Best Forgotten, Part 22 And Happy New Year!
Please forgive me, flist. With all the holiday celebrations, continued school responsibilities (yes, even over break) and my pitiful (failed) attempt to keep up with the Advent challenge, this update was written sporadically over the last few days. It's not revised or even proofread, but since it's the last day of the month--and the year!--I'm posting it anyway.
May 2011 be wonderful for all of you.
And once again, thanks to Josh & company for the use of the characters. Now the AU adventure continues . . .
Best Forgotten, Part 22
Best Forgotten, Part 22
“This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just call me?”
The instant she heard that name, Lucy stiffened. The air froze around her and she became aware of everything at once: the weight of her phone in her hand; hazy, shimmering heat bouncing off the pavement; all the wrinkles in her pale blue scrubs; the sweat beading on her forehead, salty on her lips; an aching twinge in her right ankle-how long had it hurt?-the clinic’s dark shadow slicing through the parking lot; Felix, solid and silent beside her; the perplexed pucker between his brows; a small stain-was it blood?-on his sleeve; the lonely caw of a seagull overhead; the slam of a distant car door; even the drone of an insect near her wrist.
She recognized all of those things. They were real. For an instant Lucy could not connect them to the strained voice on her phone or the words she thought she heard the caller say.
Then, with a rush, they became real too.
“Sandy Cohen?” Lucy gasped. She swayed, clutching her phone like a lifeline, and Felix slid a supportive arm around her waist. “I-yes, I called. I--are you-Mr. Cohen, do you have a foster son named Ryan Atwood?”
In the hushed Cohen car, Kirsten and Seth leaned close to Sandy. Three seconds stretched into an eternity as they waited, breathless, for him to speak. He inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you know Ryan? Where is he? Is he all right?”
Abruptly, even roughly, Kirsten pulled the phone from Sandy’s ear and pressed the speaker button. Seth grabbed her hand, squeezing it in thanks and pressing as close to the front seat as he could. His whole body strained, almost vibrating with the effort of sitting still and listening. Charlie edged forward next to him. Her eyes glinted, absorbed and appraising, ready to assess each word.
For a moment all the Cohens and Charlie could hear was a faint, crackling sound. Then Lucy answered. Her voice wavered, sometimes hesitating between words, sometimes racing through them.
“Yes. I think . . . I hope . . . physically at least, I believe that Ryan is fine for now. But I am afraid that . . . Oh, I do not know how to say this! It is all so complicated, so unbelievable! I do not know how to explain, Mr. Cohen.”
“Just say it,” Sandy ordered. “Whatever it is-we have to know.”
There was another brief pause and the Cohens could hear Lucy’s long, bracing breath. “Yes,” she said at last. “You must. Let me start at the beginning. I am . . . I have been Ryan’s nurse.”
The word “nurse” crackled, alive and ominous. It seemed to suck the air out of the Cohen car. Despite the fact that they were searching clinics, that they expected-even hoped-to find Ryan in one of them, somehow that single syllable gave substance to all of their fears. Kirsten blanched. One hand flew to her mouth and the other tightened around Seth’s. He clutched it frantically, the way he had as a child when they were in crowds and he was afraid he might get lost. Sandy’s jaw clenched. “Go on,” he rasped. His voice rose, snapping out each question with urgent concern. “Why would Ryan need a nurse? Is he hurt? Where is he?”
Sandy’s desperation sizzled through the phone. Lucy could feel it surge through her own body, warming and frightening her at the same time. Ah, Ryan was right to believe in this man,> she thought. I can hear it in Mr. Cohen's voice. He is so worried. He cares so much for his son. Only now . . . how can I tell him he has found Ryan, but not in time to save him?
Instinctively Lucy huddled closer to Felix. He continued to hold her, standing mute and still. Only his eyes moved, watching with bewildered anxiety as, in the space of a heartbeat, a thousand emotions flitted across her face. Then her expression became eerily calm, a sky after a storm. Her gaze cleared and Lucy drew herself upright. Remembering her promise to Ryan, concentrating only on that and summoning all her strength, she launched into a full explanation.
