Best Forgotten, Part 31
It's that time of month again, so here's the latest installment. Warning: I've been too busy to write much (or even to read! My apologies for not responding to many posts recently) so this is more trick than treat. Meaning, yes, it's still not done.
Disclaimers: You know them by now: AU season 1 and the main characters? Still not mine.
Best Forgotten, Part 31
Dr. Cuello’s head had been bent, eyes intent on his patient’s chart, while he strode down the hallway. Frowning, not bothering to look up, he had pressed the entry panel next to Ryan’s door and waited, his fingers drumming the wall. The boy is starting to emerge from the anesthesia, he had mused. But what is causing these odd fluctuations in--?
At that moment his train of thought derailed. A kind of static charge greeted him as the door slid open, the hum of voices suddenly stilled, and the firm tread of somebody moving to block the entry. Dr. Cuello’s head jerked up.
“Lo que en la tierra? --?” he blurted, startled. He rocked to a stop just inside the room. His eyes narrowed, darting in astonished alarm at the group clustered around his patient’s bed. Then his gaze shot back to Felix who, silently, stoically, continued to block his way. The doctor’s voice’s flinty edge glanced off the metal cabinets.
“Orderly, who are these people?” he demanded. “What is going on here?”
Felix didn’t reply. He simply shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. Instinctively Dr. Cuello retreated before he bristled and stepped forward again.
“I asked you a question. What are these people doing in here?” Waving his hand dismissively, Dr. Cuello gestured to the door. “They need to leave now.”
Ryan’s fingers grasped nothing but air, and he went still again. The space surrounding him shifted, contracting and expanding and contracting again. It filled with ominous echoes, a sense of sinister waves roiling just beneath the surface. At the same time, the soft, beckoning voices disappeared, shattered by tremors that surged through the current carrying him. Blackness, at once protective and suffocating, folded itself around Ryan. Thick and heavy, it weighted all his limbs, pulled them down, pulling him further away from the faint sun-touched horizon he had just begun to glimpse.
For a moment, it had seemed so close, almost within his grasp. Ryan reached toward it again, but as he did, the promise of light dissolved, sinking beneath the surface.
And Ryan, anchorless, drifted away too, back and back into the dark.
Sandy, Kirsten and Seth were all intent on Dr. Cuello. None of them noticed Ryan’s hands twitch one more time, then fall back, limp again.
“Leave!” Dr. Cuello ordered. He spoke in Spanish, but the Cohens needed no translation. They stiffened, instinctively closing ranks around Ryan’s bed. Before they could respond, though, Lucy answered for them.
“This is the patient’s family, doctor,” she said evenly. “There will be no operation, today or ever.” She repeated the last sentence in English, adding, “They have come to take him home.”
At the sound of her voice, Dr. Cuello swiveled to study Lucy. His eyes flickered with recognition. “You’re that nurse,” he said, in slow, thickly accented English. “The one Dr. Keller had dismissed earlier. And now you are back here?--” His gaze, dark with apprehension jumped to Ryan, then to the monitors tracking his condition. “You, all of you people, have to leave this room right now. I need to check Brandon’s condition --”
“Ryan!” Seth snapped. He grabbed the chair next to him, slamming it down as furious punctuation. “His name is Ryan! Not Brandon. Ryan Atwood! Got it?”
At the same time, Sandy exploded from his spot beside the bed. His face was thunderous, his voice throbbing with rage. “We’re Ryan’s family. And we are not going anywhere without him.”
Dr. Cuello shook his head. “You cannot be here,” he insisted. “I don’t know what’s going on or who let you in, but this area is fuera de los límites. The only people permitted here are the clinic staff and Brandon’s guardian. Now I intend to examine my patient, and whoever you are, you must get out of here before I call security. Orderly, stand aside--”
“You want to know who I am?” Kirsten demanded suddenly. Unlike Seth and Sandy, she hadn’t stirred from Ryan’s side, but her voice sliced through the air, scalpel sharp. Lucy started, hearing the steel edge rimming the words. For the first time, she realized the core strength Kirsten possessed. Anguish had obscured it. When challenged, though, it shone through, fierce, bright, and adamant. Her eyes glinted blue fire as she spoke. “My name is Kirsten Nichol Cohen.” She spat her maiden name as if the word burned her throat. “You probably know my father, Caleb Nichol.”
Dr. Cuello shook his head, confused. “You are Mr. Nichol’s daughter? But why would you be here? I don’t understand--”
Kirsten’s jaw tightened. Otherwise she ignored the doctor’s questions “This is my husband, Sandy Cohen,” she continued. “And this boy is not your patient. He is not my father’s ward, and his name is not Brandon McConnell. He’s our son, Ryan Atwood.”
“Our son,” Kirsten had said. Not “our ward” or even “our foster son.”
Just simply, instinctively, “Our son.”
Seth instantly noticed his mother’s choice of words. Even in the midst of the tension, he shimmied slightly and grinned. Leaning down, unnoticed, he nudged Ryan’s shoulder. “Did you catch that?” he whispered. “Mom made it official. It’s not just mi casa es su casa anymore, bro. It’s mis padres son tus padres now.”
Then Dr. Cuello’s sharp voice intruded, and Seth’s smile vanished as he looked up again.
“This makes no sense,” the doctor argued. “You say this is your son--?”
Sandy nodded grimly. “That’s right. Our son,” he repeated, punctuating each word. “And you are not coming anywhere near our kid.”
