Best Forgotten, Part 21.
Yes, I'm still slogging alone with this story, but it's been a very hectic month, so I'm afraid this short and unsatisfying installment was the best I could manage. And at that it took me until the very last day to get it done! But for what it's worth, here is
Best Forgotten, Part 21
(And yes, it's still wildly AU, ands I still claim none of Josh's characters.)
Stunned, Lucy stared at the phone in her hand. It had gone dead so abruptly, cut off in mid-ring. Almost, she thought, as if someone had hung up on her deliberately.
But that made no sense-why would someone hang up before even identifying the caller? No, it must have been a mistake, Lucy assured herself, a problem with the service provider perhaps, or a dying battery. It could not have been intentional.
Still, the dead silence felt like another defeat, like the door to Ryan’s room locking behind her, like Mr. Nichol dismissing the proof she had found of his lies, like Dr. Keller ordering her removed from the clinic.
Lucy’s finger, poised over the redial button, faltered, then fell off the keypad.
She couldn’t bear to be cut off again.
Perhaps, she concluded wearily, it is not worth my time to place this call again right now. The person, whoever it may be, is not likely to answer. And I can always try later if I must.
If I do not reach Sandy Cohen with another combination of numbers.
But surely, surely I will.
Surely one of them will be right.
Still, Lucy could not shake the sick feeling that none of them would work. She had done so much wrong already. Perhaps she had erred with this too, misheard Ryan’s mumbled entreaties, or reversed some of the other digits. It was so hard for her to be sure anymore.
Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Ryan had told her all that she needed to know, Lucy thought numbly.
Why hadn’t she listened?
Sweat beaded on the nape of her neck. Unconsciously, she reached back, rubbed away the moisture, and moved around the building into a sparse square of shade. For a moment she just stood, fingering her phone like a talisman, taking long, deep breaths of the heavy afternoon air.
At last, slowly, her jaw muscles tightened and she stiffened her spine.
There was nothing she could do now except keep her promise to Ryan. No matter how long it took, she had to keep trying until she reached Sandy Cohen.
Pulling a pen from her pocket, she scrawled a star-the third on her list--beside the number she had just called, reminding herself that no one had answered. Then, swiftly and firmly, she dialed the next combination.
Nobody answered that call either. Lucy listened to only the first words of the message-a blithe female voice caroling, “Hey, hi. It’s Alicia. Sorry I missed you--” before she hung up. Her shoulders slumped again. Biting her lip, she tilted her head back against the rough annex wall, her gaze searching the cloudless sky.
The sun blazed down, blinding her, burning away her last thin shreds of hope. Still, automatically, she began to dial again.
In the distance, she heard footsteps, faint at first, then growing quick and heavier, but she paid no attention until a concerned voice called, “Lucy?”
“Felix?” Lucy blanched, jerking to attention and dropping her phone. She spun around so fast that she nearly fell off-balance.
Felix rushed over, catching her elbow to steady her. His face was grave and warm with concern. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Are you all right? I heard what happened inside with Dr. Keller.”
“Oh! Yes. I’m fine,” Lucy stammered. Clasping his hand between both of her own, she clutched it tightly. Her breath quickened and her nails pressed into his flesh. “But you-you are leaving now? It is not time for a shift change. Does that mean . . . Ryan? What is happening to him? Felix, please tell me the operation has not already begun!”
The orderly shook his head, sighing, and Lucy’s grip tightened.
“Felix,” she demanded. “Tell me.”
He gave her a slight smile, equally rueful and reassuring. “No,” he said. “It hasn’t started yet.”
Lucy exhaled. Closing her eyes, she crossed herself swiftly, then looked at Felix again. Her gaze was marbled with relief and entreaty, and he answered her next question before she could ask.
“I don’t know why exactly,” Felix told her. “The doc was all set to go, but I guess the last blood tests showed something he didn’t like. Anyway, he decided he needed to wait another half hour and run the tests again.”
“A half hour,” Lucy repeated. “And Ryan? Where is he now, Felix? Is he conscious? How is he?”
A shadow crossed Felix's face. "Still in his room. The doc is with him now. Ryan was awake, or almost, when I left and he--"He stopped, startled into silence by a short, chirping sound at his feet. Then he bent down to pick up the phone lying there.
