Sandy's barely holding on. Meanwhile, Kirsten writes a letter to Ryan from rehab, before she learns of the shooting and surrounding drama. There are things she needs to explain. But a shattered Ryan knows everything has changed …
Disclaimer: The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, et. al. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.
A/N: Welcome to this AU – hope you enjoy the visit.
A/N 2: As always, all mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER 13
Time: Picks up immediately at the end of Chapter 12, early afternoon of Day 5
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Ryan understood that part of his penance was 'lots of talking' coming his way today, and that he'd promised that he'd listen, but seriously, was it going to end?
One thing he was sure of – before he'd promise anything like this again, he was gonna' ask for a much clearer definition of what Sandy meant by 'lots'.
Kirsten looked like she might be wearing down a little, too. Ryan was not surprised to see her step back, nodding her head toward a large boulder just a few feet away before she spoke.
"I'm just going to be over there. Listening to you two."
Sandy's eyes tracked her until she was seated, before focusing on Ryan once more. Taking a step in his direction, the man spoke, "You know, kid, I have tremendous respect for your observations. The things you say? How you read people? You're rarely off-base. I've come to rely on your instincts in ways I can't do with Seth. He's a sharp kid, too, but he doesn't have anything approaching your savvy when it comes to reading people or situations."
Ryan shifted from foot to foot, unsure where Sandy was headed. He shrugged off the compliment, "Survival skills, where I come from."
The smile that crossed Sandy's face was wry, "Yeah, I know. Needed 'em in where I came from, too."
His guardian ran a hand over his forehead, brushing back the black mane that threatened to spill into his eyes, "Your abilities to read other people aside, kid, I'd like you to keep an open mind when it comes to looking at yourself. Let me give you a few things to think about when you're doing your self-assessment, okay?"
"Because you think I'm wrong?" Ryan's voice was sharper than he'd intended.
Sandy shook his head, unfazed. "You can't be wrong about how you feel, kid. It is what it is. All I'm suggesting is that there might be some reasons you feel that way that really don't have anything to do with who you are. Make you a deal, kid. I explain what I'm talking about, and you decide if any of it applies to you. What do you say?"
Ryan frowned, realizing he'd played into Sandy's hands. "And by 'a few' you mean?"
Sandy grinned, "More than three, less than lots."
Not quite the answer he was looking for, but he didn't feel like pressing. It didn't really matter – he'd already promised, anyway.
He capitulated, "Whatever you say."
Ryan settled in for another barrage of words. Trying to balance listening to his guardian's words while maintaining distance from them, he found himself searching for any external distraction. Eyeing the hateful pink pants, he noticed a small nub in the material, and began picking at it as Sandy started to speak.
His foster father's voice was thoughtful, "So, I guess the first point I want to make is that how we view ourselves is often impacted by how we were socialized. As kids, the first experience of that usually comes through our parents. They're generally the ones who teach us which of our behaviors are acceptable, which ones are dangerous, which ones are morally wrong, which ones are endearing, and which ones are simply annoying."
Ryan snorted before he could stop himself. He saw Sandy's eyebrows fly up underneath his hair before the man grinned affably.
"I know, kid – you're probably thinking that the Cohen predisposition for talking is annoying. That someone failed to teach that lesson in our family."
Damn. The guy was good. Ryan's mouth pulled into a line as he widened his eyes in acknowledgment.
Sandy's grin deepened a moment before he went on, "Yeah, well, this much I know – as parents, we screw up sometimes – we're human, after all. Humans fail. Our parents all made mistakes. Their parents did, too. It's a matter of degree, I think. Did we go a little wrong once in a while? Or did we screw up often, or screw up really badly? And when we did go wrong, did we recognize it? Admit it? Apologize? Try to do better? Honor our promises? It all matters, more than you might think."
Sandy stopped, seemed to think a moment, and then smiled crookedly, "As for the talking? Deciding it's less annoying than it is endearing might be a Cohen parental error, I'm not sure. If so, I hope it's small one. Sometimes it's all in the eye of the beholder, you know? Or I suppose, in the ear of the listener."
A small smile flickered across Ryan's face and disappeared, as he pulled stubbornly at the nub in the salmon cloth, loosening a thread. Winding the thread around his finger, he started tugging, causing the cloth to pucker before the thread snapped and came out, leaving a tiny flaw in its wake.
His foster father spoke with care, his words measured and nonjudgmental. Ryan found himself following more closely than he'd intended.
"I know this isn't news, Ryan. The fact is that parents usually teach by rewarding kids for appropriate behaviors, and punishing them for the morally wrong, dangerous, or annoying behaviors. Rewards take a lot of forms – hugs, kisses, praise, privileges, material objects, sometimes money… And punishments take different forms, too. I don't have to tell you, punishments can be frightening and rejecting. The child who is reprimanded or struck often gets the message that he or she is, for the moment anyway, a bad person."
Ryan wanted to roll his eyes, but he stopped himself. A bad person? Yeah, well, what other message were you supposed to get?
Hiding his frustration, he turned away slightly, focusing out toward the Pacific. Sensing his foster father's movement, Ryan tensed until Sandy came to a halt behind him, slightly to his right.
His guardian's voice was steady, "The thing is, even very young kids know – either consciously or subconsciously – that the family is the source of both physical and emotional support, and that their very survival depends on that support."
Sandy hesitated for a moment, probably to allow some time for him to think. Like he needed time. Honestly – he might not buy entirely into the emotional support bit, but he sure as hell understood the whole survival thing.
Seeming to sense his edginess, his guardian explained, "Look, what I'm trying to say is that we all grow up with the holdovers – the emotional fallout – from what we experience as children. We retain the memories of all those times we felt like we were wrong or bad – either consciously or unconsciously. The stronger our feelings of being wrong or not-okay were, the more likely we carry those feeling with us. The more likely they'll impact the way we see ourselves. Does any of that make sense to you?"
Ryan shrugged ambivalently, even as he felt his stomach growing restless. He gritted his teeth, and wound his arms around his body, determined to get through this.
Sandy asked, "Do you remember feeling wrong or not-okay as a kid, Ryan? Or since you've been with us?"
What kind of dumb-ass question was that? He heard himself snap, "Doesn't everybody? I mean, like you say, no one's perfect."
Nodding, his guardian replied, "I think anyone would be disingenuous to say they'd never felt that way. So, it's fair to say you've had times when you've felt that way? That's what I'm hearing."
Ryan nodded. Hell, he couldn't remember not feeling that way. He'd just hidden it better sometimes.
His foster father grew reflective, "There are things that influence how strong those 'not-okay' feelings become. Interested in what they are?"
He glanced quickly over his shoulder at Sandy, "You're going to tell me regardless, right?"
Sandy's head tilted as his eyebrows drew together in an exaggerated frown, "Am I that predictable?"
"Uh, Sandy? You and words? Kinda' like breathing and oxygen."
Sandy chuckled softly, "At least with me you know what's coming, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, kid."
Ryan ducked his head, willing to admit to himself if not to Sandy that it wasn't a bad thing at all. Even when the thing coming wasn't something he was looking forward to.
His guardian patiently resumed his lop-sided dialogue. "One thing that affects the degree to which a kid gets the message he's not okay is how common it is for his parents to mislabel matters of taste, personal needs, or good judgment as moral imperatives."
Turning his head, Ryan crinkled his eyebrows.
Evidently, Sandy read his question, since the man explained, "For example, say the kid does something like not performing a chore. Or suppose the kid doesn't like the color shirt the parent wants him to wear, or say he rides his bicycle on the street after dark – that type of thing – do the parents make the child feel like he's a bad kid? Like he's done something morally wrong?"
Okay, now he wasn't following completely. The examples he got. It was kinda' like when he'd lost track of time reading and didn't set the table, or when he'd complained about the haircuts his mom gave him, or when he'd stupidly tried to rescue some snarling raccoon from Eddie's fishing net and gotten his hands chewed up in the process.
Sandy questioned, "With me, kid?"
"Not sure."
"What's not clear?"
Ryan unwound his arms, stalling as he felt for the flaw in the scrubs and worried another thread out of the cloth.
When it became apparent that Sandy wanted words, he countered, "How are you defining 'moral imperatives'?"
The man explained, "A moralimperative is an ethical responsibility. Normally, you'd think of a moral imperative as a line of conduct or behavior judged as the 'right' one by the majority of people within a community or culture. Violation of those responsibilities is considered immoral, wrong, or bad. Not okay."
"So, you're saying what, exactly, Sandy? You don't do something you're supposed to do – isn't that a violation of an ethical responsibility? I mean, I guess that's what I don't get."
Sandy smiled, "Let's take an example, okay? Use Seth, since it's a little easier to use a third person. Let's say I tell Seth he has to take out the trash, and he doesn't do it. Is he a 'bad' person because he didn't take out the trash?"
Not sure how to answer that, Ryan held his tongue.
"Think about it, kid. Seth doesn't do something I tell him to do. Does that make him immoral?"
Okay, put that way he could answer, "Of course not."
Sandy's smile grew wider, "Exactly. Of course not. His behavior needs some adjustment, but he's not immoral – he's not bad – just because he doesn't do a chore. And he's not bad if he doesn't want to eat asparagus if we tell him to, and he's not bad if he rides his skateboard in the street – none of those behaviors is immoral. They may drive us nuts, because we'd like for him to eat healthy foods, or scare us to death because we love him too much to ever be okay with him doing something so inherently dangerous, but none of those behaviors make him an immoral or bad person. A disobedient one, maybe, but not a bad one."
Ryan blinked, as Sandy's words sank in. "I think I get that."
"Good, Ryan, 'cause this is important to understand. You see, certain words and phrases carry heavy moral messages. When a kid hears his parents say that he's bad, or that he's lazy, or that he's foolish, or that he's a screw-up, they're sending moral messages. He might forget the event that triggered the criticism, or forget the exact words that were used. But the feelings of wrongness or not being okay that was associated with those often words stick with him."
As Sandy kept talking, giving more examples, Ryan found himself listening instead to earlier voices and a litany of older words. Words he'd never forgotten, no matter how hard he'd tried.
Lazy brat. Thankless mouth to feed. Big mistake. Worthless piece of nothing. Fucking know-it-all… The list went on and on.
Ryan shook his head as he wrestled the unwelcome memories back into their corners, struggling to listen to the man standing behind him instead of ghost words from his past.
He felt Sandy's eyes on him, even without turning around. It was almost like he knew when Ryan's attention drifted, and was waiting for him to catch up.
"Sorry," he felt compelled to offer.
He felt Sandy's hand brush his arm, "You're doing good, kid. I know I'm throwing a lot of stuff your way, but you're keeping up with me."
"I'm trying," he hedged.
Sandy altered his position slightly, moving a little more to Ryan's right. "We've talked before about the importance of distinguishing between behavior and identity. That a good kid can misbehave sometimes, but that the issue is the behavior – not the basic goodness of the kid. The thing is – parent who confuse behavior with the character of a child? Can end up raising children who don't see a difference between what they do and who they are."
Ryan shifted his weight from foot to foot, once more winding his arms around his body.
He felt Sandy's arm circle his shoulders, as the man stepped up beside him, "Look, kid, I know this is a tough issue for you right now – no guesswork there. You've told me. I understand this whole thing with Trey has been unnerving, and that the lines between who you are and your actions seem blurred to you right now. But trust me, I don't have any problem making the distinction, Ryan."
"I don't see how you can," he mumbled uncertainly, as Sandy's fingers tightened around his shoulder.
"One day, it'll be clearer, son. Until then, count on Kirsten and me to see the difference."
Ryan glanced sideways at his guardian, his color rising a little when he saw the warm smile that lit the man's face.
Raising his eyebrows, Sandy dropped his arm and opened up a couple of feet between them. Turning to face Ryan, he picked up where he'd left off, "Another thing that impacts self-esteem is how often a child hears negative messages. You know the theory about how propaganda works? You hear the same message often enough, and sooner or later, it starts to be believable? It works the same way with kids and the messages they hear. A kid keeps hearing his parents say things like he's disrespectful, or lazy, or hopeless and eventually, he gets the point. He's not okay. That make sense?"
Sandy's eyes were focused on his face. Caught, he nodded, "I guess so."
The right corner of his guardian's mouth pulled back approvingly as the man nodded.
"Consistency factors in, too. I mean, when a certain behavior, or breaking a rule elicits inconsistent responses, what message do you think is sent?"
Ryan wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer. When Sandy raised his eyebrows expectantly, he mumbled, "Never let down your guard?"
Nodding, Sandy agreed, "Yeah. Definitely that. But what about the behavior itself?"
Ryan raised his eyebrows and hitched his shoulders.
Sandy's eyes sought his, "Think about it. Suppose a particular behavior occurs and nothing happens, and then randomly the same behavior causes the parents to blow up, and the kid suffers painful consequences. Say that happens over and over, with different behaviors and different rules being randomly punished or ignored. So how's the kid going to feel?"
His guardian was asking him as if the man knew he'd know the answer. Pushing down the fact that that unnerved him a little, he offered tentatively, "Confused? Like, it doesn't really matter what he does, 'cause odds are it's never gonna' be right?"
Nodding, Sandy added, "Yeah, and maybe even convinced the real problem must be with him, rather than with his behavior?"
Swallowing, he replied, "Maybe. I guess."
