Best Forgotten, Part 23
Well, this is closer to the end of the story, but not by nearly as much as I expected. Most of this update I wrote the first week of January when I was still on break. Since then . . . well, life has gotten demanding on several fronts. (I won't bore you with all that here.) But this weekend I realized that it's the end of the month already, so I tried to cobble together a new chapter. Instead I wound up writing in circles. To maintain the tradition of once-a-month updates, though, I'll post anyway.
You know the drill: nothing is mine except the preposterous plot, a couple original characters, and any errors. Also the story is wildly AU (see "preposterous plot".)
Best Forgotten aka "The Story That Apparently Never Ends", Part 23
“Lucy?” Kirsten’s fingers tightened, clutching Sandy’s phone the same desperate way that she still held Seth’s hand. “We’re on our way. Can you stay on the line and let us know what’s happening?”
Lucy nodded tersely and started to turn to Felix. Then, realizing that the Cohens couldn’t see her, she replied, “Yes. Of course, I will, as long as I can. Only, Mr. Cohen, hurry please.”
“You heard her Dad,” Seth declared. “Hurry!” Slamming his foot down, he ground an imaginary accelerator to the floor, trying to will the car through traffic. His face clouded, first fierce and then bleak, and he pounded his clenched fist against his thigh.
Charlie glanced at him, concerned. “Seth?” she asked quietly.
His mouth twisted. “I hate this,” he muttered. He stared out the window into the sun-the same sun, he knew, that even now was glinting off the pool house, dappling the waves at Newport beach, shining on the people strolling along its boardwalk. He and Ryan should be there, Seth thought. They should be weaving through the crowd, Ryan on his rusty bike, Seth on his skateboard, laughing and racing each other to the Crab Shack.
He shut his eyes. For a moment, he could almost feel the ocean breeze tickle his face, smell the salty, baked-butter scent of the beach, hear wheels clacking along the pier, see the crab logo on Ryan’s t-shirt.
It seemed so real. So normal. Then Seth opened his eyes again, and it all disappeared, along with his brief, film-thin euphoria.
He was still trapped in a car with his parents, too miles away from Ryan.
True, they knew for sure where to find him now. They even knew that Ryan somehow had made an ally, that Nurse Forde believed in him and was trying to help him too.
All that was great. But none of it would matter if they couldn’t reach Ryan in time.
Seth shook his head, swallowing. “Being stuck in here --” His voice caught in his throat and he struggled to untangle it before he continued. “I mean, I know we’re going as fast as we can, but it feels like we’re not getting any closer. I just wish I could . . . do something. Like get out and run or fly there or teleport or . . . something. I mean, Dad--what if we’re too late?”
“We won’t be,” Sandy said curtly. His eyes never left the road, but he shoved his sunglasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The rigid contours of his face relaxed and his voice seemed to soften as he added quietly, “Just hang in there, kid.”
“Yeah, but--” Seth blinked, abruptly interrupting himself. Kid. Dad never calls me that, he thought with surprise. So . . . he wasn’t talking to me. Dad's talking to Ryan. And he’s saying that we’ll get to him on time.
Somehow that realization comforted Seth It sounded like a promise, and his father, he told himself, had never broken a promise. Not to Seth, or to his mom, or anybody he loved.
He wouldn’t break a promise to Ryan either. Not even one that Ryan couldn’t hear.
Sinking back, Seth exhaled audibly. Next to him, Charlie smiled. She patted his still-clenched fist as Sandy sped up to pass a truck and two cars in front of them.
“See?” she whispered. “We’re definitely getting closer.”
Seth nodded and closed his eyes again. He licked his dry lips, vaguely aware how thirsty he was. We should have packed something cold to drink, he mused absently. Some Mountain Dew or O.J. or something.
The thought ricocheted through his mind. Seth flushed, hearing himself, ashamed of caring about his own comfort, almost afraid that he had said the selfish words aloud. In the next instant, though, he smiled to himself.
O.J., he repeated silently.
He was reminded, suddenly, of Ryan’s first real morning as an official-well, not yet legal-official, but parent-approved-member of the Cohen family.
Seth had gotten up early, eager to start the day. He loped downstairs, his bathrobe swinging loose on his lanky frame, ready to sprint across the patio. At the last moment, he detoured to the refrigerator. Flinging the door open, he stood, rummaging through the shelves, and swigging orange juice directly from the carafe. Ryan padded inside just as he paused, in time to see Seth wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, breathe a satisfied “Ahhh” and lift the juice to his lips again.
“Um-Seth?”
