Sullen
by M. F. LuderPart six
It has taken Seth days to be able to focus on the book again. Saturday night finds him sitting on the couch, book in hand.
"- conviction that the murders of George Denbrough, Betty Ripsom, Cheryl Lamonica, Matthew Clements, and Veronica Grogan were not the work of one person. 'There are essential differences in each crime,' Borton said, but--"
Something in the back of Seth's mind tells him that maybe he should be smarter about this and stop reading the book now, when he only imagines getting scared about it rather than waiting until he can't sleep. However, he feels hypocrisy around him, like no matter what he reads, he won't feel it. Not with everything happening at once. Not with this out of body experience going on.
"Seth?"
He looks up from his book and he sees his mom and dad standing before him, dressed for cotillion.
Sandy smiles at his son. "Are you sure you don't wanna come?"
Seth shakes his head before lowering his eyes to his book once again.
Sandy lets out a long sigh. His son has taken to the habit of barely saying ten words throughout the day while his wife seems to be in constant sorrow.
He knows Seth doesn't understand why they are going to the ball, not when they should be outside, looking for Ryan. But they won't find Ryan like that, not after two weeks. Ryan's not a stranded dog. When they find him, it'll be the PI's work. Sandy knows this.
He also knows Kirsten needs to get out of the house, to think about something other than Ryan, at least for a night. And cotillion, though Sandy does not enjoy it one bit, has been a family tradition for years.
And so, even though he had to talk Kirsten into going this year, they will go. They'll get out of the house, have some champagne and try not to be sad. Maybe not happy. Sandy doesn't think they could be happy at the moment, but at least not as sad as they have been.
"Okay, sure." Sandy sighs, not knowing what to say to his son. "I've left money in the kitchen in case you get hungry and there's leftovers in the fridge."
Seth doesn't even look up from his book, though his eyes don't move and Sandy knows he's just pretending. Pretending so he doesn't have to talk to him.
How did they get to this point? Ryan got lost, that's how.
Sandy nods to himself before placing his hand on Kirsten's lower back and leading her to the door. She shakes her head, turning around and walking to the couch.
Sandy wants to stop her, to tell her to let Seth be because, right now, they are all in a funky kinda mood. But she won't listen because she's a mother and mothers are like that.
She crosses the distance and places both hands on either side of Seth's head. Kirsten hears a small complaint on the tip of Seth's tongue, but Seth doesn't say anything. She hides a small smile. She lifts his head and forces him to make eye contact with her.
"I love you," she tells her son, her eyes starting to shine. "I love you. No matter what, I love you."
It takes Seth a moment before he nods. "I love you too," he whispers back.
Kirsten's heart mends itself on the corners. She smiles, placing a kiss on his cheek and he doesn't grimace. With one last nod, she turns around and walks out of the house.
Sandy stares after his wife and then looks over his shoulder at his son who stares back at him.
"I love you too," he says, but Seth only nods.
"I know, dad."
For Sandy, it's enough. He smiles and turns around, following after his wife.
Seth sighs, leaning back against the armrest of the couch, book on his chest. He really wants to do this, to read, to get away from his thoughts for an hour, not much. One hour.
A minute ticks by before Seth can lift the book and focus on the words.
Kirsten picks up the glass of champagne, taking a long sip. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, diamond necklace and earrings adorning the blue satin dress she wears for the night. Shakily, she places the glass on the table, next to the napkin folded into a swan. She snorts under her breath. She doesn't care about swans. She doesn't care about fine linen, or silver cutlery.
"Kirsten?"
Looking over her shoulder, Kirsten sees Sandy frowning, head tilted, worried. He's wearing a suit. He doesn't like suits, but he's wearing one because it's appropriate and he wanted her here, with her friends, in what used to be her environment. She isn't certain about that anymore.
Kirsten gives him a sad smile. "I'm fine."
"Are you--?"
"I'll be right back," she says, standing up, making her way to the bar.