“He is here,” she said evenly, “at the clinic where I . . . where I worked. But you will not find him as Ryan Atwood. He was admitted as Brandon McConnell. This is a psychiatric hospital, Mr. Cohen, and Ryan-He is not hurt physically, at least not more than some bruises from struggling with the orderlies, but he has suffered very much emotionally.” Although she could hear a jumble of sound-harsh exclamations, gasps, a strangled burst of profanity-Lucy raced on before anyone could interrupt. “You see, he was wildly incoherent when he came to us, raging, seeming to suffer from violent and disturbing hallucinations. The doctors. . . they diagnosed Ryan as paranoid and dangerously psychotic. They did have cause, Mr. Cohen! We were led to believe that Ryan-Brandon, as we knew him-had suffered a complete psychiatric breakdown, that he had killed the real Ryan Atwood and assumed his identity-not just publicly, but in his own mind. He was brought to our clinic for treatment as an alternative to life in prison. I am so sorry. I know this must sound unbelievable.”
“I wish it were,” Sandy muttered, too low for Lucy to hear. He reached for Kirsten’s and Seth’s clasped hands, cupping his own over it, holding them both as they listened.
“Ryan tried to tell me the truth,” Lucy said. “When I was caring for him, over and over he begged me to call you but for so long-for too long-I thought that he was delusional . . . I did try once to reach you, Mr. Cohen, to appease him mostly, even though I did hope . . . but the number listed on our records-whoever I spoke to told me-he said that Ryan was dead.”
“You spoke to an imposter,” Sandy said grimly. “It wasn’t me.”
Even though he couldn’t see her, Lucy nodded, pale with shame. “I know this now,” she admitted. “Ryan-he was so earnest, so desperate. I could see nothing but honesty in his eyes. He finally convinced me to research his story on my own. But when I did learn the truth, I could not prove it to anyone. And now--”
For the first time, Lucy faltered, unsure how to continue, reluctant to reach the painful conclusion of her story.
“Now we’ll handle it,” Sandy injected. “Just tell me exactly where Ryan is.”
“Yes. Yes, I am sorry. Of course.” Swallowing hard, Lucy licked her lips. “He is at the Santa Clara Clinic, in Cozumel Mexico. But Mr. Cohen--”
A triumphant yelp, Sandy’s sharp “Hold on!”, and the sound of an engine revving cut Lucy off. She stopped, startled, staring at the phone.
“What is it?” Felix whispered. “Lucy? What’s going on?”
Lucy shook her head, shrugging, afraid even to speak while she waited.
In the Cohen car, Sandy tossed the phone on the dashboard, simultaneously starting the car and glancing back at Charlie for directions.
“Make a U-turn,” she told him, bending over her computer. “We need to head back the way we came. I’ll have the rest in a minute. Go!”
“Go Dad!” Seth echoed. His fist clenched and he pounded the back of his father’s seat. “Damn! I knew that was the right clinic! I knew it!”
Not bothering to answer, Sandy checked his mirror, his hands locked around the steering wheel. He barely waited for a break in traffic before he yanked the wheel hard left, swinging the car onto the road with an angry squeal of tires. In the back seat, Seth jerked sideways, bumping into Charlie and knocking her computer on the floor. At the same time, Kirsten caught the phone just as it started to slide off the dash. She lifted it to her mouth, closing her eyes, breathing hard. Her hand and her voice both shook as she spoke.
“Ms-Forde?” she stammered. “This is Kirsten Cohen, Ryan’s-Ryan’s foster mother. We’re on our way now. Please-could you tell Ryan that we’re coming for him? Let him know that we’ve been looking for him, that we want to bring him home and that we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Kirsten’s words, the frayed sound of her voice, splintered Lucy’s brittle resolve. Ah no, she thought, leaning against Felix again. Kirsten Cohen? But then this is the woman whose father brought Ryan here, the one who is trying to destroy him. It would have been difficult enough to tell Mr. Cohen, but to speak to his wife? How can I do this-to tell her such horrible truths about her father? Only, yes, she is also Ryan’s mother, is she not? So she must know.
“Mrs. Cohen?” Lucy said numbly. “I am sorry. I wish I could speak to Ryan for you but I cannot. I have been fired and barred from the clinic.”