At the sound of Ryan’s voice, Seth stopped in mid gulp. He wheeled around, beaming. Ryan squinted in reply, his hair rumpled, his face still sleep-flushed. Personally, Seth didn’t feel tired at all, but he understood a little emotional jetlag. After all, Ryan’s mom had just left him-again-the day before. Then Kirsten had announced that he would stay with them, and Seth had launched an instant, day-long celebration. After a sailing trip, lunch on the pier, afternoon pool time, a cook-out on the patio and a movie with the ‘rents later, he and Ryan had stayed up until almost three. They had played video games, eaten contraband junk food Seth had stashed in his room, and talked. Not about the stupid Newpsie fund-raiser or Dawn leaving again, or even about Kirsten’s decision to let Ryan stay. They had just . . . talked. Like friends.
Or, okay, maybe Ryan mainly listened while he had done most of the talking, but still . . . It had been, Seth thought, a seriously awesome night.
The first for the brand, shiny-new Cohen-plus-one family.
“Hey,” Seth caroled happily. He grinned at Ryan, waving the bagel he held in greeting. “You’re up! Excellent! Ready for your first official day as a Cohen-in-training? I’ve got to warn you, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.”
Ryan frowned. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the half-empty pitcher and Seth followed his gaze quizzically.
“Oh--Want some?” he offered, holding out the half-empty decanter. “An orange juice toast to your new Orange County home?”
Ryan’s head moved a scant half inch from side to side. “You drank from that, Seth.”
“I-what?” Seth examined the pulp-smudged lip of the pitcher. “Oh yeah. How do you like that. I guess I did-”
As he spoke, Sandy strolled into the kitchen one step behind his wife, his arm wrapped around her waist. “Aw, look at that, sweetheart,” he observed warmly. “Our kids are already up. And you thought they’d sleep past noon today.”
Kirsten nodded, smiling at Ryan, who had ducked his head shyly at the words “our kids.” Then she turned her attention to her son. “Did what, Seth?” she asked.
“I-say what now, Mom?”
“Your father interrupted you when we walked in. You were telling Ryan that you did something. What did you do?”
His cheeks turning an embarrassed red, Seth stashed the container back into the refrigerator. He closed the door hastily. “Oh that. Nothing important,” he claimed, tearing off a piece of onion bagel. “Just, um, you know. I kinda drank most of the orange juice.”
“Straight from the pitcher,” Ryan added. He studied the counter. His voice sounded innocent, but his downcast eyes flickered impishly.
Seth choked on the bite of bagel he’d just swallowed. “Dude!” he protested. “That’s just-I-okay, I did. But still.”
“Seth Ezekiel Cohen!” Kirsten exclaimed. She snatched the carafe from the refrigerator and put it in the sink. “I’ve spoken to you about that a hundred times. It’s rude and inconsiderate and unsanitary!”
A tiny smile tugged the corners of Ryan’s mouth at the sound of Seth’s middle name, and Sandy clapped his shoulder. “It’s for his great-grandfather,” he whispered, shaking his head ruefully. “But I know-Ezekiel?”
Seth glowered at them both before he managed to look contrite again. “Yeah, but Mom, I mean, it doesn’t really matter. You drink cranberry or blueberry or some weird health juice concoction and Dad drinks apple, so it’s not like I’m contaminating anybody else’s beverage of choice.”
Kirsten looked pointedly from Seth to Ryan. “Really?” she demanded. “Ryan, what kind of juice do you prefer?”
The question confused Ryan. So far in the Cohen home, he had eaten and drunk whatever the family offered him. As for his selections back in Chino-besides beer and Jack Daniels, there had been tap water, instant coffee, and sometimes Kool-Aid over-diluted frozen orange juice.
He had never been offered a choice of flavor before.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Orange, I guess.”
Seth moaned. “Dude,” he said. “You couldn’t have picked pineapple?” He slumped against the counter and Sandy patted his shoulder with feigned sympathy.
“Don’t worry, son,” he grinned. “I’m sure after a little practice you’ll master the art of drinking from a glass. And now you’ve learned the first rule of having a sibling: you have to share.”
“I don’t trust him,” Kirsten declared. Reaching into the cabinet, she pulled down another carafe, its rim edged with green instead of yellow. “This one,” she said firmly, “is yours, Ryan. I’m sure I can trust you to drink from a glass. Just wait. I’ll make you some fresh juice.”
Ryan’s head jerked up. “Mrs. Cohen, wait. You don’t have to--”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Sandy assured him. “It’s safe.”
“True,” Seth added. “Juice is one of the few edible things Mom can prepare. Although I’d still watch out for seeds.”
“No, I meant I could--” Ryan stopped abruptly. He had expected to see Kirsten reach for a can in the freezer, the way Dawn did on the rare occasions when she made juice for a morning screwdriver. Instead Kirsten scooped half a dozen oranges from a bowl on the counter and pulled a machine he had never seen before out of the cabinet.
