A/N- Thanks so much for the support again on the last chapter. You guys are making it hard for us to hold out on the chapters. So, seeing as how I'm weak and easily persuaded, here's the next installment. If you're enjoying this one and need some balancing, when you're done reading, go check out Brandywine's story that I so affectionately refer to as 'The Anti-Chino', Strawberry. It's well worth the read. Enjoy Chapter Five.
- J (of JBKAF)
The Chino
Chapter Five
Theresa's surgery went fine but she had to stay three extra days. I'm supposed to pick her up in a couple of hours.
I have so much to do. I'm tired again. Not "so tired I can barely keep my eyes open", more like, "so tired that I think I'm dead." Between visiting Theresa in the hospital, twelve hour shifts at the factory and the basic care-taking of Eva, I think just might be dead.
It's been four days since the death of my child, and it still feels like I died, too.
Right now, I'm painting the nursery. It just can't be the way it was when Theresa was last here. Eva agrees with me, she's the one that brought it up. She told me that I should take care of it before her baby saw it. So I'm painting over the clouds and mountains. It looks almost like it did when Arturo was still here. It took a few coats, but now I can't even see the outlines anymore. The baby is gone and so is the nursery. I burned the crib and rocking chair yesterday. I probably wouldn't have been able to get anything for them anyway. It wasn't as therapeutic as I'd expected.
The phone is ringing but I can't find the energy to walk over and answer it. It's probably the Cohens again. They've been to visit Theresa every day but I keep missing them.
Between work and Eva, it's actually not on purpose, it's just scheduling that brings them to the hospital while I'm busy trying to salvage our fragile financial situation.
The answering machine clicks on. "Ryan? It's Kirsten again. We're still trying to see you. Will you call us when you're home? Please?"
I sigh and walk over and pick up the phone, silencing her echoing voice. "Hey." I can't avoid them forever.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah. Sorry, I was in the other room."
"How are you?"
"I'm good. Theresa's coming home today. I'm just trying to get everything ready for her before I go to work."
There's a pause and I can tell that she's about to say something that I don't want to hear.
"You've been working?"
"Yeah."
"Theresa … she said you were … but we had hoped …." She sighs. "Can I see you? Can we talk?"
"I have a lot to do today, Kirsten." The worry in her voice is too much for me. She really means well, but I can't see her. Her pity. Her concern. I can't take it right now. It would be so easy for me to just close my eyes and let her hug me and make everything okay, but I can't. I don't belong there.
"I'm not going to tell you how worried we are, but I'm also not going to let you keep pushing us away …."
"Kirsten, things are just really busy right now."
"Twelve hour shifts. Theresa's surgery. Theresa's sick mother. Yeah, I'd say you were pretty busy." Her voice isn't angry, just serious. She's laying all her cards on the table.
How does she know?
"Theresa's worried about you, too. She told us everything. Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because. I can handle it."
"You can't. You shouldn't have to."
"I'm handling it."
"Ryan, please. Will you just see us? You haven't seen Seth since the night he got back, do you know how upset he is?"
Way to add to my guilt. Give me something else, I can handle it. Throw another monkey on my back. Make me responsible for Seth's happiness as well as Theresa's health and Eva's health and our finances. That's just what I need.
"I have to go. I'll call you when I get a minute. Maybe we can work something out."
"You'll come home?" she asks.
Doesn't she know yet?
"I am home."
-------------------/--------------------/-------------------/--------------------
There's no time to rest. I finished turning the nursery back into a bedroom and gave Eva her meds. She's anxious to see her daughter and gave me specific instructions to bring her straight in to see her after getting her home.
I'm anxious to get Theresa home, too. She's been in that hospital too long.
I stop the car at the patient pick up area and I see her in a wheelchair by the door. She has a cigarette in her mouth and she's looking over a stack of papers.
"What are you doing here? Am I late?" I know I'm not late.
"No, I just asked them to bring me on down. It's such a dirty habit," she snorts, glaring at the cigarette in her hand.
"Yeah, I know." I take the smoke from her and inhale deeply.
