Asymmetrical (Part one)
Ryan wakes up just as his body propels forward. His eyes flicker open right as the cold, rough fabric of his seatbelt bites into his skin, keeping him from going flying out the windshield of the tour van. Ryan’s in a haze, a far cry from a mere hour ago when he had drifted off to the sound of Jon and Will’s conversation about the best route to take to get to the next venue. Ryan registers the harsh squeal of the van tires against the rain-slick stretch of freeway, taking in Will’s growled swear, and he has just enough time to look ahead, out the water-flecked glass of the windshield, to see the golden, gleaming pair of headlights coming right at them.
The next time Ryan is conscious, he’s upside down, trapped in his seat by the belt holding him in place. Ryan’s vision blurs as he tries to gather what just happened. Crash. They obviously got in a car accident. There’s a wet, sticky heat running down the length of Ryan’s face, stinging his eyes. He figures that it’s blood and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s hoping that it’s his own or someone else’s.
Ryan remembers Will and the others. He blinks through the pain and tries to gather his bearings. He can just make out the shattered windshield from the soft, fluorescent-green glow of the radio’s clock. His mind is fuzzy and he can’t hear anything. He hurts all over, his chest tight. Ryan remembers from somewhere in the back of his mind a random scrap of information he gleaned from some medical show, just a snippet in the episode that he had happened to flip by about how a woman’s ribs had been busted by a seatbelt. He ignores the information for the moment. He needs to try and keep a clear head despite his world literally being turned upside down.
“Will?” Ryan tries to say. His voice doesn’t come to him at first. There’s no sound, just a dry wheeze, but Ryan tries again. “Will? Jon? Guys?” He strains to hear, and past the buzzing filling his mind, he thinks that he hears groaning or a painful sob. There’s no real response. Ryan wipes the blood away from his eyes and tries to see around in the near-darkness of the van. He thinks that he sees the shape of a person in the driver’s seat, hanging upside down, caught with the belt the same way Ryan is. It has to be Will, since he was driving. “Will?” Ryan tries again.
There’s a sudden glow coming from Ryan’s left. He turns his head to follow the light source. Through the passenger side window, Ryan can see a grassy bank and a cell phone - maybe its Ryan’s or maybe it flew from an open window in the van. If Ryan can get to the phone, he can call for help. He still doesn’t know where the others are. One of them is hurt if their pained groan is anything to go by, but he doesn’t know if they’re conscious, or if all of them are even alive.
It’s that thought, that one of his bandmates might be dying right here and now on the side of a highway, that urges Ryan on. He refuses to lose anyone else; no more bandmates will slip from him. Ryan blindly gropes for the buckle to his seatbelt and hits the button. He’s released from its hold and slams painfully into the roof of the van. All the air in Ryan’s body whooshes out in a painful gasp, his eyes burn with blood and he wipes it away again in vain, struggling to reach the window. The window is broken out, jagged glass clinging razor-sharp to the rubber that surrounds the window’s frame. There are shards of broken glass cracking under Ryan’s knees as he crawls far enough to reach the window. His whole body aches, his hands are sticky, and there are thick tears running down his cheeks, his body’s attempt to wash the blood away, but finally, he manages to get close enough.
Ryan lies flat on his belly and navigates his arm carefully through the broken window. Dangerous thoughts flicker through his mind as he scrabbles for the phone. He’s heard about crashes where gas tanks ignite and explode, especially concerning larger vehicles. What if their van explodes? Ryan shakes his head and closes his fingers around the cell phone.
He’s about to pull his arm back and call for salvation, but before he can, there are lights building up bright and blinding, coming up much too fast for Ryan to believe that it’s help. Ryan can’t move fast enough, can’t scream, and can’t do anything but listen as a second car skids against the wet road - maybe trying to avoid the debris of the accident, maybe to avoid their trailer … Ryan doesn’t know. He thinks the car fishtails right into their trailer. He doesn’t even allow himself a moment to mourn their gear. Instruments can be replaced, people cannot.
The crunch of metal rings sharp around the still woodlined high way and the trailer jerks from the impact of the car, sending it smashing into the side of the van. The van shudders and there’s a loud groaning noise and then everything gets worse. The van seems to have lost whatever precarious balance had been keeping it from flipping and begins to move, and Ryan closes his eyes tight, tries in vain to hold on against the momentum, and he loses consciousness amidst the unbearable pain.
***
Denver, CO (JusticeNewsFlash.com)
Late last night, nine people were injured in a multiple car crash on Interstate 70 near Denver. Authorities have reported that all nine people were taken to the local hospital by emergency medical services (EMS) personnel. Three of the victims are in critical condition. Sources state that the band the Young Veins, fronted by ex-pop sensation Panic at the Disco members Ryan Ross and Jon Walker, along with their bandmates, were involved in the accident, but this information has yet to be confirmed. Police say that weather played a factor. Check our website to stay updated on the developments of this story.
***
Ryan's been in the hospital for a little over a month now. He's been trapped in the same tiny hospital bed for over a month. The bed is too small and the heels of his feet dangle off the end of the lumpy mattress. Ryan pushes himself up against the pillows, adjusting his weight, and Spencer lowers the magazine that he had been reading, his eyes automatically filled with concern, a look Ryan has become far too familiar with.
"You okay, Ry?" Spencer asks. Ryan shifts a little. There's an ache running up and down the line of his spine. By extension, Spencer has also been in the hospital for a month. They had barely spoken in the months leading up to the accident, but Spencer still came as soon as the hospital called. Ryan hadn’t had the time to change his emergency contact. Spencer had come to the hospital and never really left. He goes home to sleep when visiting hours are over, and to shower and eat, but besides that, he’s been spending all of the possible hours he can in Ryan's room, seated in the uncomfortable chair in the corner.
"Just - maybe hand me my water?" Ryan asks. Spencer nods slightly before he stands up. Ryan curls his fingers around the sweating glass of water, the ice clinking against the sides. Spencer moves the straw in front of Ryan's mouth. Ryan hates feeling like he can't do anything for himself, helpless and worthless. Spencer moves away, taking the glass with him, and he returns to his station, the wooden, flimsily-padded chair.
