Discovering
Chapter Fourteen: Part Two of Two

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I’ve been settled back with Ryan for about an hour. He’s was squirming around a bit when I first came back but Sasha, worried he might be in pain, injected another dose of NOT morphine pain meds and now Ryan is in a deep sleep.

My phone is set on buzzer and I feel it vibrate in my jeans pocket. Assuming it’s Kirsten, I take it out and glance at the display.

The last person I would expect to be calling is the person who is.

Theresa.

I sit up straight.

Glance at Ryan.

No twitching or moving.

I take a chance that it’s safe to briefly escape.

I stand up and tip-toe out of the room, continuing to the closest hallway where cell phone usage is acceptable. 

Theresa has hung up, but I hit return call and wait for her to answer.

After several rings she does with a tentative, “Mr. Cohen?”

I find an empty chair and plunk down into it.

“Hi Theresa. Sorry I missed your call.”

“No problem,” she says. “I was worried it was too late to disturb you.”

“Not at all, I was awake, sitting with Ryan.”

She asks me how he is, and I give her a brief update, leaving out all the details I have yet to tell Kirsten or Seth. 

When I’m done reviewing Ryan’s current status of health, there’s a pause.

“Are you still there, Theresa?” I ask hesitantly.

A few more seconds pass by before she answers, “Yeah, sorry. I haven’t stopped thinking about Ryan all day. It’s good to hear he’s doing better.”

“Yes it is,” I agree.

More silence follows and I’m getting déjà vu of my previous phone conversation with her.

The game of touch and go we played concerning Ryan’s past in Sacramento.

“Is there anything else, Theresa? Are you just calling to check on Ryan?”

I have a gut instinct there’s more.

“Ummmm, well,” she says, “I uh, before when we spoke, when you called, I um, I wasn’t completely honest with you….about…knowing something about Ryan, when he was little. When they lived in Sacramento, before his dad went to jail.”

My ears immediate perk.

I stand up, feeling a surge of energy rushing through my body.

She knows something about the shooting, I just know she does. I can sense it.

I try and keep my voice calm when I say, “That’s alright. It’s understandable. I threw something at you that you weren’t expecting and I know it’s important to you, that you are loyal to Ryan. And you are a good friend to him, Theresa. But you know Ryan. Sometimes he needs other people to bridge gaps for him. He’s not the best at conveying his feelings or talking about himself.”

“Really?” she asks. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

Clearly she’s being sarcastic. “I bet you haven’t.”

This time when she answers, she sounds sad. “He was miserable in Chino and I kept asking him what was wrong and I knew he missed you guys and that Marissa was calling at night but he never confided in me. Ryan…he can be so frustrating. I knew he didn’t want to be with me but he never admitted it.”

This time I keep silent until she says, “Sorry. That was random. I shouldn’t have said those things. That’s not why I called you.”

I jump at that, asking, “Is there something else you’d like to tell me? Something about Ryan?”

I wait with anticipation, holding my breath.

Why would she call back? Yes, to check on Ryan. I can see her doing that.

But there’s something else.

I heard it in her voice earlier and that same hesitant tone is back, as if she is clearly wanting to share information with me, but isn’t sure how to present it.

“Theresa?” I ask.

“I’m here,” she says, then more silence.

I need to coax her into talking about whatever is clearly bothering her.

“We love Ryan unconditionally,” I say quietly into the phone. “There isn’t anything that you could tell me that would ever change that.” 

“I know,” she whispers. “I know.”

“Theresa, please,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. “Do you know something you haven’t told me? Did Ryan ever say anything about the shooting? You can tell me.”

I hear her take a deep, shaky breath and I can tell she’s on the verge of saying something, but all of a sudden the voice of a small child fills the phone. 

Loud crying, wailing.

I recognize the sound from when Seth was a baby. There’s a child that clearly wants something and most likely won’t give up until he or she gets it. 

“Mr. Cohen, I’m so sorry. I have to go. My…I’m babysitting for my cousin and her little boy just woke up. I’ll call tomorrow, okay? And check on Ryan. I promise. ”

Click.

Just like that the phone is dead.

I hold it out and stare at it, as if I can will it to reconnect with Theresa.

What in the hell that was all about, I haven’t a clue.

Only, actually, I think I do.

Theresa knows something.

I’m sure of it.  I had some serious suspicions when I spoke to her this afternoon, but now there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she must know information about the shooting. 

How much and what she’s willing to share is the real question, which evidently won’t be answered until tomorrow.

How in the hell I am supposed to get any rest or relaxation now, after what I expect will be a revelation, is beyond me.

Ryan’s improving health temporarily distracted me from thinking about when he was shot, but now it’s all rushing back at me.

I glance at my cell. I’ve been out of Ryan’s room ten minutes.

That’s long enough.

When I go back in, he’s thankfully still asleep.

The blankets have slid down his chest, most likely indicating that his body is continuing to emerge from the sedatives.

From the corner of my eye, I spot the black and purple bruising along his left side. With the multiple blankets covering him for most of the day, I haven’t had the visual reminder of how badly the damaged area is.

Poor, poor kid.

The nurse told me that a doctor will be contacting me soon about what the latest round of blood work and chest x-rays revealed.