“Do you like pulp in your juice or not, Ryan?” she asked, as she sliced the oranges in half. “I can make it either way.”
Ryan blinked, as if trying to translate the question. “I-with pulp, I guess,” he said at last. “Thank you, Mrs. Cohen.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “I think we’re past that now. Why don’t you just call me Kirsten?”
In the Cohen car, recalling the scene, Seth’s smile gradually sobered. He remembered the dazed look on Ryan’s face, the slow, solemn way he repeated Kirsten’s name when he thanked her again, how he closely he watched her work, his eyes following every movement, as though marveling that she would care what he wanted, that she would take the time and effort to see that he got it. To make sure that he was happy.
It had been such a simple, everyday thing-just his mom making juice, asking Ryan to use her first name-but it somehow, Seth realized, it meant so much more than he’d realized at the time.
Impulsively, gratefully, he squeezed his mother’s hand. Kirsten turned around, looking at him with surprise. “Just because,” Seth explained, shrugging. “And Dad, by the way, nice lane change back there. But could you go just a little faster maybe?”
On her end of the line, Lucy barely heard the Cohens’ conversation. Her expression abstracted, she clipped the phone to her tunic and stood for a moment, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. Then she wheeled around. “Felix,” she said, looking up at the orderly and taking his hand again. “I am so sorry to involve you in all this. I know it is not your problem and I will not blame you if you must refuse. But I do not think I can manage alone. I must stall this operation, long enough at least for Ryan’s family to get here. Please, is there any way you can help?”
Her gaze, at once pleading and apologetic, seared Felix’s face. He rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed gravely. “There’s the delivery entrance,” he mused. “I should be able to slip you in there. But once we’re inside--”
Seth bolted upright, listening. From Lucy’s phone came the rushed, eager sound of his voice. “Okay, so I have an idea. What if you pulled a fire alarm?” he suggested. “That always stops everything when it happens at school. Or, wait, how about this? We could call in a bomb threat to the clinic? They’d have to evacuate the building, right? Or at least put everything on hold inside while they checked it out?”
Lucy dipped her chin close to her phone. She could hear Seth’s parents demurring, even as she told him, “We cannot do those things. They might jeopardize the care of the other patients.” Still, her eyes narrowed speculatively as she considered the idea. “Perhaps we do not need anything so drastic,” she said. “Felix, do you know where the electrical control system for the Annex is?”
“You’re thinking that we cut the power? But the back-up generator would just kick in right away, wouldn’t it?”
Lucy nodded. “Yes,” she conceded. She looked past Felix, her eyes boring through the thick walls of the clinic almost as if she could see inside. “But remember the blackout we had during that storm last month? Even though the power came back on almost at once, it took several minutes for the clinic’s computers to reset completely. Nurse Cree was afraid that we would lose some data. We did not, but I do not believe the problem was ever resolved. And Dr. Keller must rely on computer imaging for this surgery. If he has any doubt that the program is accurate, I am sure he will not proceed until he has run the diagnostic. It will not take long, but perhaps it will give us enough time to--”
Abruptly, her jaw tightened and she broke off
“To what?” Seth demanded. “A computer glitch sounds great. So what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Hush!” Lucy ordered tensely. Pulling Felix with her, she sank into the shadow of an alcove and stared at the side exit of the Annex. Puzzled, Felix followed her gaze. A tall man had just emerged. He was slim, his shoulders ramrod-straight, and even from a distance he exuded an imperious, impatient attitude. When he paused to light a cigarette, he stopped directly outside the door, in the center of the sidewalk, where he could command the entire space.
“Lucy?” Felix prompted softly.
“That man,” she whispered. “I have seen him before, Felix.”
Her voice was too hushed to carry into her phone. On the other end of the line, the Cohens strained to hear, but no sound at all reached them from Lucy’s side. All they could hear was the vibration of the engine, the beat of Seth’s feet bouncing against the floor and the faint rush of traffic, seeping through the windows from the highway outside. Even those noises seemed distorted and far-away, muffled beneath a pulsing blood-rush of fear.
It gripped all the Cohens at the same time.
Why had Lucy stopped speaking so suddenly?
Kirsten caught her breath. She gripped the phone tighter, studying its display as if an answer to the question might be hidden just inside. Next to her, Sandy inhaled sharply. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, while in the back seat Seth’s knees jittered frantically and his face reddened, almost as if the silence was strangling him. Kirsten glanced back at her son. Her own throat constricted, and she squeezed his hand gently, both in comfort and as a warning.
For whatever reason, her gesture reminded him, Lucy had halted the conversation. Seth couldn’t risk speaking. None of them could, not until she let them know it was safe.