Spencer is watching Ryan carefully, his eyes sweeping over the thin rail of Ryan's body. The fingers of Ryan's left hand twist into the itchy, light-blue blanket that's covering him up to the waist.
"Do you need anything else?" Spencer asks. Ryan shakes his head, his dirty curls falling into his eyes and tickling at the back of his neck. He hasn't taken a proper shower in weeks, living instead on sponge baths or warm washcloths or baby wipes. Ryan has to push himself down the length of the bed to even get his head rested on the rough pillows, his heels hanging off of the edge of the bed once again. Ryan rolls onto his side, his back to Spencer, facing the salmon pink wall. He stares at the strange pattern on the wall until his eyes hurt. He can feel Spencer's warm gaze on his back as the silence overtakes the two of them once again.
It hasn’t been strange. That might be because now no one is talking about music. The two of them have been stripped of their bands and reverted back to teens; they’re just Ryan and Spencer. Even if things had been bad, Ryan still trusts Spencer; even if it’s annoying to have him around constantly, Ryan is still glad that he’s here.
***
Jon shows up at the hospital while Ryan feigns sleep. Spencer's eyes are closed and his head is lolling back slightly, but when Jon walks in the room, Spencer’s eyes snap open and he sits up straight. He relaxes when he sees that it's Jon in the room and not a doctor, a nurse, or Ryan's physical therapist. Jon raises his hands up in something that could be considered a mix between a wave and a sign that Spencer takes to mean, 'Sorry for waking you.' Spencer presses the heel of his hands to his eyes and shakes his head. Ryan can feel Jon’s eyes scanning his lithe form stretched out in the hospital bed.
Ryan continues to fake sleep, most of the time he isn’t up for talking or visitors so he stays curled in the bed, his eyes shut but his ears pricked."How long has he been asleep?" Jon whispers as he moves across the room, setting the plastic bag full of things that he’s brought for Ryan on the floor. Spencer shrugs.
"About an hour and a half. What are you doing back up here?" Spencer asks. His voice is thin and he sounds pretty tired, though he looks it more than he sounds.
"Brendon and I have decided that your shift at the hospital is over. You need to go back to Bren's place and relax, Nurse Smith," Jon teases. Spencer doesn't even crack a smile. The room is stuffy and has that strong chemical smell combined with the spicy scent of the body spray that Spencer's been using in place of a shower. Spencer shakes his head, dirty bangs slipping into his eyes.
"I can't. He needs me," Spencer tells Jon. Jon scratches at the back of his neck.
"Spence, you need real sleep in a real bed and food that isn't served in a cafeteria. Brendon even offered to cook you something," Jon says. Spencer chews on his bottom lip and glances at Ryan's sleeping form, Jon's gaze following. Ryan knows why Jon and Spencer worry. Ever since the accident, he just doesn't talk anymore. Ryan’s sure Jon can count the number of times that he's heard Ryan's voice in a month and a half on one hand. When Ryan does talk, it's usually only to Spencer, and even then, it isn't more than a few fragmented sentences.
"I don't know, Jon," Spencer sighs, and he sounds young to Ryan’s ears. He sounds his age - and really, they're all still too young for this, but Jon's the oldest and apparently he's not afraid of sitting in silence with Ryan.
"He'll be fine. I'll keep him safe,” Ryan hears Jon say and he recalls a similar conversation that he knows Jon and Spencer had had back when Panic had decided to split. Back then, he had promised that he'd keep Ryan out of trouble. Neither of them mentions that conversation now. Ryan figures that Spencer must finally relent because he hears Spencer stand and stretch, his skin losing the warm, brown tan that it had when Ryan was first admitted to the hospital because he no longer spends a good portion of his time surfing and recording music with Brendon.
"Fine, yeah, but tell him that I won't be gone long and call me if he wants you to," Spencer says. Ryan cringes, they sound like they’re talking about a child and not someone who’s actually older than Spencer. Ryan thinks he can feel Spencer throw a glance back at Ryan's form as he slips from the room. Jon stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.
***
Jon is messing around with his cell phone when Ryan rolls over onto his back, his brown eyes cracking open, narrowed against the constantly-humming florescent hospital lights. Ryan blinks at him a few times and arches an eyebrow. Jon tries out a small smile.
"Spence was in desperate need of a shower," Jon tells him. Ryan doesn't say anything; he doesn’t bother to tell Jon that he was awake the whole time and heard everything. He just turns his gaze up to the white ceiling. "I, ah … I brought you some stuff," Jon tells Ryan. He grabs up the plastic bag and hauls it on to his lap. Ryan turns his head to watch Jon. "I brought some checkers. I had Brendon teach me and I figured that I could teach you if you wanted?"
Ryan gives a half-shrug. "The fans sent some more cards … some art and stuff. Do you want to see?" Jon tries. This is where he and Spencer are different. Spencer doesn't try to break the silence that weaves itself around Ryan, enveloping him and hardening over him like a thick shell. Jon, on the other hand, tries to get them talking because he knows that before they talked, and they laughed, and they were close. Brendon doesn't do well here because he's never good with silence and he gets bored easy. Combine that with Brendon's paranoia that he's going to somehow piss Ryan off and, well, it winds up being Spencer and Jon up here a lot.
Ryan clears his throat and Jon looks hopeful like he’s thinking ‘Finally, Ryan finally wants to talk to me’ before Ryan reaches for the tall glass of ice water sitting beside the bed instead. Ryan's long, nimble fingers tremble and Jon recognizes what that means. He stands uneasily.
"You, um ... want me to get that, Ryan?"
Ryan rolls his eyes and makes to grab the cup on his own. His left arm jerks and he ends up knocking the cup over with the side of his palm instead of picking it up. Water pools on the plywood tray that the cup had been sitting on. Ryan pulls back like he's been burned and Jon grabs up a towel from the little stack of them sitting next to the sink in the room. Ryan's eyes are heavy, and he turns them down to look at his offending traitorous hand.
