Sullen
by M. F. LuderPart two
Tuesday morning, before going to work, Kirsten makes her way upstairs to her bedroom. She looks around the dresser, certain she left her keys there, somewhere. It takes her a minute to find them, sighing in exasperation. She's running late and Sandy has already left for the office.
As she makes her way down the hall, she notices Seth's door is ajar. She pauses for a moment before opening it further and peering inside. Seth's laying on his side, covers up to his neck, eyes closed. Kirsten can't help but worry.
She remembers a time when Seth would wake up bright early to catch the morning cartoons, cereal bowl in hand as he sat down on the floor in front of the TV. He would be way into his third game of Playstation by the time she would leave for the office.
He used to love summer. Maybe it was the freedom of it, or that he didn't run into any of the boys of school, and he would just sail until dinner and come back smelling like the ocean, tired and almost sleepy. He would have dinner with them, chattering away about Comics before heading back to bed.
Now...
Kirsten sighs softly under her breath. Now, school will start in three weeks and Seth wanders around the house like something is missing. Like something inside him is missing. Kirsten can't blame him, something inside her went away with Ryan as well, to Chino, to do the best thing for Theresa and the baby she carries.
She understands, logically, she understands. But in the back of her mind, in one corner of her heart where motherhood is all that matters, she wants Ryan, the boy that was never hers but for nine short months felt like she had given birth to him, back with her, by her side.
Kirsten wants him there, sleeping in the house, the same way she always wanted but never knew how to bring up. She wants him playing video games with Seth downstairs, and going sailing just for the sake of making Seth happy.
She wants them there, together, both her boys.
Her boys.
Her heart clenches and it's hard for her to breathe in that moment. Her hand tightens its grip on the door before letting go of it. Seth came back to her, yes, but it took him five weeks to decide to do it. Five weeks Kirsten felt like she was dying inside, her sons gone. Lost.
Ryan's phone calls helped ease the heaviness in her heart, but it did not mend it. Her heart won't be the same, she won't be the same, until both her boys return home. She wonders how long she'll have to wait for Ryan.
Seth shifts in his sleep, mumbling something she can't quite catch.
Just like when he was younger and she couldn't tell herself not to worry about him. She would make her way to his bedroom and open the door to watch him sleep, to make sure he wasn't having nightmares or hadn't thrown the covers to the floor.
Before she can convince herself otherwise, tell herself her boy is almost a man, she enters his bedroom, pausing by his bed. She smiles down at him, asleep when he used to be playing by this time, missing a boy a year ago he hadn't known. Her throat closes as she wonders about Ryan, what he's doing.
It's almost eight, and she knows he starts work at the site at seven thirty. Working, when he should be there, with Seth, playing. Waking up at five when the only time he ever did that was when they would stay up all night watching The Lord of the Rings.
She can see him putting up the formworks, the same way she sees the men working for her at the sites. Covered in dust, sand and cement. Hands dirty and calloused from the metal and concrete they touch every day.
She can see Ryan, at only seventeen, standing up at the top of the metal formworks, hand gripping the iron that will hold the structure together, nothing to keep him safe from falling.
If he fell, would someone call them? Do they have their number, in case of emergencies? Or would they call the Herreras? Would they call Theresa instead of Ryan's own parents?
Her eyes tear up and she tells herself not to cry. Not to give in because, if she does, she's certain she won't go to work today.
Her hand reaches for Seth's curls, touching them briefly, and she imagines Ryan down the hall, sleeping in the new bed she has promised herself to buy for him when he comes home, in his new room, the one she wanted him to have the moment she hugged him as her son.
She imagines it's Ryan's blondish hair she's touching, and when she leans over, she can almost convince herself she's kissing Ryan's cheek.
She bites her lower lip, hand going to her mouth as she forces the sobs down her throat. She won't cry, because her son will return. Just like Seth did. Like one did, her other son will return.
She will bring him back when the time is right, when he has realized he has done the best he can, when he knows he's been the man he wanted to be. She'll bring him back, and then, she won't feel like her heart is missing.
Slowly, as not to wake Seth, Kirsten turns around and closes the door after her. She pauses for a second, taking a deep breath, and then takes the next step downstairs. She dries her eyes, her cheeks, before starting the car and driving to work.
Seth wakes up after nine, arms stretching to the ceiling before rubbing his eyes with his fists.
It takes him a minute to feel somewhat conscious, sitting down on the bed. He looks around, not really knowing what he's looking for. He doesn't seem to find it when he sighs, tired and sad, and he has to force himself to stand up.
He takes his shower, thinking about nothing in particular, not Ryan, not Theresa, not accidents on freeways, and when he's done, he puts on his jeans and the Make your own band t-shirt before walking downstairs.
It's almost ten by the time he starts pouring his cereal, and he doesn't compare his morning the way his mom did only two hours ago. He doesn't compare it to the times he was alone in the house, very much like he is today.
Instead, he thinks about the mornings Ryan would be sitting at the kitchen island before he came downstairs because, yeah, Ryan had a tendency to wake up bright and early, not like Seth.
