Best Forgotten, Part 24

[chazper]

I won't waste your time with apologies, just a warning that my muse if officially off the payroll. This was supposed to be the last chapter, but she refused to report to work. But here's this month's update anyway.

Disclaimer: Yes, Josh, still yours, even though I doubt that you'd recognize the characters anymore.

Best Forgotten, Part 24

“Lucy?”

Lucy’s attention had been riveted to her phone, but Felix’s voice ripped it away from the distant noise of the Cohens’s car speeding around a turn. Instantly alert, she wheeled to face him.

“I’m due back on duty now,” Felix told her. “As soon as I report in, I’ll meet you at the service entrance and let you in. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Thank you, Felix.” A shadow crossed her face and her eyes darkened, conflicted. She placed one hand on Felix’s arm. “I know we must hurry, only could you-do you think you could stop first to check on Ryan? If he is aware at all of what is happening, he must believe that I have deserted him. And the Cohens! Perhaps you could let him know . . .?”

She didn’t finish but Felix nodded his understanding. “If I can, I’ll tell him his family is coming,” he promised. “But we’d better get moving now.”

Lucy smiled, reassured, and clasped Felix’s hand between both of her own. She pressed it once, swiftly and gratefully. Then, without another word, she released him, straightened her shoulders purposefully, and turned to go.

“Lucy, wait,” Felix called. “Dr. Keller notified security about you. Maybe you should take that off.” He gestured to the pocket of her pale green uniform as she spun back around.

Confused, Lucy frowned and glanced down at herself. Her ID tag winked up at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, you are right. It might be best if I did not announce who I am.” Instead of removing the pin, she ripped off her entire tunic, her lips crimping as she stuffed it into a nearby trashcan. “I think I will not need that again,” she said, smoothing down the flowered t-shirt that she wore underneath. “Go ahead, Felix. Hurry. I will be waiting for you.”

With a wave of farewell, Lucy sped toward the clinic’s service entrance. She lifted her phone again as she ran. The area appeared deserted but she instinctively kept her tone low anyway. “Mrs. Cohen--” she began.

“Kirsten. Please, call me Kirsten,” Kirsten injected. She sounded breathless, her words fraying into thin threads. “What’s going on? You were talking to someone, but we couldn’t hear--”

Even though she spoke swiftly, Lucy’s smile warmed her reply. “Thank you, Kirsten. And I am Lucy. I was speaking to Felix, the orderly who is helping us. He is going to get me back into the clinic through a delivery entrance. But I am not permitted to be inside, so once I am there, I must call no attention to myself.”

“Oh.” Kirsten bit her lip, immediately comprehending. “Then the phone--?”

“I will keep it on so that perhaps you will hear enough to know what is happening,” Lucy assured her. “But I can not speak to you directly, and I am going to mute the volume so you will not be able to speak to me either. Not until we . . . not until it is safe.”

Lucy’s words hung in the air like rain-thick clouds. Kirsten sensed the doubt inside them. Not until we have stopped the operation. If we can stop it. Not until Ryan is safe. If we can save him. Automatically she swayed toward Sandy. He glanced over, his eyes anxious, and took one hand off the wheel long enough to rub her shoulder. Kirsten’s lips trembled at his touch almost, but not quite, managing a grateful smile. She sat up straighter and spoke into the phone again.

“I understand, Lucy,” she said thickly. “But I need to tell you-that man you were talking to before? The one who told you the operation had been delayed? We could hear his voice. His name is Patrick Grady.”

“You know him, Kirsten?”

“He works for my father. Try to stay clear of him, Lucy. He’s a dangerous man. And so--” Kirsten swallowed, choking on the truth, but she forced herself to finish. “So is my father,” she concluded painfully.

Lucy shuddered at the anguish in her voice, heard it echo in her own response. “I know,” she admitted. “Kirsten, I am sorry, but I am at the service door. We should stop talking now. Drive safely. I will see you, all of you I hope, very, very soon.”

