A/N.: Thanks a lot to my Beta ParisAmy and for all the nice reviews. Sorry for the late update
17.Can't- we can't make the past undone
K.
I sit next to Ryan in the car and I can tell, this time he didn't tolerate the treatment as he used to. I can make out only fast shallow breaths, although he eagerly tries to concentrate on his breathing, and he's paler than he used to. He's trembling awfully and his skin is cold and clammy. It rips my heart into pieces having to see him like this. My father throws concerned looks into the rear mirror.
"We're home soon." I tell him and rub his upper arm in assurance.
R.
At least she doesn't ask me how I feel. I've never felt bad like that. I don't know, but this seems to be wrong and it scares me. I don't have anything under control. I try to control my breathing, I can't. I try to control my trembling, I can't. And hell I try not to puke into this car and if I can't, it's going to be fucking embarrassing. I just wanna go to bed and hide under the covers, hoping they can keep me warm, because this jacket definitely doesn't. I already feel the bail climbing up my throat. Oh no. I swallow thickly.
K.
"Are you sick?" I ask him. He doesn't look good at all and that starts to worry me. This is not good and I know that this reaction might be a significant sign for: it can only get worse from here. I don't want it to get worse. I want Ryan to be able to go on with his studies. I don't want to see him sitting depressed in the house or even in bed all day. I can't see him unhappy. He must have been unhappy for so many years, not speaking about those he after left us – I don't dare to say he can't be happy without us -, but about those he hadn't even known us. He needs something that keeps him going; something that keeps him from giving up.
"Ryan we're there soon, just take deep breathes." I try to help him.
When we arrive in the driveway Ryan slowly gets out of the car, but can't seem to move forward. He's leaning against the car. I'm afraid he might collapse right there, because he's so fragile right now.
"Ryan, do you …need help?" I ask him. He only nods. I take a deep breath. I didn't want things to turn out like that, not yet and at best never. I take his arm and we slowly make our way to the house. Suddenly Ryan stops.
"What's wrong?" I ask him, but his body breaks out into violent convulsions and heaves. I hold him by his upper arm. I'm afraid he might tip over.
"S…Sorry." He says in between awful heaves.
"'s okay. Just take deep breaths." I tell him. He hadn't had much for breakfast and he had left out dinner the evening before. There is not much for his stomach to get rid of. It's only the retching and nausea. I gently rub his back in circles. He's not a little boy anymore, but I need to do this for him to calm down and for me to be able to do at least something – to show him I'm there. When he struggles back into an upright position I hand him a tissue so he can wipe his mouth.
"Sorry, I'll clean it up, promised." I see the humiliation washing all over his face – his entire body. I don't want to imagine what inner turmoil this had set up in his mind. Ryan, who is always concerned about being in full control of himself and his body had lost it and to make it worse, he even lost it in front of me.
"Don't worry kid. We take care of that. That's nothing water and soap won't solve." My father says putting a hand on Ryan's back and guiding him inside.
"Do you think you have enough energy to make it upstairs?" I ask him. He nods and then starts to climb the stairs. I'm close behind him in case he might fall so that I can catch him. When he enters the room he immediately heads for the bed and drops down.
"Don't you want to change first?" I ask him. He only shakes his head. It hurts to see him like this: vulnerable and utterly exhausted.
R.
I never want to have to get up again. I just don't feel good. I'm exhausted, I have a headache, my stomach had started its own rebellion, and I just can't seem to get my body under control. I'm frustrated. I don't want to be weak. That's not me. I want to get up and beat the fucking walls out of this room, but my limps are too heavy. This is so not good. This is not the way things were supposed to be. I can't do this. I can't cope with this situation. It's…too much. I can't handle this. Shit, I puked into the front yard under the eyes of Kirsten and her father. This is enough to know that I can't handle this situation. Worst of all is the feeling of humiliation. I mean, what's this? I can't walk, I can't eat - I can't do anything without help. Where's my autonomy? My independence, my autonomy was all I had left. What do I have now? Nothing. The realisation that I have to let Kirsten help me if I want to make it through this, hits me like a rock. I have no other choice. I can't make it alone. I'm far over my limit and I can't exceed it any further.