In the clinic parking lot, Lucy licked her dry lips. Then her chin lifted, suddenly resolute. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed her wrinkled tunic. “Wait for me,” she mouthed to Felix. Slipping past him she stepped out of the alcove and hurried down the path, her head downcast. At the same time, she lifted her phone to her ear and, as if talking to an old friend, caroled loud enough for the man by the exit to hear, “I cannot wait to tell you all the details, but I am already at the clinic and I am late for my shift. I will call you back on my break. Bye.”
Instead of hitting the end button, though, Lucy simply pocketed the phone, leaving the connection live. She raised her head, her smile evaporating into reproach as she neared the man. “Sir!” she called, frowning as if she had just seen him and waving her hand to dispel the smoke from his cigarette. “Sir, I am sorry, but you will have to put out that cigarette. Smoking is not allowed in this area.”
The man stared down Lucy, his gaze dismissive. “That’s ridiculous. I’m outside the building.”
Lucy inclined her head with apparent apology. “Yes, I know” she conceded. “But I am afraid it is still a rule. You must be at least one hundred feet from the clinic. Perhaps if you would like to step over there by the trees? I could show you--”
“Don’t bother,” the man snapped. His voice, flinty and impatient, sliced through the air.
In the Cohen car, Kirsten’s eyes widened just as Sandy’s head jerked around and Seth slammed his feet down flat. Even Charlie sat up straight.
“Mom!” Seth hissed. “Did you hear him? That man-it’s Patrick Grady!”
Kirsten nodded, her eyes glazed, her face ashen. For an instant, she seemed about to speak. Then she shook her head. Cupping her fingers over her lips, she silenced herself as well as Seth, and the Cohens, tense and mute, resumed listening.
Tossing his cigarette to the ground, Grady ground it out with his heel and turned, but before he could step back inside the clinic Lucy moved, adroitly blocking his way. She stooped to pick up the stub, dropping it into the trash even as she placed a sympathetic hand on Grady’s arm.
“I do understand,” she claimed. Smiling companionably, she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “I only recently quit smoking myself, and I know how hard I must fight the urge to start again. It is especially strong when I am stressed. Some of our cases are so tragic, and I have to--Oh! I am so sorry! I just realized. You came from this building? The surgical wing? Does that mean-are you waiting for news about someone? I am just on my way inside. If you would tell me the patient’s name, I would be glad to check for you--?”
“That’s not necessary,” Grady said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some calls to make.”
Lucy turned pale at his tone and the finality of his words. “I hope-you have not had bad news?” she asked. Despite her attempt to sound professional, her breath caught as she spoke.
The Cohens heard it waver, heard the flinty pitch of Grady’s voice, so much like Caleb’s, and waited, breathless, for his reply.
“There’s no news at all,” Grady said curtly. He shrugged off Lucy’s hand and glanced at his watch, his lips thinning with irritation. “The operation hasn’t even started yet. They keep pushing the damn thing back.”
“Oh.” Lucy exhaled. “Is there a problem?”
Grady shrugged. “Something about the boy getting agitated when they were going to administer the anesthesia. I don’t understand why that should be an issue. All they have to do is put him under. Problem solved.”
All they have to do is put him under? Lucy thought, horrified. What kind of unfeeling monster thinks this way? With an effort, she swallowed her rage and contempt, mustering a dispassionate tone instead. “But surely it will only be a short delay,” she prompted.
“It’s supposed to be. But damned if I understand what they’re doing in there. All I know is that I have to change all our plans. So if you don’t mind--”
“Oh! No of course,” Lucy murmured, stepping out of Grady’s way. “I hope,” she added, her voice tightening despite herself, “that . . . everything works out as it should.”
Grady didn’t seem to notice the change in her tone. She watched him stride past, waiting until the clinic door closed behind him before she moved. Then, pulling her phone out again, she rushed back to Felix.
“It has been postponed again!” she gasped, simultaneously speaking to him and to the Cohens. “Did you hear? The operation has been delayed! If you can get me back in the clinic, Felix--”
Kirsten’s voice, edged with panic, cut her off, “Nurse Forde, wait! Grady said Ryan is agitated. What does that mean?” she demanded. “Is he in pain? Is he having some kind of convulsion? What is it?”
Lucy pictured Ryan the way she had seen him last, his body seizing and thrashing. At the same time she heard his voice, weak but determined, pleading with her.
"Lucy . . . give me something-make me sick. Please. Won’t operate if I’m sick . . .”
“No. I think--” she said slowly, “I hope-it is a good thing. I think, even if he is not fully conscious, Ryan’s agitation means that he is trying to resist the operation.”
“It does,” Sandy declared flatly. “It means he’s fighting.” Once again, his voice took on that distant tone. The sound of a tender, admiring smile shimmered just below its surface “Good for you, kid,” he murmured. “Keep it up, okay? Just a little bit longer--”
With that, he sped up, swerving around two cars, peeling over to the exit ramp, and making a sharp, squealing right-hand turn onto the road that led back to the Santa Clara Clinic.
