Sullen
by M. F. LuderPart eight
Seth shakes his head, unable to find anything that catches his eye, and turns off the TV. It's not even seven in the evening but he's already tired and bored to dead. School is no fun; life in itself doesn't seem fun anymore. He eyes his book, "It", lying on the coffee table, exactly where he left it yesterday.
He's been reading slowly, slower than he remembers ever reading, and he doesn't know whether it's because the storyline can barely hold his attention or if he's too afraid of reading it all in one night, killing any probability of him sleeping at all next week.
Seth doesn't want to think too much about this. Instead, he picks up the book, lies down on the couch, legs slightly pulled up, and continues where he left of, starting part thirteen because it's anti-climatic to pause a book in the middle of a chapter, right?
Lines are read, pages are passed, and Seth feels fear boiling up inside, slowly but without doubt. Fear grips onto him, his entire soul, as he reads,
"Bill scrambled up the coal. Richie seized his forearms and pulled. For a moment he thought he was actually going to win. Then the Werewolf laid hold of Bill's legs again and he was yanked backward toward the darkness once more. It was stronger. It had laid hold of Bill, and it meant to have him."
Seth tells himself not to be scared, that it's stupid, that it's only a book. He reads the next lines carefully, slowly, as though he can delay the fear, when really, there's no way that's possible.
"Richie heard the Voice of the Irish Cop coming out of his mouth, Mr. Nell's voice. But this was not Richie Tozier doing a bad imitation; it wasn't even precisely Mr. Nell."
Seth shudders and, no, not afraid at all.
"-- that had ever lived and twirled a Billy by its rawhide rope as he tried the doors of closed shops after midnight:
'Let go of him, boyo, or I'll crack yer thick head! I swear to Jaysus! Leave go of him now or I'll serve ye yer own arse on a platter!'"
Seth sees something out of the corner of his eye, something black, like a shadow. He sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye that moves from the kitchen over to hallway and by the time he lifts his eyes from the book, the shadow is gone. He shudders once again, or not, not shuddering exactly and looks down at the book.
"The creature in the cellar let out an ear-splitting roar of rage . . . but it seemed to Richie that there was another note in that bellow as well. Perhaps fear. Or pain."
Stupid, really. Childish. Stupid and childish.
Seth looks over his shoulder, the wind probably blowing against the window and it's that what makes that sound, like whispering behind him.
"Bill still had the Walther - he had held on to the gun through all of it. Now he held it out in both hands, his eyes squinched down to slits, and pulled the trigger. There was another deafening bang. Richie saw a chunk of the Werewolf s skull tear free and a torrent of blood spilled down the side of its face, matting the fur there and soaking the collar of the school jacket it wore."
Squeaking, and blowing. Wind. And... hmm... ants? Cockroaches? More wind?
Seth doesn't really know. He pulls his legs closer to his body and he's suddenly cold. Oh, and his hands? No, they aren't shaking. Not really.
"Roaring, it began to climb out of the window.
Moving slowly, dreamily, Richie reached under his coat and into his back pocket. He brought out the envelope with the picture of the sneezing man on it. He tore it open as the bleeding, roaring creature pulled itself out of the window, forcing its way, claws digging deep furrows in the earth. Richie tore the packet open and squeezed it. 'Git back in yer place, boyo!' he ordered in the Voice of the Irish Cop. A white cloud puffed into the Werewolf s face. Its roars suddenly stopped. It stared at Richie with almost comic surprise and made a choked wheezing sound. Its eyes, red and bleary, rolled toward Richie and seemed to mark him once and forever."
Seth blinks, trying to focus on the story and at the same time, not feel the fear in his throat, a paralyzing fear, a feeling that makes him certain he won't sleep tonight, not really, not unless he keeps his lamp on and the door open so his parents can hear him in case he screams for help.
And isn't this stupid? Sitting here, legs against his chest, eyes closed, because he's fucking scared? And even behind close eyelids Seth can see, he can imagine ghosts, shapeless forms coming for him, all around him. He opens his eyes suddenly, looking over his shoulder at the doors that lead to the backyard, and when in God's name did it get dark?
It's dark outside, almost black, and he can barely see the pool house, its light off, and there's no beacon at the end of the tunnel, is there? Not anymore. No beacon. No Ryan. No anything.
That scares him even more, that's what petrifies him to the core and makes his hands shake until he can't control them.