"You could've asked, Ryan. I'm here to help," Jon says casually as he soaks up the cool water, the squares of ice sliding and melting against the top of the tray. Ryan's fingers tighten into the fabric of the blanket.
"I don't want help." Ryan's voice is rough to Ryan’s own ears. It sounds foreign and empty, like Ryan is a stranger, someone that he's never met before. There's a knock on the door before more can be said- an effort to be polite made by the staff. The door opens and one of Ryan's nurses comes into the room. Her red hair is pulled up into a ponytail and she's wearing bright pink scrubs, pushing in a cart full of supplies. Ryan crinkles his nose in her direction. Ryan can’t remember her name and he doesn’t think Jon knows it either. Spencer knows all of Ryan's team's names by heart.
"Good evening, Ryan. How are you?" the nurse asks. Ryan doesn't say anything. His head is ducked down, and with all of those curls, he looks akin to a little boy whose being scolded. When Ryan doesn't answer, the nurse turns to Jon.
"Um ... he slept a bit. He had, ah ... his arm jerked," Jon tells her. Ryan throws Jon a scathing look. He doesn’t need to tell the staff every move he makes. The nurse just nods though and slides a pen out of the front pocket of her scrub shirt. She picks up Ryan's chart from the cart and flips it open before she scribbles something down.
"Well, Mr. Ross, you're due for your dressings to be changed," the nurse says. Ryan's scowl deepens. Om average he hates having his dressings changed but with Jon here watching it’s even worse."It has to be done or you'll get an infection," she adds, as if she's hearing all the words Ryan isn't saying. Ryan sighs, gives in because he can’t fight it and Jon reclaims his uncomfortable seat in the corner. The nurse tugs on a pair of latex gloves before she gathers up the soft, white roll of gauze, the anti-septic gel, and the bandages. Jon's never really been around to watch Ryan's bandages being changed and Ryan even wants him to see.
"Should I ... do you want me to leave the room, Ryan?" Jon asks. Ryan's head whips up fast, his eyes widened slightly. He shakes his head and his curls poke him in the eyes. Ryan lifts his previous traitor of a left hand and brushes away his hair. He doesn’t want Jon to go, if there’s something he hates more than dealing with the staff it’s dealing with the staff on his own. Jon settles back into the seat as the nurse slides up to Ryan's side. She tugs the blanket down to Ryan's hips, the pale, papery gown washing out his skin. The nurse gets her arms around his neck and undoes the tie that keeps the gown on Ryan. She lowers it carefully over Ryan's right shoulder. He slowly becomes exposed to Jon, his pale side, and Ryan is sure Jon can count the sharp line of his ribs poking out slightly against his skin.
Ryan wants Jon wants to focus on the sharp angles of Ryan's body or the way that his hair is steadily getting longer. He doesn't want Jon to stare at where the nurse is using scissors to cut open the bandages and gauze that are wrapped around Ryan's right shoulder and down what's left of his arm. She gets Ryan's arm free, and even though Jon doesn't want to stare, he can't bring himself to look away.
Jon watches the nurse peel away the bandages that conceal the aftermath of the car accident ... the car accident that Ryan hasn’t talked about. Jon remembers the accident, though; and even though Ryan won’t talk about it, Jon will and Ryan’s heard enough to gather up what happened. Jon had been the one to tell Spencer and Brendon what he remembered of the accident. They had been driving to the next venue, their Denver date. It was raining out, hard sheets drizzling down on them. Jon says he had been asleep when it all took place, but he’s also talked to Andy and the Nicks and Will, and he’s pieced together enough to have a cohesive account of the accident.
Will had lost control of the van. It wasn’t his fault, not really, but Will has yet to forgive himself. He resigned as their tour manager shortly after the accident. Jon still talks to him and Ryan sends the occasional text, telling Will to come see him when he’s in town with fun. - his current gig “Only until the Young Veins come off hiatus.” Andy and the Nicks, along with Will, all walked away from the crash mostly uninjured or at least nowhere near as badly as Ryan had been.
Andy was awake during the crash. He was the only one besides Will who was conscious during it. Andy’s leg was broken in the crash, crushed by a suitcase that had flown up from the back of the van. Andy still can’t walk, temporarily confined to a wheelchair or a set of crutches. Jon says he hasn’t seen him in weeks because he hasn’t been to Chicago lately. He’s been staying with Brendon and Spencer, sleeping in Brendon’s second guest bedroom. A broken leg wasn’t the only injury Andy walked away from the crash with, though. He was shaken mentally and it took him nearly a month to feel safe driving in a car, let alone going anywhere close to a highway.
Nick Murray gained a small gash on his hand and a few broken fingers. He comes to visit Ryan a lot. He’ll bring Ryan his mail and tell Ryan about some records he found. He spins yarns about breaking Ryan out of the hospital late at night and taking him out for drinks. They both know that it’ll never happen, but Nick tells him the tales all the same.
Most of the time, when Ryan is asleep or just doesn’t feel like talking while Jon is visiting the hospital Jon says he’ll think of the crash. He’s told the story of how he had been asleep that night, sharing a bench with Andy. He’s said how everything happened so fast that for the first two weeks after the accident, the weeks that Jon spent in the hospital, Jon didn’t even know what had happened. He had to run through the scenario in his mind over and over again until it all made sense. Jon had woken up at the first impact. The van had skidded into oncoming traffic and flipped as a result of the hit. Jon says he doesn’t remember when the van flipped. He says he thinks that he must’ve hit his head against the roof or the hard plastic of the interior or the millions of other objects lobbing around the van.
He says he remembers waking up briefly when the van was tilted on its side. His vision blurred and his head rung - the beginnings of a concussion, the doctors had decided when Jon spent those two weeks in the hospital. The next time that Jon had awoke, the van was upright once again and he says he could hear the blaring of sirens and White shaking him, asking him if he was alright.