Dr. Cuello shifted. Shaking his head, his bewildered gaze sliding past the group toward Ryan, he tried to edge past Felix again. Instantly, Sandy, face thunderous, started toward the man. His fists clenched, but Lucy caught his arm before he reached the doctor.
“No,” she murmured. “It will be all right. Felix and I will handle this, Sandy.” He resisted, and she pressed his hand, adding softly, “Please. Ryan will wake soon. Stay here with your family.”
Then lifting her chin, Lucy gestured to Felix. He caught the signal and nodded. Promptly and unceremoniously, he shouldered Dr. Cuello out of the room and into the hallway. Lucy followed. She shut the door, closing it on the man’s furious protests.
As soon as the latch clicked, Seth dragged his chair over, propped it in front of the door and then, for good measure, plopped down on top of it, as if turning himself into a human lock.
For a few moments, the echo of Lucy and Dr. Cuello’s voices seeped inside, mingled with footsteps and loud at first, then growing fainter and slower until they disappeared completely. A strained quiet enveloped the room as the Cohens waited, listening. Only a few sounds splintered the silence: just Seth’s furious huffing breath, a whisper of fabric as Kirsten moved closer to Ryan’s bed, and the faint, regular whirr of the machines that monitored his condition.
Sandy looked at his family: his wife sinking exhausted into a chair, Ryan, lying oblivious to everything going on, Seth, livid and scowling, tapping his feet in front of the door. His brows furrowed as he studied both boys. Then abruptly, unexpectedly, Sandy chuckled.
“Son,” he noted, pointing a finger at Seth. “You do know that door slides opens, right? If somebody tries to come in, you’ll fall over backwards.”
Just like that, the tension that had stretched perilously thin relaxed, and the air cleared, becoming breathable again.
Seth glanced behind him, abashed. His shoulders hunched around his red ears, and he scooted down in his chair. “What? Oh yeah, I totally knew that,” he claimed. His father’s eyebrows rose and he amended hastily, “Well, okay, I forgot, but I still get an A for effort, right?”
Sandy ruffled Seth’s hair. “A plus,” he agreed fondly. He cocked his head sideways, in the direction of Ryan’s bed. “Come on,” he urged. “Lucy’s right. It’s just the family here now. Let’s join your mom and Ryan, okay?”
Seth glanced over his father’s shoulder. He noted his mother’s tender, anxious face, the way she sat pleating the hem of Ryan’s sheet and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “Cohens plus one time. Excellent.”
Patting his curls back in place, he picked up his chair and carried it back to its original spot. At the same time, Sandy returned to Kirsten’s side. He draped an arm around her, and she instinctively sank back, leaning against him, even as she reached down to cover Ryan’s hand with hers. They sat like that for a few wordless minutes, simply holding each other, breathing in time with each rise and fall of Ryan’s chest, following each shadow that crossed his face.
His brow puckering, Seth drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed across from his parents. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. It felt as if he had seen his mother and father sit that way before-eager and anxious and clenched and watchful. Then he remembered: he had. They had looked just that way years ago, when Seth had his tonsillectomy. He had woken up after the operation, groggy, a fire burning in his throat, to find both his parents hovering over his hospital bed. Their eyes had been dark with a kind of concentrated love, and fixed on Seth as if he was the center of their existence, as if they could will him to wake up, to be well.
Seeing them like that . . . it had made Seth feel safe, cherished and protected.
He wondered if Ryan would feel that way too.
Seth coughed, his throat threatening to close again. “It’s kinda weird isn’t it?” he asked, breaking the silence. Unconsciously he pitched his voice hospital-low, even though there was no need to be quiet.
“Weird?” Kirsten prompted vaguely. She didn’t look up. She just continued to rub slow circles on the back of Ryan’s hand. “What do you mean, sweetie?”
Seth shrugged. “Sitting here like this. You know, just watching Ryan and waiting for him to wake up.”
Sandy’s lips twitched. “For your mom and me, maybe,” he replied. A current of suppressed mirth rippled through his voice. “But isn’t this pretty much how you start every day-sitting out in the pool house, waiting for Ryan to get up so you can start your morning monologue?”
“What?” Seth jerked up, banking his knee against the bed frame. “No, Dad! I don’t--”
Sandy chuckled and Seth flushed. He sank in his chair, his indignation melting into embarrassment.
“Oh. Ryan told you I did that, huh?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Sandy replied. “But I’d see you slipping in there every morning when I was heading out to surf. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, son.”
“Stealth,” Seth corrected automatically. “I’m stealth. Or, I guess, not so much. Anyway, I go over to the pool house to bring Ryan coffee in the morning. It’s kind of a brotherly room-service wake-up call kind of thing. And you should thank me because, let’s face it, Ryan is a bear before he has his coffee, so I’m saving you from his major grump-face. And I don’t start a morning monologue. That? Is our Seth-Ryan time, when we make plans and discuss important news of the day--”
“Like whether or not you’re making progress with Summer Roberts?”
Seth stiffened with surprise. “How do you know about Summer? Did Ryan say something--?”
“Ah my son.” Sandy reached across the bed to pat Seth’s knee. “Again, you’re not so stealth. Ryan didn’t have to say a word. In fact, speaking of that . . . does Ryan ever get a word in edgewise during this Seth-Ryan time of yours?”