“What? Why?” Kirsten demanded, but Lucy didn’t hear the questions. She was lost in her own anguish, aching with the awful futility of it all-to reach the Cohens now, to know that they were on their way, but to know too that it was too late. By the time they arrived, Ryan would no longer exist.
Even if he survived the operation, he would not remember the Cohens. He would not recognize them, would never even know that they had loved enough to come.
“Please,” Lucy whispered. “I must tell you. Mrs. Cohen . . . Ryan-Dr. Keller has been treating him, but he still believes Ryan is Brandon McConnell, and that his psychosis is irreparable, so now he is preparing to--” She stumbled to a halt, unable to make herself say the word “operate.” Instead, awkwardly, urgently, Lucy fumbled her way towards the truth. “I tried,” she stammered. “But the bits of evidence I found, they were not enough-I could not convince him that his patient really was Ryan Atwood. There was so much proof otherwise-legal documents, court transcripts, medical records! And Dr. Keller-he is a neurosurgeon and he has been refining an experimental procedure. So since the conventional therapies appeared to fail, he, he--”
Before Lucy could force out the final words, Sandy did it for her. “He’s going to operate on Ryan,” he concluded flatly.
Lucy released a slow, anguished breath. “Yes,” she admitted. She shuddered, steeling herself to continue. “The surgery . . . it is a new kind of-lobotomy. It is intended to eliminate all violent, destructive impulses, but to do that . . . If it works, the operation will erase all of Ryan’s memories, all his personality. He will be--I am sorry. The Ryan we know will be gone.”
“Oh my God,” Kirsten whispered.
“What? No!” Seth cried. “They can’t do that! You can’t let them do that to Ryan, Lucy!”
Sandy shot an urgent look backwards, silencing his son. “When?” he demanded. “When is he going to operate?”
Lucy reached for Felix’s hand, holding it for support.. “Today. Soon,” she said. She shut her eyes against the pain in her own voice. “Too soon, Mr. Cohen. By the time you could get here from California--”
There was a sudden exuberant cry and the younger male voice, the one Lucy didn’t know, cut her off.
“But we’re not in California! We’re already here, in Cozumel, on-oh hell, I don’t know what road we’re on exactly, but we’re on our way to the clinic right now” Unconsciously, Seth slammed his foot on an imaginary accelerator, urging the Cohen car faster, even though a truck blocked the lane in front of them. “Drive faster, Dad!” he ordered. “Come on-greased lightning! Warpspeed, like, now!”
Dazed, Lucy gripped her phone. “You are-I am sorry, what?” she stammered. “I do not understand.” Then, slowly, a tingling warmth, equal parts shock and hope, flooded her body. For the first time since the clinic door closed behind her, Lucy allowed herself to envision the scene she pictured when she first called Sandy Cohen-Ryan reunited with his family, released the clinic, able to claim his own name once again. “You said you are here? In Cozumel? Dieu merci!” she breathed. “But wait. Mr. Cohen, where are you exactly? How long until you can get here?”
“How long until we get to the clinic, Charlie?” Sandy prompted.
There was a burst of excited conversation, questions and directions and interjections. Lucy couldn’t track the jumble of voices. She just held Felix’s hand, nodding numbly in reply to his whispered “That’s really the boy’s family, Lucy? Then you were right about him-he really is Ryan Atwood? And they’re on their way here now?”
“Yes,” she said. “They are coming, Felix.”
Shaking his head, Felix heaved a deep breath. “Damn,” he muttered, scratching his chin. “I didn’t know what to think before when you told me the kid’s story. But now--I really hope that his folks can get here in time.”
Lucy didn’t answer. She just glanced down at his wrist, at the fierce black numbers on the watch Felix wore and her stomach clenched with anxiety. At the same time Sandy’s voice emerged from the distant cacophony, coming to her clearly. “Lucy? Nurse Forde? Stay on the line,” he ordered. His tone had the force and focus of a missile bearing down on its target. “We’re trying to figure out the fastest route now. Charlie?” There was another spurt of indistinct conversation and then Sandy continued, “All right. It looks like it will take us about forty minutes. How much time do we have before the operation?”
