now because Ryan's here, and they've found him, and they can take him home.
Seth's gaze shifts from his mom's back to the thin tube sprouting out of Ryan's nose, to the nails coming out of Ryan's left leg and the shadows of blue and green on his left cheek. Seth sighs.
Ryan's not going home anytime soon. His mom keeps on whispering, soft words of forgiveness and love that Seth knows Ryan needs to hear, that his mom needs to say. He doesn't know who needs it more.
Silently, Seth closes the door behind him and leans back against the wall. He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes. Even as he does so, Seth can still see the casts and nails, the blues and greens, and the closed eyes.
They leave the hospital sometime after three, Seth isn't sure. His dad has taken care of the bills, he says as he drives them home, his mom laying her head against the window, eyes almost closed. She's listening, Seth knows, she's listening, though she's too sad to even take notice of them. His dad finishes his sentence, Seth can't really remember what he was saying, and they fall into silence once again.
By the time they climb out of the car and Seth crawls into his bedroom, it's almost four, or so states the red blinking numbers on his alarm clock. Seth takes off his clothes, and clad in only boxers, he climbs into bed and closes his eyes, turning to his side.
Still, eyes closed and brain almost numb, Seth wonders if he'll get any sleep at all tonight. He can still see the image of Ryan, lying down in the hospital bed, eyes closed, and the words the doctor said
brain injury
unresponsive
coma
keep running through his mind, like a mantra Seth doesn't really want to listen to. He shuts his eyes even tighter, telling himself that Ryan will be fine. Ryan has always been fine. Always.
Ryan never needed anyone to take care of him, to protect him, like Seth did. Ryan's a man of his own. Ryan can take care of himself.
Seth keeps on saying that, changing mantras, and before he notices, a moment later, his body has taken over his mind and he's fast asleep. In dreams, Seth sees Ryan on a bed, blackness around him, as he stands before Ryan, unable to do anything. Seth sleeps fitfully.
Seth doesn't wake up until almost noon on Friday, going to school today not once in his mind. He drags himself out of bed, slowly and tiredly, takes a shower that barely wakes him up and walks down stairs.
Maybe it was the fogginess in his brain, maybe it was the lack of sleep or energy in his system, but for a moment, during the ten minutes in between waking up and entering the kitchen, Seth had almost forgotten about Ryan, in a bed, alone.
It's the scene before him, his mom sitting by the kitchen island, eyes red and face haggard, his dad with a cup of coffee in hand, not really seeing anything but a spot on the floor, that reminds Seth of the night before. For a moment, Seth wishes he hadn't.
He sits down on the stool, takes the cup of coffee his mom hands him and closes his eyes. His chest is tight once again. He wonders if he's coming down with something.
"We should have some lunch."
His dad's voice surprises him and he jumps a little as he opens his eyes to look at his dad. Sandy nods.
"Yes," he repeats, his voice horse, "we should have some lunch. We can drive up around one."
Kirsten takes a deep breath before standing up from her seat. "I'll call for take out."
Sandy nods as he starts turning the pages idly. Seth knows he's not reading anything. And just like that, with those simple words, it's settled. They'll go to visit Ryan once again today. Probably stay up late as well. And tomorrow. And the day after that.
And maybe, after a week or two, Seth will feel like he can handle school, and his mom can handle work and his dad can handle trials. After that, maybe they'll feel normal again.
It's funny how time flies when one is worrying, or aching, or just staring at someone, willing them to open their eyes. Funny, really.
Seth sighs softly under his breath, tilting his head, staring at Ryan from another angle. There isn't a place in this room Seth hasn't stood in so far, and it's barely six in the evening. Six pm on a Friday night, not even a day since they found Ryan.
Only a couple of months ago it meant going out with his girlfriend, his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend. It meant the movies and dinner, maybe a party if he was in the mood. After that, as if the night hadn't been long enough, it meant Playstation Championships, the winner always the one who stayed awake the longest. It meant freedom, and fun, and everything Seth didn’t have in his previous sixteen years of life. The past month and a half, it meant staying at home and reading, watching something lame on TV or staring up at the ceiling of the pool house. As of yesterday, Seth knows it will mean coming to the hospital and looking at Ryan.
There are things about this whole thing, about Ryan laying down on a hospital bed with white sheets God knows who else has slept on and not his 400 thread beige sheets, Seth hasn't dared think about. Like, what exactly happened? When did it happen? Why didn't they know about it before? Why didn't Ryan have any ID? Where is Theresa? Where is the baby?
Where-- Why-- How-- When--
Seth shakes his head. It’s stupid to think about that when there are better things to lose his sleep over at the moment.