“Of course he does,” Seth claimed. “Well . . . sometimes. All right no, not so much. But it’s not like Ryan is big on talking anyway. You know him. He’s all about the glares and shrugs and one-word answers.”
“Maybe because you don’t give him a chance to do anything else.”
“I do. I mean sometimes, but we have this give and take routine and--” Sandy raised his eyebrows, giving Seth a long, significant stare and he sighed. “Okay,” he conceded. “Point taken. I shouldn’t monopolize every conversation. Less take, more give, got it. We’ll rewrite the Seth-Ryan bylaws and make some changes as soon as we get home.”
As Seth spoke, Sandy’s playful expression changed. It grew pensive, then serious. He gazed down at Ryan, frowning thoughtfully. “Actually,” he mused, “I think it’s time we changed a number of things at Casa Cohen. We could start by making Ryan feel like a real member of the family.”
Kirsten looked up, startled. Her hand closed tighter around Ryan’s, but she said nothing. Seth, though, protested instantly. “We do that already,” he declared. “I mean . . . we do, don’t we?”
Sandy shook his head. “Think about it, Seth. Ryan still believes that he’s with us on sufferance, that he’s always one misstep away from being thrown out. That’s true, isn’t it?”
An image of Ryan’s bleak face, his hollow voice murmuring, “I’m gone. Back to Chino or worse,” after Luke was shot, flashed through Seth’s mind. And, he reminded himself, that hadn’t even been Ryan’s fault; he hadn’t done anything wrong but he assumed the worst anyway.
Picking at a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt, Seth bit his lip. He shrugged reluctant agreement. “Yeah,” he conceded. “I guess it is.”
“So do you think he believes your mom and I would toss you out if you made a mistake?”
“Of course not, but . . . Okay, yeah. I see what you mean. But, well, Ryan’s own mom threw him out, and then abandoned him. Twice. That's gotta cause some major trust issues. Now you guys know you won't ever do that, and I know you won't ever do that, but how are we supposed to convince Ryan?”
Sandy’s brow furrowed. Absently, he finger-combed Ryan’s hair, his gaze as intent as it always appeared when he prepared a case for court. “It will take time,” he said. “But we could start by including him in everything we do as a family.”
“We do that already,” Seth argued. "Ryan's already a bona fide, albeit differently named Cohen. I mean, you know, there was, um, there was the cotillion. We included him in that."
“And what about in the little, everyday, things?” Sandy countered. “When was the last time Ryan picked out a movie for us to watch? Or decided on a restaurant when we order take-out? You choose, or your mom does, or I do. Ryan just goes along with whatever we want.”
Seth inclined his head judiciously. “Okay, so we work Ryan into the food and recreation rotation. We can do that." His expression brightened, and a mischievous smile deepened his dimples. "And what about chores?" he suggested. "I bet it would make Ryan feel like family if he did some of them too, so I'm willing to sacrifice a few to the cause.”
“Ryan already does most of your chores, Seth Ezekiel Cohen. Don't think your mom and I haven't noticed," Sandy retorted. "But there is the matter of the pool house . . .” Pulling Kirsten closer, Sandy rubbed her shoulder until she looked up at him. “Sweetheart?” he prompted quietly. “What do you think?”
Her lips trembling, Kirsten nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. Gazing down at Ryan again, she stroked his wrist tenderly. “It’s time. Ryan can’t feel like a real member of the family when we're all in the house and he's staying out there.”
“Wait, what?” Seth’s chair scraped against the floor as he bolted backwards to stare at his parents, aghast. “You’re talking about making Ryan move inside? Okay, take-out, movies-absolutely, we should cut him in, even though, I warn you, we’re gonna get sick of Thai food. But the pool house-Mom, Dad, that’s like our, our haven, our refuge. It's our bat cave. It’s Ryan’s fortress of solitude! We love that place.”
Sandy frowned quizzically. “First of all, I doubt if Ryan ever thinks of the pool house as a bat cave. And it can hardly be a fortress of solitude when you’re always over there, son. Second, “we” love that place? I thought we were talking about Ryan’s feelings right now.”
“Right. We are. And believe me, Dad,” Seth insisted, “Ryan loves the pool house. The space, the privacy-that’s really important to him. You can’t make him give it up for an ordinary-in the-house room.”
“Your mother and I have no intention of making Ryan do anything. But I think he deserves the choice, don’t you? Think about it, son,” Sandy urged. “The pool house arrangement was supposed to be temporary, when he was just staying with us for a few days. But things have changed. Ryan needs to know that we want him with us-that he’s not a guest, he’s a permanent member of the family. That’s the whole point, right?”
Seth sighed. “I . . . guess,” he muttered on a long, reluctant breath. “So we invite Ryan inside to let him know he’s really part of the family. But trust me, he’s gonna want to stay in the pool house anyway.”
“Maybe,” Sandy conceded. He grinned suddenly. “But you know, the pool house has drawbacks, son. What happens to your Seth-Ryan time if it rains? Are you going to have your discussions by phone? Because I know how much you hate getting your hair wet.”
“Seriously, Dad? Seriously?” Seth scoffed. “That’s your closing argument? We live in southern California. How often do we get rainstorms? Four times a year? But you know what? Good point. Rain could be a problem sometimes. You should get us both Skype just in case. Or at least webcams.”