Lucy’s mouth went dry. The numbers on Felix’s watch blurred and then seemed to flash as she stared at them. “Not enough,” she answered raggedly. She had to force the words through her clogged throat. “It will-it is scheduled to start in twenty-five minutes.”
There was an instant of absolute silence. It shattered with an intake of harsh breath, more muttered profanity, the sound of a choked sob. Lucy couldn’t tell whether it was on the Cohen’s end of the line or on her own. Then Sandy’s voice sliced through the din. “All right,” he said tersely. “Give me Dr. Keller’s number. I’ll call him and--”
Lucy shook her head. “It will do no good, Mr. Cohen,” she warned helplessly. “He will not speak to you. And even if he did, it is not possible to prove who you are over the phone. He will not believe that you have the authority to stop the surgery.” Her voice trailed off, becoming almost inaudible. “Already he has permission to perform it . . .” she whispered.
As if responding to her despair, a seagull suddenly screeched overhead. It sounded desperate, bereft and hopeless. Lucy looked up. She watched the bird swoop, scan the ground, and then wheel upward, soaring into the sky again. Her jaw tightened suddenly. Something congealed inside Lucy forming a core of steely resolve.
Over the phone she heard a muddle of voices: the boy who must be Seth declaring fiercely, “Then we’ll send the police in to stop it, or I don’t know-somebody! We’ve got to do something, Dad!” At the same time, Mrs. Cohen moaned “We’re so close . . . Oh God, Sandy, we can’t lose him now! Do you suppose . . . if I call my father?” Meanwhile the car’s engine revved louder and the other woman, the one Lucy did not know, announced curtly, “I can’t find a faster route. Sandy, you have to slow down! It won’t help Ryan if you have an accident.”
Sandy muttered something incoherent. Then his voice rose. “Ms. Forde,” he began, but before he could finish Lucy interrupted.
“I will stall the operation somehow,” she said. She grabbed Felix’s hand, squeezing it when he looked down and nodded gravely. “We will not let Dr. Keller operate before you get here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ryan felt something stir inside him, pushing through the darkness that seemed to fill his lungs. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he was aware of cool, smooth sheets underneath him and draped across his chest, clamps holding his head in place, the tiny sting of a needle in the back on his right hand, a hushed bustle of people surrounding him, a man saying, “Tell me when to start the anesthesia, doctor.”
Some small alert part of his brain recognized it all. “Clinic,” he thought. “Operation.”
Ryan waited for a wash of panic, but it didn’t come. Instead, he felt something lift him up. He had a sense of flying. Then a playful ocean breeze ruffled his hair, and moist sand, cool as the sheets, pushed between his bare toes.
“Beach,” Ryan thought gratefully, and in his mind he stretched his arms, tilting his face up into sunlight he could sense but not see.
It was as if he was caught in the space between waking and dreaming, but he couldn’t tell which was which. Then he heard Sandy’s voice, warm and cajoling.
“So what do you say, kid? Gonna try it?”
Suddenly the sand was gone, and Ryan found lying on something waxed and wooden while water lapped over his body.
“I don’t know,” he answered. He licked the drops of spray on his lips. They tasted salty. “Why me, Sandy? Seth doesn’t surf.”
“Seth doesn’t have to. He rides a skateboard,” Sandy replied.
“Right,” Seth’s voice added helpfully. “And don’t bother asking about Mom, dude. She can walk in high heels.”
“Yeah, but I bike,” Ryan protested. “I can do that.”
“Then you can surf,” Sandy insisted. “It’s all in the balance, kid.”
Ryan dangled an arm off his surfboard, searching for something solid, touching eternity. “But there’s nothing underneath,” he whispered.
“That’s why you have to do this, Ryan,” Kirsten called. “It’s the fastest way back to us.”
Ryan squinted through gauzy white sunshine, speckled silver with water. He could see all the Cohens standing on the shore. They were waiting for him. Seth was bouncing in place, waving both arms like a semaphore, while Kirsten shielded her eyes, watching Ryan and smiling.
“Okay, ready” Sandy asked. He gestured with both hands, the “All rise” motion Ryan had once seen the priest make when he went to Mass with Theresa. “Wait for the right wave and then stand up . . . Trust me kid. You can feel it coming. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, lean into the movement, and you can ride it all the way home.”