"Lucy?" he asked. "Is this yours?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seth stared at his father’s phone, still and black in his palm. In the silence, he could still hear echoes of its jaunty ringtone. The “Greased Lightning” refrain bounced through his mind and all at once he recalled the afternoon he had programmed it.
Ryan had been with him in the kitchen, his head tilted to one side, watching bemused as Seth considered different songs.
“Didn’t you just change your ringtone yesterday, Seth?” he had asked.
“That is correct, dude. I did,” Seth affirmed. “But today I thought to myself, who in this house knows music better than I do?”
Ryan poured a bowl of cereal, shrugging. “I don’t know. Rosa?”
“Ha. And also no,” Seth retorted. “Nobody does. I happen to be the resident musical expert of Casa Cohen. So I decided to take on the daunting task of finding appropriate ringtones for the ‘rents.”
“Uh-uh,” Ryan murmured dubiously. He reached down to touch Kirsten’s slender silver phone. “So for your Mom--?”
Seth beamed. “Ah yes. The Kirsten. I already finished hers. For Mom, I selected a few bars of ‘Pictures at an Exhibition.’” Pushing a button, Seth played the opening notes. He nodded judiciously as he listened, then reached around to pat himself on the back. “It is, if I do say so myself, the ideal choice. Classical, classy, and also a tribute to Mom's art history background. You know that she loves art, right?”
Ryan glanced at the model and roll of blueprints lying on the table. His eyes softened. “I know Kirsten loves architecture,” he conceded. “And that song--”
“Uh-uh-uh, bro!” Seth injected. He held up an admonishing index finger. “That? Is not a mere song. That? Is the promenade movement from a suite for piano by Mussorgsky” Ryan glared and Seth lowered his hand hastily. “Although you’re perfectly free to call it a song. Or, you know, whatever”
“Fine,” Ryan said dryly. “This 'whatever' is actually pretty nice. It sounds like Kirsten.” He spooned up a dry piece of cereal, chewed it and swallowed. So what do you have for Sandy?”
Seth frowned at his father’s phone. “I’m working on Dad's right now,” he replied, scrolling through selections. “You’d think he’d be easy, wouldn’t you? But there are almost too many possibilities. So finding just the right song--”
Ryan didn’t glance up, but a corner of his mouth lifted slyly. “Or promenade movement from a suite for piano,” he injected.
“Whoa! More Atwood humor. Okay, I’ll give you that one, R.A. But just wait until we get you a cell phone and I program your ringtone. I think maybe a little-hold on! Eufreakingreka! I’ve got it!” Grinning widely, Seth jabbed a button and turned up the volume. “What do you think? Dad, right?”
John Travolta’s slick, Danny Zuko baritone barreled through the kitchen.
Ryan listened, his eyes narrowed skeptically. “First of all, I don’t need a cell phone,” he said. “Your mom has already bought me enough stuff. And if I had one, I would not let you program it. Second, ‘Greased Lightning’? Seriously, Seth? You’re going to put that on your father’s phone?”
“I am indeed,” Seth murmured, his fingers working deftly on his father's keypad. “Aaaand--done! Now I just need to slip this back in Dad’s briefcase before he gets back from surfing.”
Grabbing Sandy’s briefcase, Ryan slid it out of Seth’s reach. “Wait a minute. Do your parents even know you’re doing this, Seth?”
Seth shrugged blithely. “No,” he admitted. “But have you heard Dad’s phone, Ryan? All it does is ring. A boring, generic, no-personality, standard-issue, just-like-everybody else ring. I figure Dad needs something more suited to his unique Cohen-ness.”
“Cohen-ness,” Ryan repeated. He shook his head, still doubtful. “Seth . . .”
“No, seriously, think about it, Ryan,” Seth urged. “Dad’s a rebel from the Bronx-well, the Bronx by way of Berkeley-and he loves Broadway shows, plus he played Danny in a high school production of ‘Grease’. This song has got energy and that whole defiant, retro vibe. It’s perfect for him.”