Ryan found another loose thread in the scrubs, and yanked hard, causing the material to scrunch up around his thigh until the thread snapped. Great. Now he was destroying these sucky borrowed pants.
"Ryan?"
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to tell you how the stuff you're talking about relates to me?" He knew he sounded anxious – he couldn't help it.
"Is that what you want to do?"
"Not really."
To his surprise, Sandy smiled understandingly, "It's okay, kid. You want to share, I'll listen, and I promise I won't judge. But if you're not ready, that's okay, too. That doesn't mean I don't hope one day you'll be willing to share some specifics with me, but for right now, I just want you to have a framework – an understanding of how what we experience impacts how we see ourselves. I have tremendous faith in your cognitive abilities, kid. You can marry your experiences with what we've been talking about – see where it takes you."
That was not the answer he'd expected. His anxiety faded, "Seriously?"
"Seriously, kid."
Okay. That much he could try to do. He could at least think about. His eyes drifted from Sandy's face to his hands to the scrubs, resting finally on the growing flaw in the material.
He ripped out two more threads, some piece of him satisfied that a thin line of flesh was now visible through the cloth.
When he realized Sandy was waiting for his attention, he looked up, "Sorry."
Sandy touched his shoulder, "Stay with me kid."
Ryan breathed in deeply, nodding.
Seeming satisfied, Sandy continued building the frame he'd talked about.
"How parents talk to their kids is big. When parents deliver their messages angrily, or violently, or when they threaten to or actually do leave a child, they send an extremely powerful message of rejection. We both know how potent those messages can be. And what the child doesn't see is that the parent's actions are usually related to the parent's own internal or external issues, and have almost nothing to do with who the child is, how good the child is, or what the child does."
Ryan blinked, averting his eyes to a point past his guardian's shoulders. Desperate to divert Sandy's attention, he queried, "You know about my Mom – I get that. But – the other stuff you talked about… Is all that stuff in my files?"
Sandy's voice was soothing, "Didn't have to be, kid. You've told me some things, Dawn and Trey have filled in a little more. Mostly, though, I see the results of what you lived through. The coping mechanisms you've picked up. The guardedness, the impossible standards of perfection you set for yourself, the way you're always apologizing for things that aren't you fault, your tendency to assume responsibility for anything that goes wrong, how often you assume the role of caregiver rather than child, how you react to anger, how you're hell-bent on fixing other people's problems even at your own expense, how you place your own needs or wishes last in almost any list of priorities – if you even acknowledge you have any."
He made himself face Sandy, offering a small lift of his eyebrows, "Didn't realize I was that transparent."
"I've had some experience, kid. I've worked with hundreds of kids over the years, but I've had some personal experience as well."
"Personal?"
Ryan watched as Sandy's mouth turned up in a tight smile, "Cut from the same deck, remember? I know a couple of things about self-esteem. Believe it or not, at your age, I had my share of self-doubt."
"Yeah? You?"
His guardian shook his head, his eyebrows disappearing for a moment underneath his hair. He took a moment before he answered, stepping closer to Ryan. When he spoke, his voice sounded like he was struggling a little to keep his words even, "You know my dad walked out on our family. I've told you that much. I don't know, though, if I've ever told you about what things were like at home before he left."
Ryan frowned, "I'm guessing not so good?"
Sandy's lips stretched into a grimace as he nodded, "My dad wouldn't have won any 'Father of the Year' awards, trust me. In retrospect, I've gotta' say he was more into verbal oppression than anything physical, but he could be cruel. He used to tell me regularly that I was a disappointment. He thought academics were a poor substitute for sports, and you can probably guess what he thought about my interest in theater. I understood early on that I embarrassed him."
Being embarrassed at having Sandy for a son? The guy must have been a fucking idiot.
Ryan scowled, "Sounds like his problem."
"I know that now. Then? It wasn't so clear."
Ryan shook his head. Fingering his watchband, his eyes flicked back and forth between Sandy and the ground for several seconds.
At last he drew in a deep breath and focused solely on Sandy. "My father said I was a …" He edited his words mid-sentence, "I guess the Newport-acceptable version would be 'disappointment', too."
"To quote you, 'sounds like his problem'."
Ryan bit his lip, unsure how to answer. He'd never felt so unbalanced as he had these last few days, and today had been like some kind of rollercoaster that refused to come to a stop. Just when he thought he had pulled himself together, there'd be another hill or loop or curve that sent him spiraling yet again.
He swallowed hard, "I guess."