Ryan would be having breakfast and push the cereal toward Seth. He thinks about this, about the friendly face that would greet him in the morning as he opens the cupboard and reaches for the cereal no one else has touched this morning.
He doesn't sit down at the island because it feels empty without someone else sitting by his side, and how easy one gets used to another person living with them.
He picks up his bowl and pours the cereal in. Making his way to the couch, he sits down with a plop, cereal in hand and starts eating.
Seth thinks about turning on the TV because, yeah, his parents were merciful enough to let him watch TV. Seth wonders what he would have done the past three weeks, had TV not been in the schedule. There're only so many books one can read.
But TV does not call his attention today. He sighs, bored, as he has gotten used to by now, and stands up, placing the bowl on the small coffee table.
He picks up the paper his dad left behind on the kitchen table, making his way back to the couch. He continues eating as he eyes the paper idly.
Seth reads about murders and gunshots, about drug dealers being busted and the newest political scandal, not really paying attention to it.
His eyes skip through the words on page seven, some girl having been kidnapped and an accident that occurred on the freeway outside of LA.
He doesn't pay attention to either of these stories because, no, he's not the news kinda of guy. He flips the pages, not caring about it, not in his wildest dreams thinking that he should focus on that story. That it should matter.
The paper, the news, it is important.
He should read it, really read it, he should go through the words again and again until he realizes it has meaning, and it is, and will ever be, interlocked with his future.
But he doesn't. He doesn't see that. He only sees letters that make no sense to him as he keeps on flipping through the pages, looking for the Arts and Leisure page. Seth reads about the theater and plays he wants to see, when he's done being grounded, and these plays would have moved on to the next city by that time. He reads the cartoons on the back of the section and searches for a pen so he can do the crossword puzzle. Finding one in the kitchen, Seth walks back to the couch and grips the pen in between his fingers as he reads the sentence.
He won't go through today's paper again, not ever. He won't read the news about the accident, because he doesn't care about things like that, because he has no idea someone he loves might have been involved. He would know about it if he would turn on CNN, but he doesn't like news networks. He's more of an ABC, CBS kinda guy. And Cartoon Network. And Nickelodeon.
Seth nods idly, thinking about words and meanings, retrieving the pen from his lips and drumming it against the edge of the table as Nurse Andrea Lexington punches in her card.
Andrea runs her right hand through her hair, taking her scrunchie off with her fingers. She runs her left hand through once again, using the right hand to retie her blond hair. She's wearing the dark red nurse's uniform with her favorite pair of white sneakers. She greets Kerrie and Pamela as she walks into the nurse's station on the fifth floor, right wing, the ICU of the Holy Mercy Hospital.
"What's new?" Andrea asks Pamela, who has been here since six in the afternoon yesterday, pulling a double.
"Car accident last night. Seattle-California bus against an SUV."
"Oh," Andrea says, nodding to herself. She doesn't cross herself anymore, her hand going numb once after the twenty times she had to do it in one day. She knows God gets it. "How many?"
"Seven dead," Kerrie says, starting the litany they have of counting the new admittance. "Three still in surgery, four already here and nine who must have done a really good deed before leaving home."
Nine uninjured. That's good. That's always good.
"The other twenty-five were taken to County and South Side."
"Busy night, I take it," she says, reaching for the charts to catch up on the night.
"Oh, dear," Pamela says with a chuckle, "we had it easy. I do feel for Lucy."
Andrea understands. Lucy, Pamela's oldest friend, ER nurse.
She picks up the first chart, Potter, D., as she hears someone walking past the station. She looks up, a dark haired girl in a Notre Dame sweat shirt, face tired and long, making her way to the soda machine down the way.
Someone's daughter, or wife. That someone who was in the accident last night, because Andrea hasn't seen her before.
"She's with the red haired girl in 526," Kerrie whispers in her ear.
Andrea looks over her shoulder at Kerrie, who's trying her best to hide a grin. "Why are you--?"
"I think they are together."
"Someone's sister. Nothing new."
Kerrie shakes her head. "No, not someone's sister. Not really, family, but not sister. No, no, not sister."
"Kerrie, get to the point."
Pamela waves it off. "She's going crazy. She always does about this. She's so pro gay marriage, it's not funny." She rolls her eyes. "Girl, you're straight. Deal with it."
Kerrie glares at Pamela. "I know that."
"Yeah, well, sometimes, I do wonder."
"Girls, would you please--"
Kerrie seems to bounce on her heels as she leans over and finish her point to Andrea. "I think they are together. Together, together. You know."
Andrea chuckles, shaking her head. It doesn't dazzle her, nor does it bother her. Kerrie, on the other hand, looks ready to throw them a coming out party.
"They are together. Nice to know."
Kerrie nods enthusiastically and Andrea has a hard time believing she's twenty-three. She behaves like she's ten when she's like this.
"She's in really bad shape."
Andrea frowns. "Whom, the girl--?" She asks, jerking her head toward the hallway, where the dark-haired girl just went.
Pamela shakes her head. "No, Emma Anderson, patient in 526. She came in with a collapsed lung, four broken ribs and a punctured liver. I think she had about seven hours of surgery. Came in around two."