“No Skype and no webcams,” Sandy replied firmly. “And Seth, remember, all we'll do is give Ryan the option. The choice is up to Ryan. He gets to decide for himself whether he wants to stay in the pool house. Right, sweetheart?”
Kirsten twined her fingers through Ryan’s, pressing them gently as she answered. “Yes. But I hope he’ll move inside.”
“Son?” Sandy prompted. “You’ll let Ryan make his own decision? No filibustering or bribery or applying undue Seth Cohen style pressure to get your own way?”
“I suppose,” Seth conceded grudgingly. “As long as you promise not to use any sneaky lawyer logic to convince him to move into the house.” Sandy’s eyebrows jumped, and Seth pointed an accusing finger. “And no channeling the power of the eyebrows either! That is totally not fair." Leaning down, Seth prodded Ryan with his elbow. "Come on, dude," he urged. "We’ve got a major issue waiting for you to cast the deciding vote. Wake up so we can settle this now, okay? Before the 'rents and Dad's eyebrows gang up against us.”
Kirsten shook her head. “Shush, Seth,” she reproved indulgently. Then her gaze returned to Ryan and her expression changed, growing tender and anxious. Sliding her fingers out of Ryan’s limp hand, she reached up to stroke his brow. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispered. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. You don't have to do anything. Just wake up so that we can take you home." Her smile flickered, and she tried to muster a light, teasing tone. "I promise I won’t cook your welcome home dinner,” she added. Taking his hand again, Kirsten turned it over to rub his palm. Unconsciously, she traced his name with her fingertip as she spoke. “Just, please, wake up now. You can do that for us, can’t you, Ryan?”
“You can do that for me, can’t you, Ryan?”
“Ryan”
That was it, the word inside those two sighed syllables.
His name.
The sounds rolled together, finally familiar, forming one word. And he recognized it.
It was his name. Ryan. Calling him.
Light filtered through the darkness, and all at once he became aware of half a dozen things: a crease of cotton under his cheek, the pinch of a needle in the crease of his elbow, a dry scratchy sensation clogging his throat, a muted mechanical whirr, and warm fingers, rubbing his palm. They moved in rhythm as he heard his name again-"Ryan",, clearer now-and he tried to answer.
His tongue moved inside his mouth, searching for moisture. At the same time, he closed his hand, weakly trying to grab the fingers he felt against his skin, to hold them there, warm and solid.
“Oh,” Kirsten gasped. She started, staring down, wild-eyed. “Sandy--”
Immediately Sandy’s arm tightened around her and he followed Kirsten’s gaze, looking at her hand, clasped around Ryan's. “What? What is it, sweetheart?”
Seth tensed too, scooting closer to the bed. “Mom? What happened?”
“He moved,” Kirsten breathed. She almost mouthed the words, as if afraid to say them aloud, but when she gazed up at Sandy her face was luminous. “Ryan. Look!" His finger twitched, and she smiled, jubilant. "He’s moving. He’s waking up.”
Before Kirsten finished speaking Seth bolted up, bouncing excitedly beside the bed, while Sandy leaned closer. Releasing Kirsten, he seized Ryan’s free hand, simultaneously cupping his chin and rubbing it with his thumb.
“Ryan,” he called. “Hey, kid. We know you’re in there. Time to open your eyes, okay? We’re all here waiting for you, me and Seth and Kirsten. We’re here to take you home.”
Kirsten didn't hear Sandy's last words.
Suddenly all she could hear was the sound of her name, echoing, accusing her. It pierced her heart like an icy blade, and she caught her breath. Her blood chilled, and the joy drained from her face.
All at once she could picture the instant when Ryan fully awoke, the way he would look up, still dazed and afraid, seeking reassurance, some sense of safety, only to find her there.
Kirsten Nichol Cohen.
Caleb’s daughter.
A shadow dimmed her face, and Kirsten flinched, shivering. “No,” she thought desperately. “I can’t be here with him. Not now. Not yet.”
Aloud, Kirsten choked, “Lucy--” She licked her frozen lips, fumbling for words. “She should be here . . . ” With an effort, reluctantly, she pulled her hand from Ryan's even as he clutched her fingers again. “I’ll . . . get her for you,” she whispered. "I'll be right back, Ryan."
Her promise, weak with panic, barely grazed the air.
Easing away from the bed, Kirsten stumbled to her feet. Sandy glanced back at her, startled. “Sweetheart--” he began, but at that moment Ryan stirred again. His head tossed back and forth and he mumbled something, a slurred, incoherent sound. Instantly forgetting Kirsten, Sandy whirled around again.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice deep and soothing. “It’s okay, Ryan. You can wake up. We’re here.”
Slowly, uncertainly, Ryan’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, squeezed them shut, and then forced them open again. His gaze darted blindly around the room, uncomprehending, almost terrified, before it fixed on Sandy.
“There you are!” Sandy exclaimed. Smiling broadly, his face alight, he squeezed Ryan’s hand and gently knuckled his cheek. His eyes, warm and unwavering, held Ryan's, willing him to relax. “Welcome back to the world, kid.”
“Took you long enough, dude,” Seth added. Beaming, practically dancing with excitement, he waved a greeting from behind his father’s head. “We’ve been waiting pretty close to forever here.”
They both bent over the bed, crowding closer to Ryan, obscuring him from Kirsten’s sight. A soft, strangled whimper escaped her as she watched. She covered her mouth, her fingers and lips both trembling. Then, her eyes glazing, she slowly backed toward the door.