“Yes,” Kirsten repeated. “Soon.” Her expression dazed, nearly numb, she lowered her arm, letting the silent phone slip out of her grasp.

Seth stared at his mother’s lap, as if trying to will the device lying there back to life. “So that’s it?” he demanded. “We’re just supposed to sit back and listen? But what if we have to talk to Lucy? What if we have an idea or we need to warn her about something? We might be able to help! Now all we can do is--”

“Get to the clinic as fast as we can,” Sandy injected sharply. “And we’re doing that, Seth. Charlie? How far?” He shot a probing glance backwards, his gaze flitting from the road to the backseat as Charlie bent over her computer to study the directions.

She calculated swiftly, her eyes narrowed with concentration. “About sixteen miles,” she reported. “So maybe . . . twenty-five minutes on this road? Less if traffic lets up.”

Sandy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but he sped up, veering sharp left to pass the lumbering truck in front of them and swinging back into their own lane just in time to avoid an oncoming car.

Kirsten gasped, and the sudden force of the move sent Seth rocking sideways, throwing him against the door. His skin tingled with alternating currents of hope and fear. He stared out the window, his feet jittering again, his curls matted flat against the glass. The dusty world outside looked odd, ordinary and askew at the same time. It reminded Seth of the alien world he had glimpsed when Luke’s water polo friends had dangled him upside down on the beach at Holly’s party. A gritty, acrid taste filled his mouth at the memory. He could almost feel the blood rush to his head again, the way his muscles tensed, bracing for pain and humiliation, how his fingertips swept the sand, futilely searching for something he could hold onto.

An awful realization thundered through Seth at the memory. Maybe, he surmised grimly, that’s kind of how Ryan feels now-powerless and scared and deserted. Only like, ten thousand times worse.

His own helpless panic had just lasted only a couple minutes. Then, out of nowhere, he had heard Ryan’s voice, cool and assertive, ordering, “Put him down.” And just like that, the guys had. Turning their attention to Ryan-targeting him instead-they had dropped Seth. He had landed hard and halfway stunned, his cheek mashed into the sand, grit coating his lips, his ankles throbbing and his right eye stinging. In that instant on the beach, though, Seth was barely aware of any pain. What he had felt most-even more than relief when Luke's friends had released him-was awe and a deep, dazed gratitude.

For the first time somebody had his back.

He didn’t have to face his tormentors alone.

And you just did it, Ryan. You didn’t even have to get involved, Seth thought. His cheeks reddened with remembered shame. I mean, you barely knew me, and I’d acted like an ass, accusing you of coming on to Summer, and broadcasting the fact that you were from Chino to all those junior-league Newspsie snobs. But you helped me anyway. And I swear, dude, we’re going to help you now. I don’t know what lies Grandpa told you-well, I probably could guess a few-but what happened with Gabrielle? It doesn’t matter. The ‘rents don’t give a damn about that. They haven’t abandoned you, Ryan. You just have to hang on. We’re on our way . . . I just wish to hell that this car could go faster.”

Automatically seeking support, Seth reached for his mother again, but this time instead of taking his hand, Kirsten abruptly thrust Sandy’s phone at him.

“Here. Hold this, Seth,” she ordered. “Don’t lose the connection.”

“Mom?” Seth blinked, confused, even as he cradled the handset protectively.

Kirsten ignored the question in her son’s voice. Leaning forward, she rummaged in her purse and pulled out her own phone.

Sandy glanced sideways, his brow puckering in consternation. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?” he asked.