Ryan studied the worn leather of Sandy’s briefcase. His brow creased uncertainly. “Yeah, but Seth, your father is a lawyer,” he said. “You think he’ll really appreciate John Travolta announcing his calls in the office?”
“Trust me, Ryan. He will love it.”
Grinning, Seth flipped his father’s phone closed and tossed it to Ryan. He caught it easily, turned it over and rubbed it with his thumb, erasing a small cream-cheese smudge Seth had left.
Ryan’s touch, Seth recalled, had seemed almost reverent. Unconsciously, he mimicked the gesture, tracing small circles on the screen of Sandy’s cell phone as he remembered the rest of their conversation.
“You know,” he had continued. “Dad’s seen that movie like eight thousand times. He even made you watch it twice, remember? And anyway, Ryan, Sandy Cohen is not exactly your average, staid, stuffy, capital L lawyer.”
Ryan had tilted his head, considering. A small smile tugged at his mouth and he nodded slowly.
“That’s true,” he murmured. His voice was so quiet that he might have been speaking to himself. “Sandy is not average at all.”
Recalling Ryan’s words the quiet rental car, Seth could hear it clearly-that note of hero worship. He could picture it too, in the expression he saw when he met Ryan’s eyes. They had been focused somewhere in the distance, or maybe somewhere inside, and they appeared different than Seth had ever seen them before.
He had noticed it at the time, but only now could he define the change.
They had looked unguarded. That was it.
All their normal wariness, the opaque, protective shield that so often masked his feelings, had disappeared completely from Ryan’s eyes. They had been shining, a clear, defenseless blue.
And they blazed with absolute admiration and trust.
Ryan, Seth realized, had trusted Sandy completely.
He had trusted all of the Cohens.
Meanwhile, everybody in stupid, superficial Newport assumed Ryan was just an opportunist, taking advantage of the Cohen’s charity. They believed the only issue was whether Sandy and Kirsten should trust him in their house, with their money and their car, with everything they owned.
But that wasn’t true, Seth concluded. His own eyes clouded as he thought about it.
Ryan was risking a lot more than they were. He had to trust the Cohens, too, and with something more important than just material stuff. He had to take it on faith that they wanted him, that they wouldn’t change their minds and kick him out or abandon him the way his mother had done.
And Ryan had trusted them. He had allowed himself to believe that he had found a real home with the Cohens, that, for the first time, he could relax. He was safe.
Except, Seth thought bitterly, they didn’t deserve Ryan's trust. They had let him down. Otherwise he wouldn’t be missing, trapped somewhere and suffering who-knew-what, and they wouldn’t be driving through Mexico with forging guardianship papers, searching psychiatric clinics for somebody named “Brandon McConnell.”
And they were doing it so damned slowly.
Seth glanced up from the phone. He could see Sandy hunched over the wheel, his body tense with urgency, but even so their car still sat trapped in traffic, inching its way along the dusty, pot-holed highway.
There was nothing Greased Lighting about it at all.
Seth gritted his teeth. I hate that damn ringtone, he thought. I should just change it now. His eyes stinging, he rubbed his thumb over the phone’s keypad. Its display panel flashed for an instant but, lost in his own thoughts, Seth didn’t glance down. Instead, abruptly, he shook his head, jabbed the “Off” button, and slammed the phone shut.
Almost at the same moment, Charlie grabbed Seth’s wrist.
“Hey! Ow!” he yelped, confused. “What are you doing, Charlie?” He tried to pull away but she held on, ignoring him,
“Pull over, Sandy,” she ordered.
Sandy frowned into the rearview mirror. “What?”
“Pull over!” Charlie repeated. She leaned forward. “Do it, Sandy. Now! Seth, turn on your father’s phone.”
Her voice flared, white-hot and insistent, and an electric current seemed to surge through the car.
Seth’s mouth opened, speechless. In the front seat, Kirsten stiffened and Sandy glanced back sharply. His jaw tightened. Without another word, he cut across a lane of traffic onto the shoulder of the road. Horns blared, tires squealed, and rocks crunched, splitting and spitting angrily as the car skidded to a rocking stop. It had not even come to rest before Sandy and Kirsten wheeled around.