TBC
You know the drill: nothing is mine except the preposterous plot, a couple original characters, and any errors. Also the story is wildly AU (see "preposterous plot".)
Best Forgotten aka "The Story That Apparently Never Ends", Part 23
“Lucy?” Kirsten’s fingers tightened, clutching Sandy’s phone the same desperate way that she still held Seth’s hand. “We’re on our way. Can you stay on the line and let us know what’s happening?”
Lucy nodded tersely and started to turn to Felix. Then, realizing that the Cohens couldn’t see her, she replied, “Yes. Of course, I will, as long as I can. Only, Mr. Cohen, hurry please.”
“You heard her Dad,” Seth declared. “Hurry!” Slamming his foot down, he ground an imaginary accelerator to the floor, trying to will the car through traffic. His face clouded, first fierce and then bleak, and he pounded his clenched fist against his thigh.
Charlie glanced at him, concerned. “Seth?” she asked quietly.
His mouth twisted. “I hate this,” he muttered. He stared out the window into the sun-the same sun, he knew, that even now was glinting off the pool house, dappling the waves at Newport beach, shining on the people strolling along its boardwalk. He and Ryan should be there, Seth thought. They should be weaving through the crowd, Ryan on his rusty bike, Seth on his skateboard, laughing and racing each other to the Crab Shack.
He shut his eyes. For a moment, he could almost feel the ocean breeze tickle his face, smell the salty, baked-butter scent of the beach, hear wheels clacking along the pier, see the crab logo on Ryan’s t-shirt.
It seemed so real. So normal. Then Seth opened his eyes again, and it all disappeared, along with his brief, film-thin euphoria.
He was still trapped in a car with his parents, too miles away from Ryan.
True, they knew for sure where to find him now. They even knew that Ryan somehow had made an ally, that Nurse Forde believed in him and was trying to help him too.
All that was great. But none of it would matter if they couldn’t reach Ryan in time.
Seth shook his head, swallowing. “Being stuck in here --” His voice caught in his throat and he struggled to untangle it before he continued. “I mean, I know we’re going as fast as we can, but it feels like we’re not getting any closer. I just wish I could . . . do something. Like get out and run or fly there or teleport or . . . something. I mean, Dad--what if we’re too late?”
“We won’t be,” Sandy said curtly. His eyes never left the road, but he shoved his sunglasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The rigid contours of his face relaxed and his voice seemed to soften as he added quietly, “Just hang in there, kid.”
“Yeah, but--” Seth blinked, abruptly interrupting himself. Kid. Dad never calls me that, he thought with surprise. So . . . he wasn’t talking to me. Dad's talking to Ryan. And he’s saying that we’ll get to him on time.
Somehow that realization comforted Seth It sounded like a promise, and his father, he told himself, had never broken a promise. Not to Seth, or to his mom, or anybody he loved.
He wouldn’t break a promise to Ryan either. Not even one that Ryan couldn’t hear.
Sinking back, Seth exhaled audibly. Next to him, Charlie smiled. She patted his still-clenched fist as Sandy sped up to pass a truck and two cars in front of them.
“See?” she whispered. “We’re definitely getting closer.”
Seth nodded and closed his eyes again. He licked his dry lips, vaguely aware how thirsty he was. We should have packed something cold to drink, he mused absently. Some Mountain Dew or O.J. or something.
The thought ricocheted through his mind. Seth flushed, hearing himself, ashamed of caring about his own comfort, almost afraid that he had said the selfish words aloud. In the next instant, though, he smiled to himself.
O.J., he repeated silently.
He was reminded, suddenly, of Ryan’s first real morning as an official-well, not yet legal-official, but parent-approved-member of the Cohen family.
Seth had gotten up early, eager to start the day. He loped downstairs, his bathrobe swinging loose on his lanky frame, ready to sprint across the patio. At the last moment, he detoured to the refrigerator. Flinging the door open, he stood, rummaging through the shelves, and swigging orange juice directly from the carafe. Ryan padded inside just as he paused, in time to see Seth wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, breathe a satisfied “Ahhh” and lift the juice to his lips again.
“Um-Seth?”
At the sound of Ryan’s voice, Seth stopped in mid gulp. He wheeled around, beaming. Ryan squinted in reply, his hair rumpled, his face still sleep-flushed. Personally, Seth didn’t feel tired at all, but he understood a little emotional jetlag. After all, Ryan’s mom had just left him-again-the day before. Then Kirsten had announced that he would stay with them, and Seth had launched an instant, day-long celebration. After a sailing trip, lunch on the pier, afternoon pool time, a cook-out on the patio and a movie with the ‘rents later, he and Ryan had stayed up until almost three. They had played video games, eaten contraband junk food Seth had stashed in his room, and talked. Not about the stupid Newpsie fund-raiser or Dawn leaving again, or even about Kirsten’s decision to let Ryan stay. They had just . . . talked. Like friends.