"You didn't tell me that you'd met with the financial lady, Ryan." Her eyes are searching my face.
"I told you I'd take care of everything."
"There's no way we can afford this …."
"Let's get you home." I push the wheelchair to the car and she gets up by herself. I know that she's almost fine now, the doctors say she can go back to work as soon as next week, but it's still hard for me to watch her. She's so fragile. I don't know if I'll ever see her as anything but breakable after the past few weeks.
"Ryan, are you going to talk to me?" she asks once I get into the driver's seat.
"What? About what?"
She sighs.
I can't stop the anger inside from spilling out. "You don't want to talk to me. You have the Cohens to talk to. If you'd wanted to talk to me, you wouldn't have told them all about our business." I don't mean to lash out, but I have to say something. I feel betrayed that she would tell them about our personal life. It's like she doesn't trust me to handle things.
"Ryan, where is this coming from?" Her voice is quietly and subdued.
I don't answer. There's nothing that I can do. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm so tired that I'm not thinking straight. I don't want to upset her.
"The Cohens came to see me. Sandy and Kirsten - even Seth. They're nice people and … they're worried about you. I'm worried about you."
"Since when, Theresa?"
"God, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you being so stubborn?"
I'm not talking anymore. Talking only makes things worse. It's better to keep things inside where no one can see the pain.
"Ryan?"
I glance over at her. She's hurt. She's upset. Well, at least that's something I'm used to dealing with.
"So you're just not going to talk at all? Great. Just what I need …."
I won't let her get me riled up. I can't handle being angry at her right now.
"God dammit, Ryan! Talk to me!" she orders, pulling on my arm.
"Why did you tell your mother that we were getting married?"
Her pale face flushes red. "What?"
She heard me. I'm not going to repeat it. I pull the car into our driveway and turn to her.
"Ryan, I … I'm sorry."
"You lied to me. You lied to her. Do you know how much that hurts me? That you didn't even tell me? I mean …."
"I'm sorry. She just wouldn't let it go and she's so sick … I couldn't upset her and tell her that we weren't getting married. I just couldn't."
"You should have told me. And you shouldn't have gone to the Cohens behind my back."
"I'm trying to look out for you, you're so … you're not okay, Ryan. You're just … not okay. And I don't know what to do when you won't even talk to me."
"You want me to talk to you? When should I talk to you, Theresa? When do I have the fucking time to talk to you? I don't have time to fucking breathe most days and you want me to talk to you?" This is getting out of control. I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to yell at her. I just want things to settle down. I need some quiet. Peace. Silence. That's all I need. I need a plateau so I can catch my breath and figure out where to go from here.
Everything's just spiraling out of control. Even with the baby gone, things are still fucking spinning.
"Ryan? Ryan, look at me." Theresa has her hands on my face and her dark eyes are full of worry.
"What?" I'm dizzy but that doesn't explain why she looks so worried; she's close to panic.
"God …." She shoves me angrily. "See? You can't even see that you're making yourself sick! What am I supposed to do if you're sick? I won't be responsible for you, not like this …."
"You're not responsible for me," I snap. What the hell is she talking about?
"You came here because of me and you're still here because of me … but I don't want you like this. Why won't you listen to me?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say … that I love you too much to watch you die here …," she says seriously.
"I'm not dying, Theresa."
"You're fooling yourself if you think you can go on this way. You almost passed out mid-sentence. What's gonna happen if you're driving when that happens? Or you're working and you fall out again? What am I supposed to do when you finally collapse?"
I close my eyes to try and ignore the spots dancing in my vision. I know I need to rest, and I realize that I can't remember the last time that I ate something, but I haven't been hungry since the death of my child. Eating, sleeping ... there's nothing that I need anymore. I'm breathing and that's enough.
"Let's go inside. I need to see Ma," Theresa states. She gets out of the car. I pick up the paperwork before she can grab it and follow her up the steps.
"I'm sorry," she says, turning to me and opening her arms. I accept her hug but it doesn't affect me. She needs to do it and I have to let her think that she's doing something useful.
"Go see your mother."
Theresa disappears inside.
