Chapter Twelve - Ethan Hernandez
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ethan Hernandez
ETHAN’S EYES FLITTED open, the soft morning light spilled into the room. He blinked a few times and he became aware of his body. For the first time since yesterday, the pain in his head reduced to a dull ache. But the sharp blinding spikes of pain weren’t far from memory. He exhaled a long breath, and a small flicker of relief buzzed through him.
He turned his head, Jason slept and snored gently, laying half beneath the covers. His hair was tousled against the pillow looking serene, calm. Ethan’s chest tightened and warmth spread through him at the sight of Jason sleeping peacefully.
I got lucky with this one. He’s so damn patient with me.
Ethan knew how guarded he could be. At this point, it had become a reflex, vestiges of his time moving around from home to home. A new family every six to eighteen months. The way Ethan had figured, he had spent Christmas day from ages four to seventeen with a different family every year. He had been deemed “oppositional” by psychologists and received a diagnosis of “selective mutism” from another. Ethan was no stranger to therapists or psychiatrists. But he felt no real need for psychological intervention, it wasn’t a mental illness that plagued him — it was the fear of getting attached then only to be rejected or abandoned. His mother had died of a rare type of brain cancer at an early age and he never knew his father. His case worker had said they met at a bar and there were even attempts to track down Ethan’s father, but no such luck. With no extended family for Ethan to be with, he went into the system and aged out. At eighteen-years-old with his high school diploma — cobbled together from three different high schools and one large box and one large trash bag of his belongings he moved into the SSU dorms.
Despite his troubled history with families, Ethan was a brilliant student. Studies had come easily to him, excelling in subjects with little effort throughout high school. He would have graduated valedictorian of his last high school had he been there long enough. Yet, there was drama when he transferred and the assumed valedictorian’s parents raised concerns that a new transfer student didn’t earn the right.
It didn’t matter to Ethan.
He wasn’t interested in hollow accolades anyway. However, his stellar grades and foster sob story— a dreadful characterization made by his case worker—made him a prime candidate for several generous scholarships now funding his undergraduate studies. Ethan had hopes to become a neurosurgeon someday and help those afflicted by the very cancer that took his mother. His memory of her was hazy at best, he remembered her beautiful amber-brown eyes and a warm smile. There were fragments of her lovely singing voice lulling him into a restful sleep, but the moment Ethan tried to grab onto the memories, they would fade.
Quietly, Ethan slipped out of bed. He stretched and tested the limits of his newfound energy. He felt a little stronger, a little lighter. Then a rush of gratitude sparked in him. He needed to thank Jason for everything. It may have been only a day or two, but Jason deserved an ‘act of service’ as the psychology blogs called it — a resource Ethan often consulted when navigating new challenges in his relationship with Jason.
In the kitchen, Ethan flipped through their humble pantry, and a small smile tugged his lips. He found a jar of Nutella and the idea struck him. Nutella crepes — Jason’s favorite. With vigor, he set to work. There was a sprightliness to his movements, he hummed quietly to himself as he gathered the ingredients and tools necessary. While in foster care, Ethan had learned to cook for himself, his foster parents being too tired or disinterested to prepare meals for him and his siblings. The smell of melting butter wafted through the house as it sizzled on the pan. Letting the pan warm, he prepared a makeshift crepe batter left over from the pancake mix he found. Quickly he mixed that together to the right consistency and ladled the first crepe onto the heated pan.
While he waited, he grabbed two large oranges from a fruit bowl near the stove and squeezed them into a carafe, setting them on the table with care. He set two plates, napkins, and silverware neatly as a place setting on the table. Setting the carafe of fresh orange juice in the middle. He moved with agility back to the stove and removed the crepes from the pan. In just a few minutes, he had a small stack of freshly prepared crepes on a plate.
In the next room, Jason stirred gently to the redolence of a sweet breakfast being prepared just on the other side of the wall. His eyes opened as he noted the bed was empty beside him. A sleepy grin crossed his face as he realized Ethan was up and around.
He swung his legs off the bed and stretched, elongating his arms. His nearly 6’1” frame was lean and strong, a testament to his years of lacrosse practice and early morning workouts. His fingertips brushed the ceiling and he yawned rolling his broad shoulders, he scratched his toned stomach and padded towards the kitchen.
Jason tousled his hair as he stepped to the doorway of the kitchen, watching Ethan move and humming to himself. A quiet joy blossomed in his chest as he watched Ethan move so fluidly and assuredly about the kitchen. He glanced at the perfectly set table a fresh carafe of orange juice and a handsome place setting awaiting their breakfast.
It was so Ethan, detailed, and thoughtful.
He watched as Ethan turned, crepe pan in his hand to set the final crepe on the stack.
Just then Ethan gasped with a start, dropping the pan, “Jason! You scared me —” Ethan’s words were cut off by a sharp smash from across the room as the orange juice pitcher shattered without warning. Glass shards sprayed on to the place setting and scattered across the table and on the floor. The juice spilled from the table onto the floor in bright orange rivulets.
Ethan froze for a moment, his shoulders tensed, grabbed the pan from the floor tossing it into the sink. Then dashed towards the table, mumbling, “I’ve got it. I’ll clean it up.”
“Wait, Ethan—” Jason stepped forward barefoot but something tensed his leg muscles, momentarily keeping him in place. Jason fought against the unseen force holding him in place, he flexed his legs willing them to move forward, but it was as if he was glued down on the spot. As if something invisible was keeping him stationary.
Ethan was already scooping up the glass shards with his bare hands before Jason was ambulatory again, able to take the few steps to the table.
Grabbing Ethan’s hands, “You’re bleeding,” Jason exclaimed. The blood welled up from small cuts on Ethan’s fingers.
“It’s nothing, it’s fine,” Ethan mumbled, palming the glass shards, his hands trembled. He stood up and walked over to the trashcan depositing the broken glass inside.
His hands continued to tremble, as the throbbing in his head began again. The dull ache materialized into something sharper.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just glass,” He rambled.
Jason reached up to a cabinet above the refrigerator grabbing the first aid kit, as Ethan ran his hand under the faucet of the sink. Grabbing a towel, Jason dabbed at the small cuts that formed in the palm of Ethan’s hand. Quickly, he cleaned and bandaged the wound, “I’m sorry to startle you.”Jason said, his voice quivering.
Ethan stood despondent, his gaze mechanical. By the time the mess had been wiped and swept up, Ethan felt his energy depleted.
The crepe lay on the plate near the stove forgotten.
“I just need to lay down,” Ethan said quietly, retreating to the bedroom before Jason could interject.
Jason stood in the kitchen dumbfounded, it had all happened so quickly. What exactly, Jason was unsure. He heard the bedroom door click shut, as he stood rooted in place. Then glanced at the uneaten crepes still sitting on the counter. He picked up a fork and took a small bite. The sweet, nutty flavor bit at his tongue.
Something about it tasted hollow.
Jason felt a heaviness in his chest, gravity pushed inward until a hole opened up. Ethan was suffering and no matter what Jason did — no matter how hard he tried— he didn’t know how to fix it.
He swallowed the bite and set the fork down, wiping a tear that formed in his eye. Jason sighed, he felt his throat go raw. What can I do? Is this my fault?