Jon says he still shudders at the memories. He says he had been so afraid that night. The paramedics had cut the crumpled van doors open, helped them out. Jon says he remembers seeing the van as they left the scene, how the vehicle they had been traveling in now resembled a tin soda can that had been squeezed tight. Jon's said head swam in a blur of lights and noises and he was disoriented so he never saw what Ryan looked like before the paramedics loaded him up. Andy had later informed Jon that he did see Ryan, and that the sight wasn’t a pretty one.
Ryan’s arm had been out the window when the van was hit for the second time and turned upright. His right arm was crushed when the van rolled, nearly torn completely from his body. The doctors had done all that they could, but Ryan’s arm was unsalvageable. An infection had set in, leaving no other choice but to remove it. Ryan's arm had to be amputated from the elbow down.
The nurse is cleaning the hard, angry, scarred skin of Ryan’s appendage. Ryan is biting his lip and staring down at the blanket, but after a moment, he looks up and meets Jon's eyes. Ryan’s afraid he’ll turn away from this side of Ryan that he’ll cower in disgust. Jon smiles though, small and comforting, like he’s hoping to ease Ryan’s fears. It doesn’t, but it helps.
***
“You’re scheduled for therapy today, Mr. Ross,” Carly, Ryan’s usual nurse, tells him. She’s finishing up re-applying the dressing on Ryan’s ruined arm. He hates that she calls him Mr. Ross, but he doesn’t fight it. It took the staff three weeks to stop calling him George, and in the end, it was stopped only because of Spencer, who had to complain enough times about it happening.
“I don’t feel like therapy today,” Ryan tells her quietly. He hates it most of the time. How many times is he expected to sit there and move the same plastic cup back and forth or put together the same thick, wooden puzzle pieces?
Carly clucks. “You need to work on your dexterity,” she says. She flips through his chart again. “Your friend mentioned that you had an incident earlier.” Ryan looks up and narrows his eyes at Jon. Spencer wouldn’t have ratted him out, but he would also make Ryan go to physical therapy. Jon bites his lip and ducks his head. He has the grace to look sheepish about his slip-up.
“His arm jerked. That’s a nerve problem, isn’t it?” Jon asks, trying to save Ryan at the last minute.
Carly looks back over her shoulder at Jon. “It might be, but most likely, it’s Mr. Ross’ hand weakening from skipping his therapy sessions. You’ve missed the last three. You’ll never get better at this rate, Mr. Ross.”
Ryan knows that Nurse Carly means well, but he can’t bite back his words. “I’ll never be better. I’m missing an arm. There’s no going back from that,” Ryan snaps. Carly must be used to patients yelling at her, or maybe she’s just used to Ryan, because his words don’t even phase her. Ryan’s mood hasn’t exactly been the greatest this last month and a half, but he has the right to be angry. Anyone would be angry. His band was in an accident and Ryan lost most of his arm. He’s a musician and he lost his arm.
“Therapy,” Carly says. “You should go.”
“Fine,” Ryan hisses.
Carly tells Ryan that one of the attendants will be back within the hour to take him to the Therapy Center, a large space, sort of like a class room or a gymnasium, that’s located on the third floor of the hospital. Ryan typically sits at a long, white table, his daily activities spread out before him. His physical therapist is a man named Albert. Ryan doesn’t know for sure, since he’s never asked, but he’s sure that Albert is around the same age as him. Sometimes - and it isn’t often, because one wrong thought leads to a million dark thoughts that set Ryan on edge - he wonders if Albert knows who Ryan is … who Ryan was.
Carly leaves the room and Ryan flexes his hand, testing his strength.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan hears Jon say. Ryan looks up and Jon is frowning at the floor. “I shouldn’t have said anything to her.” Ryan shrugs. He can still do that and he considers that a bittersweet victory.
“They’d make me go anyway. It doesn’t really matter what you or I say.”
“I think,” Jon starts. Ryan watches him. He’s taken to doing that a lot since his stay in the hospital. He gets bored, restless, tired of watching the tiny TV in his room, watching people instead. He likes to see how they react to him in particular. Spencer is tight and cautious, ready to spring into action at Ryan’s word. Brendon - on the rare occasion that he had come to see Ryan - had been nervous, fidgeting, but Ryan didn’t blame him. If the tables had been turned … well, he can’t say that he’d like to sit up here and watch Brendon struggle. Jon is calm, though, like he always is. That didn’t change post-accident. Jon doesn’t mind just sitting and existing alongside Ryan. “I think that this is the most that you’ve said to me in weeks,” Jon finishes. It takes Ryan a dazed moment to remember what they were talking about.
“It wasn’t anything personal. I wasn’t upset at you.” It’s the truth. There’s just so much to say. Ryan can’t even bring himself to broach the subjects. It’s all a line of association. Jon and Ryan are in a band, you need two hands to play a guitar, and you need to be able to write lyrics. Ryan doesn’t like to think about music, not now, not for a while.
Jon smiles a real smile at him, not something soft and watery and says, “I know.”
Ryan spends the next hour listening to Jon read the fans’ letters aloud. Ryan’s pretty sure that Jon omits certain parts - maybe questions about the music, maybe insults, Ryan isn’t sure - but it’s still nice to hear the positive things; it’s always nice to have support. They’d managed to keep the accident under wraps for the first two weeks. Will took to Twitter and told the fans that unfortunately the rest of the tour they were embarking upon would be cancelled. At the time, he had blamed a family emergency. Ryan’s stomach twists when he thinks of those first two weeks. Ryan wasn’t conscious for them, in a medical-induced coma, and Ryan knows now that Will was waiting to announce anything truthful to the media until they knew whether or not Ryan would live.
Once Ryan awoke - minus an arm - they had allowed Will and the label to make an announcement about what had really happened in that car accident in Colorado. Ryan caught the story on the television during one of the few occasions that he’d been flipping around MTV. The reactions were varied. The accident did little to discourage the band’s haters, and more than once on the curious occasions where he’d been allowed his iPhone - he can manage to work it one-handed - he’s witnessed the tweets, the people who say that this is his punishment for leaving Panic. Mostly, though, there were well wishes and support. Old grudges tend to be left behind when you nearly die.
