Best Forgotten, Part 16
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.
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.