Title : Empty Diary
Author : Helen C.
Rating : PG-13
Summary : Car accident. Ryan. Amnesia. There, that's clear, isn't it?
Disclaimer : The characters and the universe were created and are owned by Josh Schwartz. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N. This fic wouldn't be seeing the light of day if it hadn't been for Joey's enthusiastic comments and invaluable help. Thanks, again!
Chapter Four
To Ryan's relief, San Francisco is nothing like Newport.
No overbuilt houses, no infinity pools, no fake breasts/lips/faces/smiles.
No over expensive clothes, no insanely luxurious cars.
And even better, no one looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to wake up and say, "Hey, I remember the time when—"
There's no one here but the Cohens and they don't seem disappointed when, morning after morning, he wakes up with a life worth of memories still missing. They don't push him to talk, don't push him to make new friends or to stay in touch with the old ones. He's sure that'll change eventually, but for now, they're just there, making sure he knows they're available if he needs to talk, making sure he gets enough rest, enough food, enough of everything.
He feels like he can breathe here, which is much more than he has ever been able to say in Southern California.
Even the house they now live in is very different from the house in Newport—it's an old house that hasn't been lived in for three years and needs some serious remodeling.
"We could hire someone to fix all that," Kirsten says, gesturing to the faded wallpaper. "But I'd rather we do it ourselves. Together."
She's looking at Ryan, waiting for his reaction.
Ryan takes a look around him, tries to imagine what the room would look like painted in yellow—it would certainly enhance the rich color of wooden floorboards. And maybe dark blue curtains?
"Sure," he says when he realizes that Kirsten is still waiting for an answer. "Sounds good."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It only takes a few days for the Cohens and Ryan to get settled. The Cohens brought very little from Newport with them, preferring to buy new furniture
Ryan wonders if this is their way of starting anew, of forgetting Newport. Maybe they don't want to be reminded of Seth every time they see his favorite couch, his favorite chair, his favorite anything. Ryan doubts it, though. After all, they did bring all their pictures with them, and they're sure to think about Seth and their past lives every time they catch a glimpse of them.
As the sun sets at the end of their fifth day in town, Ryan finds Kirsten putting framed pictures on the mantle, tears in her eyes.
Seth is in most of them—a young kid with unruly hair, scowling at the camera. A teenager, looking bored and resentful. And in a few of the pictures, Seth's beaming, and holding Ryan's arm, probably forcing him to stay put long enough for the picture to be taken.
Not for the first time, Ryan wonders if the Cohens ever wonder why their son died when the stranger they took in didn't. God knows Ryan frequently wonders about that himself.
He can't do anything to help them, except listen when they talk about Seth, and that seems woefully inadequate.
Ryan tries to withdraw without disturbing Kirsten, but the floor creaks under his weight, startling her.
"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay." She turns back to the pictures. "I was just remembering when we took that picture."
She picks it up and hands it to Ryan, who hesitantly approaches and takes it. It's a picture of Seth and him in the pool; Seth is shooting at him with a water pistol, and Ryan looks torn between amusement and annoyance.
Kirsten's voice is soft when she speaks. "It was shortly before the start of the year at Harbor. You had been with us for, oh, about three or four weeks by then."
I don't remember, he almost says. Of course, she knows that already.
"He kept dragging you to the pool, to the pier, to his boat. I was always worried that you were just humoring him, that you were overwhelmed but didn't dare to say anything. Seth could be very persistent sometimes."
Ryan nods. He may not have anything to offer her, but he feels like he owes it to the Cohens, and to everyone who knew and loved Seth, to listen to their stories—perhaps that way, he'll learn to remember him too.
"He was very… Seth."
"That's what Summer and Luke told me," Ryan offers. "That he was very Seth."
Kirsten smiles then, a real smile, and Ryan feels like maybe, he just managed to do something right.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Getting into school proves both easier and more difficult than Ryan imagined.
He sits in the principal's office as the man skims his file, frowning at some of what he finds, and looking up in surprise at one point.
Sandy is sitting next to Ryan, tense and ready for battle.
It turns out to be unnecessary.
"Colorful file," the principal—Dr. Greene, he introduced himself—says when he's done.
"Ryan—" Sandy starts.
Dr. Greene raises a hand to stop him and looks at Ryan. "You've obviously had problems in the past, and you've just as obviously worked hard to get over them. Dr. Kim wrote quite a complimentary letter about you, and I know her by reputation. Her approval is hard to earn."
Ryan shoots a look at Sandy, who looks as surprised as Ryan feels—that's not the reaction he expected—then turns his attention back to Dr. Greene.
"I'm more worried about your present circumstances."
Ryan sees Sandy shift out of the corner of his eye, but Dr. Greene is clearly waiting for him to reply. "You mean the amnesia."
"Yes."
There's an uncomfortable silence that Ryan doesn't feel particularly inclined to break.
"Ryan remembers what he has learned previously," Sandy throws in.
Dr. Greene shoots him a quick glance then gets back to Ryan.