In the middle of one of the letters, a nurse comes in to take Ryan. She’s no one Ryan recognizes, but he’s never been good at placing names with faces. Jon folds the letter and smiles at her before she sets her sights on Ryan. Ryan makes no attempt to be as kind as Jon.
The nurse wants to take Ryan in a wheelchair, but he declines. He lost his arm, not his leg; he can walk just fine. The doctors had told him after the accident that the loss of an arm could result in his body becoming confused, his legs jerking and stumbling out from underneath him. He can walk - he does so occasionally to the bathroom and back, and sometimes, late at night, when most patients are asleep and there are no nosey visitors, he’ll walk a loop around his floor of the hospital. Sometimes, he’ll lose his balance, feel oddly weighted on his left side, but it’s no hindrance. He refuses to let another limb crap out on him.
The nurse ties Ryan’s papery gown up along the back. He’s wearing boxers under his gown. He’s been here long enough that he thinks that he’s earned some kind of better outfit, but there’s nothing else. A hospital isn’t meant to be a place of comfort; this isn’t Ryan’s second home.
“He’ll be gone for an hour and a half,” the nurse tells Jon. “In case you wanted to get some sleep or a shower or head home for a while.”
“I’ll probably go make some phone calls. Is that okay, Ryan? I won’t leave.”
Ryan nods. He doesn’t mean to grow silent around the staff, but he’s never enjoyed hospitals, having encountered them one too many times in his life. He remembers coming here with his father, when Spencer had the severe case of chicken pox and gave them to Ryan, and the accident now. He feels displaced from the regular world, separated on his own personal planet. He’s used to being odd or different than most, but this isn’t something that he can hide; he can’t disguise it, because it’s obvious just from one glance that Ryan is different than everyone else now.
Ryan leaves Jon and the safe bubble of his hospital room to follow the nurse to the elevators. She asks him how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten today. Ryan answers her questions as simply as he can. He doesn’t want to discuss what happened. It’s not as if he can really pretend, because he can’t. His body is in a constant foreign state: it’s his, but at the same time, not his own.
The hospital itself is comforting; everything is clean and white and permeates a feeling of safety. What sets Ryan on edge are the people milling around everywhere - café workers from downstairs on their breaks, people visiting their family members, flower deliverers. There are a million reasons for a person to be in a hospital and Ryan lives in fear that one of these people will recognize him.
He’s never been comfortable with his body - too thin, too tall, too gangly, too ugly - but now he can’t even stand to look at himself, at the way that he’s marred permanently with an uneven, empty space. He doesn’t want to be known or seen. He doesn’t want mirrors or photos. He wants to feel complete, the way that everyone else does.
The third floor Therapy Center is sparsely filled. Ryan’s been down here a few times when there have been whole groups of people, meetings being held on mats on the floor or little circles of metal chairs. There are different stations for different people. The work tables where Ryan will be sitting are pushed back near the far wall on the right side of the room. There are metal bars that extend horizontally from wall to wall; they always remind Ryan of Keltie and her dance studios. There are tables for patients to lie on and be worked over, as well as tumble mats and trampolines and stations that have metal rings hanging down like monkey bars.
Ryan only ever sits at the table with Albert, continuously putting together the same three puzzles, each a varying difficulty, or writing his name over and over again, or picking up and setting down small objects: a ball, a cup, plastic silverware from the cafeteria.
The nurse leads Ryan to the table and helps him sit. That’s the thing about hospitals: it can all be too much. Ryan is missing an arm, yes, but he can sit in a chair. His point is weakened when he sits too swiftly and has to scrabble at the nurse’s arm to maintain his balance when, prior to the accident, he could’ve just rested his right arm against the metal seat of the chair.
Albert comes in a few moments later in his green scrubs, smiling at Ryan. “Well, we haven’t seen you in a long while, Mr. Ross.”
“Ryan,” Ryan tries.
Albert nods. “Oh, right! See, if you came more often, I would’ve remembered that.”
The nurse flips open Ryan’s chart, scanning it before telling Albert of the incident that Ryan had earlier. Albert hums and opens his own folder of information, jotting something down.
“We’ll have to work on holding and moving today, then.”
Ryan doesn’t argue. He’d like to get stronger, he would; the repetition kills him, though. The nurse leaves while Albert goes to the double glass doors of the storage closet and brings back a plastic tub of Ryan’s therapy supplies. Albert sets out the cup, the ball, a toy cell phone, and silverware. Ryan watches Albert almost in vain. He wonders if Albert, because of the work he does, really appreciates his functioning limbs. At the end of the day, when Albert goes home and eats dinner and goes to bed, does he realize just how lucky he is to be fully functioning?
“Have you been feeling a loss of strength in your hand, Ryan?” Albert asks. Ryan remembers when people used to have to distinguish which hand they were asking a question about. Now there is no question, only one choice.
Ryan flexes his hand. It aches, his long fingers twitching. Ryan can akin the feeling in his left hand to those exercises people sometimes do where they have to squeeze the rubber ball and, no matter how hard you squeeze, you never feel as strong with that hand as the hand that you favor.
“Yeah, maybe a bit, if it was ever there at all.”
“Okay, well, it’ll be easy today. Just move the items from the right side of the table to the left and repeat, and if you feel up to it, maybe we’ll jump to something else.”
Ryan nods and begins his therapy. It’s nothing that should be hard. Ryan remembers how easy it all used to be. He remembers playing games with Spencer when they were kids, pretending to have lost their sight and giggling as they kept their eyes closed and bumped into the walls, tables, and each other. Ryan remembers playing the variation of that game where you were dared to go the whole day pretending that you didn’t have a hand or a foot, an arm or a leg. Ryan remembers that he could never last more than ten minutes playing those games.
