"Don't worry, Marissa," Dawn slurred from the back seat, "A.J and Ryan are always butting heads. They're just going to make up now, and it'll all be fine. We'll get a little going-away gift, and we'll go out to this hotel you all keep talking about."
Summer couldn't even stir up the energy to turn around and gape at the woman anymore. She was taking back every, single damn negative thing she'd ever said against Ryan, every time she'd been the supportive girlfriend and blindly taken Marissa's side in an argument. If, after living with these crazy people, he wasn't going all Norman Bates in the Cohens' kitchen with a bagel slicer, he was a lot saner than anyone had any right to be.
She looked down at her glowing phone, the numbers still punched in for 911. She could call. She would call -- well, she would if Ryan wasn't back out in another ten minutes. What else could she do?
She looked at the rapidly-blinking message light on her phone. She was in so fucking far over her head. She needed to talk to someone. But who? Seth and Zach were as useless as she was, Marissa was even worse. She had promised that she wouldn't call Sandy or Kirsten.
Besides, what kind of conversation would that be, anyway?
"Hi, Sandy. This is Summer Roberts. Your kinda sorta foster son just got his head bashed in while I babysat his heroin-addled mother in the parking lot of a no-tell motel somewhere in Reno, Nevada. Oh, and by the way, he may or may not be prostituting himself in said motel at this very minute to keep his mother's boyfriend from hurting her, or me. Or possibly to gain access to her clothes. Or drugs. Who knows, really? Any lawyerly and/or fatherly advice for me? Yeah, I didn't think so."
Just as she decided that she would never, ever answer her phone for any reason, the familiar tinkly strains of "Margaritaville" made her cell jump in her hand. Damnit!
"Coop?" she answered, alternating between watching Dawn's eager face in the rearview mirror, and anxiously watching the motel door for any sign of movement inside.
"Sum? Oh thank God! Where have you been? Seth and I have been trying to get a hold of you all day, and we weren't sure what's happening, and now Sandy and Kirsten are getting suspicious, and …"
"Coop? Coop! You have to take a breath. Chill, honey," she ordered, Oh, she was so being the Social Chair next year. After this hellish experience, Kick-Off Carnival planning would seem like a breeze.
"What's going on, Sum? Where's Ryan? Is his mom okay?"
She sighed.
"In order? I can't tell you, but it's mostly okay. He's talking with Dawn's boyfriend, and she's in my backseat on her way to rehab. I can't really talk to you right now, though, okay? Just, pass the message on to Cohen, and we'll call as soon as we can. I'll have Ryan call Sandy on my phone. He'll never suspect that we're alone together somewhere."
She watched as the door to the motel room finally flung open again. This time Ryan was alone, carrying a couple of suitcases and a cardboard box.
"Sum? What aren't you telling me?" Marissa demanded, but Summer was already hanging up.
"Sorry, Coop. Gotta go. I'll call soon," she promised as she shut her phone and unlocked the doors.
As she started to get out of the car to help, Ryan stopped her with a shake of his head. He limped around to the tailgate, and waited patiently for her to find the release. She heard him groan as he lifted the cases into the back of the SUV, and situated the cardboard box carefully between them.
He hobbled back around to the front passenger seat, and climbed in gingerly. Summer was watching him carefully, but she didn't know quite what she was watching for. The worst of the dirt and blood had been washed from his face and hands, and his black t-shirt was damp.
"That's as much of your stuff as A.J.'s willing to give up, Ma," he said softly. "I got the important stuff, though. Clothes, the box. Everything else . . . " he faltered for just a moment, "Everything else, we'll get for you after you're discharged, okay? New tv, new microwave, the whole works. I promise."
"Did you get my package, Ry? Do you have a package for me?" Dawn asked urgently from the backseat, showing more focus and drive than Summer had seen from her all day.
"Yeah, Mom. I do," he said. He turned stiffly to Summer as the door to the motel room swung open again. "Can we just get out of here, please?" he asked, and she nodded, throwing the car into reverse as A.J.'s silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"We have an hour," he said tightly, as the man-mountain swaggered down the street with grim satisfaction, waving cheerfully as they passed. Ryan seemed not to notice that he was still bleeding from several places on his face. "If we hurry, we can still make it to the clinic before six."