"There are placement tests," he says. "Just so we can be sure we put you in the right grade."
Ryan would like to be able to pretend that he cares about school, if only for the Cohens' sake, but he finds it hard to look properly motivated. What he wants to learn, he won't find in books.
Still, he needs to go to school eventually, so if the man wants him to take tests, he won't waste his energy trying to protest. What would be the point?
"Sure," he tells Dr. Greene.
"We can give you a few days to prepare, if you want to—"
"No, thanks, sir," Ryan says. After the ten thousand questions the doctors asked him in the weeks he spent in the hospital, he's fairly confident in his abilities to pass this test.
Dr. Greene nods as if he expected that answer. "Very well."
He asks Sandy to wait outside, hands a few printed sheets to Ryan and sits at his desk, burying himself into paperwork while Ryan answers questions on subjects ranging from the Civil War to calculus to the capital city of India.
How fucking ironic, Ryan thinks, that he can remember all that stuff and not have any idea what his mother's voice sounds like.
He doesn't remember what the house he lived in when he was six looked like but he can spell "magnanimous."
He can't remember what he got for his last birthday but he can answer that physics questions about a moving vehicle hitting a wall (at least, it's not a question about two moving vehicles colliding at an intersection).
"Are you done?" Dr. Greene asks, an hour later.
Ryan hands him the copy without comment and the principal frowns at him. "You okay?"
Ryan nods unconvincingly. It's unsettling to recall all that stuff, and not remember how and when he studied it. He doesn't have any memory at all of ever sitting down with his books and reading them, let alone studying for an exam, and yet he must have done so, or else he wouldn't even have understood the questions.
He's not about to say so to a stranger. "Sure, fine," he says.
Dr Greene shakes his head, unconvinced. "We'll call you later today with the results. And we'll have some forms for you and your guardians to fill out tomorrow."
"Life is but an endless series of forms to fill out," Sandy says when Ryan relays Dr. Greene's words to him. He throws an arm around Ryan's shoulder and leads him back to the car. "Believe me, I'm a lawyer. I know."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan knows he's dreaming.
He always knows he's dreaming.
It never stops him from waking up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breaths coming in short gasps.
Sometimes, it's Mr. Nichol yelling at him.
…killing my grandson…
Sometimes, it's Social Services deciding to take him away.
Sometimes, it's Sandy or Kirsten explaining to him that they're sorry, they just can't face him every day, because he reminds them too much of the son they lost.
Every single time he wakes up from these dreams—no, not dreams, they're nightmares, he might as well call them by their name—he spends hours lying in the dark, a hard ball of undefined fear in the pit of his stomach.
He knows that the Cohens would never send him away. He knows that Social Services would have acted sooner if they were planning to take him away. He knows that Caleb is trying to mend things with Kirsten and wouldn't dare try to pull anything on Ryan.
Yet…
Yet, his brain keeps insisting that so many things could go wrong; it would take so little to shatter his life, so little to change everything again. It's like hanging on by a thin, fragile thread that could break at any time.
Tonight is no different.
It's nightmare number one that wakes him up. The hatred in Mr. Nichol's face, the venom in his voice, the spiteful words. Ryan's not sure what he ever did to provoke so much anger, he's not even sure he wants to know, but he sure as hell won't ever forget the look the man gave him.
Ryan spends nearly half an hour remembering the nightmare, analyzing it, convincing himself that Mr. Nichol is far away and won't be able to do anything to him.
He wonders if his past self was scared of the man as well, or if he was able to just shrug it off.
At two in the morning, still wide awake, Ryan gives up on trying to sleep and silently makes his way downstairs. Perhaps moving around and drinking something will help him to unwind and if it doesn't, well, it will at least pass time.
He never meant to eavesdrop, but Kirsten's words stop him in his tracks as he walks past the door of the Cohens' room.
"I'm just not sure we're doing enough for him. How can we know that we're doing enough?"
Sandy's reply is too soft to hear, and Ryan takes a step closer to the door, subconsciously holding his breath.
"I know, but... He doesn't even ask anymore. Should we just volunteer information? Should we wait until he asks again?"
"Honey, it has only been a few weeks and he has had to adjust to a new town, and soon to a new school. Let's give him some time."
There's a silence, and Ryan can almost imagine them huddled close together.
"Besides," Sandy says, "It's not like we'll ever be able to tell him much more than we already have about his past."
"I know." There's another silence, longer this time. Just as Ryan is starting to think that the conversation is over, Kirsten speaks again, her voice so quiet that Ryan almost misses it. "I miss them both. Seth, and even Ryan… I love him, and I still see the boy he was sometimes, but it's not the same. That man… he took them both from us."
Her voice breaks and Ryan hears a sob, followed by a shushing noise. He wants nothing more than go back to bed now, but he's frozen in place, his heart hammering in his chest.
He hears some more rustling in the room, more shushing noises—Sandy must be trying to console his wife. Eventually, things quiet down.