"C'mon Ryan, get changed and I make your bed, okay?" She asks me. She's right. Sleeping in jeans isn't very comfortable. I take the sweatpants out of her hand and try to get up. I have to support my weight with my hands, but it doesn't help a lot. My arms are as weak as my legs. I have to clench my jaw for not screaming out the frustration which seems to increase with each day. I'd say I blame the wounds and cuts on my hand for that. Unfortunately the cuts weren't even deep enough for requiring stitches, and furthermore I didn't feel that bad last night.
"I'll help you." Kirsten reaches out for my hands. Great. Now I have to get help from a woman like Kirsten who's physical not more than a blow in the wind. This is not really helpful with my anger management – or better: management of frustration.
"Can you make it from here?" She asks me and I can only nod. I guess that every word I'd speak would come out wrong. I slowly make my way to the bathroom, not that I could be fast anyway. I have to sit down on the lid of the toilet to get changed. I can't hold my balance on one leg. I have the feeling as if every move hurts and this makes the whole changing-procedure taking ages. When I go back Kirsten has already pulled back the blankets. The blankets. Hell, it's California, it's not cold here. Unfortunately my body thinks differently. I still have goose bumps. I climb to bed. No, I don't feel too good. My heavy body sinks into the mattress. I try to focus the ceiling. Things seem to spin around and I feel dizzy. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My stomach hasn't settled yet. This is going to be funny. I feel how the blankets get lifter over my body.
K.
"Try to get some sleep, and when you need anything, we're there, okay?" I ask him. He looks so young and vulnerable. I'd stroke through his hair, but it's not there anymore and I'm afraid of insulting him if I'd stroke over his bare head. The only thing that remains is tucking his shivering body in, in the hope he'll feel better soon. Unfortunately I know that this hope won't become true in the close future.
I go back to my father. He's busy occupied in the kitchen.
"What you're making?" I ask him and help myself to a cup of coffee.
"Mashed potatoes. The boy will have to eat something today." He answers. I nod.
"You used to make mashed potatoes for Mom. She never could have enough of that." I answer him.
"She tolerated it." He answers dryly. He's lost in some thoughts, but doesn't let me in into his mind.
"What's on your mind?" I ask him.
"Honestly?" He asks me. "I thought I was over it, you know? Not that you can ever be over such a loss, but I thought I was able to cope with it, but I was wrong. Witnessing this all again brings up all these memories and…it still hurts. Lately I have to think so much about this time and I ask myself could I have done more? Could I've made her more comfortable? Could I have comforted her more? I…the whole ordeal she went through. I have the feeling as if I just stood there and watched her fading away. I couldn't do anything to help her. I couldn't make her feel better; I couldn't make her recover; I couldn't rescue her. And now? It's the same situation again. I can't do anything to help the situation." He confesses. I think this is the most personal conversation we've ever had. He has never before talked to me about such personal things. He used to keep his emotions under control and well hidden from me and my sister.
"That's not true Dad. You were there for her. You were there for her treatments. You prepared her dinner, so that she ate at least something. You were there when she felt worse than ever to hold her in your arms. You even skipped the one or other working day for her. And now you're doing more or less the same for Ryan: you cook for him, you talk to him, you take days off from the office. You try to help him. You tried to make Mom as comfortable as possible and that was all you could have done. There's no cure and you know that. And now we can only try to make Ryan as comfortable as we can. There's nothing else we can do. And believe me: I hate this situation as much as you do. I hated it then I can't bear it now, but we couldn't show Mom, because of her pride. If she'd known, she would have risked everything for taking the burden from us, and so would Ryan." I don't want my father blaming him for the past and how it has happened. As hard it is to bear, but this is nothing we can influence.
"It's just awful. He's so young. He went through hell and back and I guess that several times. It's not like he needs this on top of it."