Nobody noticed when she slipped out.
TBC
Disclaimers: You know them by now: AU season 1 and the main characters? Still not mine.
Best Forgotten, Part 31
Dr. Cuello’s head had been bent, eyes intent on his patient’s chart, while he strode down the hallway. Frowning, not bothering to look up, he had pressed the entry panel next to Ryan’s door and waited, his fingers drumming the wall. The boy is starting to emerge from the anesthesia, he had mused. But what is causing these odd fluctuations in--?
At that moment his train of thought derailed. A kind of static charge greeted him as the door slid open, the hum of voices suddenly stilled, and the firm tread of somebody moving to block the entry. Dr. Cuello’s head jerked up.
“Lo que en la tierra? --?” he blurted, startled. He rocked to a stop just inside the room. His eyes narrowed, darting in astonished alarm at the group clustered around his patient’s bed. Then his gaze shot back to Felix who, silently, stoically, continued to block his way. The doctor’s voice’s flinty edge glanced off the metal cabinets.
“Orderly, who are these people?” he demanded. “What is going on here?”
Felix didn’t reply. He simply shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. Instinctively Dr. Cuello retreated before he bristled and stepped forward again.
“I asked you a question. What are these people doing in here?” Waving his hand dismissively, Dr. Cuello gestured to the door. “They need to leave now.”
Ryan’s fingers grasped nothing but air, and he went still again. The space surrounding him shifted, contracting and expanding and contracting again. It filled with ominous echoes, a sense of sinister waves roiling just beneath the surface. At the same time, the soft, beckoning voices disappeared, shattered by tremors that surged through the current carrying him. Blackness, at once protective and suffocating, folded itself around Ryan. Thick and heavy, it weighted all his limbs, pulled them down, pulling him further away from the faint sun-touched horizon he had just begun to glimpse.
For a moment, it had seemed so close, almost within his grasp. Ryan reached toward it again, but as he did, the promise of light dissolved, sinking beneath the surface.
And Ryan, anchorless, drifted away too, back and back into the dark.
Sandy, Kirsten and Seth were all intent on Dr. Cuello. None of them noticed Ryan’s hands twitch one more time, then fall back, limp again.
“Leave!” Dr. Cuello ordered. He spoke in Spanish, but the Cohens needed no translation. They stiffened, instinctively closing ranks around Ryan’s bed. Before they could respond, though, Lucy answered for them.
“This is the patient’s family, doctor,” she said evenly. “There will be no operation, today or ever.” She repeated the last sentence in English, adding, “They have come to take him home.”
At the sound of her voice, Dr. Cuello swiveled to study Lucy. His eyes flickered with recognition. “You’re that nurse,” he said, in slow, thickly accented English. “The one Dr. Keller had dismissed earlier. And now you are back here?--” His gaze, dark with apprehension jumped to Ryan, then to the monitors tracking his condition. “You, all of you people, have to leave this room right now. I need to check Brandon’s condition --”
“Ryan!” Seth snapped. He grabbed the chair next to him, slamming it down as furious punctuation. “His name is Ryan! Not Brandon. Ryan Atwood! Got it?”
At the same time, Sandy exploded from his spot beside the bed. His face was thunderous, his voice throbbing with rage. “We’re Ryan’s family. And we are not going anywhere without him.”
Dr. Cuello shook his head. “You cannot be here,” he insisted. “I don’t know what’s going on or who let you in, but this area is fuera de los límites. The only people permitted here are the clinic staff and Brandon’s guardian. Now I intend to examine my patient, and whoever you are, you must get out of here before I call security. Orderly, stand aside--”
“You want to know who I am?” Kirsten demanded suddenly. Unlike Seth and Sandy, she hadn’t stirred from Ryan’s side, but her voice sliced through the air, scalpel sharp. Lucy started, hearing the steel edge rimming the words. For the first time, she realized the core strength Kirsten possessed. Anguish had obscured it. When challenged, though, it shone through, fierce, bright, and adamant. Her eyes glinted blue fire as she spoke. “My name is Kirsten Nichol Cohen.” She spat her maiden name as if the word burned her throat. “You probably know my father, Caleb Nichol.”
Dr. Cuello shook his head, confused. “You are Mr. Nichol’s daughter? But why would you be here? I don’t understand--”
Kirsten’s jaw tightened. Otherwise she ignored the doctor’s questions “This is my husband, Sandy Cohen,” she continued. “And this boy is not your patient. He is not my father’s ward, and his name is not Brandon McConnell. He’s our son, Ryan Atwood.”
“Our son,” Kirsten had said. Not “our ward” or even “our foster son.”
Just simply, instinctively, “Our son.”
Seth instantly noticed his mother’s choice of words. Even in the midst of the tension, he shimmied slightly and grinned. Leaning down, unnoticed, he nudged Ryan’s shoulder. “Did you catch that?” he whispered. “Mom made it official. It’s not just mi casa es su casa anymore, bro. It’s mis padres son tus padres now.”
Then Dr. Cuello’s sharp voice intruded, and Seth’s smile vanished as he looked up again.
“This makes no sense,” the doctor argued. “You say this is your son--?”
Sandy nodded grimly. “That’s right. Our son,” he repeated, punctuating each word. “And you are not coming anywhere near our kid.”