From the backseat, Dawn began pleading for her "package" again.
"Can you please just find someplace -- an alley, a parking deck -- someplace private -- where we can pull over for five minutes?" he asked again in that same, tight voice.
Summer headed towards the strip, and pulled into the first service entrance that she saw. She looked around carefully, but they were alone, and the only cameras she could see were pointed at the service entrance in front of them. She wasn't entirely sure what the mysterious package was, but she had a pretty good idea, and she really didn't want her father's car caught on Inside Edition anytime soon.
"I think this is the best we're going to do," she said apologetically, "If we want to make it to the clinic before six."
Ryan nodded, and then grimaced in pain. It actually hurt just to look at his battered face. How on earth had he survived an earlier, Cohen-less existence? Did no teacher ever notice him walk into her classroom looking like he did right now? Didn't anyone think it was weird that the soccer player kept falling down the stairs of his one-story house?
She hated everyone right now.
Ryan twisted painfully in his seat, and then dug into his pants pocket for a small, leather case. He pushed it through the seats back to Dawn.
"There's only enough for one hit there. It's the same stuff you've been using. But, it has to be your last, Mom," Ryan said in a deep, serious voice. She had never heard him sound so grim. "I can't -- I can't do this again. And neither can you," he added.
But Dawn was already gone. As soon as the case appeared, she had eyes only for it. Without a second thought, or a hint of shame, she shed the hoodie she had borrowed from Ryan and began to tie off a vein. He turned back, eyes focused somewhere ahead of them, but Summer couldn't help but watch, horrified and fascinated. This was so much more effective than any anti-drug lecture some basketball player with a nose for blow could ever give. Summer was pretty sure she wouldn't even want to take a Midol after this.
It looked like a fairly straightforward process, but Dawn seemed utterly frustrated by it. After a minute, she called Ryan's name softly.
"No, Mom," he said flatly, without turning around. "How are we on time?" he asked Summer, still staring ahead.
"Okay, I guess, but we'll be cutting it close. I'll program the GPS now, while we're, uh, waiting," she added.
"Ry? C'mon, kiddo. You always were the best at this. For the last time? Make it good for your old mom, hunh, baby?" Dawn wheedled from the back seat.
Summer's skin crawled involuntarily. She watched a similar shudder pass through Ryan as he closed his eyes briefly.
"How close are we cutting it?" he asked softly.
"Give or take ten minutes," Summer answered. With a deep sigh, he climbed out of the front seat and into the deserted parking lot. He took another deep breath, and then opened the back door and climbed in.
"Let me see, Ma," he coaxed gently, taking the needle and the rubber tubing out of Dawn's shaking hands. This time, Summer looked away, even as Dawn began to babble.
"I used to tell the neighbors that this was my good boy. He was going to be a doctor -- look at that, not even a stick."
Summer could hear Ryan's shallow breathing, but she would not, could not, look at him. She heard Dawn's sigh, and the sharp sound of a zipper being closed. He climbed out of the back seat, and paused briefly before returning to the car empty-handed.
"Can you just back straight out, please?" he said quietly.
"Ry? What did you do?" Dawn asked hazily, but her head was already beginning to nod again.
Summer just nodded and put the car back into gear. She felt a soft bump as they ran over the works, but then they were on their way.
Following the soft GPS directions gave them a fairly straight route to Sagewinds. Ryan sat beside her, his eyes closed, and Dawn snored softly in the back seat. Summer snuck a glance at him, and he immediately opened his eyes.
"You still okay to drive?" he murmured, his own eyes at half-mast.
"I'm fine," she answered, equally softly. "At least while the sun's up. We're almost there, anyway."
"Thanks," he said again, and then, even softer, "Sorry. About, you know, everything,"
She shook her head and listened for the last turnoff.
"Is that the Ryan Atwood Global Apology for Everything Wrong in the Universe?" she asked. He looked at her, eyes narrowed further.
"What?"
She attempted a smile.
"Seth warned me. He said that, left unchecked, you would be sure that global warming and the war in Iraq were somehow your fault. I'm not supposed to pay any attention to it."
He looked at her and shook his head.
"You know that's not it," he protested.
She waved him off and pointed to an intricate gravel driveway that wound up a shaded hill.