“Calling my father,” Kirsten replied. “He’s there, Sandy. At the clinic. Grady is there and so is Dad. I know it.” Rushed and anxious, she fumbled with the buttons, accidentally cutting off her first call before she could speak. When she tried again her nerve-slick fingers slipped twice as she dialed and she had to start over. “He told me that he wanted to be there for Brandon McConnell’s operation,” she murmured absently, “only, only he made me believe Brandon was a friend of his and instead he-Dad?” she cried, interrupting herself. “Dad? Damn it, Dad! Pick up! Pick-up!” Kirsten’s breath caught. Her next words sounded strangled, all the life squeezed out of them. “Listen to me. I know what you’ve done to Ryan. I know you have him in that clinic and that you-Dad, you have to stop that operation right now! Do you hear me? You can’t let-Oh God, Sandy! It’s his damn voice mail!--Dad! Pick up! Talk to me! You have to talk to me, Dad, please! Just tell me that Ryan’s all right, that you’re going to stop this before it’s too late, before he . . . he--”

Her voice heaved and then shattered.

Sandy reached over, gently removing her phone, as Kirsten collapsed in tears-deep, gasping sobs that threatened to choke her, that convulsed her body, making it shudder under her husband’s comforting hand.

Seth shivered, watching. He had seen his mother cry that hard only one time before, on the day when his grandmother had died.

But maybe, Seth though, this was kind of the same thing. Maybe for Kirsten, her father had just died too.

And Ryan?-Did his mother think that Ryan--?

Seth sat back, his hands suddenly clammy, clutching his father’s phone. He began to rock back and forth, silently chanting words like a mantra, as if repeating them would make them true: “We’re coming Ryan. We’ll get there in time. I promise we will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryan could see lines of light dancing, white and blue and red, crisscrossing, vibrating and flashing overhead. He thought his eyes were open but he wasn’t sure anymore. The rest of the space was black. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out any other shapes in the darkness-just those sharp, throbbing patterns. The streaks appeared random, manic and insistent, and somehow he could feel them inside him, like bursts of flames only icy-cold.

He twisted back and forth to avoid them, but they found him anyway.

Somebody was urging him to calm down, to lie still, but Ryan didn’t recognize the voice, didn’t trust it.

He wished he could obey-he was so, so tired-but how could he calm down when he didn’t understand what was happening to him, or why? He needed to know. And lying still wouldn’t help. It had never worked as a defense against his dad or A.J., or any of Dawn’s other asshole boyfriends. They enjoyed hitting him even when he was down.

Only . . . none of them were around anymore, were they? Ryan sensed that somehow. They were all far away-too far away to hurt him-but he still felt the urge to flee. Something wanted to destroy him. He had to escape, he knew that much, so he kept trying. Except his body resisted. It twitched vainly, mocking his urgent commands, dragging him down into a soft, heavy darkness.

“There, that’s right. Relax,” the strange voice-no, a chorus of voices--crooned.

“Just relax now, Brandon.”

“Lie still.”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t fight it, Brandon.”

“Brandon.”

“Brandon.”

Ryan jerked, every nerve ending seared by the name. “No!” his mind screamed. “Won’t-I won’t--”

He wouldn’t relax or calm down or lie still. He wouldn’t do anything those unctuous voices wanted.

How could he when his brain buzzed with an unrelenting alarm? It kept whirring, warning him: something very wrong is happening. You’re Ryan, remember? Not Brandon. Ryan. You have to get up, get out, get away. Right now, no matter what, before you disappear . . .

“You gotta fight back, Ry.” Something cold stung him, and Ryan heard Trey’s half-sneering drawl. “You may still get your ass whipped-shit, you probably will-but at least you may land a few shots of your own before you go down. And who knows? You keep fighting, maybe sometime you might actually win.”

Except . . . except what would Sandy and Kirsten think if he did? “No more fighting,” they had cautioned, and Ryan had promised that he wouldn’t. Fighting, hurting people, that was what Atwoods did. He had to stop if he wanted to be part of Cohen family.

He had to . . . stop.

His fists slowly unclenched, and the fitful rhythm of a distant beep grew steady, like a clock counting down, lulling him . . .