Albert leaves Ryan after ten minutes so that he can check on the other patients that he has down here. Ryan watches his hand as he closes it around the hard, plastic cup. It feels awkward and there are slight tremors running through Ryan’s hand and wrist. He shakes like it’s a huge strain. He hates this. He hates therapy and coming down here and facing just how weak he is now, how incapable he is of caring for himself. Ryan manages to move the cup, but then he takes a small break.
He stretches his arm out in front of him, long and lonely. He looks even paler under the florescent lights, even thinner since his stay in the hospital. Ryan’s eyes take in the dark smattering of ink along his wrist, the words still embedded in his skin. Thin as a dime. The companion to the words was lost along with Ryan’s arm. When he had gotten the tattoos done, nearly everyone had reminded him of how it would be permanent, how he would have the words forever, so he’d better like them a hell of a lot. Ryan knows now that nothing is ever permanent.
Ryan spends his hour and a half in therapy. Albert is pleased at the end of their session, but Ryan is tired and his hand and arm aches. The same nurse that had accompanied Ryan downstairs comes back to reclaim him and escort him back to his room once his session is over. Albert had passed on a copy of Ryan’s progress to the nurse. Sometimes, that’s all Ryan feels like: a case, scraps of information passed from one person to the next.
Jon is waiting for Ryan in his room, already seated back in his chair. He looks eager, a little like a parent who’s excited to know how their child did on a test. The nurse settles Ryan back on his bed and covers his lap with the rough blanket. The nurse opens the folder and scans the information Albert had passed on.
“Dr. Deen had good things to say about your sessions today,” the nurse says with a smile. In the corner of the room, Ryan can see Jon's face light up. Ryan wishes he could have the sort of enthusiasm that Jon has about this whole situation. “Dr. Harken will want to talk to you today,” she tells him. Ryan nods to show he’s listening. Dr. Harken is Ryan’s main doctor, though he wasn’t the one who performed the amputation on Ryan’s arm - that was a doctor that Ryan never met while in the hospital in Colorado. Ryan doesn’t see him much. Dr. Harken would rather use the nurses to pass on any information Ryan might need. The nurse leaves shortly after that, moving on to other patients with their folders, their scraps of information.
“I’m glad therapy went okay,” Jon says once the nurse is gone. Ryan makes a small noise of acknowledgement.
“It’s not too hard. It’s tiring. I don’t sleep well here.”
“It’ll be better when you get home, back to your own bed.”
“Maybe.” Ryan only answers because Jon looks like he’s waiting for one. He doesn’t know how to tell Jon or Spencer or anyone that he’s scared to go home. He hates the hospital, but it’s safe and there are people who can take care of him. Ryan’s home is just a musty, empty place where the remnants of Ryan’s life used to be. Ryan knows Spencer stops by there twice a week with Brendon to open windows and keep the place tidy in anticipation for Ryan’s return, but there’s nowhere that feels like home anymore.
Their conversation dies down after that and Ryan falls into a hazy, medicated sleep. He can hear faintly, like its part of a dream, Jon humming. Ryan can’t place the song, but it’s comforting all the same. When he dreams, Ryan is complete: two arms, two legs, full and happy. Very rarely do the dark corners of Ryan’s mind creep into his sleep, the last conscious moments before the crash replaying over and over like a movie that Ryan can’t shut off. That doesn’t happen this time, though. He just feels warm all over.
***
Ryan is awake an hour later to eat his lunch. He’s inelegant in his movements now. Every task is without grace, just a means to get by. He hadn’t wanted to ask Jon for help with eating, choosing instead to stab at the bland meal spread out on his plate. Doctor Harken comes to see Ryan an hour after lunch. He has Ryan’s folder tucked under the arm of his long lab coat and he smiles at Ryan as he enters the room.
“Ryan! I’m glad to see you’ve begun attending therapy once again,” Dr. Harken says. He’s too cheerful for his job, for the sort of news he delivers. “It’ll really speed up your recovery process if you keep participating.” It’s what Ryan always hears from Harken. He says that Ryan will ‘feel better if has a more positive outlook on his life,’ ‘if he acts like he’s a victim, then that’s all he’ll ever be’. “The patient’s mindset is half the battle,” Dr. Harken reminds Ryan.
This is the first time Jon's ever been around Doctor Harken. He leans forward to catch the doctor’s words like they alone will cure Ryan. Dr. Harken lowers Ryan’s gown over his shoulder, his stub, but he doesn’t unwrap the dressing around the appendage. Dr. Harken just feels around Ryan’s stump, over the bandages, touching and prodding. “You’ve been healing nicely. I’d say you’re pretty close to getting yourself out of here, Mr. Ross.”
Jon breaks into a full-on grin, but Ryan feels a flutter of nerves bubble in his chest. “There is some information I wanted to pass along. It’s not an order, but I highly recommend that you attend a support group for amputees.” Ryan visibly flinches at the word. He hates all sorts of labels: emo, hipster, drug addict, now amputee. Dr. Harken opens Ryan’s patient folder and withdraws a pamphlet. He has to reach over a little awkwardly, leaning over Ryan to make sure that he takes the pamphlet in his hand.
The pamphlet is for a support group entitled ‘Life Is Not a Limb: Living with and Recovering from an Amputation’. Ryan doesn’t open it, his arm tired, but he does stare down at the bright illustration of a man and woman smiling at each other. The man is missing an arm and the woman, who’s in a wheelchair, is missing her leg. Ryan looks back up to Dr. Harken and, behind him, Jon.
“Talking to others who are going through the same thing you are is valuable to your recovery, Ryan. If you complete this support group course, I’d have no problem sending you home.”
Again, the burst of nerves in Ryan’s chest flutters, but he manages a small smile. “I’ll go then, I guess,” Ryan says. Dr. Harken nods, smiles, and closes up Ryan’s folder.
“ I’ll have Nurse Carly set up the dates and make the arrangements. The support group is in the annex connected to the right wing of the hospital. We can have one of your staff escort you. You’re welcome to bring a friend,” Dr. Harken says as he glances back at Jon.
