Sorry for being a day or so late with this update. I was a bit tired and under the weather. This is part five of eight. The other three updates should arrive on time. Thanks, as always, for reading. Double thanks for those, the few, the generous, the reviewing! lol
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Windex
A Seth POV Concerning the Season Two Finale
Part Five
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Seth."
One loud bang of a gunshot.
"Seth?"
And another.
"Seth!"
And another.
My head shoots up and I blink questioningly at my Aunt Hailey, who's staring back at me suspiciously, her head tilted slightly to the side.
Move along, lady; there's nothin' to see here. Just Seth Cohen disintegrating before your very eyes.
"Third time's the charm," I hear her tell my dad.
Rehab and multiple deaths have made for strange bedfellows. Hailey, Dad and me, are all sitting around the kitchen table, eating breakfast. It's as if my family unit has been thrown into a blender and the fruit smoothie household from hell has emerged.
Aunt Hailey points to a plate full of scrambled eggs. "Can you pass the eggs, Seth?"
Here, have them.
Take them, please.
I'll pass on the fucking things altogether, thanks.
They look like a mass of jiggly yellow brains. I lift the plate, like it's made of a toxic substance, and tentatively transfer it into Hailey's outstretched hands.
"Seth?"
"Yeah!" I rotate my head my dad's direction.
"Why aren't you eating?"
I am eating. I ate an orange four hours ago. And then, let's see, before that, last night, Ryan and I ate dinner by ourselves. You remember why we had to eat by ourselves, right, Dad? You were busy taking Mom to go dry up at the pretty detox center. Ryan and I ordered…I don't remember what we ordered for dinner. I seem to recall beef tips but the exact ethnicity is a little fuzzy.
"Seth."
"Yeah, Dad?" I ask quickly, crazy fast.
I'm a verbal jackrabbit, jumpy and twitchy and ready to bolt.
My dad points to the table. "I asked you why you weren't eating. You have to be hungry."
Nope, I'm thinking not so much with the hungry.
Nine cups of coffee tends to curb most every craving. I need a diversion to get my dad off my ass. Evidently, he has a free second in-between saving the rest of Newport, to be my personal dietitian.
I glance at my watch and announce, "Time to go check on Ryan." I scoot my chair backwards, away from the table, but my dad stands up before I do. He's quicker at the chair scooting thing. Always has been.
He tosses his napkin onto the table. "I'll peek in on him. You stay and eat something."
I look up to argue but he's got his eyebrows raised, like two little snakes ready to pounce… well, maybe conjoined snakes ready to pounce…whatever, and I know damn well when not to push my luck. I watch him leave the kitchen and head to the bedroom. I'm convinced that THIS time Ryan's gonna' wake up, and now I'm going to miss it all because of Hailey's freaking Martha Stewart fucking breakfast.
"Care for some eggs?" Hales offers, smirking a smart-ass smile at me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It has been five minutes and I can't stand it any longer.
I'm pretty sure Aunt Hailey is saying something to me, some bullshit about staying at the table and eating, but my body's not up to multitasking, so I give up trying to listen to her in favor of moving down the hallway.
I slip into the bedroom and adjust my eyes to the still dimly lit room. It reminds me of dusk, that gray, twilight feel that comes when day and night high five each other as they pass by. The rest of Casa de Cohen has accepted the arrival of another sunshiny southern California day, bright sunlight filtering through the windows. But in Mom and Dad's bedroom, it's as if the night is still hanging on, like it won't let go of its grip on Ryan.
Ryan, Ryan, speaking of Ryan.
Holy Comebacks, Batman!
It lives.
It's sitting up.
Ryan's on the edge of the bed, hunched over, his head supported by his hands, like he's nursing the granddaddy of all hangovers, bangs pushed up by the force of his fingers pressing against his forehead.
His hair, still sticking out haphazardly, looks like one of those spiny blowfish when they are all puffed out.
My dad is sitting next to him, his hand on Ryan's back, high up, near his shoulders. Neither one of them is talking and for split second I'm terrified that Ryan might be crying.
The old Ryan never cried.
What the fuck am I going to do if he's actually crying?
Now seating Awkward and Uncomfortable…table five.
Shut up, Seth, I tell myself. Your brother didn't die. Your girlfriend isn't the one who shot him. You're not the one who went running to an apartment, hell bent on setting some goddamned invisible score straight.
If Ryan's crying because he's devastated, then fucking get in there and deal with it like a man, like your dad is.
"Hey," I say quietly and step into the room a little more. My dad looks up and I notice a small trashcan at his feet.