She wants to run her hand through her hair but it's pulled back and that would mess up her hair. She shouldn't mess up her hair. Her eyes blur as she reaches the bar and she lowers her gaze before closing her eyes.
"Good evening, ma'am."
She swallows, taking deep even breaths as she tries to control herself.
"Ma'am? Are you ok?"
She nods, though she doesn't believe that for one second. Opening her eyes, she looks up at the young boy playing bartender for the night. He has blond hair. Her chest starts hurting. She grimaces, biting the inside of her lower lip. "Wine. Merlot. Red."
The boy tilts his head, almost concerned and she doesn't know whether to comfort him or snap at him.
"Wine," she says and the boy does as he's told.
A moment later, a long flute appears before her.
She likes wine and she loves Merlot. Her mother did as well. She takes a long swallow, emptying almost half her drink. She pauses, swirling the remnants in her glass as she leans over and smells it. Lovely. She empties it and asks for another one.
The boy pauses for a moment. He must have seen something in her eyes -- despair, sorrow, pain, take your pick -- and he fills her glass again.
She slows down this time, taking her three sips to finish it. She's proud of that small accomplishment. She wonders about a third glass but decides against it. Sandy will get worried if she's gone for long. Thanking him, she retrieves a bill from her purse and places it in the glass bowl before leaving.
Sandy's looking at her as she makes her way back to their table. She smiles, her mind a bit fuzzy and her breathing just a little bit easier. He takes her hand in his and squeezes. He's trying to be strong for her. She's grateful. She doesn't need it, but she's grateful.
Sandy leans over, places a small kiss on her lips before asking, "Are you ok?"
She nods, not knowing what else to do. She's not ok. She hasn't been all right for the past two weeks that Ryan has been missing. She won't be all right until he's home. "I'm fine."
Sandy nods, not convinced. She understands. Before he can ask anything else, Peggy takes to the microphone. Kirsten only half listens to the familiar speech. Within minutes, the girls are coming down the staircase. Her gaze, however, shifts to the boys appearing from the right side of the room.
She can remember seeing Ryan walk out of the small door, green curtains covering the entrance. She can remember seeing Ryan make his way toward the staircase to receive Marissa.
A blond boy walks out and into the ballroom, dressed in a white shirt and bow tie, Armani suit fitting him. He makes his way toward the staircase, seeing his companion by her father's arm and he bows.
He bows. Ryan bows.
Kirsten's eyes fill with tears and she can't take this anymore. She shakes her head, standing up and walking out of the room. She can hear Sandy following her but she doesn't care.
This was a horrible idea. She's in no position to go to parties, to Cotillions. She didn't want to. This wasn't her idea. This was Sandy's. Sandy, who wanted her out of the house. What if someone calls? What if Ryan has been found? What if--?
"Kirsten!"
Sandy's hand on her shoulder forces her to turn around and she pulls free of his hold. "Leave me alone!"
"Kirsten!"
She runs toward the front entrance and down the stairs. Leaning against the side of the wall, she breathes. It hurts.
"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry."
His words mean nothing to her. He places his hands on either side of her face and she stares right into his eyes.
"I don't want to be here."
"I know, but it's not healthy for you--"
"I don't care," she hisses, the words barely making their way out of her pressed lips.
Sandy pauses, looking at his wife and he can see the conviction in her blue eyes. It'll be pointless to try to talk her out of anything at this moment. "I know."
Her voice doesn't shake. "I want Ryan home," she says, as if wishing it would make it happen. "I want to go home."
Sandy sighs, nodding at her request. He can at least fulfill that one. "Let's go." He places his arm around her waist and leads her to the car.
They won't go to another party. Not until they find Ryan. Kirsten won't tolerate it. Sandy can live with that.
The sky is clear and bright. Clouds seem to move slow, slower than they should. The sun shines down on him. Ryan can barely feel its heat. He lies down on the grass, arms on either side of him, eyes fixed on the sky. After a moment, the light is too much and he has to place his hand over his eyes to shield them.
"You ok, dude?"
