Saturday, December 4th
Ronan
I don’t pray to God. I haven’t in a long time. I mean, I used to, when I was little. I’d pray that my mom would stop hurting me. But if there is a God—and I’m not so sure about that anymore—he, or she, or whatever, left me a long time ago. Clearly, God doesn’t give a shit about me. But last night, I prayed. I prayed that the darkness would lift for a while, that the pain would ease, that I’d see some light.
I’ve barely been able to get out of bed since arriving in Montana, only managing to drag myself to the bathroom. I haven’t stepped even one foot outside of my grandparents’ house. Everything just feels so heavy—my body, my mind. It’s like I’m made of lead.
I spend most of my time sleeping, even during the day, waking only when I’m ripped out of a nightmare or my grandparents force me to eat. But I never feel rested. How is it possible to sleep so much yet be so exhausted?
“With all due respect, Doctor Seivert, whatever you’re trying to do right now, it’s not working,” I overheard my grandmother say to my therapist yesterday during a conference call they had with my dad. It was one of the rare times when I mustered up enough energy to drag myself out of bed, out of my room and down to the living room to get some water from the kitchen, but I lingered on the stairs when I heard my grandmother talking.
“You don’t understand, all he does is sleep. Day and night. I can’t get him out of bed. I couldn’t even wake him for his therapy session yesterday. But it’s not the typical teenager sleeping until noon. I can see the exhaustion in his face and body. I can hear it in his voice. I’m scared. Really, really scared.”
She stayed silent for a minute while either my dad or Doctor Seivert were talking. “Oh, come on, this is nonsense,” my grandmother said, her voice no longer calm. She doesn’t usually yell, but she was agitated, her voice strained and tight. “Talking clearly isn’t working, Doctor. He didn’t talk about it all his life; how can we expect him to suddenly shed light on all the terrible things he went through and then miraculously be okay?” she asked, and there was more silence on her end.
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, Frank! I know my grandson, he’s a hell of a fighter, but we’re losing him. Do you understand me? We’re losing him,” she said, her voice full of authority. “No, you stop that right now, Frank. I can tell you that he’s worse now than he was two weeks ago, heck, even just one week ago. You did the thing. You sent him away from the place where Rica hurt him. He’s in therapy, but it’s not working. He’s not getting better. And I won’t accept that. I won’t sit idly by as he descends further into darkness. Every day that passes I fear he’s being pulled further away from us, and I won’t lose him, so tell me what I need to do—now!” she said, and deep inside me a flicker of warmth broke through the numbness.
I walked back to my room quietly and crawled back into my bed without getting that water, and for the first time in a long time, I prayed.
There was a knock on my door twenty minutes later. My grandma always knocks, even when my door is wide open.
“I brought you some food, baby boy, and it would make me very happy if you tried to eat, okay?” she said softly and set a tray down next to me. “I made you Irish stew.” She rubbed my back like she used to when I little.
“Thanks, Morai.” My voice was raspy from lack of use, and I turned to face her. “Sorry I’m such a burden.”
Her face was filled with warmth when she placed her hand on my cheek. “You’re not a burden. You never were a burden. I love you more than all the stars in the sky. I know you’re hurting so much, and I know you’re tired of fighting,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I wish I could erase everything your mother has ever done to you.”
Her thumb stroked my cheek. “We’ll get you through this. I promise,” she said, and her brow creased before she forced a smile onto her lips. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and I hope to see that bowl empty.”
She got up and left me to eat. I did manage to eat some of the stew and bread, but I wasn’t able to force all of it down before sleep overcame me once again.
I’ve honestly lost track of days and sometimes even struggle discerning day from night. All I know is that I’ve been in Montana over a month now. My flight landed in Missoula late in the afternoon and when I finally managed to get out of the plane, grab my bag, and hobble out of the terminal on my crutches, my grandfather was already there waiting for me. He’s always been a man of few words, mostly observing people, analyzing the situation, and that’s exactly what he did. He hugged me tightly before we started the two-hour drive to my grandparents’ ranch in near complete silence. I dozed off pretty quickly, actually, feeling drained and achy.
My grandmother was already waiting in the door when we finally pulled up to the ranch, and she came storming out to the truck while my grandfather helped me clamber out of the cabin.
“Baby boy,” she whimpered, her eyes full of emotion as she pulled me against her, holding me for a long moment before studying my face. “Perry, why don’t you take Ran’s bag to his room,” she said to my grandpa, her gaze trained on me. “I made some food for you.”