---------------------/----------------------/-------------------/-------------------
I sit down on the porch and light a cigarette. My lungs are congested but I can work around it. I inhale deeply and start to flip through the medical bills. Without insurance, it's impossible to get affordable help. Medicine is expensive. Surgery is expensive. I swear, losing this kid is more expensive than when we were planning on raising it. The numbers dance around on the page.
I put the paid bills on one side of the step and the stack of unpaid and upcoming bills on the other. I don't know how I'm going to afford this. The banks are no help to a seventeen-year-old kid that's trying to pay off his girlfriend's miscarriage; that's what parents are for. I don't have any and Theresa's mom is too sick.
It seems so insignificant - the money. I mean, a child is dead - a child that never had a chance to breathe the air - but the only thing that remains of this child is the debt that came from losing it. I don't want to have to worry about this. I don't want to have to keep living this way. At least before, I was paying for this child's life, but now … I'm paying for its death. I'm working myself to the bone to pay for the loss of my child. It's not fair.
I jump when something brushes against my knee. I blink to regain focus and glance over to my left, seeing Sandy sitting beside me. I don't know how long he's been there, but he's intently looking over the bills.
"Hey," I whisper.
"Hey. I said hello, but you were distracted. I can see why," Sandy says quietly.
"What's going on?"
"I wanted to see you. Heard you got a lecture from Kirsten this morning, so I figured it was my turn to give it a shot." Sandy doesn't look away from the paperwork while he talks. "You think that you can pay for this?"
"How's Seth?" I try to take the pages from him, but he holds firm and I'm simply too tired to fight him.
"Upset. He's worried about you. Says that you call every day but he can't seem to catch you in person. He thinks you're avoiding him. I wish I could tell him that he's wrong."
"I've been busy. I just got Theresa home a few minutes ago. I haven't had a second to spare."
"You look like hell, kid."
"Thanks." At least he's honest.
"What's going on? How are you going to pay for this?" Sandy asks.
"I'll take care of it." I manage to get the bills away from him but I'm not counting on my shaking hands. The papers slip from my fingers and scatter across the lawn as the wind catches them. I scramble to get them as they flutter out of my reach. I finally manage to gather the papers in a haphazard stack against my chest.
"Ryan, sit down."
I sit down and slide the paperwork under my leg so it doesn't fly away again.
"You can't do this."
"I can."
"You can't. If you'd actually take a moment to look at yourself, you'd know that. You're a smart kid, but you're not Superman. You can't possibly think that you can afford this … supporting Theresa and her mother. You can't."
"I have to do this. I have to. They don't have anyone else."
"They're not your responsibility anymore. Theresa knows that, why don't you?" Sandy asks.
"I don't know. Why don't you ask Theresa?"
Sandy sighs. He's clearly frustrated with me but I don't think that there's any way that I can change his opinion right now.
"I'm worried about you. I'm more worried about you than I've ever been. I was wrong to think that you could handle something like this."
"I have handled it. I can handle it."
"You are seventeen years old. You are not capable of handling something like this. It's out of your hands now."
Whose hands is it in? Who else is going to take care of this? "I took on this responsibility when I came here. They don't have anyone else."
"But you do. You're family, and Theresa is part of your family now which makes her a part of ours. Let us help you. It's time for you to come home."
"I can't. I can't leave her." I can't just abandon her here. I can't leave her in Chino while I go back to that posh life. I don't belong in Newport anymore. I never did. I don't belong here either, but I don't have anywhere else to go. I turn my face away from Sandy. He puts his arm around me but I can't look at him. It's too much. This is too much.
We both sit in silence for what feels like hours. I close my eyes against the blinding sun and try to ignore the fact that the world is spinning.
"When was the last time you ate?"
I keep my eyes closed and shrug lightly. I honestly don't remember. These past few days have felt like they've gone on for years. I can't possibly remember everything I've done in that time.
"Why don't you let me take you somewhere to get a good meal. I'm sure you can direct me to a decent restaurant around here."
I don't want to eat - especially at a restaurant. I just feel like every single penny should be used wisely. Even though I know Sandy would pay, it just seems like such a waste.