I’ve made a million promises to whatever deity is residing above that if he or she just cuts Ryan a break, and lets him skirt a second infection, I will be forever a better, more attentive father. 

Just allow the kid to feel better. 

Stop having to go through this.

Ryan’s head shifts.

His closed eyes become tiny slits.

I gently rub the side of his cheek like I’ve seen the nurses do, trying to elicit some type of response. Maybe I’m being selfish, wanting him to wake up. But I want to…no, I need to hear his voice again.

“Ryan? Are you awake?”

He nods and mumbles something under the mask.

“Say it again, Ryan,” I tell him, lowering my head to right above his mouth. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“My dad is mad,” he says so softly that I doubt myself that I heard him correctly.

His father?

“Your dad isn’t here, Ryan. It’s just me, son.”

“He’s yelling,” Ryan insists through labored breaths, his head shaking back and forth, indicating that he thinks I’m wrong. “He’s so pissed.” 

“No,” I repeat. “You’re dad’s not here. You’re dreaming. Open your eyes and look at me.” 

Ryan puffs in and out, like he’s trying to get enough air to keep talking and his hand slips down to the side of his left leg. There’s a few dry coughs followed by, “My leg hurts.” 

“I’m sure it does,” I say, wondering which plain of reality he’s in. Is he here with me or still out of it?  “I’ll get the nurse, see if they can give you something.”

Sasha just gave him pain medication. He shouldn’t be hurting this bad.

I’m reaching for the call button as I continue to watch Ryan and then it dawns on me.

His leg.

He’s reaching for the wrong part of his leg.

And I wonder if it’s not the broken ankle that Ryan’s trying to seek relief from, but from  his thigh.

High up, where his leg meets his hip.

He’s rubbing at it now.

He’s rubbing exactly where the old gun shot wound is.

My hand remains hovering over the call button, mesmerized by Ryan’s actions.

“Ryan?” I call his name softly, reaching down to his hand, gently taking it off the area. “Son, you’re dreaming. I want you to wake up.”

“It hurts,” he says, trying to dislodge his hand from mine.

‘No…it doesn’t, Ryan. I promise.” 

With my free hand, I cup his chin and turn his face towards me.

“Look at me,” I tell him. “Look at me.”

He blinks.

Gives up trying to escape my grasp.

“I thought it hurt,” he says, sounding detached, bewildered.

“You were dreaming,” I tell him for the second time. “Keep looking at me. See? No one is here but me. It’s just me, kid.”

 There’s no answer for a moment but then he coughs and recovers and tells me, “Okay.”

I remove my hand from his face, put it on his shoulder. Let his left hand free.

He doesn’t make a move for his thigh this time, and I take that as a sign he’s more lucid.

I can tell exhaustion is catching up with him. I have to lean over once again to hear him.

Maybe he’s not so lucid.

“My dad is pissed,” he says. “He keeps yelling at everyone.”

I’ve read Ryan’s file from Social Services at least ten times. Frank Atwood was a son of a bitch. From what I can tell, he was always yelling. 

“Where?” I ask Ryan. “Where was your father yelling?”

What I should be doing is promoting Ryan’s awareness of where he currently is because it’s apparent he’s trapped in some zone of past and present. But I want to know what he was dreaming about. 

I want to know why he was rubbing at his leg.

I want to know if Ryan remembers what happened all those years ago.

“Where was your father yelling, Ryan?”

His right arm rises up to his face and his knuckles dig into his eye.

“I don’t know. He won’t stop yelling.”

I decide reluctantly that enough is enough. 

It’s time to stop his confusion.

I’m not doing what’s in Ryan’s best interest. I’m not acting responsibly. 

“Frank isn’t here, Ryan.  No one is yelling. You were dreaming. I want you to look at me.”

He takes his hand away from his eye and I can finally tell that he’s trying to concentrate on my words.

“Ryan?” I ask.

“My throat hurts,” is all he says, not really giving me an indication if he’s still dreaming.

Beside the bed is a cup of mostly melted ice chips. The nurse told me no water, but ice chips are alright.

“Here,” I tell him, slipping the oxygen mask down his face and coaxing his mouth open by touching his lips with the plastic spoon. “Open up. This is the best I can offer.”

He complies, opening his mouth.

After swallowing with a cringe he tells me blankly, without emotion, “I’m confused.”

It’s the same thing he said when he woke up the first time in recovery, after the first surgery.

“You were in an accident. You had surgery. It’s going to take a while for you to wake up. Don’t worry about it. Give it a little time. You’ll remember.” 

I repeat every single thing I always tell him.

He’s going to be alright.

Kirsten and Seth are stuck in Providence.

They send their love.

They’ll be here as soon as they can.

I’m staying.

I won’t leave him alone here.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I ask him after I’m done with the brief synopsis.

“Okay,” he says briskly between puffs, his working vocabulary evidently restricted to just a few words.

The word, ‘okay,’ didn’t really answer my question, but at least he’s listening to me. 

“Alright,” I pat him on the shoulder. “That’s good enough for now. Close your eyes. Sleep off some of those drugs they have you on.”

It’s so unfamiliar, so odd to see him so confused and disoriented. Ryan’s severe vulnerability and lack of control is something I haven’t seen before.

At least not until three days ago.

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Scampering away as I say,

To be continued….