He nods, turning to his right and seeing Seth lying there, by his side. Seth smiles. Ryan smiles back.
There is no Marissa or Summer. There's no one between them. It's just them. Together. Lying on the grass. Enjoying the feeling. Ryan likes it this way. There's something about it that Ryan likes.
Seth starts talking, his mouth moving rapidly, but Ryan can't hear the words. Not really.
Still, Ryan knows what Seth is talking about. The New Legion, Batman facing Superman and who would win. Batman's feelings for Robin because, yeah, dude, so happening. Sexual tension all over the place.
Then, at some point, Ryan still not certain how, Seth changes the subject to stars. Stars they really can't see, not right now because it's the middle of the day and the sun is shining down on them, not too bright, but bright enough.
Seth talks about stars and constellations, about myths he read in a book his dad got for him ages ago.
Ryan knows these stories. He has heard them enough times to know them by heart. There's the story about the King of the Underworld and how he got his Queen. There's the story about Lyre and Big Bear.
It's about stars and magic, and Ryan likes hearing Seth talk.
When Seth talks, things seem to slow down and it's like Ryan can see clearly. Like he can see drops of water falling down and a humming bird batting its wings.
When Seth talks, Ryan doesn't have to. Ryan can just open his eyes and look at him, stare at him, gaze at him.
Ryan likes that. He smiles and the smile feels good on his lips.
Andrea folds the sheets that she has already changed along with the pillowcase. She turns around to look at the boy on the bed. Her eyes shift to the small calendar she placed on his nightstand a couple of days ago. Mockery, Kerry said, but for Andrea, it's more like a challenge. Something inside her tells her that, given time, he will wake up. Maybe the calendar will help him find a suitable date.
Or maybe she's being silly, she thinks, shaking her head.
Still, Andrea walks to the nightstand and tears down another page, Tuesday, August 24th, coming into view. She nods to herself, turning to look at the boy once again. Pausing, she frowns, leaning toward him. Her frown deepens.
She could swear-- That's not--
She holds her breath. She could swear that's not the expression he always has. There's something about him-- she tries to pinpoint it and it takes her a minute to finally see it.
His lips. The corners of his lips appear to be curling upward in a ghost of a smile. Andrea can barely see it, but it's there. It's there.
"Are you smiling? Is that really you smiling?"
He doesn't answer, but she grins. No questions now. Yes, it's him. Smiling.
"Sometimes I do wonder, you know? I wonder about what you see or dream. Do you dream? Is that why you're smiling? Are you remembering something nice, something sweet from your past?"
She sighs, breath leaving her parted lips.
"Who are you thinking about? Your mom, your dad? Did you have siblings? Are you thinking about them?"
She shakes her head, a lock of blond hair falling to the side of her face.
"No, no, I've seen that smile before. That's not the sibling kinda smile. That's the lover kinda smile." She nods, her grin widening. "Yeah, yeah, I've seen that smile. You're thinking about your special someone?"
And how old does she feel when she says that?
She chuckles. "I'm sure I'll meet her sometime." Andrea remembers Emma, and Sarah, still in room 526. "Or him. Either one is fine. I'll meet whoever it is because you'll open your eyes. Right? Blue eyes I want to see, doll. Blue eyes I want to see, seeing me."
Andrea nods to herself.
"Yes, yes. I know. You'll see me one day."
With one last glance at him, she turns around and walks out of the room. She still has four more rooms to check up on. The boy keeps smiling for minutes, though she doesn't see that. What she does see, two hours later when she walks in to take his blood pressure, is that his semblance has returned to the one she has seen everyday for three weeks now.
Still, she can't stop wondering what he could have been dreaming about that made him smile.
"He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, was developing a bald spot at the back of his head, and would die of cancer of the larynx in 1973. He looked at the ad to which Richie was pointing."
Slowly but steady Seth was making his way through the book. It had taken him four days to get sixty more pages done, losing focus every hour or so, remembering something in particular about Ryan, about his life with Ryan.