Sandy nodded, before he revised the stakes, "From the little pieces you've told us, and the things I've picked up, I gather your dad, and later some of your mother's boyfriends… got pretty physical sometimes."
Fuck. Another freaking loop. He should have known Sandy would bring up the physical stuff sooner or later. Wrapping his arms tightly around his midriff, he waited for whatever was coming next.
He didn't have to wait long. Sandy kept probing, "You stood up to that guy your mom was with when you and I met, didn't you? And I'm guessing you didn't put a lot of faith in anything he had to say about you."
Pure hatred was an emotion he almost welcomed. No fucking weakness there. "You mean AJ?"
"Yeah."
Ryan unwrapped his arms, his hands forming fists at his side. He glared, sure of himself for the first time since they'd started this conversation. "I did what I had to do to get by – to try to protect Mom. Besides, if I learned anything growing up, it was that the crap from AJ and the other jerks my mom drug into our house didn't count for much."
Sandy nodded approvingly, "What you just said, Ryan – questioning what those guys knew? The things they said? That's smart."
Ryan narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. There were times it hadn't felt very smart, regardless of what his guardian was saying, but he'd made his choices. He'd known the consequences.
Sandy tilted his head, "What I'm saying is this. When anyone criticizes you, you owe it to yourself to challenge what they're saying, kid. Like you said, what do they know? Are they credible? Does what they're saying make sense? Does it fit with the things you know are true? Can they prove it? Where's their evidence?"
Ryan crossed his arms, his fingers digging into his biceps as he listened. He found himself sorting through what his foster father was saying, to determine whether it was credible. He wondered whether Sandy would see the irony in that.
He almost missed the end of the man's spiel, "Do you hear what I'm saying, Ryan? Challenge every negative message, kid. Especially the messages you send yourself."
Ryan looked down at the ground, before looking back up at Sandy through his eyelashes. "That advice works for AJ, and all the other assholes Mom saddled us with. It's just -- I don't know, Sandy, but getting the same message from the people who really knows me? It starts to sound pretty credible, don't you think?"
Sandy backed up a step before responding, "What people?"
Groaning, Ryan turned his head. He felt Sandy's eyes on him, and mumbled, "You know."
"Tell me, kid."
Ducking his head, he answered softly, "Dad. Trey. My mom."
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Sandy glanced across at Kirsten, who shook her head sadly.
Taking in a steadying breath, he coaxed, "Let's take your dad out of the equation, okay? Would you agree we can discount his opinions?"
The teenager looked a little sheepish as he mumbled his agreement, "I guess. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for, Ryan. It's just that we discussed our fathers, and I thought we'd decided neither one of them were exactly credible."
Sandy watched as Ryan stared at him a moment before nodding slowly. "Good," he smiled, feeling equal parts surprise and relief. Maybe he'd gotten through to Ryan after all – on some level, anyway.
He let his voice reach out to the teenager, "When I spoke to Trey yesterday, he told me that you were a special kid. I know that you're smart enough to know that he's jealous of you, and that he's frustrated with his own life. But you might not see how proud he is of you, Ryan. It was clear to me, though. And it was equally clear that he loves you – you wouldn't believe how protective he was, taking me to task where he thought I was letting you down."
Ryan looked up, his eyes wide, "Trey said you let me down?"
Sandy nodded, "He made some valid points – brought some things to my attention that need to be addressed. That I want to address with you."
The boy turned his head away an instant, sucking in a breath. Turning back, he muttered, "He shouldn't have…"
The teenager stopped mid-sentence, licked his lips, and finally settled on, "I'm really sorry."
"Why should you be sorry? You're not responsible for what your brother thinks or says. Those things are out of your control, kid. Besides, Trey didn't say anything I didn't need to hear."
The boy's eyes reflected his confusion.
Sandy proposed, "We'll hold off talking about the things he called me on for a few minutes, okay?"
His foster son looked wary as he nodded his assent.
Sandy glanced quickly at his wife, whose soft eyes conveyed her support.
Returning his attention to the teenager, he drew in a deep breath. "I know we need to talk about your mom, Ryan. I think I might understand a little of how Dawn's leaving must have felt. First, obviously the whole situation with my father, but there's another thing, too. You see, after my father left, my mother buried herself in her work, always taking care of other kids. I felt like she'd chosen them over my brother and I, and it hurt like hell. You've met The Nana – she's a force of nature. I was used to that force being present in my life. Sometimes it felt way too present, but the fact was it was always there. Then, suddenly, she was focused almost exclusively on things outside our home."
"She ever throw you out?" The boy's voice was eerily steady.