"I know what you mean and you're right, but this is something nobody needs. Let's just try to be there for him as much as possible. We need to show him that he has no reason to play the tough guy in our presence. I think this is all we can do." I let him know.
"Did Sandy have any success?" He asks me.
"No, not yet. But he knows where Dawn is and he'll go and see her."
"And you think this woman will be of any help? The last thing I heard about her was that she's an alcoholic junkie. Not really reliable, if you ask me." He says and his voice is bitter. He's talking with so much disgust about this woman's fault that I start to feel ashamed again, for my failure.
"Dad…"
"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry Kiki. But you can't compare yourself with this woman. You got yourself help – for your boys and your husband. This woman abandons her son in order to pursue her lifestyle in which her own son is nothing more but a troublesome obstacle. Kiki, I never implied that you are in any way like her." My father says and takes me into his arms. I don't know what's wrong with him, but I've never seen him this emotional. This can't be my Dad.
"Okay, let's get the boy something to eat." He says and then focuses on his cooking again. I stay there and watch him.
He hands me a bowl when he's finished and I make my way back to Ryan. He's still curled up under the blankets. His body is still shivering, but despite it doesn't look as if he had moved at all.
"Hey, feeling any better?" I ask him when I put the tray on the nightstand and see these blue eyes focusing on me.
"Not really."
"It'll get over. Did you sleep at least a little bit?"
"No, not really."
"Your stomach?" I ask. I still know that his stomach is very sensitive. The time he was living here and I wasn't drunk, I realised whatever was bothering him impaired his appetite. He felt sick and stopped eating when he was upset or depressed or in any other bad mood; but the same could happen when he was overly happy. He got always problems with his stomach when he was getting a cold or the flue.
"Maybe this will help you." I tell him and point at the tray.
"I don't think I can keep it down."
"Maybe you'll do. My Mom used to keep it. She always felt a little better afterwards." I try to assure him.
"And if not?"
"You don't need to eat all of it, just try." I say nearly begging him.
R.
I sigh. I can't say no now. Just a little. Maybe she's right. Hell, I'd do everything to make my stomach settle again. She hands me the bowl and a spoon. The smell already makes my stomach throw loops. Not that it smells disgusting or something. It's just the smell of food. I try to ignore my protesting stomach and take the spoon. I feel Kirsten's glance on me. My hand is shaking, as my whole body is. I don't want her looking at me like that. I don't want to feel the glances of pity on me, and I don't want to give her the feeling of having to help me even more. I only look back at her, hoping she might get the hint: that I want some privacy. But she sits down on a chair.
K.
"Take your time." I tell him when he looks at me, trying to get me out of the room. I won't leave him. I watch him how he puts a small portion on the spoon. He's very hesitatingly. Throwing up in the front yard has made him even more insecure as he already was. He slowly chews and swallows. I can tell he's fighting a battle. While I can tell that he's heavily concentrating on his meal, I make use of the situation and try to approach the topic again.
"Did you think about what I asked you yesterday?" I ask him. I try to sound as innocent and patient as I can. Yesterday had shown me that this is a sore point for Ryan.
R.
"Kirsten…I…" I can't finish the sentence. Eating was no good idea. I throw the blankets away and get hit by wall of coldness, but I can't care right now. I already feel the bile coming up my throat. I want to get up, but as soon as I'm vertical the world around me starts spinning and blurring; my head starts pounding as if someone is treating it with a hammer, and my legs aren't really in a cooperative mood as well. Shit. My stomach starts rambling more and more, and I can feel I'm not far away from…shit. I try to hold myself at the wall. I can only come forward slowly. My body hurts awfully and feels like it's made of concrete. I don't want to puke on the carpet. I really don't want to. I can't bear any more humiliation. I feel her hand gripping my arm, but I pull it in a reflex I pull it away.
"Ryan, I only want to help you." I explain him.
"I…can…do it on my own." I don't want her help anymore. I can't be this charity case everyone feels obliged to participate in, anymore. I can't bear their bad conscience and their urge to fix everything. Especially not right now.