Seth shakes his head, eyes falling to the book once again. He barely reads a page,
"'Spare me the vulgarity at the breakfast table, if you please,' Maggie Tozier said to her husband as she brought Richie's eggs over--"
before he blinks again, his mind not recalling what he has just read.
He sighs, shaking his head and placing the bookmark in between the pages. If he gets lost more than twice in a five minute span, it's better to give it up and continue another day. So far, in less than ten minutes, this's the sixth time he has to re-read that page.
He throws the book onto the coffee table, knowing well enough he's only putting off the inevitable. It's August the 25th, a sunny Wednesday morning, and Seth knows he has to go to Harbor to sign up for the next school year.
He knows he has to, his parents having reminded him the past week, almost every day. And yesterday. And this morning. And two hours ago. And probably again in the next ten minutes. He has to get off his ass, pick up the car keys his mom left for him and go to school. Sign his name, take his new schedule and face life, school, without Ryan.
Seth wonders if he'll be able to do it. He can put it off until five, be the last one to go and get his schedule, but it will not change anything. He will still have to go and pretend life is dandy.
Seth snorts. Dandy. He must have picked that up from his dad, because, really, that's so not his word. Not that he has been talking with his dad, or his mom for that matter, much in the last few days. He has barely said ten words throughout the day, focusing on the book he can't seem to be able to finish and the thoughts he can't seem to be able to push away.
Seth knows his parents are worried as much as he is, probably even more, but though he understands it, that doesn't mean it makes it more bearable.
He doesn't talk, not like he used to, one word crashing with the next, because he doesn't see the point. It's like he's forcing himself to be normal, to go through the day breathing and walking and sitting and living, but he can't enjoy it. There's no reason to.
He sighs, psychoanalysis is not his forte, and stands up. No point delaying the inevitable.
Seth nods to himself, eyeing his schedule. Not bad. Calculus, Physics, Literature, History, Trig and Spanish. He shakes his head as the voice behind him, a voice he knows and has grown to fear, says, "Cohen."
Seth's blood chills in his veins, closing his eyes as a defense mechanism, and he has to convince himself it wouldn't look manly to flee the scene, or the country, because, really, been there, done that.
He hears the heels announcing Summer's approach, and then her breathing by his side as there's a tapping sound. Summer's impatient. That makes it even worse.
"Well, Cohen, you ass, I'm waiting for an explanation."
This is not really the way he had imagined this going. It had never been one constant scene, it would vary from Seth falling on his knees and begging for Summer's forgiveness to Summer stabbing Seth with her heel and him dying a painful death.
This, here, in the middle of the school as Summer asks for an explanation, his own heart black with worry and despair, is not what he imagined.
"So? I'm waiting."
Seth clamps his eyes shut and no, he's not a chicken, because this girl, this woman, right here, is to be feared. He's not being a chicken. Really. Finally, seconds later, Seth sighs, accepting his painful future and opens his eyes.
Summer's standing by his side, her arms crossed over her chest, her foot giving one last tap before stopping. Seth wonders if Southern countries have extradition laws. If he explained rage blackouts, they would understand, right?
"I'm sorry," he says, though it sounds more like a whisper.
She snorts. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Cohen. Do you know what it's like to have to explain why your boyfriend sailed away? No, you don't, because yours is in Chino of his own fucking decision."
Summer's reference to Ryan feels like a stab in his chest, like the air has been punched out of his lungs, and Summer digging her heel into his heart doesn't seem like much of a dream anymore.
Seth's face must give him away because, for second, for a fleeting second but a second nonetheless, her face softens and her hand moves to his shoulder.
"Seth?"
Only, the second ticks by and it's soon gone, her face hardening once again, her grip tightening to the point of pain, and Seth grimaces. He ducks his head, and tries to come up with a plausible explanation that will let him live. If only to see Ryan again, does not cross his mind.
"I'm sorry," he says once again, his voice slightly more confident, "I'm really sorry. I didn't... I really... I..." he sighs. "I'm sorry. That's all I can tell you Summer, really, sorry."