"No, she didn't. I'm just saying, at the time, it felt like she forgot she had her own kids at home. We ran wild, and she never noticed. I remember thinking she wouldn't ignore me like that if I meant anything to her. That I must not have been worthy, somehow."
Ryan lifted his head and stared directly at Sandy as he challenged, "Your mom spent time at work, Sandy. Not strung out or inside…" He stopped his sentence abruptly, closing his eyes and biting his lip.
"You can say it, Ryan. Not inside a bottle," Kirsten finished for him, her voice gentle.
Sandy watched as the boy gathered himself together before turning toward Kirsten and whispering, "I'm really sorry."
Kirsten shook her head as she responded, "No, honey, I'm the one who's sorry. For letting you down the same way your mom did."
The teenager's face reddened, but he said nothing.
Clearing his throat pointedly, Sandy waited until he had his foster-son's attention once again.
"You're right, Ryan. It's not the same. I'm just telling you how it felt to me at the time. I was a kid. What did I know? I couldn't understand my father's frustrations and insecurities were what made him leave – not me. Or that my mother buried herself in her work to escape her pain, not her kids. I made a lot of flawed assumptions, and it took growing up and listening to people with some sage advice before I could throw out the tapes that played inside my head. The ones that diminished my self-esteem."
The teenager grimaced as he raised his head just high enough for Sandy to see his face clearly. To see the purple marks around his neck, and the bruised cheek and blackened eye. Sandy's heartbeat quickened, as he considered the deeper scars the boy carried inside.
At last Ryan spoke, "So, you were wrong about the assumptions you made back then, and now I'm supposed to think maybe I'm wrong, too?"
"I'd like you to consider the possibility," Sandy replied carefully.
Ryan smiled dryly, "You see the difference, don't you? I've never had to 'assume' anything. Say you discount Dad. And even throw out Trey. What about my mom? She really couldn't have been clearer, or more complete."
"Sandy?" Kirsten's voice drew his attention from his foster son. Sandy turned to face her, realizing that she'd risen and was making her way to where they stood.
Reaching him, Kirsten wound her fingers through his, whispering, "I'm the one who spoke with Dawn. Let me talk to Ryan, okay?"
He narrowed his eyes, carefully searching Kirsten's face. She'd taken on far more responsibility today than he'd ever anticipated, and was now offering to move into territory even he dreaded broaching.
Her voice, though affectionate, had a definite edge when she spoke again, "You understand that really wasn't a question?"
He did now. When Kirsten adopted that tone, no power on earth was going to deter her.
"I knew that," he protested, giving Kirsten a bemused smile. He found it oddly reassuring that the best of Caleb Nichol still lived on inside his daughter.
Turning to check on Ryan, the boy's quick head duck didn't quite hide his smirk. Sandy wondered wryly whether Ryan would find The Kirsten quite as amusing when she turned her attention to him.
Right now, though, Sandy knew Kirsten had her sights on him, fixing him with an intense stare before smiling sweetly, "Sandy, honey, why don't you go back to the table and make us all a snack? Maybe talk to the food services people and get some new ice? And ask for some lemonade? Oh, and check your messages? Ryan and I will join you over there in a few minutes, okay?"
"Those aren't really questions either, are they?" he stalled, furtively trying to gage Ryan's reaction to being left alone with Kirsten. Make that The Kirsten, he amended, not quite trusting the smile his wife was wearing. However, the boy's face was still hidden from his view.
Kirsten's head shook from side to side, before she raised her face and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "We'll be fine," she whispered under her breath, before she pushed him gently away and turned to face their foster-son.
Sandy descended from the boulders, chuckling softly as he dropped the final two feet down to the shore. "You're on your own now, kid," he mused, a small smile crinkling his features as he visualized the pair he'd left behind.
Kirsten never did things lightly, so she must have had her reasons. He'd simply have to trust her. And that? He could do.
There was something else he could do, too. Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, he flipped it open. Three messages. He listened to the first message as he crossed toward the table, the smile fading from his face. He didn't bother looking up the number before he started to dial. This one he had memorized.
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Kirsten sought a perch with room for two, spying a spot closer to the water. The salt spray would reach them there, but she could deal with that – the cold water might feel good against their feet and legs.
Reaching the rock, she climbed on top, letting her legs dangle above the water. She knew Ryan was watching her, waiting for her to speak.
"Ryan?"
When he responded to her voice by looking up at her, she patted the space beside her, inviting him to join her. When he hesitated, she reinforced the invitation with her eyes, looking first at him, and then at the empty space.