"I think this is it. And please, you've got to know that not a single thing that happened today is your fault. Except, maybe the fact that you and Seth can't seem to convince the Cohens to buy you your own damn car," she added, with another attempt at levity.
It looked, from the corner of her eye, as though he tried to smile, so she was going to consider that mission accomplished.
In the end, Sagewinds was the easiest part of their day.
Although they made it with just minutes to spare, the whole staff was assembled to greet them. The Cathy with whom Ryan had spoken turned out to be a blonde in her twenties with a pixie cut and a big grin, who reminded them both reassuringly of Anna Stern. When the orderlies accompanied Cathy to the car with a wheelchair, Dawn was still out cold.
"I'm sorry," Ryan said, over and over. "We waited too long, She had to get high . . . "
One of the orderlies finally cut him off gently.
"It's fine, son. We'll put her straight into detox, and by the time she wakes up, she'll be feeling a whole lot better."
They loaded her gently into the chair, but Ryan stopped them before they could take her away. He squatted in front of his mother, trying to rouse her with little success. In the end, he simply brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her softly on the forehead.
The orderlies waved, and started off again, but once more he stopped them. They waited patiently for him to get his thoughts in order.
"Just, just tell her . . . we love her -- her sons, I mean -- and we'll be waiting for her," he said finally, and they nodded respectfully at his words.
"No offense, folks, but you look like thirty miles of bad road," Cathy said as she came to gather them and take them back to the office. "Is everything okay?"
Ryan and Summer took a good look at each other. They'd both been awake and wearing the same clothes for almost two days. Ryan looked exactly like someone had just kicked his ass, but hard, and Summer had never been seen in public with less lipgloss.
They both shrugged wearily.
"It's been -- a long few days," Ryan finally said.
"You can stay here tonight, if you want," Cathy offered, but Ryan was already shaking his head.
"Yeah, most families don't want to be here for the detox; I can't blame them. Anyway, there's motel about two miles down the road. You can't miss it. It's not fancy, but it's clean, and they've got 24-hour room service."
That sounded like the best thing Summer ever heard.
They spent close to another hour, each in separate offices, signing document after document with false names. It gave Summer a certain grim satisfaction to think of the step-monster, hazy from her own drink and drugs, trying to remember when she'd come to Sagewinds Spa. She didn't find out until they were leaving, though, that Ryan had deceived the clinic as well.
"Well, everything's in order, James. Your mother should be fine. We've got all the paperwork we need to admit her, and you'll be able to start communicating again as soon as she's through with detox. I tucked in some pre-printed envelopes, in case you want to write to her, and our card has our e-mail address. It will just be patient's name and our address."
"James?" Summer mouthed in surprise, but Ryan shook his head.
By the time they made it back to the car, it was nearly dusk. Ryan offered to drive again, but Summer figured she could make it a few miles down the road.
"So seriously, James?" she asked when the motel's lights were finally in their field of vision.
"I'm not eighteen. I had to sign her in as Trey." He explained.
"Trey's first name is James? Really? That -- that doesn't suit him at all," she declared.
Ryan laughed wearily.
"Did you really think my parents named him Trey? It's James Patrick Atwood III, after my dad, and my grandfather," he pointed out.
"So, do you, like, remember much about your Dad?" she asked, suddenly tentative again. What the proper topic of conversation to strike after you've watched a friend's mother shoot up in front of you was never covered in Peggy's Cotillion classes.
"He's not dead, Summer," Ryan snapped, and she had to remind herself that he was not only having the worst weekend ever, but that he'd been awake for almost forty straight hours.
"Sorry," she said simply. She glanced over, and Ryan was slumped in his seat, hands over his eyes.
"No, I'm sorry. That's -- it's not your fault. I don't really remember much about him. He was sent away when I was only eight, and we only went to see him once or twice after that. We used to get letters from him every once in awhile, but they stopped coming eventually. I don't know if it was because of the divorce, or if he just lost track of us after one of our moves, or what, but we haven't heard from him in a long time," he said.
"Did you ever think you might want to try to find him again?" she asked.
"Why? So he can ask me to drive across the state and get beat up for him, too?"
At that, Ryan began to laugh, at first low, but then verging on hysterically, until, by the time she pulled into the parking lot of the Motel 6, she wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying.