A/N.: Thanks for the nice reviews and to my Beta ParisAmy who again did an amazing job .D
16. Longing – There are so many things you're longing for, but can't get
K.
I go upstairs. I still have to talk to Ryan. I knock on the door but don't get an answer. I slowly open it a slight and peak in. He's not there. I fully open the door and see the room empty. Seth had left half an hour ago. I see the bathroom door is shut. I don't panic Ryan might have run. I would have noticed, Seth would have told me and I doubt that Ryan has enough strength left. It's three months now that he's here and he tries to brace himself, but I doubt he'll be able to hang tight like this for much longer. Every day he comes home, he's more exhausted. I know how important his studies are to him and I understand him, but he loses his energy. I sit down on the bed and wait for him. My glance wanders around the room. Within the few months he's here he already accumulated an impressing amount of books. I never realised that he was such a passionate reader. It's not only a bunch of architecture or math related books. There are books about politics and science, along with Stephen King and Michael Crichton. Why did I never before realise how much he's interested in books? I could have introduced him into Sandy's holy collection of books, which contains all Stephen King and Michael Crichton have ever written. And politics he could find it all there. I sigh. I don't know what I've been doing all the time that I never recognised things like that. On the other hand Ryan always had been good at hiding. He'd always tried not to let us know too much about him, no matter how hard we pushed him for information. I sigh. How can I even dare to have maternal feelings for him when I don't even know what he likes and what not? I hope he isn't right about his accusations and what I feel is just the outcome of a bad conscience. I can't bear this thought. The bathroom door opens and Ryan steps out. He's dressed in sweatpants and t-shirt. The pants fit slackly around his legs. It feels as if he loses weight within seconds. His eyes seem to be bigger than they used to be and their colour seems to be even more intensive.
"Hey." He says when he spots me.
"Hey yourself. How are you feeling?" I ask him.
"Tired. Guess I'll have an early night."
"I don't want to hinder you, but can I talk to you first?" .
"Sandy knows that you're here and…I had to tell him eventually."
R.
Oh shit. I knew it would be bad, but this is even worse than bad. It's really bad.
"He…since he knows that you're here he asks me whether he can come and see you."She tells me.
"I know what has happened between you and him. I know this isn't easy for you to handle, but you have to face him one day." I understand the words, but I don't get her point at all. I close my eyes and rubs them with the palms of my hands.
"You know? What the fuck do you know?" I'm in rage again. She starts talking, as if she knew everything again. But truth is: she knows nothing.
"Ryan, this is not a reason for becoming angry at me."
"Yes, it is. Because you say you know everything, but you know nothing. You have no idea how it is, when the person who you looked up to and who promised you things will be different, turns out to be just like one of those brutal assholes himself – forgetting all his maxims he made you believe in." I scream at her. I hate it if people tell me they knew. I've heard it so often: I know this must be... and in real? They knew nothing.
"Ryan, calm down. I…didn't intend to offend you. I only wanted to ask whether you're ready for facing Sandy." Will I ever be ready for that? I doubt it. The thing is: it's not that I don't want to forgive. The problem is that what has happened has shaken me up way too hard as if I could trust even a peaceful second. If I'd have to see him again, I'd be sitting and waiting for the next blow out.
"For you things are always so damn fucking easy." Why can't she accept that things aren't easy?
"I don't say they're easy, but one day you'll have to face Sandy eventually. You can't run away from him forever."
"Only because I let you be part of this, it doesn't mean that everything is okay."
"Ryan, what is this about?" She starts digging. Great. She wants to know what's wrong? She's acting annoyingly. I can't stand it when someone goes all investigator on me.
"Tell me Ryan, what's bothering you that such a small question sets you off like that?" She asks again.
Right. This reaction was a little inappropriate, but currently my nerves are over-fried. I can't change it. I'm just…I have no explanation to myself. It's just awful. Everybody comes here and wants me to pretend as if nothing has happened, and that's just not true. A lot had happened, they just don't know and I can't tell them. Too much time passed by without taking part in each others' lives.
"Ryan, talk to me." I drop down in a chair across from her, taking a deep breath. Somehow I have to give her something, but I can't tell what to give her.
"It's …like…I dunno, since I'm here everyone acts as if nothing has happened, and when I can't do so…they blame me…for nearly everything."
"That's not true Ryan. The only one who's blaming you is Marissa, but you shouldn't take this seriously, because she has enough on her own plate to answer for. And we? We're just living our lives and probably it didn't change much from before. The only one's life that had changed dramatically was yours and I feel sorry for it. But you can't reproach us for having gone on with the lives we were living. And if you don't feel ready for facing Sandy yet, it's okay, but it's no reason for yelling at me. And one more thing: you'll have to face him sooner or later and it's never going to be easy, but everybody deserves a second chance." The famous second chance, as if this was the remedy for everything. Only people like Kirsten are able to talk about them as if they were a great gesture. In reality they are just a bunch of wasted words, because nobody ever is making a good use of his second chance.
"And another one, and another one." I only answer her. Second chances. How often do I have to listen to this? I can't even count how many chances I gave my Mom.. Trey and my Dad. And does the fact that I let Sandy treat me like a dog for months count at all? I'm no fucking saint.
"I don't know what's wrong with you lately. Every time I want to talk to you I meet your frustration. I thought we were over this." Maybe she should change the topics or her measure of approaching me with such issues. I watch her leaving me, closing the door behind her.
Well done, and I'm sitting here again as the lone-asshole. Awesome. That much about an early night. Now I'll lie in bed tossing and turning and thinking of what the fuck I've done wrong again, and why I'm incapable of explaining myself. These must be the thoughts of an infant: how to make my parents understand what I want. I feel how the anger inside of me starts boiling again. Hatred. Anger. Hatred. Anger. That's all right now that I can feel and I can't explain where these feelings come from. In a sudden I'm totally pissed off by the situation. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be patronized by Kirsten anymore. I don't want to have to explain my motives. I don't want to have all these fucking treatments. I don't want any pills. I want my autonomy back, my old life: with Trey in Boston. I don't want to dance after their music. They didn't care whether I did for years and now it suddenly matters again? I can't. I…just…can't.
I go back into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I take a look into the mirror and there it is: the cause of the problem. The one who can't forgive, the one who can't give second chances, the one who can't forget, the one who can't control himself, the one who's nothing more but a remaining shell of what he once had been. I can't see this face anymore. In a wave of anger I smack my fist into the mirror, which immediately breaks into pieces. When I pull back my fist my knuckles are covered with blood and shards of glass are still sticking in it. I don't mind the pain. Suits me right. It's again me who causes so much pain and trouble and I count the days until they grow tired of me like all the rest. I hold the hand under cold water and wait until the bleeding stops. I watch the water meeting the blood and then pouring into a whirl. It should stop bleeding. I don't know how long I stand there, but slowly a feeling of panic crawls up my spine. It doesn't stop. Shit. I grab a towel and wrap it around my hand. I'll pay them back. It's not like the bill is already high enough. A towel won't hurt. I wrap it tight and then search through the cabinet above the sink for some gaze or band aid. Nothing. Great. I stare at the towel. What now? I'll have to go downstairs, ask for gaze and explain myself. Shit. I walk out of the bathroom. I hesitate. I don't want to go there. Definitely not. This was only one more proof for me being bonkers. Maybe somewhere…shit. A wave of dizziness hits me. Well, that means I shouldn't hesitate. I walk over to the door and as I reach for the knob as the door swings open.
"Ryan I wanted to ask whether you want to have some dinner. Were you already on your way downstairs?" Mr. Nichol asks me when he sees me staying in front of the door. I can only nod.
"Oh…then…what happened to your hand?" The second question. And now it's going to be funny: Sorry, I thought it was fun smashing the mirror with my bare fist, I hope you don't mind.
C.
The boy looks like a deer caught in the headlights. What's wrong with him? He can't tell me that he's still afraid of me, can he? I thought we were over with this.
"Has this something to do with the shattering noise that came from up here?" I ask him, casting a glance at the towel wrapped around his hand. He shrugs his shoulders in indifference.
"As I don't see any damage here, I assume the mirror in the bathroom?" I ask the boy. Something about him is scaring me, but I don't know what it is. Maybe his silence. Well, I shouldn't be scared by that, as he never talks a lot, though.
"I never thought of you as the stereotype boy, but okay. Let me see your hand." He doesn't make a make a move. He stands in the room like frozen to his tracks.
"Hell, boy! Don't be so skittish." I say and grab his hand and unwrap the towel. "Oh this doesn't look good." Is the only thing I can say. The blood pours out of the cuts like water out of the tap.
"I think we should bring you to the ER. I doubt that this will stop from its own." I tell him. My wife once cut her finger and it didn't stop bleeding, until we went to the ER. His blood is too thin as if it could clot.
"I don't need to…" I want to protest.
"No debates about that. You've gotten yourself into this." I demand and then I put and arm around his shoulder and guide him out of the room.
Now my daughter and I are waiting in the waiting area of the hospital.
"How could this happen, Dad? What's wrong with him lately? He's not himself. His mood swings. I don't know how to handle him anymore. He's not the Ryan I knew."
"Kiki, he's a kid and nothing to handle. And maybe he only needs some space. Since you got him here, you're hovering over him. I can understand him. After three years of nothing."