Dr. Cuello shifted. Shaking his head, his bewildered gaze sliding past the group toward Ryan, he tried to edge past Felix again. Instantly, Sandy, face thunderous, started toward the man. His fists clenched, but Lucy caught his arm before he reached the doctor.
“No,” she murmured. “It will be all right. Felix and I will handle this, Sandy.” He resisted, and she pressed his hand, adding softly, “Please. Ryan will wake soon. Stay here with your family.”
Then lifting her chin, Lucy gestured to Felix. He caught the signal and nodded. Promptly and unceremoniously, he shouldered Dr. Cuello out of the room and into the hallway. Lucy followed. She shut the door, closing it on the man’s furious protests.
As soon as the latch clicked, Seth dragged his chair over, propped it in front of the door and then, for good measure, plopped down on top of it, as if turning himself into a human lock.
For a few moments, the echo of Lucy and Dr. Cuello’s voices seeped inside, mingled with footsteps and loud at first, then growing fainter and slower until they disappeared completely. A strained quiet enveloped the room as the Cohens waited, listening. Only a few sounds splintered the silence: just Seth’s furious huffing breath, a whisper of fabric as Kirsten moved closer to Ryan’s bed, and the faint, regular whirr of the machines that monitored his condition.
Sandy looked at his family: his wife sinking exhausted into a chair, Ryan, lying oblivious to everything going on, Seth, livid and scowling, tapping his feet in front of the door. His brows furrowed as he studied both boys. Then abruptly, unexpectedly, Sandy chuckled.
“Son,” he noted, pointing a finger at Seth. “You do know that door slides opens, right? If somebody tries to come in, you’ll fall over backwards.”
Just like that, the tension that had stretched perilously thin relaxed, and the air cleared, becoming breathable again.
Seth glanced behind him, abashed. His shoulders hunched around his red ears, and he scooted down in his chair. “What? Oh yeah, I totally knew that,” he claimed. His father’s eyebrows rose and he amended hastily, “Well, okay, I forgot, but I still get an A for effort, right?”
Sandy ruffled Seth’s hair. “A plus,” he agreed fondly. He cocked his head sideways, in the direction of Ryan’s bed. “Come on,” he urged. “Lucy’s right. It’s just the family here now. Let’s join your mom and Ryan, okay?”
Seth glanced over his father’s shoulder. He noted his mother’s tender, anxious face, the way she sat pleating the hem of Ryan’s sheet and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “Cohens plus one time. Excellent.”
Patting his curls back in place, he picked up his chair and carried it back to its original spot. At the same time, Sandy returned to Kirsten’s side. He draped an arm around her, and she instinctively sank back, leaning against him, even as she reached down to cover Ryan’s hand with hers. They sat like that for a few wordless minutes, simply holding each other, breathing in time with each rise and fall of Ryan’s chest, following each shadow that crossed his face.
His brow puckering, Seth drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed across from his parents. He had an odd sense of déjà vu. It felt as if he had seen his mother and father sit that way before-eager and anxious and clenched and watchful. Then he remembered: he had. They had looked just that way years ago, when Seth had his tonsillectomy. He had woken up after the operation, groggy, a fire burning in his throat, to find both his parents hovering over his hospital bed. Their eyes had been dark with a kind of concentrated love, and fixed on Seth as if he was the center of their existence, as if they could will him to wake up, to be well.
Seeing them like that . . . it had made Seth feel safe, cherished and protected.
He wondered if Ryan would feel that way too.
Seth coughed, his throat threatening to close again. “It’s kinda weird isn’t it?” he asked, breaking the silence. Unconsciously he pitched his voice hospital-low, even though there was no need to be quiet.
“Weird?” Kirsten prompted vaguely. She didn’t look up. She just continued to rub slow circles on the back of Ryan’s hand. “What do you mean, sweetie?”
Seth shrugged. “Sitting here like this. You know, just watching Ryan and waiting for him to wake up.”
Sandy’s lips twitched. “For your mom and me, maybe,” he replied. A current of suppressed mirth rippled through his voice. “But isn’t this pretty much how you start every day-sitting out in the pool house, waiting for Ryan to get up so you can start your morning monologue?”
“What?” Seth jerked up, banking his knee against the bed frame. “No, Dad! I don’t--”
Sandy chuckled and Seth flushed. He sank in his chair, his indignation melting into embarrassment.
“Oh. Ryan told you I did that, huh?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Sandy replied. “But I’d see you slipping in there every morning when I was heading out to surf. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, son.”
“Stealth,” Seth corrected automatically. “I’m stealth. Or, I guess, not so much. Anyway, I go over to the pool house to bring Ryan coffee in the morning. It’s kind of a brotherly room-service wake-up call kind of thing. And you should thank me because, let’s face it, Ryan is a bear before he has his coffee, so I’m saving you from his major grump-face. And I don’t start a morning monologue. That? Is our Seth-Ryan time, when we make plans and discuss important news of the day--”
“Like whether or not you’re making progress with Summer Roberts?”
Seth stiffened with surprise. “How do you know about Summer? Did Ryan say something--?”
“Ah my son.” Sandy reached across the bed to pat Seth’s knee. “Again, you’re not so stealth. Ryan didn’t have to say a word. In fact, speaking of that . . . does Ryan ever get a word in edgewise during this Seth-Ryan time of yours?”