K.
"Ryan, stop it. You can't do this alone. You have to let me help! I'll help you now to the bathroom and you'll let me, because I don't think that you want to puke on the carpet." I determine what's going to happen. I'm harsh, maybe too harsh, but this is the only language he knows right now. Sad eyes meet with mine and I can see how reluctant he is to give up more and more of his autonomy and privacy and become dependent on us. It hurts: this look is pleading for a little more independence and privacy. I close the bathroom door and wait in the bedroom, to give the pleading at least a little way. I don't hear him retching. He's too private as if he would make any noise – that's the impression that I have.
I hear the flush and wait for Ryan to come out, but he doesn't.
"Ryan, are you okay?" I ask through the door, but I don't get an answer. "Okay, I'll open the door now, okay?" I tell him. I'm afraid he might get ready for taking a shower or something, but when I open the door I see that he's far away from that. He's curled up on the bathroom floor, shivering. He looks awfully pale.
"Oh sweetie." It slips out of my mouth. I kneel down to him and stroke over his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy.
"Okay, you can't lie here. It's too cold." I tell him. I want to help him sit up, but he refuses to move at all.
"Just …leave."
"Ryan you need to help me, I can't get you up on my own." I let him know. I start to panic a little. He's so unresponsive.
"Just leave me here for a while."
"Ryan, you have to…"
R..
"I can't!" I snap at her. It's not like this hard floor helps me to get rid of my body soreness. If I could I would, but I can't. I can't. I never thought I'd have to say these words once. This can only be a very bad joke. This can't be true, because I can't means I need help; I have to depend on others and this is not going to happen. I won't let it happen. I've never been depending on others…okay, I have, but it never went well. Not with my mother and not with the Cohen's.
K.
"I go and get my Dad." I tell him. That's all I can say now. That's all I can do.
"Dad?" I run downstairs. Only now I realise that my heart is racing and that I'm close to panic.
"Dad?" I call out frantically.
"Kiki?" He says and then comes towards me. "What's wrong?" He asks me and takes my upper arms into a firm grip.
"Ryan…he's in the bathroom, on the floor and he can't get up, and…I'm not strong enough to get him back onto his feet." I explain him. I'm astonished by myself how calm I can stay in this situation. My father nods and then hurries upstairs. When we arrive, Ryan tries with all is strength to get onto his feet, holding tightly on the door of the shower cabinet. My father rushes over to him. He tries to support him, but Ryan refuses to let him - fighting his arms.
"Ryan, damn it. Let me help!" My father commands. I can only stand there and watch.
"I can make it." The statement of a boy who never had relied on anyone – never had been able to, because at the end they all disappointed and abandoned him: if not physically then psychologically.
"No, you can't. Not today. Tomorrow, yes but today, no." This is the first time I hear in my father's voice empathy. Empathy for a boy he had hated until death and now?
"Ryan, can you let me help you? Just today. Tomorrow you'll be on your own again." My father assures him. Reluctantly Ryan allows my father to put an arm around his waist to steady him.
"You determine the speed." My father says. I still see him doing this for Mom. At the end he had carried her: from the bed to the bathroom and back, into the living room, dining room, to the car. He would have carried her around the world if she had asked him to. He never would have said no.
"I'm no nursing case." I hear Ryan grumble.
"No, you're not and nobody implied it." My father answers. His patience. He reminds me of Sandy. The both of them they're not as different as they think they are: both have the heart on the right spot.
"Here we are." My father says, not letting off Ryan unto he's safely sitting on the bed.
"Thanks." Ryan says shyly.
"You're welcome. I leave you two alone again." My father says and then leaves.
R.