I shook my head. “Morai, if you don’t mind, I just want to take a quick shower and go to sleep.”
I could tell she wanted to protest, wanted to feed me, keep an eye on me, but my grandfather gave her an imploring look. In the end, she relented, letting me slowly make my way up the stairs and to my room where I’ve been staying—mostly in my bed—for the majority of the past five weeks, unable to muster up the energy, the strength, the will to get up and wander farther than the bathroom or occasionally the kitchen to grab some water. It’s only been getting worse and I find myself sleeping away the vast majority of the day and night, hoping that, just maybe, I won’t have to wake up at all.
***
My grandfather’s voice yanks me out of my nightmare, and I jerk awake to near-total darkness, heart pounding, my skin clammy with sweat, my sheets damp. I’m gasping for air like I do each night, fighting through the panic brought on by that feeling of internally drowning, of suffocating. I still remember it so vividly, and I go back to that place every damn night.
“You’re okay,” my grandfather says in his deep voice. “Deep breaths, Ran. You’re safe. Breathe! Atta boy.”
He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, affectionately patting my knee while I try to shake my nightmare and slow my intake of air. It takes me a minute, but once my head catches up to the fact that everything was just a dream, that I’m safe, that there’s no danger, I’m able to steady my breathing and my heart rate.
I wish it was Cat who appeared in my dreams instead of my mother. I’d prefer the pain that would come with Cat’s image dissipating as I wake rather than the terror that accompanies the nightmares. I can bear the deep emptiness left by my separation from Cat because I know it derives from the undiluted happiness I feel when I’m around her. To me, Cat is the personification of love. There’s no hurt, no fear, no pain—only peace.
My grandfather watches me intently, then seemingly comes to a decision. “Okay, Ran, let’s go,” he says matter-of-factly.
I give him a quizzical look. “What?”
“Let’s go!”
I don’t move, and he chuckles at my confusion. “It’s four-fifteen in the morning. Time to get up,” he says, looking at his watch. Only then do I notice that he’s already fully dressed in his Wranglers and a black, long-sleeved, button-down shirt. “I need your help today, so, up, up! I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes.” He smiles at me and gives me a quick pat on the shoulder.
I don’t protest and slowly make my way out of bed, groaning with the effort it takes, and begin dressing at a snail’s pace.
When I lived here previously, it was always expected that I help around the ranch, but not this time. Not yet. I was almost completely non-weightbearing when I got here, fully relying on my crutches to get around. Now I’m able to limp around without my crutches for short periods of time so long as my knee is in a brace, but I’m still not of much use to my grandfather. Much of the work to be done around the ranch is exceptionally physical. It used to not be a problem, but, aside from the fact that I barely have enough energy to do the bare minimum to stay alive, my knee remains a huge handicap. Even though it’s healing fine—probably faster than I could’ve hoped, actually—I still get sore and stiff easily, especially now that it’s getting so cold. And the deep snow that’s already piled up outside is a pretty solid guarantee I’ll be completely worthless to my grandfather and his wranglers.
I pull on my jeans, and I’m frustrated, as always, by my inability to move properly, by the pain that still cuts through my leg if I miscalculate a movement, by the stupid brace that keeps me from bending my knee. When I finally manage to cover the lower half of my body, I slip on a fresh shirt and a hoodie before I sink back onto my bed. Just putting on my clothes required so much of what little energy I had that I feel an overwhelming need to lie down again.
I guess it’s mind over matter, or maybe the other way around. After a good minute of sitting there with my eyes shut, breathing heavy, I get back on my feet and make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
I finally hobble down the stairs and meet my grandparents in the kitchen.
“There he is,” my grandfather announces with a smile, his to-go mug of coffee in his hand. My grandmother gives me a concerned once-over.
“Here I am,” I mutter, not really sure what it is I’m here for. My only desire is to get back upstairs, into my dark room, and crawl back under my covers. “You do know that I’m of no use to you, right?” I say to my grandfather, an edge to my voice, even though he doesn’t deserve an attitude from me.
My grandparents are some of the kindest, most loving people I know, and they’ve put up with my shit since the moment I got here. And hearing my grandmother talk to Doctor Seivert and my dad last night was a reminder that there is someone out there who does have my back.