Summer seems to consider his truthfulness before tilting her head and dropping her hand. She must have seen something in his eyes, because, really, that has to be the only reason she hasn't killed him yet. She nods.
"Yeah, well, forget it. It's done." Her jaw sets and she becomes even scarier. "But you do something remotely close to this again, Cohen, and I swear to God, there will not be dental records left to match against yours."
Seth doesn't doubt that.
She nods once again before sighing. "Well, with that done, how's Chino?"
The question is more than enough for Seth's undoing and he turns around, ducking his head, and tries to breath. It's not as easy as it should be. It's not easy at all.
Summer's hand moves to his shoulder once again, and she frowns. "What happened to Chino?"
Talking with someone seems right, will feel right, and Seth swallows thickly before jerking his head toward the parking lot. She understands. They turn around and walk silently to her BMW, parked five cars down from his Range Rover. He gets into the passenger seat as she closes her door.
He sighs, leans forward, hands gripping the dashboard, and talks. It takes him less than an hour to get it all out, everything, from the moment he walked into the house to three minutes ago.
Seth expects a long and detailed lecture, maybe a comparison to an episode of Golden Girls, but Summer is nothing if not full of surprises.
She nods, slowly, before placing her arms around him and pushing him to her chest.
Seth bites down on his lip for a minute, but the feeling is too comforting, the pain too grand, and his conviction slips away in seconds. He rests his head on her shoulder, an uncomfortable position, and cries.
The book had been Vera's idea. Andrea isn't one to read at work, unless, like now, it's almost three in the morning and there's no one on the floor to make her feel unprofessional about reading on the clock.
It's amazing, Vera had said. Stunning. They are bloody awesome. The books are very well written, lots of sarcastic and genuinely funny characters in there.
Andrea had tilted her head and waited for Vera to continue. Vera had kept on nodding enthusiastically, or at least Andrea could imagine Vera doing so as they talked on the phone. That kind of behavior isn't weird when it comes to her friend, but it is when it refers to books.
Vera had been the one who would beg for a summary for the books assigned in class so she could do her paper. Vera had become the Queen of Summaries. There was no one like her. And so, if Vera had been that thrilled about a book, it had to be good. It had to be great. Andrea couldn't pass up a great book like that.
And after that, after buying the first volume, Storm Front, by Jim Butcher, she had been swept off her feet and left flying. Superman had nothing on her.
Murphy was brushing at her windblown hair with her hand while we waited for the ancient elevator to take its sweet time getting up to the seventh floor. She was wearing a gold watch, which reminded me. "Oh, hey," I asked he--
Andrea blinks out of her stupor, the very comment reminding her of something placed in the back of her mind, so far, almost forgotten. The watch. She shakes her head. So what? It wouldn't be the first time there was an expensive watch in the Belongings drawer at the nurse's station. Not the first and certainly not the last.
But before the patient hadn't been a John Doe, and the watch hadn't been the only link to his past. Had there been something there, some piece of evidence that the ER would have noticed? Wouldn't they have called the parents already?
Not if they hadn't noticed the boy only had twenty bucks in his pocket and calloused hands, right? Andrea shakes her head once again, thinking she's going crazy if she's gonna play investigator, like Harry. Too much reading, probably. All about magic and investigation and cases. Too much reading, for sure.
Only, as Andrea lifts the book, her eyes focusing on it once again, finding the sentence she had so abruptly stopped reading, she can't stop thinking about the boy and the watch.
The watch. Expensive watches, presents like those, usually have engravings. A name.
She sighs, places the bookmark and leaves the book on the counter. No point pushing the thoughts away when she knows they'll come back.
Andrea knows Kerrie is down in Mr. Potter's room, then she'll move to Ms. Anderson's to take her blood pressure, and though it's not against the rules to review a patient's belongings, she doesn't know what she'd say, if Kerrie came up from behind her.
Out of paranoia, Andrea looks over her shoulder before sighing. Oh, well. She turns around, reaching for the set of drawers along the corner of the station. There are stacks of forms along with pens and paper they like to keep there, and on the bottom, the zip bags.