Besides, I don't have time. I have a meeting this afternoon at the only bank left that hasn't turned me down for a loan. I'm clinging to threads, but I have to give it a shot. We need this money more than I need an expensive meal served by an overly pleasant waiter who's just looking for a generous tip.
"I can't. I have an appointment this afternoon and I have … things I need to do." I can hear my voice shake as I talk. At this rate, Sandy's never going to leave me alone.
"At least let me pick something up for you …."
"Sandy." I try to sound firm and aggravated, but my words come out airy with desperation. I can't deal with having to push him away right now.
I grab the stack of bills from under my leg and move to stand. Once again, I stumble forward. Sandy reacts just as quickly as he had the first time around, and grabs onto my shoulder to steady my body. The whiteness overwhelms my vision for several seconds longer than usual. I feel sick. I don't want to move or open my eyes.
"Ryan, why don't you just sit down and let me get you something to eat."
I can hear him, but I don't want to acknowledge him. He, and all the Cohens, makes it so hard for me to be what I have to be. It's hard enough as it is. I have to get away.
I crack my eyes open to test my vision. A few small spots dance around in front of my eyes but quickly fade. I pull my shoulder away from Sandy. He lets me go but holds out an arm, gesturing for me to sit. There isn't time for sitting and talking and fancy restaurants. This isn't Newport. I've got responsibilities.
I glance at my watch. It only takes me fifteen minutes to get to the bank, and though I don't need to be there for another half an hour, I need the excuse.
"I've got to go, Sandy. I'll call you."
I grab the keys out of my pocket and head straight for Theresa's car. I'm unsteady on my feet - like I'm floating - but I can't stop now.
I throw the bills on the passenger seat and start the engine. I usually give it a minute or so to warm up, but that's not an option today. Immediately shifting into reverse, I pull out of the driveway.
I allow my eyes to drift to the front of the house before I drive away. Sandy's standing on the porch, watching me sadly. His shoulders are hunched in defeat. I turn my eyes away. I can't handle another disapproving stare. Can't they see I'm doing the best I can? It's just never enough.
--------------------/---------------------/---------------------/-------------------
"I'm sorry, Mr. ... Atwood, is it?"
I nod and swallow. I've heard it all before. I can feel it coming.
"We cannot grant you the loan you applied for."
My last tiny light of hope has been extinguished. This is it. This is rock bottom. I don't know what we're going to do.
"Can I interest you in starting one of our higher interest, long term savings accounts, though?"
Savings? If I had money to save, would I even be here? I have to get out of here.
"No, thank-you," I answer politely. I want to scream and yell, but can't burn any bridges. I may need these people again in the future.
I grab my folder off the table and start to stand. I wait for it. I know it's going to come. Lately, it's been constant. Sure enough, a sharp wave of dizziness nearly knocks me off my feet. I sway and grab onto the desk beside me, closing my eyes and waiting. I'll wait. Wait for it to cease.
"Mr. Atwood?"
It'll just be a couple more seconds.
"Are you okay, sir?"
If I were capable, I'd laugh at her choice of words. She must have thirty years on me. Unfortunately, nothing's funny at the moment.
I open my eyes again and go through the blinking process. My vision returns quickly but the room continues to spin.
"I'm fine."
She take a step toward me, but I step away. I just want to get out of here.
"Thank-you for your time," I whisper as I move to the door.
I leave the bank in a hurry. Once outside, I fall back against the brick wall and shut my eyes tightly. I open them a few seconds later only to find that the world is still caught in a spin cycle. It's making me nauseous. I need to get home. I can't work like this. If only I had gotten that loan …. I can't think about that. It didn't happen. I knew it wouldn't. It still hurts, nonetheless.
I make it to the car and pull out my pack of smokes. One lousy cigarette. I hope it's enough. I can't afford any more. At all.
I ignite my lighter with shaky hands and try to pull the smoke in as deep as my shuddering body will allow. I wait until it burns and then exhale. I want to feel every drag.
I lean my head back and close my eyes. The downhill spiral continues. If only I'd known, a few days ago, how good I'd had it. I suppose happiness is all relative. And though I thought the exact same thoughts last week, I now truly believe things can't get any worse.