"Do you feel like you're going to get sick again?" I hear him ask, and Ryan just kind of shakes his head back and forth, no.
He's sick, not crying.
I can handle sick, although why and how, I'm not really sure. I've never actually experienced a sick Ryan before either. Today will be a day of firsts for us, Ryan and I.
We'll just press the forward button instead of trying to rewind.
I can do that.
I can do that. I can do that. I can do that.
"Seth, can you get him something to drink?"
Hell yes, because… I can do that.
Again I find myself at the fridge, darting in and out of it, before flying back down the hallway.
My dad is helping Ryan take off the hospital scrub top and by the way he's avoiding the front of it, I'm guessing Ryan, at some point, missed the garbage can.
"Seth."
My dad's voice is so calm, so specific, so…centered. This whole time, from the minute I was put in charge of Ryan in the early morning hours, all I wanted was for him to wake up so we could talk, and now, all I want is for my dad to keep doing all the talking.
He must have minored in Crisis Management in college.
He's a fucking crisis management savant.
"Seth."
Oh shit, that's right, my dad is talking to me.
"Can you get Ryan a clean shirt, please? Just grab one of my t-shirts."
"No." I hear myself fire back.
Ryan can't wear one of your t-shirts, Dad; he has to wear one of his own. I'm having trouble recognizing him right now, don't you get it? Don't you understand? He has to dress like Ryan. I don't want him to wear anybody else's clothes.
"He'll um, he'll be more comfortable in his own stuff, right, Ryan?"
I wasn't expecting a response from Ryan and BIG SURPRISE...yep, absolutely nothing. But I'm obsessed now, with making sure Ryan dresses like the old Ryan so I tell my dad, "I'll be right back," and I dash out of the room, trip a little, hit the door frame…ouch… race down the hallway, past a still chewing Hales in the kitchen and run smack into the patio door…which is…what the fuck? Locked.
I rattle at the door, shaking the handle, like I'm Leonardo Dicaprio, desperately stuck in the bowels of the sinking Titanic.
"This is locked." I spin around and look accusingly at Hailey.
"No shit," she answers.
"We don't lock this door," I tell her, and I emphasis the word lock because, goddamnit, we don't lock it.
"If we lock it, Ryan can't come in."
Mom knows not to lock.
Mom never locks it.
Hailey takes a casual bite of her bagel. "Ryan's not in the pool house right now."
I put my hands to the sides of my head. God, she's so fucking stupid. She's not listening to me. She's not hearing me.
I take a few steps towards her and raise my voice, "But he will be, ok? He will be and when he is, he has to be able to come into the house and how is he going to be able to come into the house if he can't open the door and he's hurt right now and he doesn't feel good and he shouldn't have to be walking around to the front door. He shouldn't have to work that hard to get into his own damn house, ok? Do you understand? You have to leave this door unlocked for Ryan!"
Hailey and her bagel are super glued together, unmoving, staring at me.
She clears her throat and says to me, really slowly, "I'm sorry, Seth, I didn't realize how important it was to you. I promise I won't lock it again."
"Good!" I huff and fling the lock open.
I'm all pissed off now, and stomp the few steps it takes to get to the pool house. I open the door and stand in the doorway and look into it.
And remember, "So I know what happened with Trey and Marissa…like what really happened."
I put my hands on my face and ground the palms of my hands into my eyes, pushing so hard that it hurts.
Why, why, why…and by the way…why… the fuck did I tell him about Trey and Marissa? Why didn't I pull back, shut my mouth?
I knew, I knew it, from the minute he said, "Yeah, we already covered that." I knew in that instant, the way Ryan said those five words, that he was gonna' go off. I saw the transformation in him and I knew that I was about to be the cause of the bus driving over the bridge and I handed Ryan the keys anyway.
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach and I don't want to go into the pool house, and go through his things and find his clothes and stand in this room, where less than twenty-four hours ago I helped Ryan ruin his life.
Clothes, clothes, clothes, clothes, just think about clothes Seth, don't think about anything else.
Just grab any shit.
Something cotton and white, something blue and made of denim. I see Ryan's pajama pants lying on a chair and I grab those too and get the fuck out there as fast as possible.
Hailey is standing in the kitchen when I come back through the patio door and she walks up to me and says, "Seth, I really am sorry about the lock. Could you sit down for a few minutes and talk to me? I'm a little bit worried about you."
Stupid, she's so stupid. She can't even figure out who to be worried about. Ryan, you need to be worried about Ryan, Aunt Hailey, not me. He's not acting like Ryan and he doesn't sound like Ryan and nothing is ever going to be the same and how can you just sit there and eat breakfast like nothing has happened when everything is falling apart?