Or, okay, maybe Ryan mainly listened while he had done most of the talking, but still . . . It had been, Seth thought, a seriously awesome night.
The first for the brand, shiny-new Cohen-plus-one family.
“Hey,” Seth caroled happily. He grinned at Ryan, waving the bagel he held in greeting. “You’re up! Excellent! Ready for your first official day as a Cohen-in-training? I’ve got to warn you, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.”
Ryan frowned. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the half-empty pitcher and Seth followed his gaze quizzically.
“Oh--Want some?” he offered, holding out the half-empty decanter. “An orange juice toast to your new Orange County home?”
Ryan’s head moved a scant half inch from side to side. “You drank from that, Seth.”
“I-what?” Seth examined the pulp-smudged lip of the pitcher. “Oh yeah. How do you like that. I guess I did-”
As he spoke, Sandy strolled into the kitchen one step behind his wife, his arm wrapped around her waist. “Aw, look at that, sweetheart,” he observed warmly. “Our kids are already up. And you thought they’d sleep past noon today.”
Kirsten nodded, smiling at Ryan, who had ducked his head shyly at the words “our kids.” Then she turned her attention to her son. “Did what, Seth?” she asked.
“I-say what now, Mom?”
“Your father interrupted you when we walked in. You were telling Ryan that you did something. What did you do?”
His cheeks turning an embarrassed red, Seth stashed the container back into the refrigerator. He closed the door hastily. “Oh that. Nothing important,” he claimed, tearing off a piece of onion bagel. “Just, um, you know. I kinda drank most of the orange juice.”
“Straight from the pitcher,” Ryan added. He studied the counter. His voice sounded innocent, but his downcast eyes flickered impishly.
Seth choked on the bite of bagel he’d just swallowed. “Dude!” he protested. “That’s just-I-okay, I did. But still.”
“Seth Ezekiel Cohen!” Kirsten exclaimed. She snatched the carafe from the refrigerator and put it in the sink. “I’ve spoken to you about that a hundred times. It’s rude and inconsiderate and unsanitary!”
A tiny smile tugged the corners of Ryan’s mouth at the sound of Seth’s middle name, and Sandy clapped his shoulder. “It’s for his great-grandfather,” he whispered, shaking his head ruefully. “But I know-Ezekiel?”
Seth glowered at them both before he managed to look contrite again. “Yeah, but Mom, I mean, it doesn’t really matter. You drink cranberry or blueberry or some weird health juice concoction and Dad drinks apple, so it’s not like I’m contaminating anybody else’s beverage of choice.”
Kirsten looked pointedly from Seth to Ryan. “Really?” she demanded. “Ryan, what kind of juice do you prefer?”
The question confused Ryan. So far in the Cohen home, he had eaten and drunk whatever the family offered him. As for his selections back in Chino-besides beer and Jack Daniels, there had been tap water, instant coffee, and sometimes Kool-Aid over-diluted frozen orange juice.
He had never been offered a choice of flavor before.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Orange, I guess.”
Seth moaned. “Dude,” he said. “You couldn’t have picked pineapple?” He slumped against the counter and Sandy patted his shoulder with feigned sympathy.
“Don’t worry, son,” he grinned. “I’m sure after a little practice you’ll master the art of drinking from a glass. And now you’ve learned the first rule of having a sibling: you have to share.”
“I don’t trust him,” Kirsten declared. Reaching into the cabinet, she pulled down another carafe, its rim edged with green instead of yellow. “This one,” she said firmly, “is yours, Ryan. I’m sure I can trust you to drink from a glass. Just wait. I’ll make you some fresh juice.”
Ryan’s head jerked up. “Mrs. Cohen, wait. You don’t have to--”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Sandy assured him. “It’s safe.”
“True,” Seth added. “Juice is one of the few edible things Mom can prepare. Although I’d still watch out for seeds.”
“No, I meant I could--” Ryan stopped abruptly. He had expected to see Kirsten reach for a can in the freezer, the way Dawn did on the rare occasions when she made juice for a morning screwdriver. Instead Kirsten scooped half a dozen oranges from a bowl on the counter and pulled a machine he had never seen before out of the cabinet.
“Do you like pulp in your juice or not, Ryan?” she asked, as she sliced the oranges in half. “I can make it either way.”
Ryan blinked, as if trying to translate the question. “I-with pulp, I guess,” he said at last. “Thank you, Mrs. Cohen.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “I think we’re past that now. Why don’t you just call me Kirsten?”