“Charlie?” Kirsten breathed. She gripped the back of her seat, her knuckles taut and white, her eyes wide and unblinking. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“The caller ID-I think I saw something on the screen-Seth, bring up your father’s missed calls.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” Seth agreed numbly. He sounded dazed, and he fumbled with the phone. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as his thumb pressed the wrong control. “Wait, here, I got it. Charlie, what--?”
“52,” she said tersely, snapping open her computer. “That’s what I thought I saw. It’s the country code for Mexico. That call came from here. Sandy, do you know anybody--?
Sandy shook his head before she could finish the question. “No,” he replied. “I don’t. Seth, what’s the rest of the number?”
“It’s um--” Seth licked his lips and squinting at the screen. He swallowed hard. When he spoke, he sounded grim and years older than himself. Taking his time, enunciating deliberately, he recited the number.
The Cohens waited, barely breathing, as Charlie scrolled through an online directory. There were several seconds of silence. At last, she looked up. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, and her eyes flashed.
“The number belongs to someone named Lucy Forde. It’s local, Sandy, here in Cozumel.”
Kirsten covered her mouth. The small, stifled sound that escaped between her fingers could have been a whimper or a prayer. “Sandy?” she whispered, but the word was lost under Seth’s barrage of questions.
“Then this has got to be about Ryan, doesn’t it? This Lucy Whoever, she must know something about him, right? Who is she, Dad? Do you know her? Do you want me to call back?
Sandy inhaled sharply. “No-Give me the phone, Seth,” he ordered. “Now.”
Nodding, suddenly mute, Seth passed the phone forward. He winced slightly as his father grabbed it. Then he clutched the back of Sandy’s seat, peering over his shoulder, pressing as far forward as he could. Reflexively, his fingers moved along with his father’s as Sandy re-opened the phone, scrolled to his missed calls, and highlighted Lucy’s number.
An interminable half-second passed while he pressed the “call” button, and another one followed after that. Seth could see his mother inhale and go still, her eyes closed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy grabbed her phone from Felix. One hand reflexively clutched her throat as she answered it. "Hello?" she gasped. That was all. She didn't have the breath for more than one word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandy stiffened. His grip choked the phone, and his voice, raw and ragged, cut through the silent car.
“Hello?” he rasped. “Lucy Forde? This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just try to call me?
TBC
Best Forgotten, Part 21
(And yes, it's still wildly AU, ands I still claim none of Josh's characters.)
Stunned, Lucy stared at the phone in her hand. It had gone dead so abruptly, cut off in mid-ring. Almost, she thought, as if someone had hung up on her deliberately.
But that made no sense-why would someone hang up before even identifying the caller? No, it must have been a mistake, Lucy assured herself, a problem with the service provider perhaps, or a dying battery. It could not have been intentional.
Still, the dead silence felt like another defeat, like the door to Ryan’s room locking behind her, like Mr. Nichol dismissing the proof she had found of his lies, like Dr. Keller ordering her removed from the clinic.
Lucy’s finger, poised over the redial button, faltered, then fell off the keypad.
She couldn’t bear to be cut off again.
Perhaps, she concluded wearily, it is not worth my time to place this call again right now. The person, whoever it may be, is not likely to answer. And I can always try later if I must.
If I do not reach Sandy Cohen with another combination of numbers.
But surely, surely I will.
Surely one of them will be right.
Still, Lucy could not shake the sick feeling that none of them would work. She had done so much wrong already. Perhaps she had erred with this too, misheard Ryan’s mumbled entreaties, or reversed some of the other digits. It was so hard for her to be sure anymore.
Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Ryan had told her all that she needed to know, Lucy thought numbly.
Why hadn’t she listened?
Sweat beaded on the nape of her neck. Unconsciously, she reached back, rubbed away the moisture, and moved around the building into a sparse square of shade. For a moment she just stood, fingering her phone like a talisman, taking long, deep breaths of the heavy afternoon air.
At last, slowly, her jaw muscles tightened and she stiffened her spine.
There was nothing she could do now except keep her promise to Ryan. No matter how long it took, she had to keep trying until she reached Sandy Cohen.
Pulling a pen from her pocket, she scrawled a star-the third on her list--beside the number she had just called, reminding herself that no one had answered. Then, swiftly and firmly, she dialed the next combination.
Nobody answered that call either. Lucy listened to only the first words of the message-a blithe female voice caroling, “Hey, hi. It’s Alicia. Sorry I missed you--” before she hung up. Her shoulders slumped again. Biting her lip, she tilted her head back against the rough annex wall, her gaze searching the cloudless sky.
The sun blazed down, blinding her, burning away her last thin shreds of hope. Still, automatically, she began to dial again.
In the distance, she heard footsteps, faint at first, then growing quick and heavier, but she paid no attention until a concerned voice called, “Lucy?”
“Felix?” Lucy blanched, jerking to attention and dropping her phone. She spun around so fast that she nearly fell off-balance.
Felix rushed over, catching her elbow to steady her. His face was grave and warm with concern. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Are you all right? I heard what happened inside with Dr. Keller.”
“Oh! Yes. I’m fine,” Lucy stammered. Clasping his hand between both of her own, she clutched it tightly. Her breath quickened and her nails pressed into his flesh. “But you-you are leaving now? It is not time for a shift change. Does that mean . . . Ryan? What is happening to him? Felix, please tell me the operation has not already begun!”
The orderly shook his head, sighing, and Lucy’s grip tightened.
“Felix,” she demanded. “Tell me.”
He gave her a slight smile, equally rueful and reassuring. “No,” he said. “It hasn’t started yet.”
Lucy exhaled. Closing her eyes, she crossed herself swiftly, then looked at Felix again. Her gaze was marbled with relief and entreaty, and he answered her next question before she could ask.
“I don’t know why exactly,” Felix told her. “The doc was all set to go, but I guess the last blood tests showed something he didn’t like. Anyway, he decided he needed to wait another half hour and run the tests again.”
“A half hour,” Lucy repeated. “And Ryan? Where is he now, Felix? Is he conscious? How is he?”
A shadow crossed Felix's face. "Still in his room. The doc is with him now. Ryan was awake, or almost, when I left and he--"He stopped, startled into silence by a short, chirping sound at his feet. Then he bent down to pick up the phone lying there.
"Lucy?" he asked. "Is this yours?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seth stared at his father’s phone, still and black in his palm. In the silence, he could still hear echoes of its jaunty ringtone. The “Greased Lightning” refrain bounced through his mind and all at once he recalled the afternoon he had programmed it.
Ryan had been with him in the kitchen, his head tilted to one side, watching bemused as Seth considered different songs.
“Didn’t you just change your ringtone yesterday, Seth?” he had asked.
“That is correct, dude. I did,” Seth affirmed. “But today I thought to myself, who in this house knows music better than I do?”
Ryan poured a bowl of cereal, shrugging. “I don’t know. Rosa?”
“Ha. And also no,” Seth retorted. “Nobody does. I happen to be the resident musical expert of Casa Cohen. So I decided to take on the daunting task of finding appropriate ringtones for the ‘rents.”
“Uh-uh,” Ryan murmured dubiously. He reached down to touch Kirsten’s slender silver phone. “So for your Mom--?”
Seth beamed. “Ah yes. The Kirsten. I already finished hers. For Mom, I selected a few bars of ‘Pictures at an Exhibition.’” Pushing a button, Seth played the opening notes. He nodded judiciously as he listened, then reached around to pat himself on the back. “It is, if I do say so myself, the ideal choice. Classical, classy, and also a tribute to Mom's art history background. You know that she loves art, right?”
Ryan glanced at the model and roll of blueprints lying on the table. His eyes softened. “I know Kirsten loves architecture,” he conceded. “And that song--”
“Uh-uh-uh, bro!” Seth injected. He held up an admonishing index finger. “That? Is not a mere song. That? Is the promenade movement from a suite for piano by Mussorgsky” Ryan glared and Seth lowered his hand hastily. “Although you’re perfectly free to call it a song. Or, you know, whatever”
“Fine,” Ryan said dryly. “This 'whatever' is actually pretty nice. It sounds like Kirsten.” He spooned up a dry piece of cereal, chewed it and swallowed. So what do you have for Sandy?”
Seth frowned at his father’s phone. “I’m working on Dad's right now,” he replied, scrolling through selections. “You’d think he’d be easy, wouldn’t you? But there are almost too many possibilities. So finding just the right song--”
Ryan didn’t glance up, but a corner of his mouth lifted slyly. “Or promenade movement from a suite for piano,” he injected.
“Whoa! More Atwood humor. Okay, I’ll give you that one, R.A. But just wait until we get you a cell phone and I program your ringtone. I think maybe a little-hold on! Eufreakingreka! I’ve got it!” Grinning widely, Seth jabbed a button and turned up the volume. “What do you think? Dad, right?”
John Travolta’s slick, Danny Zuko baritone barreled through the kitchen.
Ryan listened, his eyes narrowed skeptically. “First of all, I don’t need a cell phone,” he said. “Your mom has already bought me enough stuff. And if I had one, I would not let you program it. Second, ‘Greased Lightning’? Seriously, Seth? You’re going to put that on your father’s phone?”
“I am indeed,” Seth murmured, his fingers working deftly on his father's keypad. “Aaaand--done! Now I just need to slip this back in Dad’s briefcase before he gets back from surfing.”
Grabbing Sandy’s briefcase, Ryan slid it out of Seth’s reach. “Wait a minute. Do your parents even know you’re doing this, Seth?”
Seth shrugged blithely. “No,” he admitted. “But have you heard Dad’s phone, Ryan? All it does is ring. A boring, generic, no-personality, standard-issue, just-like-everybody else ring. I figure Dad needs something more suited to his unique Cohen-ness.”
“Cohen-ness,” Ryan repeated. He shook his head, still doubtful. “Seth . . .”
“No, seriously, think about it, Ryan,” Seth urged. “Dad’s a rebel from the Bronx-well, the Bronx by way of Berkeley-and he loves Broadway shows, plus he played Danny in a high school production of ‘Grease’. This song has got energy and that whole defiant, retro vibe. It’s perfect for him.”
Ryan studied the worn leather of Sandy’s briefcase. His brow creased uncertainly. “Yeah, but Seth, your father is a lawyer,” he said. “You think he’ll really appreciate John Travolta announcing his calls in the office?”
“Trust me, Ryan. He will love it.”
Grinning, Seth flipped his father’s phone closed and tossed it to Ryan. He caught it easily, turned it over and rubbed it with his thumb, erasing a small cream-cheese smudge Seth had left.
Ryan’s touch, Seth recalled, had seemed almost reverent. Unconsciously, he mimicked the gesture, tracing small circles on the screen of Sandy’s cell phone as he remembered the rest of their conversation.
“You know,” he had continued. “Dad’s seen that movie like eight thousand times. He even made you watch it twice, remember? And anyway, Ryan, Sandy Cohen is not exactly your average, staid, stuffy, capital L lawyer.”
Ryan had tilted his head, considering. A small smile tugged at his mouth and he nodded slowly.
“That’s true,” he murmured. His voice was so quiet that he might have been speaking to himself. “Sandy is not average at all.”
Recalling Ryan’s words the quiet rental car, Seth could hear it clearly-that note of hero worship. He could picture it too, in the expression he saw when he met Ryan’s eyes. They had been focused somewhere in the distance, or maybe somewhere inside, and they appeared different than Seth had ever seen them before.
He had noticed it at the time, but only now could he define the change.
They had looked unguarded. That was it.
All their normal wariness, the opaque, protective shield that so often masked his feelings, had disappeared completely from Ryan’s eyes. They had been shining, a clear, defenseless blue.
And they blazed with absolute admiration and trust.
Ryan, Seth realized, had trusted Sandy completely.
He had trusted all of the Cohens.
Meanwhile, everybody in stupid, superficial Newport assumed Ryan was just an opportunist, taking advantage of the Cohen’s charity. They believed the only issue was whether Sandy and Kirsten should trust him in their house, with their money and their car, with everything they owned.
But that wasn’t true, Seth concluded. His own eyes clouded as he thought about it.
Ryan was risking a lot more than they were. He had to trust the Cohens, too, and with something more important than just material stuff. He had to take it on faith that they wanted him, that they wouldn’t change their minds and kick him out or abandon him the way his mother had done.
And Ryan had trusted them. He had allowed himself to believe that he had found a real home with the Cohens, that, for the first time, he could relax. He was safe.
Except, Seth thought bitterly, they didn’t deserve Ryan's trust. They had let him down. Otherwise he wouldn’t be missing, trapped somewhere and suffering who-knew-what, and they wouldn’t be driving through Mexico with forging guardianship papers, searching psychiatric clinics for somebody named “Brandon McConnell.”
And they were doing it so damned slowly.
Seth glanced up from the phone. He could see Sandy hunched over the wheel, his body tense with urgency, but even so their car still sat trapped in traffic, inching its way along the dusty, pot-holed highway.
There was nothing Greased Lighting about it at all.
Seth gritted his teeth. I hate that damn ringtone, he thought. I should just change it now. His eyes stinging, he rubbed his thumb over the phone’s keypad. Its display panel flashed for an instant but, lost in his own thoughts, Seth didn’t glance down. Instead, abruptly, he shook his head, jabbed the “Off” button, and slammed the phone shut.
Almost at the same moment, Charlie grabbed Seth’s wrist.
“Hey! Ow!” he yelped, confused. “What are you doing, Charlie?” He tried to pull away but she held on, ignoring him,
“Pull over, Sandy,” she ordered.
Sandy frowned into the rearview mirror. “What?”
“Pull over!” Charlie repeated. She leaned forward. “Do it, Sandy. Now! Seth, turn on your father’s phone.”
Her voice flared, white-hot and insistent, and an electric current seemed to surge through the car.
Seth’s mouth opened, speechless. In the front seat, Kirsten stiffened and Sandy glanced back sharply. His jaw tightened. Without another word, he cut across a lane of traffic onto the shoulder of the road. Horns blared, tires squealed, and rocks crunched, splitting and spitting angrily as the car skidded to a rocking stop. It had not even come to rest before Sandy and Kirsten wheeled around.
“Charlie?” Kirsten breathed. She gripped the back of her seat, her knuckles taut and white, her eyes wide and unblinking. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“The caller ID-I think I saw something on the screen-Seth, bring up your father’s missed calls.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” Seth agreed numbly. He sounded dazed, and he fumbled with the phone. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as his thumb pressed the wrong control. “Wait, here, I got it. Charlie, what--?”
“52,” she said tersely, snapping open her computer. “That’s what I thought I saw. It’s the country code for Mexico. That call came from here. Sandy, do you know anybody--?
Sandy shook his head before she could finish the question. “No,” he replied. “I don’t. Seth, what’s the rest of the number?”
“It’s um--” Seth licked his lips and squinting at the screen. He swallowed hard. When he spoke, he sounded grim and years older than himself. Taking his time, enunciating deliberately, he recited the number.
The Cohens waited, barely breathing, as Charlie scrolled through an online directory. There were several seconds of silence. At last, she looked up. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, and her eyes flashed.
“The number belongs to someone named Lucy Forde. It’s local, Sandy, here in Cozumel.”
Kirsten covered her mouth. The small, stifled sound that escaped between her fingers could have been a whimper or a prayer. “Sandy?” she whispered, but the word was lost under Seth’s barrage of questions.
“Then this has got to be about Ryan, doesn’t it? This Lucy Whoever, she must know something about him, right? Who is she, Dad? Do you know her? Do you want me to call back?
Sandy inhaled sharply. “No-Give me the phone, Seth,” he ordered. “Now.”
Nodding, suddenly mute, Seth passed the phone forward. He winced slightly as his father grabbed it. Then he clutched the back of Sandy’s seat, peering over his shoulder, pressing as far forward as he could. Reflexively, his fingers moved along with his father’s as Sandy re-opened the phone, scrolled to his missed calls, and highlighted Lucy’s number.
An interminable half-second passed while he pressed the “call” button, and another one followed after that. Seth could see his mother inhale and go still, her eyes closed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy grabbed her phone from Felix. One hand reflexively clutched her throat as she answered it. "Hello?" she gasped. That was all. She didn't have the breath for more than one word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandy stiffened. His grip choked the phone, and his voice, raw and ragged, cut through the silent car.
“Hello?” he rasped. “Lucy Forde? This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just try to call me?
TBC