Don't you see it falling apart?
Can't you feel the pieces hitting you?
"I have to give these things to Ryan," I tell her, holding out the clothes as both proof and a legitimate alibi to escape her.
I walk away, leaving Hailey standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing my mom's robe, which even on her best day, she can't possibly fill.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The old Seth would be asking Ryan one question after another, bugging him, prodding him, and relentlessly harassing him.
But I'm the new and improved Seth, so I just stand beside my dad, silent, and help my dad…help Ryan…into his clothes.
Jesus, I didn't realize that Ryan had stitches in his back. One, two, three, jagged lines that look like broken zippers.
Ryan has random cuts of tattoos now, permanent, visible reminders of the night his brother died. And someday, someone will see him without his shirt, and casually ask him, "Dude, what happened to your back?" And what will he say?
"Why are there…" I start to ask, and I want to know, I want to know so badly what the fuck went down in that apartment that Ryan has to have stitches in his back. But this isn't the time, I understand that.
My dad looks up at me, waiting for me to finish my question, but I just shake my head at him and mouth "never mind."
I hear Ryan mutter "Thank you," as we finish helping him into a clean 'beater. I step back, kinda' a little excited, 'cause now, I'm absolutely sure that Ryan is going to start looking more recognizable to me, go back to being the old Ryan Atwood, who didn't whisper when he spoke or need two people to help him get dressed.
His head is still hanging down, bobbing a bit and he's balancing his broken arm on his thigh and he looks weak and defeated and bruised and physically less than that strong and angry person who stormed out of the pool house last night.
My dad lightly taps Ryan's left arm. "Are you dizzy, Ryan? Any double vision?"
Any regrets, Ryan?
Any actions you'd like to take back? Any advice you wish you would have taken, like, I don't know, maybe fucking stay calm and not overreact and not fall back into the same impulsive, self-destructive behavior patterns that have already screwed up your life?
"Little bit dizzy," he answers and rubs his temples.
"Does your head hurt?" my dad asks, because clearly, one: you can't get anything past my father, and two: he's evidently adding doctor to the already substantial list of hats he's wearing.
Ryan nods and my dad pats him on the back and tells him, "Sit tight, I'll go grab your pain meds."
And now it's just the five of us, Ryan and me and his stitches and Trey's blood under my fingernails and this vortex of a bedroom that is stalling off the glaring light of reality.
I rub my hands back and forth, the way I like to, with just the palms of them touching, causing little spots of heated friction and I try to figure out what to say to this new Ryan, that maybe I wouldn't have said to the old one
But my new brain can't think of anything to say and my old brain doesn't have the energy to replace the silence with something snarky. So I sit down next Ryan and, because I have no alternative, I just say what has been on my mind the minute I stumbled through that apartment door, stunned and confused and panicked, and saw Trey's body and Marissa next to the gun and Ryan barely coherent.
"I am so sorry, man, about Trey. I am so sorry, Ryan."
He shakes his head back and forth and looks in the opposite direction of me and stares at the wall and when he finally looks back at me, I see a little glimpse of the old Ryan again, the one that I play video games with and float with and he's watching me, with that sideways glance that he must own the fucking patent on, and he asks me in that sandpaper voice, "Which part are you sorry about, Seth? That Trey stole from your parents or that he fucking lied to me, from the beginning, or that he tried to rape Marissa, or that he held a gun to me or that he was dealing drugs or that he's dead?"
I notice that his eyes look like mine do, right before I cry, with a layer of water making them shiny and glossy and glassy. And I almost wish that Ryan would cry, right now, here, in front of me, because I know now, I'm sure of it, that Ryan won't allow himself to really feel or process what's happened to him. He won't afford himself the indulgence of breaking down and crying, when every other single person I know, would. And how can Ryan always do that, keep things so tightly sealed. He's like a human Ziploc bag.
He's still staring at me, still waiting for a response, and I figure I have what, maybe five seconds to come up with an answer for a question Ryan's never going to ask me again.
I push all the scrambled thoughts out of my mind and, returning his stare, I tell Ryan, "All of it, man. I am really and truly and completely sorry for all of it. I am so sorry for everything."
Ryan nods slightly and looks away and drops his head and probably begins the journey in his brain back to wherever it is that he goes when life fucks with him.
And me?
I just sit here, too wired and tired to worry if it was the right thing to say to him or the wrong thing to say to him.
Almost too numb to care.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To be continued………..