“Of course he does,” Seth claimed. “Well . . . sometimes. All right no, not so much. But it’s not like Ryan is big on talking anyway. You know him. He’s all about the glares and shrugs and one-word answers.”
“Maybe because you don’t give him a chance to do anything else.”
“I do. I mean sometimes, but we have this give and take routine and--” Sandy raised his eyebrows, giving Seth a long, significant stare and he sighed. “Okay,” he conceded. “Point taken. I shouldn’t monopolize every conversation. Less take, more give, got it. We’ll rewrite the Seth-Ryan bylaws and make some changes as soon as we get home.”
As Seth spoke, Sandy’s playful expression changed. It grew pensive, then serious. He gazed down at Ryan, frowning thoughtfully. “Actually,” he mused, “I think it’s time we changed a number of things at Casa Cohen. We could start by making Ryan feel like a real member of the family.”
Kirsten looked up, startled. Her hand closed tighter around Ryan’s, but she said nothing. Seth, though, protested instantly. “We do that already,” he declared. “I mean . . . we do, don’t we?”
Sandy shook his head. “Think about it, Seth. Ryan still believes that he’s with us on sufferance, that he’s always one misstep away from being thrown out. That’s true, isn’t it?”
An image of Ryan’s bleak face, his hollow voice murmuring, “I’m gone. Back to Chino or worse,” after Luke was shot, flashed through Seth’s mind. And, he reminded himself, that hadn’t even been Ryan’s fault; he hadn’t done anything wrong but he assumed the worst anyway.
Picking at a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt, Seth bit his lip. He shrugged reluctant agreement. “Yeah,” he conceded. “I guess it is.”
“So do you think he believes your mom and I would toss you out if you made a mistake?”
“Of course not, but . . . Okay, yeah. I see what you mean. But, well, Ryan’s own mom threw him out, and then abandoned him. Twice. That's gotta cause some major trust issues. Now you guys know you won't ever do that, and I know you won't ever do that, but how are we supposed to convince Ryan?”
Sandy’s brow furrowed. Absently, he finger-combed Ryan’s hair, his gaze as intent as it always appeared when he prepared a case for court. “It will take time,” he said. “But we could start by including him in everything we do as a family.”
“We do that already,” Seth argued. "Ryan's already a bona fide, albeit differently named Cohen. I mean, you know, there was, um, there was the cotillion. We included him in that."
“And what about in the little, everyday, things?” Sandy countered. “When was the last time Ryan picked out a movie for us to watch? Or decided on a restaurant when we order take-out? You choose, or your mom does, or I do. Ryan just goes along with whatever we want.”
Seth inclined his head judiciously. “Okay, so we work Ryan into the food and recreation rotation. We can do that." His expression brightened, and a mischievous smile deepened his dimples. "And what about chores?" he suggested. "I bet it would make Ryan feel like family if he did some of them too, so I'm willing to sacrifice a few to the cause.”
“Ryan already does most of your chores, Seth Ezekiel Cohen. Don't think your mom and I haven't noticed," Sandy retorted. "But there is the matter of the pool house . . .” Pulling Kirsten closer, Sandy rubbed her shoulder until she looked up at him. “Sweetheart?” he prompted quietly. “What do you think?”
Her lips trembling, Kirsten nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. Gazing down at Ryan again, she stroked his wrist tenderly. “It’s time. Ryan can’t feel like a real member of the family when we're all in the house and he's staying out there.”
“Wait, what?” Seth’s chair scraped against the floor as he bolted backwards to stare at his parents, aghast. “You’re talking about making Ryan move inside? Okay, take-out, movies-absolutely, we should cut him in, even though, I warn you, we’re gonna get sick of Thai food. But the pool house-Mom, Dad, that’s like our, our haven, our refuge. It's our bat cave. It’s Ryan’s fortress of solitude! We love that place.”
Sandy frowned quizzically. “First of all, I doubt if Ryan ever thinks of the pool house as a bat cave. And it can hardly be a fortress of solitude when you’re always over there, son. Second, “we” love that place? I thought we were talking about Ryan’s feelings right now.”
“Right. We are. And believe me, Dad,” Seth insisted, “Ryan loves the pool house. The space, the privacy-that’s really important to him. You can’t make him give it up for an ordinary-in the-house room.”
“Your mother and I have no intention of making Ryan do anything. But I think he deserves the choice, don’t you? Think about it, son,” Sandy urged. “The pool house arrangement was supposed to be temporary, when he was just staying with us for a few days. But things have changed. Ryan needs to know that we want him with us-that he’s not a guest, he’s a permanent member of the family. That’s the whole point, right?”
Seth sighed. “I . . . guess,” he muttered on a long, reluctant breath. “So we invite Ryan inside to let him know he’s really part of the family. But trust me, he’s gonna want to stay in the pool house anyway.”
“Maybe,” Sandy conceded. He grinned suddenly. “But you know, the pool house has drawbacks, son. What happens to your Seth-Ryan time if it rains? Are you going to have your discussions by phone? Because I know how much you hate getting your hair wet.”
“Seriously, Dad? Seriously?” Seth scoffed. “That’s your closing argument? We live in southern California. How often do we get rainstorms? Four times a year? But you know what? Good point. Rain could be a problem sometimes. You should get us both Skype just in case. Or at least webcams.”
“No Skype and no webcams,” Sandy replied firmly. “And Seth, remember, all we'll do is give Ryan the option. The choice is up to Ryan. He gets to decide for himself whether he wants to stay in the pool house. Right, sweetheart?”