As Ryan watched, the lights sparking above him began to flow together. Their sharp edges dissolved and their harsh colors softened, weaving their way into one clear, shimmering pool. Or perhaps not a pool at all. Perhaps they had become the sky. Ryan gazed up, rapt, and his reflection, dazzling bright, almost unrecognizable, smiled back at him.

“What’s going on here?” somebody demanded from a cluster of shadows beyond the sky-pool. The voice sounded sharp and upset, but Ryan didn’t care. He focused on his own image, trying to make it hold still as it wavered in the water.

It had looked so happy, so serene at first-a boy with a home, security, a chance for a future. But now it kept bobbing beneath the surface, searching for something, emerging eyes frantic, distraught and desolate.

Sandy and Kirsten and Seth . . .

Where were they? If they were his family now, they should all be together, shouldn’t they? They should be somewhere close beside him. But they weren’t, they weren’t anywhere that he could see.

Ryan’s fists closed again. Grasping air, trying to keep it from seeping through his fingers, he scanned the sky-pool for the Cohens’ faces. He peered between liquid shards of sunlight, until he found them at last, Sandy and Seth and even Kirsten, submerged in the depths, gilt-edged and insubstantial as illustrations in a fairytale. Slowly, slowly they floated upwards until at last they reached the surface, smiling, extending their hands out to him. No, not to him: to the Ryan-image in the water. Still as he watched, Ryan could feel the warmth of each gesture, solid and real against his own skin-Seth’s abrupt, heartfelt hug when he was going back to Chino, Sandy’s palm on his back, guiding him out of his abandoned house, Kirsten’s arms, embracing him with shy restraint, welcoming him into their family.

The Cohens had reached out to him, rescuing him, and all they asked in return was that Ryan not fight. And he didn’t want to disappoint them. He didn’t.

But the sky-pool had darkened suddenly and its water was churning now, producing waves angry and dangerous as pummeling fists. In a split-second frenzy, they washed away the Cohens, crashing over Ryan’s own image and shattering it the same time.

He moaned, a long, keening sound and rocked forward, his fingers unfurling into the ebony-streaked emptiness, but Sandy and Kirsten, even Seth, were gone. And the reflection that stared back at him from the midnight sky-pool, eerily still and unfathomable now-

Ryan reared back in horror.

Its eyes were holes, sightless and soulless.

That person had no face at all.

Ryan gasped. Strong hands seemed to circle his throat, cold and vise-tight. They began to squeeze, cutting off his oxygen, pushing him toward the edge of the sky-pool, and the lights inside it began to sizzle, and Ryan realized that if that electrified water touched him, it would burn his face away too. It would obliterate him completely. He would become a blank visage, nameless, unknowable, lost forever, even to himself.

Ryan had no choice. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to fight back.

Maybe, he told himself desperately, maybe just this one time the Cohens would understand and forgive him.

It wasn’t really fighting after all. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. All Ryan wanted was to go home, to be himself again.

Summoning all his strength, he kicked back, but his heels thudded uselessly. They hit nothing but air.

From behind him, Ryan heard a derisive snort. “You lie so much, now you even do it to yourself, don’t you, boy.” Caleb sneered. “You don’t have a home. Your own mother didn’t want you. You seriously think that my daughter would? Admit it: even for Sanford, you were never anything more than a charity case. Now that you’ve shown your true colors, they’re done with you too. I told you, didn’t I? You’re nobody.”

“No!” Ryan flailed, his back arcing, every muscle straining for release. “Stop it! Not true-they didn’t--” His voice clotted, stuck in his throat, and he sank back, panting. Caleb’s mocking voice had vanished and he could hear other, unknown people instead, fragments of speech that refused to make sense.

“-should be fully sedated--”

“-never seen this reaction--”

“Have you increased the dosage?”