Ryan glanced behind him and saw the water swell. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up.
“Stop!” a voice cried sharply. “What's going on? I need some help here!”
TBC
May 2011 be wonderful for all of you.
And once again, thanks to Josh & company for the use of the characters. Now the AU adventure continues . . .
Best Forgotten, Part 22
Best Forgotten, Part 22
“This is Sandy Cohen. Did you just call me?”
The instant she heard that name, Lucy stiffened. The air froze around her and she became aware of everything at once: the weight of her phone in her hand; hazy, shimmering heat bouncing off the pavement; all the wrinkles in her pale blue scrubs; the sweat beading on her forehead, salty on her lips; an aching twinge in her right ankle-how long had it hurt?-the clinic’s dark shadow slicing through the parking lot; Felix, solid and silent beside her; the perplexed pucker between his brows; a small stain-was it blood?-on his sleeve; the lonely caw of a seagull overhead; the slam of a distant car door; even the drone of an insect near her wrist.
She recognized all of those things. They were real. For an instant Lucy could not connect them to the strained voice on her phone or the words she thought she heard the caller say.
Then, with a rush, they became real too.
“Sandy Cohen?” Lucy gasped. She swayed, clutching her phone like a lifeline, and Felix slid a supportive arm around her waist. “I-yes, I called. I--are you-Mr. Cohen, do you have a foster son named Ryan Atwood?”
In the hushed Cohen car, Kirsten and Seth leaned close to Sandy. Three seconds stretched into an eternity as they waited, breathless, for him to speak. He inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you know Ryan? Where is he? Is he all right?”
Abruptly, even roughly, Kirsten pulled the phone from Sandy’s ear and pressed the speaker button. Seth grabbed her hand, squeezing it in thanks and pressing as close to the front seat as he could. His whole body strained, almost vibrating with the effort of sitting still and listening. Charlie edged forward next to him. Her eyes glinted, absorbed and appraising, ready to assess each word.
For a moment all the Cohens and Charlie could hear was a faint, crackling sound. Then Lucy answered. Her voice wavered, sometimes hesitating between words, sometimes racing through them.
“Yes. I think . . . I hope . . . physically at least, I believe that Ryan is fine for now. But I am afraid that . . . Oh, I do not know how to say this! It is all so complicated, so unbelievable! I do not know how to explain, Mr. Cohen.”
“Just say it,” Sandy ordered. “Whatever it is-we have to know.”
There was another brief pause and the Cohens could hear Lucy’s long, bracing breath. “Yes,” she said at last. “You must. Let me start at the beginning. I am . . . I have been Ryan’s nurse.”
The word “nurse” crackled, alive and ominous. It seemed to suck the air out of the Cohen car. Despite the fact that they were searching clinics, that they expected-even hoped-to find Ryan in one of them, somehow that single syllable gave substance to all of their fears. Kirsten blanched. One hand flew to her mouth and the other tightened around Seth’s. He clutched it frantically, the way he had as a child when they were in crowds and he was afraid he might get lost. Sandy’s jaw clenched. “Go on,” he rasped. His voice rose, snapping out each question with urgent concern. “Why would Ryan need a nurse? Is he hurt? Where is he?”
Sandy’s desperation sizzled through the phone. Lucy could feel it surge through her own body, warming and frightening her at the same time. Ah, Ryan was right to believe in this man,> she thought. I can hear it in Mr. Cohen's voice. He is so worried. He cares so much for his son. Only now . . . how can I tell him he has found Ryan, but not in time to save him?
Instinctively Lucy huddled closer to Felix. He continued to hold her, standing mute and still. Only his eyes moved, watching with bewildered anxiety as, in the space of a heartbeat, a thousand emotions flitted across her face. Then her expression became eerily calm, a sky after a storm. Her gaze cleared and Lucy drew herself upright. Remembering her promise to Ryan, concentrating only on that and summoning all her strength, she launched into a full explanation.