The drive home is a blur. I stay under the speed limit because I can barely make out my surroundings. At one point, I actually consider putting on my hazards. I would have probably been safer walking along the side of the highway. Miraculously, I make it home unharmed.
Much to my relief, Sandy's left. I notice that he'd gathered a couple more bills that must have been floating around, and stuck them under the empty flower pot on the step.
"Give it back!"
The young girl from next door is yelling at her older brother, who appears to have taken her doll and is holding it at the mercy of a pair of scissors.
The boy continues to taunt his sister, the scissors coming a little closer to decapitating the doll with every passing second.
"MOM!"
The frazzled lady runs out onto the porch, places her hands on her hips before scolding her little boy. "Michael, give your sister back her Barbie."
The boy rolls his eyes and tosses the doll back at the little girl.
Satisfied, the woman wanders back into the house. I reach down to grab the bills from under the flower pot, but jolt upright when the girl screams loudly.
"MICHAEL! NO!"
I look up to see the boy snatching the doll out of his sister's hands once again, holding it high above his head and out of her reach.
She jumps up and down, but doesn't come close to touching the doll with her outstretched hand.
I wince as she lets out a shrill scream that I'm sure could have broken glass.
I can hear stomping coming from inside before I see the large man emerge, beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.
"What the fuck is goin' on here?!" he screams loudly.
"He took my Barbie!"
The boy now has the doll at his side, his eyes are wide with fear.
The man storms over to the boy, whips the doll out of his hand, and slaps him across the face. The boy touches his fingers to his red flesh, but keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.
"And you!" he yells at the little girl, who's waiting for her doll to be returned safely. He throws the doll at her feet and slaps her across the face as well. "No fuckin' screaming! You hear?!"
She starts to cry, falling to the ground and hugging the doll close to her chest.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The woman is now standing behind the aggressive man, her hands balled tightly into fist at her side. For the first time, she looks completely in control.
"Control these fuckin' children of yours, dammit!"
She steps closer to him, tilting her head, her jaw set angrily. "Don't you ever touch my babies again. Do you understand me?"
The man snorts out a laugh. "Get over yourself, woman!" His shoulder connects with hers as he weaves his way back into the house.
The woman reacts quickly, picking her daughter up off the ground and hugging her closely as the little girl continues to sob. Her head is on a swivel as she searches for her other child that was also a victim on the scene. She stands up, holding her daughter in her arms and spins several times as she tries to seek out her son.
She won't find him. He's invisible.
I pull my eyes away from the familiar nightmare that just occurred in front of me, and open the squeaky screen door. I enter slowly, allowing my already failing eyes extra time to adjust to the change in light. It takes longer than usual. I feel my eyes burning and, once again, I'm forced to squeeze them shut and wait.
"Ryan? What are you doing?"
I open my eyelids and look at Theresa. She's swaying in and out of focus and I'm forced to close my eyes again.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. She isn't saying anything. At least I don't hear anything.
"What's wrong?" she whispers into my ear.
I'm relieved to find that when I open my eyes for the third time, my focus is returning.
The room continues to spin, but I can make out Theresa's worried features.
"It's nothing. We … We didn't get the loan."
She sighs and squeezes her fingers. I'm not sure she realizes how critical this loan is, but she must at least understand its importance to some degree because she doesn't say anything else.
"Did you give your mother her shot?" I see her face change a little when I switch subjects. We need to focus on things we can actually accomplish.
"No. Not yet."
I nod and start for Eva's room. She doesn't stop me, but continues to stand in the entranceway.
I knock softly on Eva's door and she promptly urges me to come in.
"How are you, Eva?"
"I'm fine, sweetheart."
I walk over to the dresser to prepare her insulin shot.
"Actually, Ryan, I've already taken care of that."
I continue to fill the syringe. For some reason, her words take a while to register.
"Ryan?"
I stop, realizing what she's said.
I slowly turn around. "Theresa said …."
"I did it, Ryan."
She smiles awkwardly. I blink a few times and nod while gently placing the syringe back on the dresser.