It feels like his chest has been crushed against something invisible, invisible concrete probably, and his stomach is burning with acid. He feels sick. And he can't be dead, not when he's feeling this horrible because dead people can't feel this bad.
He can't stand this anymore and he stands up, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down.
There's no Ryan. No midnight Grand Theft Auto championships. No staying up late studying because they spent the day watching TV. No talking. No friend.
No Ryan.
Seth feels everything coming back up and he runs to the bathroom, throwing open the door, not caring about the tiles and he sinks to his knees, barely enough time to lift the seat and throw up.
His throat burns, his eyes stinging and he keeps vomiting. His lunch, his breakfast. Doritos he had last week. He can taste the chocolate, the two Snickers he had barely two hours ago, and they taste horrible, putrid and rotten, and he throws up all over again.
No more, he thinks. Nothing left. But he keeps gagging and he wonders if he can throw up a lung. There's a bitter taste on his tongue, bitterer than the chocolate, and it's probably bile. That's even more disgusting. His belly starts to hurt, spasming over nothing. His eyes give in and he cries, in between spasms.
It feels like hours, but he doesn't think he could have stood hours doing this, so it must have been minutes. It must have.
He breathes rapidly, panting, and leans his head against the cool surface of the bowl, eyes closed. He can still smell the stench and he would stand up, if he had the strength. Sighing, he tries to control his breathing and wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve because it's the vomiting that brought tears to his eyes.
Thursday afternoon came three new patients from a bus crash. Three children, barely ten years old, and Andrea, Kerrie and two other nurses spent most of the early afternoon tending to them and the concerned parents. It wasn't until later on, when Andrea could slip out of the nurse station and down to the cafeteria to pick up a sandwich of a supposed dinner at nine, that she remembered the list of names, and the phone calls she hadn't yet made.
She stirs her coffee idly as she remembers there are still eight phone numbers she hasn't dialed, eight families she hasn't troubled for some word she might have heard. Only, she knows, in the back of her mind, where the word still rumbles loudly
Cohen
that she did not imagine it, that it wasn't her mind working on overdrive, but the boy's voice whispering softly and, had she not been there in that moment, had she not leaned over to push away a lock of his hair, she wouldn't have heard it.
She knows this. And she knows that word, that name
Cohen
is the link that's missing to his family, to his past and to his future. And isn't playing investigator quite entertaining and exciting?
She smiles to herself, taking a small sip of her coffee and finishing her sandwich before standing up. She throws the sandwich wrapper in the trashcan on the way to the elevator and as the doors slide close, left hand holding her coffee, her right one reaches for her breast pocket, taking out a small piece of paper.
She unfolds it with her thumb and index finger and stares down at the names, 23 of them already crossed out.
Only eight more stand there, waiting.
Cohen, Kelly M.
Cohen, Dean.
Cohen, Sanford T.
Cohen, Mary Ann
Cohen, Cameron.
Cohen, Jason K.
Cohen, Thomas R.
Cohen, Michael S.
Andrea smiles down, closing the piece of paper and, as she takes another sip, she wonders which one of these names is the lucky one.
His mom arrives home late from work, some problem with the union or something, Seth doesn't really care. He half listens to her as she talks about it, sitting on the couch, TV on, eyes glued to the screen. His stomach has settled in the last two hours and he feels far more relaxed, still, he isn't hungry, not really.
Still, when his mom and dad pull off the lid of the take out, the smell of steak and ribs, cooked vegetables and potatoes, it's too much for his mouth not to water. Understandable, considering he threw up everything he had eaten the past two days barely two hours ago. When they call him to dinner, reluctantly, he stands up and turns off the TV, walking to the dinner table.
Seth takes his usual seat, at one head of the table and he doesn't remember how exactly this became his seat. His mom sits on his left, his dad on his mom's other side. There's an empty chair empty on his right.
Seth swallows as he gazes at the seat from the corner of his eye and he says nothing. He wonders how long it'll stay empty. He ducks his head, picks up his fork and starts eating. He hopes not for long.
They say nothing because there's nothing to say. Silence falls over them.
Kelly Cohen doesn't have a blond son, or knows a blond boy who could have gotten hurt. She does, however, have a grandson who would love to go out with a nurse as lovely and caring as Andrea. For a moment there, given her lack of a social life and dates in the past months, Andrea actually considered it.
Two seconds later, of course, her logical mind had stepped up to the plate and she had remembered why she was calling all the Cohens available in two states.
Dean Cohen, no middle name, is an accountant who apparently has files to get done for tomorrow and could barely give her the time of the day, though he did tell her he knew no blond boy he would care about.