“He is here,” she said evenly, “at the clinic where I . . . where I worked. But you will not find him as Ryan Atwood. He was admitted as Brandon McConnell. This is a psychiatric hospital, Mr. Cohen, and Ryan-He is not hurt physically, at least not more than some bruises from struggling with the orderlies, but he has suffered very much emotionally.” Although she could hear a jumble of sound-harsh exclamations, gasps, a strangled burst of profanity-Lucy raced on before anyone could interrupt. “You see, he was wildly incoherent when he came to us, raging, seeming to suffer from violent and disturbing hallucinations. The doctors. . . they diagnosed Ryan as paranoid and dangerously psychotic. They did have cause, Mr. Cohen! We were led to believe that Ryan-Brandon, as we knew him-had suffered a complete psychiatric breakdown, that he had killed the real Ryan Atwood and assumed his identity-not just publicly, but in his own mind. He was brought to our clinic for treatment as an alternative to life in prison. I am so sorry. I know this must sound unbelievable.”
“I wish it were,” Sandy muttered, too low for Lucy to hear. He reached for Kirsten’s and Seth’s clasped hands, cupping his own over it, holding them both as they listened.
“Ryan tried to tell me the truth,” Lucy said. “When I was caring for him, over and over he begged me to call you but for so long-for too long-I thought that he was delusional . . . I did try once to reach you, Mr. Cohen, to appease him mostly, even though I did hope . . . but the number listed on our records-whoever I spoke to told me-he said that Ryan was dead.”
“You spoke to an imposter,” Sandy said grimly. “It wasn’t me.”
Even though he couldn’t see her, Lucy nodded, pale with shame. “I know this now,” she admitted. “Ryan-he was so earnest, so desperate. I could see nothing but honesty in his eyes. He finally convinced me to research his story on my own. But when I did learn the truth, I could not prove it to anyone. And now--”
For the first time, Lucy faltered, unsure how to continue, reluctant to reach the painful conclusion of her story.
“Now we’ll handle it,” Sandy injected. “Just tell me exactly where Ryan is.”
“Yes. Yes, I am sorry. Of course.” Swallowing hard, Lucy licked her lips. “He is at the Santa Clara Clinic, in Cozumel Mexico. But Mr. Cohen--”
A triumphant yelp, Sandy’s sharp “Hold on!”, and the sound of an engine revving cut Lucy off. She stopped, startled, staring at the phone.
“What is it?” Felix whispered. “Lucy? What’s going on?”
Lucy shook her head, shrugging, afraid even to speak while she waited.
In the Cohen car, Sandy tossed the phone on the dashboard, simultaneously starting the car and glancing back at Charlie for directions.
“Make a U-turn,” she told him, bending over her computer. “We need to head back the way we came. I’ll have the rest in a minute. Go!”
“Go Dad!” Seth echoed. His fist clenched and he pounded the back of his father’s seat. “Damn! I knew that was the right clinic! I knew it!”
Not bothering to answer, Sandy checked his mirror, his hands locked around the steering wheel. He barely waited for a break in traffic before he yanked the wheel hard left, swinging the car onto the road with an angry squeal of tires. In the back seat, Seth jerked sideways, bumping into Charlie and knocking her computer on the floor. At the same time, Kirsten caught the phone just as it started to slide off the dash. She lifted it to her mouth, closing her eyes, breathing hard. Her hand and her voice both shook as she spoke.
“Ms-Forde?” she stammered. “This is Kirsten Cohen, Ryan’s-Ryan’s foster mother. We’re on our way now. Please-could you tell Ryan that we’re coming for him? Let him know that we’ve been looking for him, that we want to bring him home and that we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Kirsten’s words, the frayed sound of her voice, splintered Lucy’s brittle resolve. Ah no, she thought, leaning against Felix again. Kirsten Cohen? But then this is the woman whose father brought Ryan here, the one who is trying to destroy him. It would have been difficult enough to tell Mr. Cohen, but to speak to his wife? How can I do this-to tell her such horrible truths about her father? Only, yes, she is also Ryan’s mother, is she not? So she must know.
“Mrs. Cohen?” Lucy said numbly. “I am sorry. I wish I could speak to Ryan for you but I cannot. I have been fired and barred from the clinic.”
“What? Why?” Kirsten demanded, but Lucy didn’t hear the questions. She was lost in her own anguish, aching with the awful futility of it all-to reach the Cohens now, to know that they were on their way, but to know too that it was too late. By the time they arrived, Ryan would no longer exist.