“-keep thinking we’ve got him under control, doctor, but--”

There were noises too-beeps, a sinister buzzing, muffled clicks like a lock opening and snapping shut again-but Ryan couldn’t connect them with anything he understood. He shook his head frantically. “ Want . . . Sandy,” he gasped. Twisting back and forth, he strained to escape the lights, the ominous sounds, the traitorous prison of his own unresponsive body.

Why couldn’t he move? He had to keep moving--

“Doctor!”

“Wait. Let me try,” someone said. Hands pressed-gently, persuasively-against Ryan’s shoulders, easing him down, and a man bent over him, close, blocking the lights, his mouth next to Ryan’s ear. The voice deepened, became lullaby-soft and soothing. “Lucy sent me,” it whispered, so low Ryan wondered if it was really speaking at all.

“Lucy?” he slurred.

“Shh. Listen. The Cohens are coming for you. They’ll be here soon. You just have to keep fighting a little longer, Ryan.”

Keep fighting?

Ryan?

For the space of a few breaths-long enough to hear “Lucy” and “The Cohens”-Ryan had gone still, but at the plea to keep fighting, the sound of his name, a bolt of hope shot through his body. He didn’t think, didn’t will it. He just began thrashing again.

Instantly, the cacophony of voices resumed.

“-more agitated than before”

““Not doing any good, Felix--”

“Out of the way--”

“Page Dr. Ertman . . . Get him down here now!”

The hands holding Ryan’s shoulders kneaded them once and released him. There were a dozen new noises, quick footsteps, the sound of a door sliding open then closing again, but all Ryan heard were those hushed, earnest words.

The Cohens are coming.

They felt solid and real, and his mind clutched them desperately:

They’ll be here soon, he told himself. They’re coming for you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scowling, Caleb rubbed his side again. He could feel a bruise forming where that oaf of an orderly had elbowed him as he pushed past into Ryan’s room. The man had not even paused to apologize. In fact, implausibly, he had appeared almost amused when he glanced back over his shoulder. It was as if he had enjoyed seeing Caleb’s discomfort.

Probably some semi-illiterate bully, hired simply for his physical strength, No doubt he’s jealous of anybody with intelligence and breeding, Caleb thought irritably. His jaw tightened. He made a mental note to identify the man and have him officially reprimanded once the operation was over. In fact, he should be fired. Caleb nodded to himself. After all, he mused, smiling at the door placard that read “Brandon McConnell, actions have consequences, don’t they boy?

A sensation like static, insistent and annoying, interrupted his thoughts. It took Caleb a moment to identify the cause. Then he realized phone was vibrating. Slipping it out of his pocket, he tore his attention from the observation window into Ryan’s room long enough to glance down at the display. Kirsten. Surprise flickered briefly in his eyes. Then his gaze cleared. Of course. By now the Cohens would have arrived in San Francisco. No doubt Kiki just wanted to check in with him before they went out to dinner.

For a moment, Caleb considered taking the call, but then he shook his head.

Kirsten, he suspected, would ask him about the success of “Brandon’s” operation, and he would prefer not to deal with that question now. Better to wait until he was sure that his current anger and impatience would not seep into his tone.

Besides, he didn’t want to put a damper on his daughter’s evening by reporting that, sadly, the patient had died on the table. He could give her that news later, after she had enjoyed time with Sandy and Seth-with her real family.

Without even checking his daughter’s message, Caleb put his phone away and turned back to Ryan’s window. He could barely see the boy through the cluster of medical personnel bunched around his bed, but his gaze was fixed on Dr. Keller in any case.

Tapping the face of his watch absently, Caleb studied the doctor for some indication that he was ready to act.

It had seemed like such a simple, albeit expensive, solution to the problem of the delinquent who had finagled his way into Kiki’s family-Caleb’s family: deliver him to a ruthlessly ambitious doctor who could make “Ryan Atwood” vanish forever, even from Ryan Atwood’s own mind. It would be, Caleb thought, a kind of poetic justice. The boy used the supposed pain of his home life to prey upon Kirsten’s and Sandy’s sympathies; now Dr. Keller would insure that all those awful memories disappeared completely.