“You’re going to be of as much use as you believe yourself to be,” my grandfather says simply, tapping his right index finger against his temple. “I think you could really help out your grandmother and aunt. Erin is working on a new guest portal or some thingamajig for the website. You’re young and tech-savvy; I’m sure you could be of help to her. We also have some guests arriving tomorrow that we need to prepare for. And this afternoon, I’ll need your help branding some of the new bulls.”
“I can’t help you brand the bulls, Athair,” I tell him, my voice low, tired. “I can barely get around.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says encouragingly.
I don’t argue back. I don’t have the energy. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
He squeezes my shoulder. “But first I need your help with the truck. I tried to start it yesterday, but I had no power coming in, nothing. I jumped it and it was fine, but then it was dead again in the evening.”
I look up at him, unconvinced. “You need my help with the truck?” My grandfather and dad taught me everything I know about cars; if there is one person who can fix the truck, it’s my grandfather.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly, his face stern. “I have a few things to take care of with Thomas this morning, but be ready to work on the truck after lunch.” He kisses my grandmother and walks to the mudroom where he puts on his boots, jacket, and hat before finally heading out of the house.
“For now, just eat a little something,” my grandmother says. She sets a plate with eggs and toast down on the kitchen counter.
I make a face. “I’m not really hungry.”
I haven’t had an appetite for months now, and it shows. I’ve lost way too much weight and muscle mass. My clothes feel loose on my body and I get tired easily, although that’s probably connected to my mental state, which is, admittedly, less than stellar. I know that my being here in Montana is supposed to help me heal from my physical and emotional injuries, but honestly, I feel like I’m on a rapidly accelerating downward spiral. Right now I don’t feel like things are getting better, and every day it gets harder for me to force myself out of bed, to make myself do anything. It feels like I’m stuck in quicksand with legs made of cement. I’m suffocating.
But I guess the fact that I’m standing here right now rather than lying in bed is a step in the right direction.
“I’ll be happy with anything you’re able to get down. Just try.” She leads the way into the adjacent dining room where she puts my plate on the table and pulls the chair out for me. “I will spoon-feed you if I have to, Ronan Perry Soult. Please, just eat!”
So I do what I’m told, just like I always have, and force myself to eat some of the eggs, even though they taste of sawdust. Everything tastes like that right now, even my favorite foods. It’s like the world has lost all taste, all color, all sound.
***
I spend a good chunk of the morning helping my grandmother with basic chores, like folding laundry, which obviously doesn’t require me to move around a ton, but I still get tired quickly. God, tired isn’t even the right word. It’s a bone-deep exhaustion, and it’s constant. I’m too damn tired to even engage in conversation, and I frequently feel my grandmother’s eyes on me, hear her sigh heavily as she observes me. But she doesn’t give in to my requests to let me go back up to my room. I know she’s worried about me, and I’m trying—fuck, I really am—to pull myself up by my bootstraps, but I can’t seem to find it within myself right now. I’m just so fucking tired. Of everything.
Just after eleven my grandmother relents and allows me to head back upstairs, where I fall asleep—still fully dressed—as soon as my head hits my pillow. I sleep until my grandfather rouses me a couple of hours later.
“You slept through lunch, Ran,” he tells me as I blink my eyes open. “Let’s get some food into your stomach and then I need you to come take a look at that truck.” He turns around and leaves my room before I have a chance to object. I contemplate ignoring his request and giving in to my desire to let my eyes fall shut, to let sleep drag me under and into darkness, but my mom’s conditioning is still very much ingrained in me. Obedience and respect have been beaten into me for years. I don’t think my anxious mind would let me rest if I defied my grandfather’s wishes.
I sit up with labored movements, then slowly get out of bed, feeling even more drained than I did before I went to sleep. I’ve never felt like this before—like just breathing zaps all the energy from my body. It takes me a few minutes to make my way back down the stairs, moving more cautiously after I decide to take off my knee brace and see how things feel. It’s been hit or miss, though right at this moment my knee feels pretty stable as I make my way down in measured steps, my eyes on my feet while I hold on to the railing.
“Do you want me to warm up a plate of Irish stew for you?” my grandmother asks when she sees me approach, my limp still prominent.
I shake my head at her. Eating feels like a chore. I know it’s a problem, but much like everything else, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with it right now. It requires enough effort for me to get out of bed, let alone eat. “No thanks, Morai. Is Athair already outside?” I ask, noting how damn tired my voice sounds.