Even if he survived the operation, he would not remember the Cohens. He would not recognize them, would never even know that they had loved enough to come.
“Please,” Lucy whispered. “I must tell you. Mrs. Cohen . . . Ryan-Dr. Keller has been treating him, but he still believes Ryan is Brandon McConnell, and that his psychosis is irreparable, so now he is preparing to--” She stumbled to a halt, unable to make herself say the word “operate.” Instead, awkwardly, urgently, Lucy fumbled her way towards the truth. “I tried,” she stammered. “But the bits of evidence I found, they were not enough-I could not convince him that his patient really was Ryan Atwood. There was so much proof otherwise-legal documents, court transcripts, medical records! And Dr. Keller-he is a neurosurgeon and he has been refining an experimental procedure. So since the conventional therapies appeared to fail, he, he--”
Before Lucy could force out the final words, Sandy did it for her. “He’s going to operate on Ryan,” he concluded flatly.
Lucy released a slow, anguished breath. “Yes,” she admitted. She shuddered, steeling herself to continue. “The surgery . . . it is a new kind of-lobotomy. It is intended to eliminate all violent, destructive impulses, but to do that . . . If it works, the operation will erase all of Ryan’s memories, all his personality. He will be--I am sorry. The Ryan we know will be gone.”
“Oh my God,” Kirsten whispered.
“What? No!” Seth cried. “They can’t do that! You can’t let them do that to Ryan, Lucy!”
Sandy shot an urgent look backwards, silencing his son. “When?” he demanded. “When is he going to operate?”
Lucy reached for Felix’s hand, holding it for support.. “Today. Soon,” she said. She shut her eyes against the pain in her own voice. “Too soon, Mr. Cohen. By the time you could get here from California--”
There was a sudden exuberant cry and the younger male voice, the one Lucy didn’t know, cut her off.
“But we’re not in California! We’re already here, in Cozumel, on-oh hell, I don’t know what road we’re on exactly, but we’re on our way to the clinic right now” Unconsciously, Seth slammed his foot on an imaginary accelerator, urging the Cohen car faster, even though a truck blocked the lane in front of them. “Drive faster, Dad!” he ordered. “Come on-greased lightning! Warpspeed, like, now!”
Dazed, Lucy gripped her phone. “You are-I am sorry, what?” she stammered. “I do not understand.” Then, slowly, a tingling warmth, equal parts shock and hope, flooded her body. For the first time since the clinic door closed behind her, Lucy allowed herself to envision the scene she pictured when she first called Sandy Cohen-Ryan reunited with his family, released the clinic, able to claim his own name once again. “You said you are here? In Cozumel? Dieu merci!” she breathed. “But wait. Mr. Cohen, where are you exactly? How long until you can get here?”
“How long until we get to the clinic, Charlie?” Sandy prompted.
There was a burst of excited conversation, questions and directions and interjections. Lucy couldn’t track the jumble of voices. She just held Felix’s hand, nodding numbly in reply to his whispered “That’s really the boy’s family, Lucy? Then you were right about him-he really is Ryan Atwood? And they’re on their way here now?”
“Yes,” she said. “They are coming, Felix.”
Shaking his head, Felix heaved a deep breath. “Damn,” he muttered, scratching his chin. “I didn’t know what to think before when you told me the kid’s story. But now--I really hope that his folks can get here in time.”
Lucy didn’t answer. She just glanced down at his wrist, at the fierce black numbers on the watch Felix wore and her stomach clenched with anxiety. At the same time Sandy’s voice emerged from the distant cacophony, coming to her clearly. “Lucy? Nurse Forde? Stay on the line,” he ordered. His tone had the force and focus of a missile bearing down on its target. “We’re trying to figure out the fastest route now. Charlie?” There was another spurt of indistinct conversation and then Sandy continued, “All right. It looks like it will take us about forty minutes. How much time do we have before the operation?”
Lucy’s mouth went dry. The numbers on Felix’s watch blurred and then seemed to flash as she stared at them. “Not enough,” she answered raggedly. She had to force the words through her clogged throat. “It will-it is scheduled to start in twenty-five minutes.”