Isn’t that what Kirsten had said she wanted to do? “You don’t understand what he’s been through, Dad-the neglect, the beatings,” she had claimed. “And if you had seen his face when his mother abandoned him here-I just wish we could make that hurt go away.”

Well, once Dr. Keller operated, it would. Only now the man was vacillating, delaying the surgery merely because the boy seemed to be having some kind of adverse drug reaction. This was the third time he had gone to check “Brandon’s” condition and frankly, Caleb was tired of waiting.

He expected decisive, timely behavior from his employees, and Dr. Keller worked for him now. After all, Caleb was paying for this operation. He wanted it done according to schedule.

Deep in his jacket pocket, his phone vibrated again, but Caleb ignored it. Instead, he impatiently adjusted his cuff links, glancing at his watch and then back at Dr. Keller, who was studying some graphs on a computer screen.

Grady strode down the hall, his pace brisk and soundless. “Cal?” he called, as he neared the room. “Any news?”

Without turning from Ryan’s window, Caleb shook his head. “Not yet,” he said shortly. “Took you long enough to get back, by the way.”

“Sorry. I stopped outside to have a cigarette,” Grady explained. His tone, crisp and intolerant, echoed Caleb’s own. “All this standing around doing nothing got to me, and now evidently, we’re supposed to wait some more. Listen, Cal, I tabled our flight plans for tonight, but I left word that we might reinstate them. Would you like me to cancel them completely and--”

Caleb gestured sharply and Grady broke off as Ryan’s door opened and Dr. Keller stepped out.

“Well?” Caleb demanded.

Dr. Keller’s brow furrowed for a moment, and he rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Brandon is still somewhat agitated. Frankly, his reactions baffle me,” he confessed. “I don’t even understand how he’s finding the strength, but he’s fighting all our attempts to calm him.”

“Is he? Well, it sounds to me as if the boy is becoming increasingly violent. Don’t you think that indicates the surgery should be done immediately?”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Killer conceded. “I just hate to begin the operation with his condition so unpredictable. It’s such a sensitive procedure. I would prefer to wait until I identified the source of his agitation, but his vital signs are stable and Dr. Ertman believes he can withstand the anesthesia. So if you think that we should--”

Caleb didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. “Do it now,” he ordered. He shot out the words. They seemed to ricochet, bullet-lethal, through the silent hallway. Their sharp echo gave Caleb a sudden pang, a frisson of unexpected, unfamiliar guilt. Out of nowhere, he pictured Seth loping into the kitchen with Ryan, laughing, happier and more animated that Caleb had ever seen him. Even worse, he recalled Kirsten’s luminous smile later that evening. She had been watching by the door as the boy slipped outside and, haloed by the pool lights, padded across the patio toward the pool house.

“Sleep tight, Ryan,” she had called. Her eyes had shone, warm and maternal, when he paused at the door, lifting one arm to wave a shy good night.

Caleb’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, remembering. At the time that moment of quiet tenderness had angered him. Now its memory produced a nagging worry.

All her life, Kirsten had been reticent with her affection, but once someone gained her love, Caleb knew, she gave it unstintingly. Still, he reassured himself, the situation was different with the boy. Kirsten could not really love him. After all, she had not even wanted him in the family. Kiki had been forced to accept him, first by Sandy and Seth, finally by her own innocent compassion. And now that she knew the kind of person he really was, surely she would realize how misplaced her sympathy and emotional investment were. Surely she would forget him-

“Mr. Nichol? Are you sure?”

The question sounded like a challenge. Caleb wheeled around, frowning, to confront Dr. Keller. He stood for a moment, silent, tamping down his own doubts. Then his shoulders stiffened and he drew himself up, satisfied. “Yes, doctor,” he said coldly. “I’m sure. Start the surgery now.”

TBC (again!)