His mouth twitched, and his eyes searched for something else to look at, but she fixed him with the same glare she'd used on Sandy. At that, he apparently realized resistance was futile, and ambled over toward her.
She offered him a hand up, surprised when he accepted her help. She was even more surprised when he exercised caution as he arranged himself beside her, his legs dangling above the water, too. It seemed her foster-son had learned at least one lesson today, albeit a pain-induced one. She hoped he was learning other lessons, too.
They sat together, saying nothing, for a minute or two, while the salt spray below jumped and spattered against the rocks. Their feet and ankles got some sprinkles, but just enough to feel refreshing. Kirsten was just about to speak when one large wave crashed against the rocks, sending a plume of water straight into the air, soaking their legs all the way to their knees.
Kirsten gasped from the sudden cold, but recovered almost immediately, giggling like some schoolgirl. Ryan's expression made her giggle harder, as the teenager obviously thought she'd lost her mind.
"Maybe this isn't such a good spot?" He sounded a lot like Sandy, concerned and protective.
"I won't melt, I promise," she smiled. "What do you say? Game?"
He blinked, but then smiled a little lopsided smile, "Game."
She turned to him, "Sandy talks too much sometimes, doesn't he?"
This time the boy's eyes widened for an instant before he shook his head as though trying to clear it.
When she raised her brows, he offered, "Ya' think?"
"Mm-hmm. I think. Only, and this is the thing that makes it bearable – he usually makes a lot of sense, if you get past all the noise."
Kirsten watched as Ryan looked down at his feet, wiggling his toes as the salt water sprinkled them. He lifted his eyes, staring out at her from underneath his bangs. "It's a lot of noise."
She nodded, wondering how anyone could resist this child when he looked at them like that. She'd move the moon and stars for him if she could.
"It's worth it," she insisted.
He lifted his head, echoing her nod, "Yeah."
She let him have another moment of silence before she turned to him again, "You know I talked to your mom that morning. That she told me how much she loved you. I've told you that already."
Ryan turned his head so that all she could see was one bruised cheek and long blond eyelashes. Kirsten could hear him take in deep breaths, and release them shakily.
"But there are things I haven't discussed with you. Things I don't think I really understood before about what Dawn was trying to tell me that day."
The boy's voice was hesitant as he asked, "What things?"
She dipped her head as she thought of that horrible morning, when she'd cursed Dawn's cowardice and her neglect. But she'd learned lessons of her own since then.
She wove her words quietly, "Things like how inadequate we feel sometimes – how unprepared we can feel to face the things we know we need to do. And the paradox is that the more important the thing we have to do is, the less confidence we have that we're up for the job."
She saw the tiny shudder that went through the boy's body, but he said nothing.
She continued softly, "Dawn tried to make me understand that morning. How special you were. How smart. What a good kid you were. And how unprepared she was to give you the life she believed you deserved."
Kirsten heard the small groan that escaped the boy's lips before he sucked them between his teeth. She saw his hands curling and uncurling, and his eyes staring out over the Pacific. She wondered if he saw the water, or Dawn's final wave.
Reaching out, she brushed his arm, soothing, "I realize now she was terrified that she'd fail. Now that I know you, I understand why that scared her as much as it did. You've got so much potential, honey. You're so very special. She couldn't bear to risk failing you."
The small tremors that coursed through his body were matched by the tremor in Ryan's voice as he countered, "She left me."
"With us. She left you with us. She hoped we'd be able to give you the things she wanted you to have. I'm not just talking about physical things like a place to live, and food, or even a good education – I'm also talking about emotional support, and nurturing, and helping you become everything she knew you could be."
The boy's voice was jagged as he responded, "That's… I expect that's a charitable take on what my mom said."
"I don't really think so," she assured him.
He pressed his hand against his eyes, his breath more and more uneven. When he looked at her his eyes revealed his anguish He shook his head disconcertedly, "Then, why did she throw me out that night I ended up in Newport? Why did she move away while I was gone? Why would she do those things if I were so …so special?"
His face contorted as he paused, choking back bitter tears. "She left me a note, Kirsten! On a paper towel." He fought to hold himself together, his breaths now coming in shallow gasps. His voice cracked as he added, "And if she thought I was special, don't you think maybe she would have called or written? I mean, it's been almost two years…"
Kirsten knew if this were Seth, she'd have him in her arms. But this was Ryan, and she hesitated, reaching out instead to pull his face toward hers as she spoke, "Honey, I say this from experience, alcohol clouds your thinking. Under its influence, you do and say things you don't mean. That you regret for the rest of your life."