It's good. I want to tell her that's good news, but I can't find the words. My head's spinning too fast and I feel like I'm upside down. My stomach turns and lean forward to quell the pain and regain my bearings. Nothing.
It just keeps moving faster. I don't know if Eva's talking to me. My ears are filled with a piercing ringing.
I stumble through the door to the hallway and try my hand at breathing out there. Still nothing. My chest is tight and won't allow anything but shallow intakes of oxygen. I think I see Theresa standing at the end of the hall facing me, but I can't be sure.
The spinning continues to intensify until I'm sure that I can't fight the nausea any more. I run my hand along the wall until I feel the cut-out of the bathroom door. Theresa's closer to me now. I think. It's hard to tell. I turn away form her and stumble into the bathroom. My left shin connects with the bathtub, but I can't feel the pain associated with the collision.
I somehow make it to the far wall, where I assume the toilet is, and drop heavily to my knees. I can't see anything now. No spots, no blurry depictions of figures; it's all white.
I feel for the porcelain rim before expelling my stomach of all it's contents. There's nothing in me. I know that. There hasn't been for far too long and now I'm suffering the consequences. Why does everything have to hurt so much?
I feel hands on my back. Warm hands that sooth my shuddering slightly.
Still, the only sounds I can make out are the harsh ringing and my own gasping.
The hands move to my shoulders, rubbing large circles. I close my eyes and try to suppress the panic that's coursing rapidly through my entire body. The hands pull me back. I'm sitting now.
The ringing is slowly receding. I can hear Theresa's voice, I think, but I can't make out what she saying. It's soft. Quiet. Soothing.
The hands brush across my forehead and then through my hair. I can't tell what I'm leaning against, but it's warm as well. Still, I can't stop shivering.
I try to open my eyes and I see a washed out version of the bathroom. Everything's overdeveloped. I close them again when the stinging resumes.
Theresa's shushing me. I can hear her more clearly now.
"Shhh. It's okay."
I'd hardly refer to it as "okay." Nothing that's "okay" hurts this much.
I try my vision once more. It's better this time. Fuzzy, but not as bright.
My support suddenly disappears, but the hands on my shoulders prevent me from falling backward.
"Can you try to stand up?"
She's pulling on my hands. I try to go along with it, but my body won't completely cooperate. She shouldn't be pulling me to my feet. She just had surgery a few days ago.
"Theresa … no." I don't even know if she can hear me; I can barely hear myself. I can see her face now and she doesn't look at all put off by my objections.
"Yes. Here." She places an arm around my back. I'm suddenly on my feet but I have no idea how I got here.
She starts walking and I'm forced to follow. The world is slowly coming back to me. I can hear and see her somewhat clearly. I don't trust myself, though. I don't think I could remain on my feet if she were to let go. My stomach's still in my throat and I'm not sure that removing me from the bathroom is such a good idea.
"Lie down."
We're in the bedroom. Thank God it's right across the hall. I comply and let my body fall onto the cool sheets that she's pulled down.
She's rearranging my legs. I'd try to do it myself but it would take too much energy. Energy that I just don't have. I can't even keep my eyes open.
Again, her hands brush across my forehead. Followed by her lips. She kisses me softly before pulling away.
"I'm going to get you some juice."
"No." My attempt at a firm command comes out as a feeble mumble.
"You have to get some sugar in your system," she answers patiently, quietly. She's surprisingly calm. I can't really tell, though. It's still all a blurry mess.
I don't think I can eat or drink anything right now, but I realize that when she's this calm and sure of herself, there's no winning an argument.
She pulls the sheet up to my chest and brushes my hair back once more. I can't believe how cold I am. I want to pull up all the covers, but I can't muster the energy to tell her or do it myself.
My body begins to relax and I'm finally able to take some deep - albeit shuddering - breaths.
"I'll be back," she whispers. I hear her leaving the room.
"Is he okay?" Eva's voice floats in from the hallway.
"No, Ma, he's not."
The door clicks shut behind her and I can't force myself to remain conscious any longer. It's been far too long as it is.