Humiliation number two. I don't need any more today. The fear of not having control over what is going to happen to me increases with every passing second. I can't control anything. It's completely out of my hands. I don't like it, if things are out of my hands. It means…that…oh no…this is making everything so fucking real: the illness, the treatment, the side effects and the possibility that…oh my God. I don't feel too good right now. Not only physically. Fact is: without Kirsten and her father I'd be fucked right now. Despite them, and Seth of course, I'd nobody who'd care. This is so mind twisting. They care about you, they give a shit about you, and then they care again. What am I supposed to …feel or think about this? It doesn't make any sense – not to me. Defeated I let myself fall on my side. My head is still pounding and my body feels sore and heavy. All of this doesn't make any sense. I've never been really sick. Okay once I had the flu, but that's it. This is surreal. I've always been able to take care of myself. Hell, I probably wouldn't be alive anymore if I hadn't. Why can't I now? This is not how my life goes. They deprived me of everything: of food and material possessing, of being a child and love. They hit and beat me, or hurt my in a non-physical way. I always could cope with it, because I could at least take care of myself, but now? I can't even take care of myself. I feel how Kirsten covers me with the blankets and then sits down on the edge of the bed, behind me.
"I know it always had been important for you to be independent, to be able to take care of yourself. I know we didn't give you the chance to leave this habit behind. I'm sorry I couldn't offer you the chance to rely on us. It's harsh to demand from you to do it now, but you can. I promise you, nobody will hurt you in any way and all of us – also Sandy – will be there for you. No matter what will happen. You know, Seth would say: we're having your back for as long as necessary."
"Saturday." If I want to believe Kirsten, I need to have the proof. I have to overcome my fears which are blocking me.
"What about Saturday?"
"Sandy, I…doubt I'll be decent enough for facing him tomorrow, but I think Saturday."
"Okay, why the sudden change?"
"You…You're right…I can't make this on my own, but…I'm afraid, and not…only of the cancer and the treatment, but…" I can't speak this sentence. I can't relieve my inner turmoil. I…can't. I can't handle this. This is too much. I can't. I feel how my fear and anxiety start to overwhelm me.
"You're afraid of letting us close again, right?" She finished my sentence – something I would have never been able to say out aloud and though I'm glad that she did.
K.
"Oh honey, I don't know how to help you there, despite telling you again and again that you don't have to be afraid. Not this time." I try to sooth him rubbing his back.
"That doesn't change anything." He nearly whispers and crawls deeper under the blankets. It hurts me and tears my heart into pieces seeing him like that.
R.
"It's like I can't think straight anymore. Maybe, it's better if I left." This is the only way out to get at least some relief. I can't live on with my emotions such a chaos. I can't deal with my body being out of control, but emotions out of control can have much more consequences, and no! I'm not going to cry in front of Kirsten. I had that yesterday night, in save solitude. I don't need to do this again. I'm old enough. I need to leave this place. Everything here fucks me up: physically and emotionally.
"Ryan, it's a normal reaction. We have disappointed you and hurt you; we broke our promise towards you. It's only natural that you feel like that now."
"Kirsten, you don't understand. I can't do this here."
"W…wait…Ryan, what is this here? First you tell me, you want to meet Sandy and now you want to leave? Did I miss a point?"
K.
"I told you, I can't think straight. There's just too much…I can't sort it out." I start to really worry now. I never heard Ryan admit that he has trouble with dealing with anything and I never have witnessed him this emotional.
"Okay Ryan. You'll stay here, definitely. I won't let you go and if I have to lock you up in this room. If you still want to meet Sandy, I'll let him know. If not, it's okay too. And for the rest, I'm here, Seth is, my father and Sandy too – when you let him – and we all try to make you able to trust and rely on us again. We'll do everything in the world to make this happen okay? You only have to cooperate a little." I tell him. Again his head only nods.
"Oh sweetie." I say and then put an arm around him. I swing my legs on the bed and try to embrace him with my whole body. I want him to realise that I'm there for him, one-hundred per cent. I place a kiss on his head. Small convulsions let me know that he's crying. I rock him, trying everything to make him feel better. He doesn't need the emotional pain added to the rest.
"We're there, honey. You don't have to do this alone, and I promise you for good that we won't leave you alone, we won't hurt you. You're safe for good."