She looks down at the next name as she wonders who would name their son Sanford. She shakes her head, picking up the receiver in the nurse station as someone knocks on the counter.
Andrea puts down the receiver, smiling at the woman standing before her, eyes blood shot from the crying and worrying over her little boy down the hall.
"Excuse me," she says, sniffling before the tears start to fall down her cheeks once again.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Where's the bathroom?"
"Down the hall, to your right."
The woman nods, trying her best to smile at Andrea but failing, and turns around. Kerrie walks into the nurse's station, handing Andrea a chart, a sad smile on her lips.
"What's wrong?"
Kerrie swallows, sighing softly. "Emma Anderson." She pauses as Andrea nods. "She's being taken up to surgery. Renal failure."
Andrea takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Oh, God."
Kerrie nods. "I didn't see it coming. She's been doing great this past week, after the fluid in her lungs cleared. I mean, how--?"
Andrea puts a hand on Kerrie's shoulder and squeezes slightly. Kerrie's still young, barely twenty-three, and she still feels every case like it's her own. Not to mention she had a soft spot for the lesbian couple. "It's okay."
Kerrie nods, taking a deep breath and calming herself. "Sarah..." she shrugs. "She's not doing fine."
"I can imagine."
With a sigh, Kerrie takes a seat on one of the chairs and hangs her head back, closing her eyes. "So," she says, eyes still closed, "what do we do now?"
Andrea looks down at the piece of paper in her hand. Not the best time to call, not with Kerrie here. "Nothing," she says as she folds it and places it in her breast pocket once again. "We sit here and hope for the best."
Kerrie sighs. "I feared that."
Seth looks up from his plate every now and then, dinner has become long and suffering. His mom takes long swallows of Merlot, and Seth worries about her finishing the bottle. His dad picks at his food, eating piece by piece with unnerving slowness. The Styrofoam containers stand on the table.
Seth gazes at them before his gaze shifts to the seat on his right, once again.
He can almost imagine Ryan sitting there, head down, not really picking at his food but eating slowly, the way he has for as long as Seth has known him, responding in monosyllables whenever Seth would dare to make chit-chat.
Only, when Ryan was here, sometimes, conversation would flow at the table. His dad would make a joke, his mom would tell stories about his work that Seth wouldn't pay attention to, but Ryan would get. Ryan would smile. Seth would smile back.
It would feel right, like home. Like family.
Seth hadn't known how much he would miss those moments until now, and he would give anything to have them back. He sighs, staring down at his plate. Anything to have Ryan back.
He picks at his food, his fork pinching a piece of meat as a steady heartbeat continues to beat and breathing is regular, miles from him, and a woman with blondish hair that looks like Ryan's in the right light opens a piece of paper that holds Seth's future together.
Kerrie leaves the nurse station twenty minutes later, to go downstairs for a sandwich, chicken, or anything as her stomach is complaining about the lack of food.
Andrea smiles good-naturedly as she watches the elevator doors slide close and lets out a soft breath she hadn't known she had been holding. She hears a door opening and her eyes shift to 526, the young black-haired girl walking out of the room, heading down the hallway.
Andrea doesn't have to see her eyes to know sadness overtakes them. She stares at her back as Sarah turns to the right and continues walking, out of sight, probably on her way to the bathroom.
She wonders how that girl does it, how she can stand this, her partner coming and going from surgery, three times in as many weeks. She nods slightly in awe of her endurance and devotion. She doesn't think she could stand everything Sarah is going through. With a sigh, she shakes her head. There's another matter at hand at the moment.
Her gaze moves to the elevator for a moment and counts to twenty in her mind, because in movies people always come back before they let you do what you gotta do, and she turns around, picking up the receiver. Only six more calls to make and after that, after proving herself that though she might have been certain she heard the word be spoken, she just might have made it up all by herself, she'll be done with this.
No more playing detective, she has promised herself. No more. Leave that for the Harrys of the world. With that thought in mind, she retrieves the piece of paper from her pocket and stares down at it.
Cohen, Sanford T.
She nods to herself as she starts dialing the number, not knowing the owner of that name sits at the dinner table, head down, waiting for a miracle to happen.
Sanford Thomas Cohen, son of Sophie and Paul Cohen, husband of Kirsten and father of a young boy named Seth, waits for a miracle to happen, for his second son to be brought home.
Sanford Cohen has no idea that a miracle is about to happen as the phone rings.