Ryan nods. He doesn’t care about the fine details. The nurse will come to take him and he’ll attend the group and then he’ll go home. The details after that are what he cares about. Dr. Harken takes his leave with a promise to check up on Ryan later. Jon picks up the plastic bag of goodies he’d brought with him and says, “Checkers?”
***
Spencer is at the hospital the day Ryan is slated to begin his group therapy. Spencer already knows about Ryan attending physical therapy and his impending visit to the group therapy session later that day. Jon didn’t tell Spencer like Ryan had thought would happen. No, Spencer gathered all his information that morning while chatting with Ryan’s nurses as he walked the hallways, not wanting to wake Ryan up before he really had to.
Spencer is sitting in the uncomfortable chair, head bowed, typing out a quick text on his phone. His hair is the longest Ryan’s ever seen it, like Spencer is so caught up in Ryan’s recovery that he can’t take the time to get himself a haircut. Spencer has also gained back some of the weight he had lost in the half-year that Ryan and Spencer hadn’t talked. Spencer and, by proxy, Brendon have halted work on the third Panic album. They’d stopped working on it after they found out about the accident. Ryan never asks about it and Spencer never talks about it. Ryan only knows because Jon had mentioned it during one of his idle conversations with Ryan. He’s not sure if they stopped working on the album out of respect for Ryan and the situation or because Spencer is spending ninety-five percent of his time at the hospital … or both.
“Do you want me to go to the group with you?” Spencer asks. He looks up and brushes his hair away from his face.
“You don’t have to. It’ll be boring, I bet.”
“I was looking at the pamphlet. It said that a friend understanding what you’re going through is a huge step to recovery.”
“Then come with me. I don’t really care either way,” Ryan snaps. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just Albert had sent up some work for him to do in his room: thick sheets of paper and several writing instruments, a pen, pencil, fat markers and sharpies. Albert told him to write, write whatever he wanted, but the most valuable thing would be his name.
The paper in front of Ryan on the plywood tray attached to a mobile arm is crammed with messy scribbles that only vaguely look like George Ryan Ross the third. Ryan is working with the marker, thick and clumsy in his fingers. Ryan has the desperate urge to switch hands, his body and mind rejecting the idea of writing with his left hand. It’s frustrating, and every smudge, every unreadable word, is like a slap in the face, reminding him of how different his life is now.
“I’ll go. I’ll sit in the back in case you need me. I want to hear what they have to say,” Spencer decides for them. Ryan nods and his fingers twitch, skewing the R in his middle name.
Eventually the nurse, Carly, comes to escort Ryan to the group meeting. They walk in a line down the maze of hallways. Carly leads Ryan, Spencer hangs back, and Ryan is tucked, protected, between the two of them. The group meets up in a large room that looks like a renovated classroom, complete with a chalkboard stretching along the wall and metal folding chairs formed into a loose circle. There are a few people already situated in the chairs or seated in their wheelchairs, awaiting the beginning of the meeting.
Carly introduces Ryan and Spencer to the group leader, Mark. He’s short and thin and has a nice smile. He’s also missing an arm. Mark is missing his left, opposite of Ryan’s right. Ryan realizes pretty quickly that they can’t shake hands. Mark seems to have encountered this before (of course he has) and offers Ryan his fist instead. “We use fist bumps around here. It’s almost as good as a handshake,” Mark jokes. Ryan laughs awkwardly and allows Carly and Spencer to help him to a seat, Spencer claiming one of his own in the back, near the door.
As the minutes leading up to the beginning of the meeting grow shorter and shorter, more and more people show up. Most, if not all, of the metal folding chairs are taken by the time the meeting starts. There is a little boy sitting to Ryan’s left, probably around eight or nine, and he too is missing an arm - his right arm, just like Ryan.
“Hi,” the little boy says, peering up at Ryan with big brown eyes and a smile. “My name is Sam. What’s your name?”
“I’m Ryan.” Ryan is a little startled that this boy has decided to talk to him. He’s never been good with children, and these last few weeks, Ryan’s been living in this shell, convinced that, to the outside world, he looks just as off-putting as he feels. This little kid is smiling at him, though, and Ryan finds after a long moment that he’s smiling back.
“What happened to your arm?” Sam asks. He points to the ruins of Ryan’s right arm. Ryan isn’t sure if this is a group thing or just a child’s curiosity, but either way, he figures he’d better get used to it.
“I got into a very bad car accident.” From behind him, Ryan can feel the weight of Spencer’s gaze. He wonders what Spencer thinks of this conversation, if he’ll ask about it later. Sam’s eyes brighten as Ryan gives him the answer and he bounces a bit, nodding sagely.
“Me, too. I was driving with my daddy and we crashed. My arm got pulled off and the police found it in a field by our car. Did that happen to you, too?” Sam asks. Ryan is blown away by the easy, forthcoming way Sam talks about what happened to him. Ryan hasn’t talked about the crash with anyone, yet here’s this child, telling him the gory details of his own accident.
“Um … no. They took my arm after I was here. I woke up and it was gone.”
“Were you sad? I was sad,” Sam admits.
“I’m still sad. I’m mad, too.”
“That’s why you come here!” Sam tells Ryan, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Mr. Mark will make you not mad anymore.”
“Sam,” Ryan says after a long moment. Sam looks up at him with his tiny body, still growing, and Ryan can only imagine the kind of pain the kid will feel as his bones stretch with age. “Is your Daddy okay?”
Sam screws up his face, his shaggy, sandy-blonde hair slipping into his eyes. “No, my daddy went to heaven with Grandma. That’s what my Mom said.”
Ryan wishes he never would’ve asked. It’s true that Ryan lost both his father and his arm, but not at the same time. He can’t even imagine handling both of those issues at the same time, yet this little boy is sitting here and telling Ryan that he won’t be sad. It’s jarring, but it’s hopeful at the same time.
“My dad is in heaven, too,” Ryan says after a small silence.