In the Cohen car, recalling the scene, Seth’s smile gradually sobered. He remembered the dazed look on Ryan’s face, the slow, solemn way he repeated Kirsten’s name when he thanked her again, how he closely he watched her work, his eyes following every movement, as though marveling that she would care what he wanted, that she would take the time and effort to see that he got it. To make sure that he was happy.
It had been such a simple, everyday thing-just his mom making juice, asking Ryan to use her first name-but it somehow, Seth realized, it meant so much more than he’d realized at the time.
Impulsively, gratefully, he squeezed his mother’s hand. Kirsten turned around, looking at him with surprise. “Just because,” Seth explained, shrugging. “And Dad, by the way, nice lane change back there. But could you go just a little faster maybe?”
On her end of the line, Lucy barely heard the Cohens’ conversation. Her expression abstracted, she clipped the phone to her tunic and stood for a moment, her palms pressed together as if in prayer. Then she wheeled around. “Felix,” she said, looking up at the orderly and taking his hand again. “I am so sorry to involve you in all this. I know it is not your problem and I will not blame you if you must refuse. But I do not think I can manage alone. I must stall this operation, long enough at least for Ryan’s family to get here. Please, is there any way you can help?”
Her gaze, at once pleading and apologetic, seared Felix’s face. He rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed gravely. “There’s the delivery entrance,” he mused. “I should be able to slip you in there. But once we’re inside--”
Seth bolted upright, listening. From Lucy’s phone came the rushed, eager sound of his voice. “Okay, so I have an idea. What if you pulled a fire alarm?” he suggested. “That always stops everything when it happens at school. Or, wait, how about this? We could call in a bomb threat to the clinic? They’d have to evacuate the building, right? Or at least put everything on hold inside while they checked it out?”
Lucy dipped her chin close to her phone. She could hear Seth’s parents demurring, even as she told him, “We cannot do those things. They might jeopardize the care of the other patients.” Still, her eyes narrowed speculatively as she considered the idea. “Perhaps we do not need anything so drastic,” she said. “Felix, do you know where the electrical control system for the Annex is?”
“You’re thinking that we cut the power? But the back-up generator would just kick in right away, wouldn’t it?”
Lucy nodded. “Yes,” she conceded. She looked past Felix, her eyes boring through the thick walls of the clinic almost as if she could see inside. “But remember the blackout we had during that storm last month? Even though the power came back on almost at once, it took several minutes for the clinic’s computers to reset completely. Nurse Cree was afraid that we would lose some data. We did not, but I do not believe the problem was ever resolved. And Dr. Keller must rely on computer imaging for this surgery. If he has any doubt that the program is accurate, I am sure he will not proceed until he has run the diagnostic. It will not take long, but perhaps it will give us enough time to--”
Abruptly, her jaw tightened and she broke off
“To what?” Seth demanded. “A computer glitch sounds great. So what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Hush!” Lucy ordered tensely. Pulling Felix with her, she sank into the shadow of an alcove and stared at the side exit of the Annex. Puzzled, Felix followed her gaze. A tall man had just emerged. He was slim, his shoulders ramrod-straight, and even from a distance he exuded an imperious, impatient attitude. When he paused to light a cigarette, he stopped directly outside the door, in the center of the sidewalk, where he could command the entire space.
“Lucy?” Felix prompted softly.
“That man,” she whispered. “I have seen him before, Felix.”
Her voice was too hushed to carry into her phone. On the other end of the line, the Cohens strained to hear, but no sound at all reached them from Lucy’s side. All they could hear was the vibration of the engine, the beat of Seth’s feet bouncing against the floor and the faint rush of traffic, seeping through the windows from the highway outside. Even those noises seemed distorted and far-away, muffled beneath a pulsing blood-rush of fear.
It gripped all the Cohens at the same time.
Why had Lucy stopped speaking so suddenly?
Kirsten caught her breath. She gripped the phone tighter, studying its display as if an answer to the question might be hidden just inside. Next to her, Sandy inhaled sharply. His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, while in the back seat Seth’s knees jittered frantically and his face reddened, almost as if the silence was strangling him. Kirsten glanced back at her son. Her own throat constricted, and she squeezed his hand gently, both in comfort and as a warning.
For whatever reason, her gesture reminded him, Lucy had halted the conversation. Seth couldn’t risk speaking. None of them could, not until she let them know it was safe.
In the clinic parking lot, Lucy licked her dry lips. Then her chin lifted, suddenly resolute. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed her wrinkled tunic. “Wait for me,” she mouthed to Felix. Slipping past him she stepped out of the alcove and hurried down the path, her head downcast. At the same time, she lifted her phone to her ear and, as if talking to an old friend, caroled loud enough for the man by the exit to hear, “I cannot wait to tell you all the details, but I am already at the clinic and I am late for my shift. I will call you back on my break. Bye.”