His dad leans forward, forehead almost touching Ryan's shoulder, and his lips move. Seth can't really hear what his dad is saying, he doesn't really want to either. He can imagine the words.
I'm sorry. We should have known before. We shouldn't have let you go, we should have been there. We should have protected you.
I'm sorry. We're sorry.
Come back.
Please, come back.
The same ones his mom said last night. The same ones Seth feels in his heart at the moment.
The door opens and Seth turns to his right. His mom walks back into the room, taking a seat by his dad's side and placing one hand on his dad's shoulder. They don't say anything, but Seth can almost read the body language.
It's not your fault.
It should be, but it's not. It's as much your fault as it's mine, and I would die thinking I put Ryan here, in this bed.
His dad sighs. We should have--
There are million things we should have done. Not let him leave with Theresa, called more often, gone to visit, stopped pretending Ryan was an adult that could make his own decisions. But we didn't, and now it's too late to think about that.
His dad turns around and kisses his mom on the lips.
Seth misses that. That intimacy they have together, that knowledge the other will be there to soften the fall. He used to have that with Ryan. Suddenly Seth can't breath. He swallows past the lump that has formed in his throat before turning around and walking out of the room. His eyes are heavy, his mind a blur, and Seth doesn't know whether it's from tiredness itself, or the aftermath of Ryan's condition.
The words, Ryan's condition, are heavy and acid filled. His chest gets tighter by the second. He breathes hard and slow, trying to get the air into his lungs.
He walks down the hall, toward the Cold Soda machine and, for a moment, he thinks about the girl he saw there last night, or this morning, whatever. He wonders if he'll see her again tonight, fighting with the vending machine.
As he walks into the small room, three vending machines on one side, eight chairs filling up the rest of the space, Seth realizes he's alone here. He reaches into his pocket for a one-dollar bill, buying a cold Coke. He places the can against his forehead, cooling off his warm skin as he sighs.
Whimpering calls out his attention and he turns around, lifting his eyes to a woman around his mom's age, maybe younger, leaning against the wall, hands over her face as she cries. It's not the girl from last night, that much he knows. It's someone else.
Seth ducks his head, knowing this kind of situation requires personal space, privacy. Crying is supposed to be private. But this is a hospital, and hospitals mean sick people and their mourning families.
Seth is one of those people, one of those families that cry over the one that was hurt, that was almost lost. Seth is one of those people. The crying continues and it reminds him of his mom. Seth's heart breaks a little bit over this woman who is probably crying over a son, or a husband, or boyfriend.
He hears footsteps and he can't help but lift his eyes and turn around. A man, younger than his dad, walks to the woman and embraces her. They hug, tightly, as though depending on one another for support. Just like his parents did last night.
His breathing catches in his throat.
The man whispers words in the woman's ear, or so Seth assumes. After a moment, the woman nods and they walk out of the room and down the hallway.
Seth sighs, falling heavily onto one of the chairs, can of Coke in one hand. He stares at the floor, eyes barely blinking, lungs barely breathing. It's the numbness in his hand, the coldness around his fingers that almost hurts, that makes him focus on the edge of the wall.
He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, doing nothing, but he stands. He takes the can with the other hand, his right one already hurting as he clenches and unclenches. Slowly, his feet and features tired, he walks back to the room.
Her head tilted to the left, she hears footsteps making their way down the hall to the right side of Emma's room. Through the ajar door, Sarah can see a boy walking, his back to her, and she wonders if it's the same boy she met last night.
Her head hurts and she takes off her glasses, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.
"Go home."
Sarah blinks, gaze trying to focus on something as she sees only shapeless forms and shadows. She doesn't know if it's because of the lack of glasses or the tiredness. It takes her a moment to finally see Emma staring back at her, a small smile on Emma's lips.
"I'm fine," Sarah says as she tries to remember what exactly Emma said that woke her up.
Emma snorts before she grimaces.
Sarah swallows thickly, her chest tightening. Seeing Emma grimacing leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Sarah hates it when it happens.
Though Emma came out of surgery early this morning -- so very early, Sarah isn't sure the exact time -- and had been in her room for the past eight hours, Sarah knows all around Emma's body hurts.
Emma would shift and her eyes would lace with pain, the corners wrinkling in agony. Emma would chuckle and would grimace. Emma would sigh and then start coughing.
Sarah worries about the surgeries Emma has been submitted to. She wonders if maybe they aren't killing her slowly, instead of making her better.
"I love you," Sarah mutters suddenly, her hand reaching forward and taking Emma's in hers.
Emma smiles slightly and Sarah pretends she doesn't see how much the action, the small movement of the muscles, hurts her. "I love you too."
Pain lingers in the words and Sarah pretends she doesn't hear that either. She smiles, the emotion almost fake on her lips.