She nods. “He is. Be careful, baby boy, the porch is a little slippery.”
I make my way to the mudroom, pull on my jacket and boots, then walk out of the house.
Holy shit, it’s bright out here. I haven’t stepped even a single foot outdoors since I got here over a month ago, and I shield my eyes, squinting while I allow them to adjust to the late-autumn sunlight. Was the sun always this bright?
I take a deep breath in through my nostrils, the crisp, clean air making its way into my chest, expanding my rib cage, my lungs. It’s surprisingly invigorating. I stand for a moment, taking deep breaths in through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, feeling the rays of sun on my face before I open my eyes and orient myself.
I spot my grandfather by his truck parked in front of the sizeable barn and make my way over to him.
“So, what exactly is wrong with it again?” I ask him when I join him at the front of his truck. The hood is already propped open.
“Well, the battery doesn’t hold a charge, and there are some electrical glitches here and there,” he says with a steady cadence, not looking up at me.
“Do you have any voltage running to the block?”
“Haven’t checked.”
My eyebrows knit together. “Your battery won’t hold a charge, and you have electrical glitches, but you haven’t checked the charge?”
“Nope,” he says again, equally as matter-of-factly.
“Okay, well, that might be a good place to start.” I’m trying to figure out if he’s pulling my leg. My grandfather isn’t exceptionally expressive, and people who don’t know him well would probably say he’s unemotional, maybe even cold. But he’s one of the warmest, most caring people I know, and he loves a good prank because people just never see it coming.
He nods. “You’re probably right, Ran.” He walks a few yards to his workshop—a defunct tractor parked outside—to retrieve a meter, which he promptly shoves into my hand.
“Uh, Athair, you just have a bad ground to the engine block,” I say after I read the voltage. This isn’t anything he couldn’t have figured out by himself; it’s Auto Mechanics 101. This has got to be a setup.
“Oh, really?” he asks, taking a look at the wiring underneath the hood of his truck.
“Uh-huh.” I squint my eyes, trying to read him. To say I’m deeply suspicious is an understatement.
“Huh, I didn’t even think to check the block ground,” he grumbles. “Thank you, Ran.” He emerges from under the hood and pats my left shoulder gently. “Can you handle this for me? I’m going to corral the bulls with Thomas and when you’re done you can join us in the back pen.”
He trudges away from me, leaving me no time to argue.
I stand for a moment, unmoving at the prospect of having to be on my feet, in the cold, engaging in physical activity. I’ve already moved more today than I have in weeks, and I can feel the strain of it in every cell of my body. All I want is to crawl back into bed. But I exhale deeply and get to work on the truck, letting my mind go blank as I fix the faulty wiring on the engine block.
It takes me hardly any time to fix the issue. I shove the heavy hood shut, then make my way to the driver’s side to fire up the engine. I frown when I notice the engine’s rough idle. There’s obviously something else going on, so, I get busy trying to figure out exactly what the problem is. A rough idle could be caused by anything from a dirty fuel injector to a bad spark plug.
The longer I work, the more convinced I am my grandfather conjured up the issue with the truck to get me out of the house, to get me out of my head, and my lips tug into a smile when I check off one possible cause after the other because, well, it worked. It feels weird; I can’t remember the last time I smiled, and I swear my facial muscles have atrophied in the last few months.
I’m at it for a long time, relishing the silence, the fresh air, the peace, and that strange feeling of accomplishment that settles in my chest when I finally figure out the problem and begin to fix it. I don’t get around to helping my grandfather brand the bulls, and only go back to the house when the sun has already set and everyone’s getting ready to eat dinner.
“So, what was wrong with the truck?” Thomas, one of my grandparents’ wranglers, asks when I limp into the living room, my knee sore and angry from the strain I put on it these past few hours.
I sit down on the couch, positively drained of all energy. Today was a lot. “Bad engine ground and a faulty spark plug.” I pull my right leg up to elevate it.
“Were you able to get it taken care of?” my grandfather asks from his leather armchair, his own feet propped up on an ottoman.
“Yeah,” I say, squinting at him. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”
He raises his eyebrows at me questioningly.
“You purposely messed up the truck and asked me to work on it,” I say.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ran,” he says simply, then gets up from his chair.
I watch him walk into the kitchen where he pulls my grandmother into his arms before giving her a soft kiss on her head, a distinct smile on his face.