Ryan's eyes were liquid pools as he asked, "I understand that. It's just, when… when your own mother doesn't want you, that… that kinda' says it all about someone… doesn't it?"
"What I know is she told me you were a good thing – so good she didn't want to risk failing you. That's really what she said, Ryan. In the middle of everything wrong in her world, you were the one thing she thought was right."
The boy's eyes had closed tightly, and his head was bent. She almost missed that he was crying until she saw the tears sparkle against his cheek, backlit by the sun as they tumbled from his face.
Kirsten's eyes stung as she reached for Ryan's shoulders. She pressed her eyelids down tightly when he drew in a tortured breath, his body trembling between her hands.
"Oh, sweetheart," Kirsten soothed, as Ryan allowed himself to be pulled into her arms, his head finding her shoulder, his body dissolving against hers. She turned toward him, bringing one bent leg up on their boulder to brace herself, as his arms circled her. She felt his shoulders racking, and she heard his soft gasps for air.
She hated thinking about when and where and why this child had learned to cry so quietly. Resting her chin on his head, she wondered how often since he'd been with them she might have missed such silent tears…
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Ryan felt her rocking him gently as his tears subsided. As hard as he'd fought all day to keep himself together in front of Kirsten, in the end her arms had somehow become a trusted refuge.
Her voice was low and silky, "I'm so, so sorry that you're hurting, honey. I wish I could take the pain away."
Her lips brushed against his hair as she rocked him. She'd been whispering to him for awhile, her words mainly a jumble of repeated phrases like it's gonna' be ok; you're ours, now; we love you, sweetie; and you're amazing.
Finally he stirred, pulling himself upright as Kirsten stilled, watching him intently. He felt her concern, thick and transparent, every mothering instinct outwardly engaged.
He wasn't sure how long the sense of reassurance he felt would last, but he knew that she deserved the credit. He sought to comfort her, "It's gonna' be okay. Thanks for what you said – about my mom. It… it kinda' helps."
"Glad you were listening," Kirsten smiled kindly, while her eyes scanned his face. She was clearly still in mother-mode, as she reached out to brush back his hair, and dab at his eyes.
"Kirsten, please," he responded a little self-consciously, moving his body backward as he swiped his own arm across his face.
To his relief, Kirsten didn't seem at all offended by his sudden bout of teenage pride. Instead, she smiled, waiting for him to give her his attention before she spoke.
"Ryan, if there's one thing I want you to understand from everything we've said today, it's this. You're part of this family now, and we're not leaving you. Ever. Got that?"
"Like I'd argue with The Kirsten," he hedged, not trusting himself to offer her a more serious response. Maybe one day he'd figure out a way to tell her that being abandoned by Dawn would always hurt beyond measure, but that the shelter she offered him made the pain bearable.
Kirsten seemed to understand he needed a little time. She sat quietly beside him, legs dangling, eyes focused on the Pacific.
Gradually, he relaxed, closing his eyes, listening to the sound of the waves rolling in and crashing under their feet. The salt spray kept the mid-day heat at bay, lulling him off-guard.
Judging from her reaction, Kirsten hadn't seen the geyser of water coming, either. Ryan wasn't sure who yelped the loudest when the cold sea-water smacked them solidly, drenching them from the waist down.
Amazingly, once the first shock wore off, Kirsten collapsed into another fit of giggles. She rose, extending an arm to help him up, as another wave reached high enough to douse them. "Feels like something's telling us it's time to go!"
Accepting her assistance, he managed to stand without wincing. Not, however, without dripping. And there was another problem, too.
Damn these fucking pants, anyway.
He hoped the pink material dried quickly – soaked, it was suddenly far too thin and form-fitting than he was prepared to model in front of his foster-mother.
With his back to Kirsten, he ripped off his button down shirt, quickly tying it around his waist, sleeves looped together at his side. Pride somewhat salvaged, he turned around to face Kirsten, whose focus was ostensively on her rings.
Halfway down to the beach, she offered, "I can get you some dry scrubs if you want them."
Hoping he wasn't blushing, he quickly mocked, "Kirsten, is there some kind of kick-back you're not telling us about? Like extra bacon for every pair of these things you manage to unload?"
She grinned, "Why? You'd have a problem with that?"
"Nah," he grinned back. "Not me."
She winked, "Good, 'cause I'm working up to pie!"
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tbc
A/N 3: Reviews greatly appreciated. Many thanks to all the faithful, and to anyone else kind enough to take the time to tell me what you think. It means a lot more than you may think…