Instead of hitting the end button, though, Lucy simply pocketed the phone, leaving the connection live. She raised her head, her smile evaporating into reproach as she neared the man. “Sir!” she called, frowning as if she had just seen him and waving her hand to dispel the smoke from his cigarette. “Sir, I am sorry, but you will have to put out that cigarette. Smoking is not allowed in this area.”
The man stared down Lucy, his gaze dismissive. “That’s ridiculous. I’m outside the building.”
Lucy inclined her head with apparent apology. “Yes, I know” she conceded. “But I am afraid it is still a rule. You must be at least one hundred feet from the clinic. Perhaps if you would like to step over there by the trees? I could show you--”
“Don’t bother,” the man snapped. His voice, flinty and impatient, sliced through the air.
In the Cohen car, Kirsten’s eyes widened just as Sandy’s head jerked around and Seth slammed his feet down flat. Even Charlie sat up straight.
“Mom!” Seth hissed. “Did you hear him? That man-it’s Patrick Grady!”
Kirsten nodded, her eyes glazed, her face ashen. For an instant, she seemed about to speak. Then she shook her head. Cupping her fingers over her lips, she silenced herself as well as Seth, and the Cohens, tense and mute, resumed listening.
Tossing his cigarette to the ground, Grady ground it out with his heel and turned, but before he could step back inside the clinic Lucy moved, adroitly blocking his way. She stooped to pick up the stub, dropping it into the trash even as she placed a sympathetic hand on Grady’s arm.
“I do understand,” she claimed. Smiling companionably, she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “I only recently quit smoking myself, and I know how hard I must fight the urge to start again. It is especially strong when I am stressed. Some of our cases are so tragic, and I have to--Oh! I am so sorry! I just realized. You came from this building? The surgical wing? Does that mean-are you waiting for news about someone? I am just on my way inside. If you would tell me the patient’s name, I would be glad to check for you--?”
“That’s not necessary,” Grady said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some calls to make.”
Lucy turned pale at his tone and the finality of his words. “I hope-you have not had bad news?” she asked. Despite her attempt to sound professional, her breath caught as she spoke.
The Cohens heard it waver, heard the flinty pitch of Grady’s voice, so much like Caleb’s, and waited, breathless, for his reply.
“There’s no news at all,” Grady said curtly. He shrugged off Lucy’s hand and glanced at his watch, his lips thinning with irritation. “The operation hasn’t even started yet. They keep pushing the damn thing back.”
“Oh.” Lucy exhaled. “Is there a problem?”
Grady shrugged. “Something about the boy getting agitated when they were going to administer the anesthesia. I don’t understand why that should be an issue. All they have to do is put him under. Problem solved.”
All they have to do is put him under? Lucy thought, horrified. What kind of unfeeling monster thinks this way? With an effort, she swallowed her rage and contempt, mustering a dispassionate tone instead. “But surely it will only be a short delay,” she prompted.
“It’s supposed to be. But damned if I understand what they’re doing in there. All I know is that I have to change all our plans. So if you don’t mind--”
“Oh! No of course,” Lucy murmured, stepping out of Grady’s way. “I hope,” she added, her voice tightening despite herself, “that . . . everything works out as it should.”
Grady didn’t seem to notice the change in her tone. She watched him stride past, waiting until the clinic door closed behind him before she moved. Then, pulling her phone out again, she rushed back to Felix.
“It has been postponed again!” she gasped, simultaneously speaking to him and to the Cohens. “Did you hear? The operation has been delayed! If you can get me back in the clinic, Felix--”
Kirsten’s voice, edged with panic, cut her off, “Nurse Forde, wait! Grady said Ryan is agitated. What does that mean?” she demanded. “Is he in pain? Is he having some kind of convulsion? What is it?”
Lucy pictured Ryan the way she had seen him last, his body seizing and thrashing. At the same time she heard his voice, weak but determined, pleading with her.
"Lucy . . . give me something-make me sick. Please. Won’t operate if I’m sick . . .”
“No. I think--” she said slowly, “I hope-it is a good thing. I think, even if he is not fully conscious, Ryan’s agitation means that he is trying to resist the operation.”
“It does,” Sandy declared flatly. “It means he’s fighting.” Once again, his voice took on that distant tone. The sound of a tender, admiring smile shimmered just below its surface “Good for you, kid,” he murmured. “Keep it up, okay? Just a little bit longer--”
With that, he sped up, swerving around two cars, peeling over to the exit ramp, and making a sharp, squealing right-hand turn onto the road that led back to the Santa Clara Clinic.
TBC