"What do you mean?" God damn it, how can my own smart daughter be that blind?
"What I mean is that nobody of you was looking for him, because if you did you would have found him. He didn't hide. Damn it, you hurt him and I doubt that this is something that can be solved on the short run. Kirsten, he is not stupid. He knows what's going on with him and the treatment and added to that this stress, maybe you should just leave him be, and maybe the idea of bringing him back wasn't as smart as we thought it was. The boy is hurting, with every single day a little more. He doesn't need your reproaches, but your support and understanding." I try to knock some sense into my daughter's head. I can understand that this behaviour is annoying, but he's caught in an annoying situation. It's only natural that he acts sensitive to everything and everyone.
The doctor passes us.
"How's Ryan doing?" My daughter asks him. It is the same who treated Ryan, when he was admitted to hospital the first time.
"Physically he's alright. I'm more concerned about his mental condition."
"What do you mean?" My daughter asks.
"Mrs. Cohen, if someone punches a mirror with his bare fist in such a condition it is an alerting symptom for: nothing is alright."
"The boy goes through a rough time and not only because of his illness." I step in.
"Might be, but you better get him dealing with it. I don't want to have him locked up until this ordeal is over either way." I see my daughter grasping for air.
"When can we take him home?" I ask further.
"I want to keep him overnight for observation. You can take him home tomorrow after the treatment." He says and then disappears. Kirsten starts storming towards the room the doctor came from. I grab her shoulder and hold her back.
"I have to see Ryan." She snaps at me.
"No, Kirsten. Give him some space. He needs his rest. Let me go, okay?" I go to the room. Ryan sits up in bed. His facial expression is anything else than happy.
"Hey boy. Well, nice little mess you got yourself in." I start the conversation. I don't expect an answer. I'm sure as hell, he won't talk to me. He stays mute, but watches me with wary eyes.
"Okay, I have to talk to you and I want you to listen carefully, because it's serious and unless you don't want to be locked up in one of those cosy soft-wall cells, you'll listen and take it to heart what I have to say." I have to make him listen and actually understand. It's awful to witness him on his way on this downward spiral.
"I won't say that I understand what you're going through, the only thing is that I can imagine that this must be kinda weird. Three years nobody seems to give a shit about you and then they pop up at your door and want you to be their son and let them lavish you with all their love and care. Honestly, if it was me in your position, I'd felt pissed as well, because it seems to be a lie, and these months which must have been a trip to hell and back for you, as you already had the pleasure to live with an alcoholic mother in a broken home. You already lived in a family in which nobody ever took an interest in how you felt about it, and they took everything you did as granted. Fact: it had been the same old shit, just in a rich environment. And now you're back and they beg you for forgiveness and are eager to show you that you mean something to them, but you can't. Something got damaged during all this time and you need time to heal and to think over these things. You have to learn how to trust them from scratch, and believe me although I don't understand it, it's understandable. But Ryan, you have to brace yourself. You can't lose it. Look what you have. You're a gifted boy and everybody would want what you have. Don't risk it. Maybe you can't make full use of what you have now, but soon you can. You have something to look forward to, so brace yourself and sit tight." I finish my lecture and what I meet is a blank face – emotionless. I should have known that this is not going to work. Our eyes lock for a second. Not emotionless. Fear and sadness, desperation and doubt is written in them and now I understand why my daughter always paid so much attention to his eyes, because they were the holes to his soul which told you everything.
"And for God's sake, let my daughter take care of you and let her help sorting things out which had happened. She's driving me insane with her mother-instincts and – duties, and she's not as productive as she used to be and I need her full attention, one hundred percent." I add. This came as a joke, but is bloody truth. I can't stand my daughter in this mood. It's awful.
"Okay, I hope you've listened, and now get some rest." I say and get up and leave him alone.
R.
When I'm sure he's gone I roll on my side, curl together as small as I can and start crying. Great. Nineteen years old and crying like a baby. I can't help it. It's just too much for me: the fear of not knowing how this might end, the fear of letting Kirsten too close and the longing for her being my mother again. The fear of having to face Sandy and the longing for the father he had been once. The fear of permitting them fixing what had happened and the longing for the caring and supportive family they were and would be, if I just let them. But I can't. It's tearing at my heart and I want to rip my soul out. I desperately want them to be my family again, to be there and take care. I want Kirsten to take me into her arms and I want to listen to Sandy's lectures about optimism, but I can't. I'm blocked. I'm blocked by my fears of how much pain and damage they can cause, if I let them. Things would go back to the worst again.
I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be hurt either; and you'll get hurt if you let other people into your life. I just don't know what to do. I don't know.