Kirsten twined her fingers through Ryan’s, pressing them gently as she answered. “Yes. But I hope he’ll move inside.”
“Son?” Sandy prompted. “You’ll let Ryan make his own decision? No filibustering or bribery or applying undue Seth Cohen style pressure to get your own way?”
“I suppose,” Seth conceded grudgingly. “As long as you promise not to use any sneaky lawyer logic to convince him to move into the house.” Sandy’s eyebrows jumped, and Seth pointed an accusing finger. “And no channeling the power of the eyebrows either! That is totally not fair." Leaning down, Seth prodded Ryan with his elbow. "Come on, dude," he urged. "We’ve got a major issue waiting for you to cast the deciding vote. Wake up so we can settle this now, okay? Before the 'rents and Dad's eyebrows gang up against us.”
Kirsten shook her head. “Shush, Seth,” she reproved indulgently. Then her gaze returned to Ryan and her expression changed, growing tender and anxious. Sliding her fingers out of Ryan’s limp hand, she reached up to stroke his brow. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispered. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. You don't have to do anything. Just wake up so that we can take you home." Her smile flickered, and she tried to muster a light, teasing tone. "I promise I won’t cook your welcome home dinner,” she added. Taking his hand again, Kirsten turned it over to rub his palm. Unconsciously, she traced his name with her fingertip as she spoke. “Just, please, wake up now. You can do that for us, can’t you, Ryan?”
“You can do that for me, can’t you, Ryan?”
“Ryan”
That was it, the word inside those two sighed syllables.
His name.
The sounds rolled together, finally familiar, forming one word. And he recognized it.
It was his name. Ryan. Calling him.
Light filtered through the darkness, and all at once he became aware of half a dozen things: a crease of cotton under his cheek, the pinch of a needle in the crease of his elbow, a dry scratchy sensation clogging his throat, a muted mechanical whirr, and warm fingers, rubbing his palm. They moved in rhythm as he heard his name again-"Ryan",, clearer now-and he tried to answer.
His tongue moved inside his mouth, searching for moisture. At the same time, he closed his hand, weakly trying to grab the fingers he felt against his skin, to hold them there, warm and solid.
“Oh,” Kirsten gasped. She started, staring down, wild-eyed. “Sandy--”
Immediately Sandy’s arm tightened around her and he followed Kirsten’s gaze, looking at her hand, clasped around Ryan's. “What? What is it, sweetheart?”
Seth tensed too, scooting closer to the bed. “Mom? What happened?”
“He moved,” Kirsten breathed. She almost mouthed the words, as if afraid to say them aloud, but when she gazed up at Sandy her face was luminous. “Ryan. Look!" His finger twitched, and she smiled, jubilant. "He’s moving. He’s waking up.”
Before Kirsten finished speaking Seth bolted up, bouncing excitedly beside the bed, while Sandy leaned closer. Releasing Kirsten, he seized Ryan’s free hand, simultaneously cupping his chin and rubbing it with his thumb.
“Ryan,” he called. “Hey, kid. We know you’re in there. Time to open your eyes, okay? We’re all here waiting for you, me and Seth and Kirsten. We’re here to take you home.”
Kirsten didn't hear Sandy's last words.
Suddenly all she could hear was the sound of her name, echoing, accusing her. It pierced her heart like an icy blade, and she caught her breath. Her blood chilled, and the joy drained from her face.
All at once she could picture the instant when Ryan fully awoke, the way he would look up, still dazed and afraid, seeking reassurance, some sense of safety, only to find her there.
Kirsten Nichol Cohen.
Caleb’s daughter.
A shadow dimmed her face, and Kirsten flinched, shivering. “No,” she thought desperately. “I can’t be here with him. Not now. Not yet.”
Aloud, Kirsten choked, “Lucy--” She licked her frozen lips, fumbling for words. “She should be here . . . ” With an effort, reluctantly, she pulled her hand from Ryan's even as he clutched her fingers again. “I’ll . . . get her for you,” she whispered. "I'll be right back, Ryan."
Her promise, weak with panic, barely grazed the air.
Easing away from the bed, Kirsten stumbled to her feet. Sandy glanced back at her, startled. “Sweetheart--” he began, but at that moment Ryan stirred again. His head tossed back and forth and he mumbled something, a slurred, incoherent sound. Instantly forgetting Kirsten, Sandy whirled around again.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice deep and soothing. “It’s okay, Ryan. You can wake up. We’re here.”
Slowly, uncertainly, Ryan’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, squeezed them shut, and then forced them open again. His gaze darted blindly around the room, uncomprehending, almost terrified, before it fixed on Sandy.
“There you are!” Sandy exclaimed. Smiling broadly, his face alight, he squeezed Ryan’s hand and gently knuckled his cheek. His eyes, warm and unwavering, held Ryan's, willing him to relax. “Welcome back to the world, kid.”
“Took you long enough, dude,” Seth added. Beaming, practically dancing with excitement, he waved a greeting from behind his father’s head. “We’ve been waiting pretty close to forever here.”
They both bent over the bed, crowding closer to Ryan, obscuring him from Kirsten’s sight. A soft, strangled whimper escaped her as she watched. She covered her mouth, her fingers and lips both trembling. Then, her eyes glazing, she slowly backed toward the door.
Nobody noticed when she slipped out.
TBC