There are only two left inside, unclaimed.
Mrs. Pine's, a mother of a little girl who had died in the car accident, whose husband still hadn't asked for the bag as she keeps going in and out of surgery, and the boy's.
Ms. Grayson had asked about Ms. Anderson's only a week ago, days after the woman had opened her eyes and the doctor had diagnosed that she was out of the woods. Maybe Ms. Grayson is superstitious.
Mr. Potter's wife retrieved it two days after the accident.
Andrea frowns, looking down at the bag, and wonders if she isn't doing this because of some silly book that has been putting weird ideas in her mind. Only curiosity has already bitten and she can't do anything to fight back.
She reaches for it and unzips it, pulling all the objects out, four in total, falling onto the counter and Andrea stares at them.
There's the wrist cuff, the one the boy must have been keeping on his right hand for God knows how long, which she won't be able to determine until they get the cast off. There's a set of keys on a silver key chain that, now that she looks at it, looks expensive as well. No inscription.
Eighteen dollars comprised of two five dollar bills and eight ones, blood covering the ones and she pushes them aside. She wonders if the family will want these, the blood of their son smeared over them.
Finally, what she was looking for, the watch.
She picks it up, eying it carefully this time. She hadn't been wrong. The watch is expensive, more expensive than she had imagined.
It's Omega, and she remembers it from the James Bond's commercials, and if Pierce Brosnan wore it, then it's gotta be worth more than what she makes in a week. It's big and heavy, gray in color and she doesn't doubt it's all made of silver. More than just a hundred bucks, indeed.
She turns the watch around and she stares at the inscription.
We love you
Andrea lets out a soft sigh she hadn't know she'd been holding as she reads the words once again. Sweet, of course, loving. From his parents probably, considering it's plural. But, so far, it gives Andrea nothing to work with.
She sighs, disappointed and gives the watch one last glance before placing all the items back in the bag.
For Andrea, the watch is meaningless. She doesn't know it was a Christmas present, or Chrismukkah in this case. That Sandy chose it because Kirsten wanted something bigger, something flashier, though the inscription was Kirsten's idea and Sandy thought it fit.
It had been given in the early morning, as Seth had pushed Ryan into the living room so they could start exchanging gifts because Seth had never been one to wait for his presents.
Andrea doesn't know that Ryan had stared at it for a full minute before shaking his head and trying to give it back. Kirsten had heard none of it, telling Ryan, her son, that they wanted him to have it. Ryan had nodded, read the inscription on the back and ducked his head as his cheeks flushed.
Andrea doesn't know any of this. She only knows it doesn't give her any clues to follow as she zips the bag once again, until the boy's family will come to ask for it, and closes the door after it. She takes her seat once again, picking up her book and continues reading the adventures of Harry.
"Murphy was brushing at her windblown hair with her hand while we waited for the ancient elevator to take its sweet time getting up to the seventh floor. She was wearing a gold watch, which reminded me. "Oh, hey," I asked her. "What time is it?"
She checked. "Two twenty-five. Why?"
On Sunday afternoon, Emma grips Sarah's hand tightly, the doctor staring at them. She blinks in confusion, trying to hear the words again. Fluid. Lungs. Surgery.
"What?" The word barely comes out of Emma's mouth before she clears her throat. "What did you--?"
"You need surgery."
Sarah swallows thickly by her side before nodding. "Okay, yes. Good. We'll--" She turns to look at Emma.
Emma looks petrified. Sarah feels the same. Sarah squeezes Emma's hand, giving her what she thinks is a reassuring smile.
Emma nods. "Okay," she says, her voice barely quivering. "Okay. When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
Emma nods once again as Sarah wills the tears to go away, her eyes to stay dry, and her conviction not to wobble, not until tomorrow. For a moment, she wonders how long this will take, how long it'll be before they can go back to their life, to their world.
Her eyes shift to Emma, who looks tired but is here, sitting here, with her. Sarah smiles, counting her blessings.