Silently, Ryan turns back and tip toes to his room, all thoughts about a drink forgotten.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan gets through the first semester of school by keeping a low profile. He answers questions when called upon by a teacher, doesn't annoy anyone, and makes acceptable grades without attracting any attention to himself.
He doesn't seek out other students' company; he doesn't want to start explaining where he's from, what happened to him, and why he lives with people who don't share his name.
He wants to be left alone, and the other students seem happy enough to respect his wishes.
Ryan goes through five very frustrating therapy sessions, at the Cohens' insistence—"You know the doctors back home recommended it."—before convincing the Cohens that not only is it not helping, it's actually making things worse. Therapy is like running around in circles, making him repeat the same things he has been telling the Cohens over and over again. It's not helping him deal. It's making him more frustrated, encouraging him to dwell on what he lost instead of moving on.
How many times is he expected to say that he doesn't remember his past and that it's driving him insane?
Does anyone think that will make him feel better?
"I know it's hard, but it's only the beginning," Kirsten tries.
"It's been five weeks." Ryan sighs, feeling the beginning of a familiar tension headache, the way he usually does when he gets out of the therapist's office after a session. "It's just not helping, Kirsten."
She talks it over with Sandy and they both agree to drop the therapy. "For now. But, Ryan, it might be necessary again at some point."
"Whatever." As long as it's later.
Way, way later.
Their lives have fallen into a routine; Sandy and Kirsten have started their new jobs; the three of them have started working on the kitchen, spending their weekends painting and looking for new furniture. And Ryan mostly feels content with life. Maybe he'd be even more content if he suddenly remembered everything, but at least, the loss doesn't hurt as much; it's still there, dull and growing distant, but certainly not as sharp as it was in the beginning.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ryan never planned on making friends.
It just happens, in a slightly brutal and traumatic way.
"It's the way you tend to do pretty much everything, I'm afraid," Sandy tells him later that night, when Ryan's finally coherent enough to hear him.
To which Ryan can only reply, "It's not like I planned it."
'Cause yeah, a mugging on the way to school definitely wasn't part of his plans for the day.
"Yeah. You almost never do, kid."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The day starts normally enough. Ryan is walking on the same streets he walks every day, paying only distant attention to what's going on around him. He doesn't hear the hurried footsteps behind him, isn't even aware that he's being followed until someone runs past him, grabbing his backpack and trying to take off in a run.
Reflexively, Ryan catches the strap and hangs on.
The guy who was trying to steal it comes to a stop, surprise written all over his face. It's just a kid, Ryan notices. Barely older than he is.
They face each other for a few seconds before the kid, still holding on to the backpack, tries to take off with it again.
Ryan knows he should probably just let the kid take it. That's what everyone always says, isn't it? Don't resist and maybe you won't get hurt.
But for some reason, Ryan just hangs on tighter.
"Leave it, man," the kid says, trying to look tough.
Some part of Ryan is yelling at him to let go, and not make the situation escalate even more. It's not like he won't be able to replace it.
At the same time, he's starting to feel a little pissed off. It may be just a backpack, but it's his, and damn it, why should he allow the other kid to have it?
He wonders if the owner of the car that he and his brother stole felt the same way, but shrugs off the thought, annoyed. Now is really not the time.
He pulls at the strap he's holding, hard, and the kid lets go, jaw clenched. They look at each other for a while, then the kid huffs, makes a move as if to turn away.
In retrospect, Ryan really should have seen it coming, but the fist colliding with his face still takes him by surprise. He stumbles back and brings a hand up to protect himself, letting go of the bag. He's not quick enough to avoid another punch.
He falls backward, landing hard on the sidewalk.
The kid leans down to grab the bag again but a shouted "Hey!" from behind Ryan makes him stop.
"Fuck." He spits at Ryan, mercifully missing him by a few inches, and takes off in a run as Ryan tries to push himself up on his elbows.
A hand on his shoulder startles him and he jerks away.
"Hey, sorry, man."
Ryan sighs and gingerly touches his left cheek—where the kid got him the first time.
Yup, that one's gonna leave a big bruise.
That should be fun to explain.
"You okay?"
Someone is crouching next to him, and Ryan glances over long enough to recognize a student from his World Lit. class. Matt… something.
"Yeah," he says, surprised at how shaky his voice sounds. "Fine."
Matt looks at him doubtfully. "If you say so…"
Ryan smiles. "Thanks." With Matt's help, he manages to get to his feet and shakes his head softly.
That's when he first feels the slight throb that usually announces a migraine. He grimaces. The last one was the one he got when he arrived in town, and he really, really doesn't want a repeat performance.
"You look like shit. Maybe you should just go home for the day," Matt offers.
Ryan thinks about it briefly, then decides against it. One of the Cohens would feel obligated to stay with him and he doesn't want to bother them. They're both trying to get a start on their new jobs; they don't need to nurse him all day.
"I'll be fine," he replies. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, manages what he hopes is a convincing smile and motions in the direction of the school. "We're gonna be late."
Matt still looks unsure, but Ryan starts walking, hoping he's not making a major mistake.
TBC