More SaCiT coming very soon, I promise. Until then, here's a short, angsty, experimental piece I threw together.
"Would you like some dinner?"
A deep line forms across his forehead, like the thought is coming from directly beneath his skin. The corners of his lips curve downward slightly before he shakes his head faintly. Subtly. Barely a denial but definitely not acceptance.
His tie hangs loosely from around his shoulders, his collar standing upright, pushing the hair at the bottom of his neck unnaturally upwards.
I want to say more. Encourage him to eat with us. To eat at all. To at least try – or pretend – to live in the aftermath of this disaster, but Sandy's words from the night before echo through the recesses of my mind, a constant reminder through repetition. "Don't push when he's so close to the edge."
So I turn on my heel, and go about wrapping up the plate I had made for him and placing it in the fridge, knowing full well the contents will find their way into the garbage a few days later.
We eat to the tune of cutlery tapping politely on china. A loud grinding screech causes my head to jerk up, but Seth smiles apologetically, resting the offending knife on the edge of his plate.
Ryan, I notice, hasn't moved. His socked feet pulled up onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands—one resting directly on top of the other—hovering steadily just below his nose. The only sign of movement is the slight bob of his head, indicated by the knuckle of his right thumb grazing his lips before he moves back again. The process continues throughout our meal, the quiet almost indiscernible rocking. The rhythm consistent like a metronome, composure precarious like a time bomb.
I catch Sandy looking at him. I see the fear and worry and genuine concern etching patterns around his mouth. I recognize the struggle in his eyes, the fight between parental obligation and personal respect—so much like my own inner conflict but with much more power, knowledge and understanding. A separation that defines the differences in our respective relationships with Ryan—something I've come to accept with little bitterness and much envy.
When Seth stops the constant flow of movement that will forever be attached to his character—his charm—I see him leave. Not physically, of course—we're all too nervous and anxious and overwrought with emotion to do anything without thorough reason—but mentally he disappears. His eyes wander on an unfocused journey through the horrors of these past few days. Eventually, he returns, resumes eating like nothing had happened. Like he'd been here all along. My eyes fall to his shoulder, his starched white shirt tinted with Summer's make-up. Make-up that couldn't withstand the onslaught of tears, embedding its beiges and pinks and blacks into the thickly woven cotton. It'll never be the same as it was before, I realize, no matter how many treatments and washes it endures, but that's something we're all going to have to accept. We'll try our best to clean up, but things will hardly be the same. We need to start again.
Sandy clears the table, Seth loads the dishwasher, and I immerse my ungloved hands into the boiling hot, soapy water to scrub the casserole dish that I'll have to return to a Newpsie with great appreciation sometime over the next week. My pores are shocked at first, but they eventually succumb to the warmth, relaxing until the tips of my fingers are pale and wrinkled.
Sandy returns to the kitchen in a more casual outfit, leaving behind the clothes that are forever associated with only the most extreme emotions possible—both good and bad. Seth nods his approval and mutters something about doing the same, retreating to his room while unbuttoning his stained shirt.
Ryan's position is no different, his body still swaying in and out as if perpetually rotating around an axis, propelled by forces such as gravity and sorrow. Sandy leaves me by the counter, and takes up a seat on the coach next to Ryan, one hand finding a resting spot between his shoulders, an action that seems to cease the flow of movement, popping the bubble—breaking the shield—separating Ryan from the rest of us. And I'm instantly jealous of my husband, and his enviable ability of being able to nudge without pushing. Support without suffocating. Connect without intruding.
I take a step back, away from the couch—and the moment—standing only on the balls of my feet, feeling like I'm doing all of those things just by being present in my own kitchen. Doing all those things Sandy so expertly avoids.
They stay still for several more minutes—my feet cramping, burning, begging for relief, my heels pulling down toward the cool ceramic floor.
Sandy loops a finger around the loosened tie and gently pulls it over Ryan's bowed head. Witnessing this sends an unexpected wave of warmth through my back and chest, a flush of relief drying the thin layer of sweat that has found a home on my face since that horrible phone call. That horrible night.
It's starting. The rest of our lives is beginning.
"I have a headache," Ryan says quietly, dropping his chin into his chest like he has muttered a confession of worldly sin. And, if you're Ryan Atwood, I could see how a simple admission would qualify as such.
Sandy nods like this is the most obvious of news, folding the tie on his lap before speaking. "You haven't eaten. You haven't slept."
They're not questions. Nor are they accusations. They're just the truth. Reason. Reminders.
Ryan turns his head toward Sandy, his watery blue eyes bright with pain and confusion, the most emotion I've seen from him since….
Sandy holds is gaze, and they're communicating. It's that level I'll never reach. That place I might have piggy-backed into once or twice, but have since been expelled from, and justly so.
Ryan's feet slip off the couch and drop to the ground with a thud. A thud that makes me jump—makes my breath leap out of my chest in a gasping announcement. But neither of them look at me. Neither turns a head. I lower my heels to the floor and work my toes vigorously to restore circulation.
Sandy stands first, waiting patiently for Ryan to follow. No words are exchanged. They don't touch. In fact, they seem to be making a conscious effort to avoid any physical contact—staying a constant two feet apart.
They pass me, slowly, and Sandy opens the glass door leading out to the patio separating the kitchen from the pool house. He steps back and allows Ryan to walk through first, his feet dragging lethargically across the ceramic floor, causing a hissing sound that should have gone unnoticed. On any other night.
I follow them at what I estimate to be a safe distance, but everything about this, despite Sandy's natural, unpretentious poise, feels so fragile and breakable.
When Ryan's halfway to his destination, Sandy turns to me, reaching out and squeezing my arm. The tears that slip out of my eyes are both unexpected and unwanted, and I try to pull my hand away to swipe at them, push them away. But Sandy tightens his grip, unwilling to let me go. Behind him, Ryan has vanished into the darkness of the pool house, the door left open in a quiet but noticeable invitation. None of us want to be alone.
The tears slip down my cheeks and fall from my chin. One after another, faster than I thought possible, and suddenly I'm against Sandy, crying openly into his chest, clutching at his soft T-shirt with my fists. All the tension and upset and sadness and despair and a million other emotion I knew the names of but could never really relate to, roll out of me with every sob.
Soft lips graze my forehead, warm palms press tenderly against my cheeks, a blurred image of comfort dancing before my eyes.
"We'll start over," he whispers into my ear.
Again. We'll start over again. But I don't say it. It's simply implied. Which is why there's so much assertion and certainty in his voice. We've been here before. We're experienced, and with experience comes confidence. We've done it before and we'll do it again. Because we can.
"And Ryan?" I ask, because I'm not naïve enough to believe I might actually know the answer already.
Sandy's face clears before me, his honesty and pure faith parting my tears, and at this point, I'll believe anything he says. Because this is the epitome of truth. This is where new beginnings are seeded. Where we find the strength to continue. When he answers my question, my heart adopts it as certainty—the absolution we need to move forward. I know that, once again, our lives will be returned us.
"He's got us."