There was an instant of absolute silence. It shattered with an intake of harsh breath, more muttered profanity, the sound of a choked sob. Lucy couldn’t tell whether it was on the Cohen’s end of the line or on her own. Then Sandy’s voice sliced through the din. “All right,” he said tersely. “Give me Dr. Keller’s number. I’ll call him and--”
Lucy shook her head. “It will do no good, Mr. Cohen,” she warned helplessly. “He will not speak to you. And even if he did, it is not possible to prove who you are over the phone. He will not believe that you have the authority to stop the surgery.” Her voice trailed off, becoming almost inaudible. “Already he has permission to perform it . . .” she whispered.
As if responding to her despair, a seagull suddenly screeched overhead. It sounded desperate, bereft and hopeless. Lucy looked up. She watched the bird swoop, scan the ground, and then wheel upward, soaring into the sky again. Her jaw tightened suddenly. Something congealed inside Lucy forming a core of steely resolve.
Over the phone she heard a muddle of voices: the boy who must be Seth declaring fiercely, “Then we’ll send the police in to stop it, or I don’t know-somebody! We’ve got to do something, Dad!” At the same time, Mrs. Cohen moaned “We’re so close . . . Oh God, Sandy, we can’t lose him now! Do you suppose . . . if I call my father?” Meanwhile the car’s engine revved louder and the other woman, the one Lucy did not know, announced curtly, “I can’t find a faster route. Sandy, you have to slow down! It won’t help Ryan if you have an accident.”
Sandy muttered something incoherent. Then his voice rose. “Ms. Forde,” he began, but before he could finish Lucy interrupted.
“I will stall the operation somehow,” she said. She grabbed Felix’s hand, squeezing it when he looked down and nodded gravely. “We will not let Dr. Keller operate before you get here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ryan felt something stir inside him, pushing through the darkness that seemed to fill his lungs. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he was aware of cool, smooth sheets underneath him and draped across his chest, clamps holding his head in place, the tiny sting of a needle in the back on his right hand, a hushed bustle of people surrounding him, a man saying, “Tell me when to start the anesthesia, doctor.”
Some small alert part of his brain recognized it all. “Clinic,” he thought. “Operation.”
Ryan waited for a wash of panic, but it didn’t come. Instead, he felt something lift him up. He had a sense of flying. Then a playful ocean breeze ruffled his hair, and moist sand, cool as the sheets, pushed between his bare toes.
“Beach,” Ryan thought gratefully, and in his mind he stretched his arms, tilting his face up into sunlight he could sense but not see.
It was as if he was caught in the space between waking and dreaming, but he couldn’t tell which was which. Then he heard Sandy’s voice, warm and cajoling.
“So what do you say, kid? Gonna try it?”
Suddenly the sand was gone, and Ryan found lying on something waxed and wooden while water lapped over his body.
“I don’t know,” he answered. He licked the drops of spray on his lips. They tasted salty. “Why me, Sandy? Seth doesn’t surf.”
“Seth doesn’t have to. He rides a skateboard,” Sandy replied.
“Right,” Seth’s voice added helpfully. “And don’t bother asking about Mom, dude. She can walk in high heels.”
“Yeah, but I bike,” Ryan protested. “I can do that.”
“Then you can surf,” Sandy insisted. “It’s all in the balance, kid.”
Ryan dangled an arm off his surfboard, searching for something solid, touching eternity. “But there’s nothing underneath,” he whispered.
“That’s why you have to do this, Ryan,” Kirsten called. “It’s the fastest way back to us.”
Ryan squinted through gauzy white sunshine, speckled silver with water. He could see all the Cohens standing on the shore. They were waiting for him. Seth was bouncing in place, waving both arms like a semaphore, while Kirsten shielded her eyes, watching Ryan and smiling.
“Okay, ready” Sandy asked. He gestured with both hands, the “All rise” motion Ryan had once seen the priest make when he went to Mass with Theresa. “Wait for the right wave and then stand up . . . Trust me kid. You can feel it coming. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, lean into the movement, and you can ride it all the way home.”
Ryan glanced behind him and saw the water swell. He took a deep breath and pushed himself up.
“Stop!” a voice cried sharply. “What's going on? I need some help here!”
TBC