***
The meeting is filled with nothing Ryan hasn’t heard before. Mark talks about how important it is to have your family supporting you. Ryan balks at the idea. Post-accident, Spencer had called Ryan’s mother. She’d flown out the very next day and showed up in Ryan’s hospital room, a weeping, jittery mess.
Ryan remembers his mother fawning over him. She was worse than Spencer; she cried more. She kept telling him that “this happened for a reason. I know this was meant to happen. This is our chance to come together again.” She would clutch his good hand and kiss it, crying on him. Ryan scoffs at the idea. He was fated to lose his arm so he could reconnect to his mother, who left him in the first place? If his father dying wasn’t enough to bring Ryan and his mother back together, then nothing ever will.
She hadn’t stayed long, just long enough to make sure Ryan would live. When Ryan declined her invitation to come and live with her and his step-brother after he was released from the hospital, she had handed the reigns over to Spencer, kissed Ryan on the forehead, and then she was gone.
Other than his mom, Ryan has no other family to lend their support. It’s Spencer and Jon slipping into the roles of his parents, providing a backbone. Ryan looks back over his shoulder at Spencer. Spencer is paying attention to Mark, but his gaze drifts to Ryan and he smiles small. Ryan is suddenly very glad that Spencer ignored him and decided to come along.
Throughout the meeting, Ryan can’t stop thinking about how different his life is now than it was a mere five months ago. He feels a bit like he’s traveled back into the past even though he’s nowhere near the same person he was before. Half a year ago, Ryan wasn’t even communicating with Spencer or Brendon; he spent all his time with Jon and Alex and Z and all his other friends in Echo Park. Everything is backwards now. Ryan sees Spencer nearly every day. He hasn’t talked to Alex or Vincent in two months.
Alex had come up to see Ryan after the accident, after Ryan was transferred from the first hospital he was taken to in Colorado and flown to the main hospital, where he now resides in L.A. He didn’t stay long. He made sure Ryan was okay, called Ryan an asshole for sticking his arm out the window, promised to keep the local hipsters updated with information, and left. Ryan had been pretty blissed out on his pain medication and doesn’t remember the conversation all that much. Regardless, Alex hasn’t been back since. Ryan does get the occasional text message from Alex, something along the lines of “I’m at the greatest party ever, wish you were here.” Ryan never knows what to say back to shit like that.
Ryan gets that it must be hard to see him in such a state, even harder if you’re someone like Alex, a floater whose life is all music and partying and crashing on strangers’ couches, sleeping until your next drink. There’s no place for an amputee in Ryan’s old group of friends. He can’t picture himself living that sort of life anymore. He can’t even drink because of the medication he’s on; even if he could, he’s not sure he’d want to. Ryan’s already lost so much control over himself and he doesn’t want to risk losing any more. He can’t stay out all night or fall asleep on couches or slip away with the aid of drugs. That can’t be his life anymore, and as a result, he’s lost touch with the people who still live that way.
Z was touring with The Like when the accident happened. Jon said she had called, how she said it’d be days before she could be there to see Ryan. He said she was crying. Z cancelled a few shows and came to be with Ryan. Ryan remembers waking up and seeing her sitting there at his side. She looked so out of place in the sterile environment of the hospital, a blonde doll in her bright mini-dress and knee socks, her dramatic make-up. She was a comfortable memory, a piece of home.
Z had told Ryan that she wanted to cancel the rest of their tour to stay and help, but Ryan told her no, to go because that’s what he wanted her to do. Fuck, if he still had his arm, that’s what he would be doing, and nothing would keep him from it. It took some convincing, but she finally gave in and decided to finish out the tour. “But then I’ll be back, okay? Right here with you.” She had kissed him gently on the mouth before she left the room.
They’re still dating, still together, but Ryan hasn’t spoken to her in two weeks.
"The loss of a limb is equivalent to the loss of a close relative," Mark says. He walks the small circle of chairs, smiling at the people filling them. Ryan is comfortable here. Everyone is going through the same thing and there are people who are nodding and smiling and there’s Sam, who’s staring at Mark like he’s seeing a God who can save them all. It helps to think maybe Ryan could one day feel like that, too, shed this cynical skin, leave the fear, and live like he had before.
Carly doesn’t come to collect Ryan after the group meeting is over. It doesn’t matter because Spencer is there and it’s not a long or dangerous walk back to Ryan’s room. “I don’t know if I told you, but -” Ryan starts. Spencer looks up at Ryan. “I appreciate you coming here, doing all of this for me, considering all that happened.”
“It’s nothing, Ryan. I didn’t even have to think about it. They called me and told me what happened and I just knew. There was no hesitation, you know? You’re my best friend - in the past, now, and always. If you need me, I’ll be here. You would do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”
Ryan says yes without a thought, without hesitation, but if he really thinks about it … he doesn’t want to admit it, but he wouldn’t be here half as much as Spencer is now if it were the other way around. He’d be like Alex, he’d be touring like Z, and he’d be sending encouraging text messages as the minimum means of contact, just enough to get by. He says, “Yes, I would be there, without a doubt.”
Ryan gets back to his room and eats dinner, but he can’t stop thinking about the circle of people around him and the words Mark had said. What really sticks with Ryan are the words about how the amputee needs to remember the person they were before the accident: “Reclaim your former self!” as Mark likes to say. The keys to recovery include remembering who you are and being seen as the same person you were before by your friends and family. Ryan has read the pamphlet that Dr. Harken had given him, has practically memorized the information, and he knows now that if the amputee themselves cannot see their self as that same person then their friends, their family need to act as a buffer; they need to see Ryan as a full person.
Ryan doesn’t see himself. He sees the space empty and full, invisible and evident at the same time. Spencer leaves to grab some coffee and some of the mediocre food from the café downstairs. Ryan lies there thinking while Spencer is gone. He feigns sleep when Spencer returns. He doesn’t want to talk; even if he did, he’s too caught up in his own thoughts to carry on a conversation right now. He pretends to sleep until he really does slip into unconsciousness.
Part two