Kerrie nods. "Yeah, that girl... what's her name?" She thinks about it for a second before adding, "Oh, right, Sarah. She came in two minutes after the patient. She's been sitting by her bedside so far."
Andrea lets out a soft sigh between barely parted lips.
Kerrie seems to want to add something when Sarah walks past the station once again. This time, however, she turns toward them, giving them a small, sad smile.
Andrea returns it.
Andrea notices Sarah's blood shot eyes and tired expression, and the way her hand shakes even as it holds the coke in between trembling fingers.
That girl has been sitting by the bedside of her injured partner, crying her eyes out. Andrea swallows thickly, her heart going out to her.
"Anything else?"
"There's a John Doe," Pamela says. "They haven't found everyone's belongings, but as far as I know they are looking. It might take a while to get an ID on him."
"He's very young," Kerrie says, "can't be over eighteen."
She pauses for a moment, thinking about the boy's parents, worrying sick about him. Maybe the boy hasn't gotten home, maybe they didn't know he was leaving home. Maybe he was going to visit some friends, and his parents still don't know he's missing. This time, she does cross her heart.
"He's still in surgery," Kerrie adds as an after thought.
Andrea frowns. "Then how do you know about him?"
"He came in for a minute before liver collapsed and had to be taken up to the OR once again."
"He's been there ever since," Pamela continues. "That was three hours ago." She sighs. "I heard there were complications."
"Okay girls," she says, standing up and picking up five charts, four of the newcomers, and stands up. "Let's get to work."
It's three in the afternoon when Andrea walks into room 524 to change the IV and take the vitals. There's a young boy, like Kerrie said, not a day over eighteen, lying down on the hospital bed in between white sheets that were changed earlier that morning.
He's been in surgery almost twenty-four hours straight, one complication after another, his life hanging by a thread. However, this boy is strong and apparently, he's not ready to go.
He's got blondish hair she can see under the bandages around his head, head trauma and concussion, as his file says. The left side of his face is purple and black, bruises molding over, bandages covering cuts probably.
His left leg is in a cast, iron nails sprouting out of it, around it, to keep the bone in place as the leg is suspended in the air. Left arm and shoulder blade joins in the plaster party, as well as the right wrist. Oxygen tube sprouts out of his mouth, along with NG tube, and his breathing normal as is his heartbeat.
He was probably tossed to his left side, taking up the fall. His eyes are closed and she wonders about the shade of his eyes. Blue eyes that are probably stunning, or green eyes that would take her breath away.
She writes down her notes and slowly walks up to his side. She pauses for a moment, and for the second time she wonders about his family, worrying over him. If she had a son she would die not knowing where he was. Only, he has no ID, and she can't do anything to help.
In an impulse, her hand reaches out, touching his right cheek, white bandages covering cuts she assumes are from the shattered glass. "Come on sweetie, show me your eyes."
The beeping of the machine, the beating of his heart, is steady and it's her only answer.
"Wake up," she mutters, "people are waiting for you. I know."
With a small smile to the boy, she turns around and leaves the room as another boy, miles away from her, remembers blondish hair and blue eyes that would stand out in a crowd before sighing and getting back to his book.
"--in this dream where he was eleven years old, and then he had smelled something like the death of time, and someone lit a match and he had looked down and seen the decomposing face of a boy named Patrick Hockstetter--"
Seth shakes his head, trying to read the words. Actually read them. Not pass them by and pretend he remembers what's being said, like he's doing at the moment. It's a little after three and he's done nothing productive all day. Not that's he's been productive the past few days. Or three weeks, or whatever. Not, really. Couch Potato is his middle name now, not Ezekiel because, yes, he hates that name and has no freaking clue what his parents were thinking. No, Couch Potato it is.
He tries to tell himself he's doing stuff. He's reading. That's doing something. Especially since he isn't the type to read Stephen King, so he's educating his brain, and literary tastes. So, yeah, he's doing something. Only, he's not. And Seth knows this. He's only passing by time, not really changing anything. He's passing by time not even feeling anything because Ryan is not there.
Seth's heart clenches and he pretends he doesn't feel it, doesn't allow himself to feel anything, or do anything. He's nothing without Ryan.
He sighs, running one hand through his hair, eyes closing. It's gotten to the point where he doesn't have to close to his eyes to see Ryan, but closing them makes the image clearer, and that's always good. Seth can see Ryan's blond hair as he tilts his head, smiling that smile that's almost secretive, because it's so rare. Blue eyes shine brightly under the sun, blue eyes Seth can recognize in a crowd, are staring at him.
Seth's chest is tight. And no, he doesn't feel that either. Blue eyes and Seth opens his, his breathing labored and his hand clutching the book in his grasp. No, he's not hurting. No, he's not in pain. He's just fine, thank you very much. He opens his book, eyes blurred and unfocused.
He clears his throat, and he can see a little bit better. Not much, but a little. He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes rapidly, because he's sweating and it's the sweat that's bothering his eyes, not anything else, no, just the sweat. He wipes once again and he takes a deep breath, and he clears his throat.
Now, he can actually see, and read, and so, he does.