Pieces of Home

19. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Rye

Rye’s stomach hurt. And not in any way he was used to.

He was used to an emptiness—an aching emptiness that felt hollow and left him weak. But this had started as a churning, sort of, just after he’d finished eating breakfast. The churning had grown into sharp cramps and pains as the day had gone by.

He’d spent most of the day sitting in the corner of the living room, clutching his stomach while watching Jake work or staring out the large glass door to the patio.

The sun was shining today. Bright, with no clouds in the sky. Jake had remarked several times how he wished he could go for a walk on the beach. And at one point, Jake had even gone to sit outside for a while, taking his computer and phone with him.

Rye hadn’t followed. He hadn’t felt good enough. Even now, as the sun started to drop down toward the horizon outside, he didn’t feel good.

Jake had just started dinner. Some casserole, he’d said. Something he’d taken out of the freezer and stuck straight into the oven. And he was making them tea. Ginger. Rye didn’t know what that was. He wasn’t sure he wanted any anyway.

“So, I think the casserole should be done in about forty-five minutes,” Jake said. He was limping slowly around the kitchen table, carrying two mugs. Steam rose up from each of them, and Rye could smell the tea now. It had almost a sweetness to it. Maybe that was the ginger.

Jake stopped by the couch, and Rye clutched at his stomach tighter as he felt Jake’s gaze linger on him. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the urge to retreat somehow. Or something. He honestly wasn’t quite sure what this unease was.

“I don’t want to, um . . .”

Rye swallowed and forced himself to look up at Jake. And Jake’s expression softened with a kindness Rye had come to recognize.

“I’ll just set your tea here, on the coffee table? That way, I don’t, um...”

Scare the hell out of me.

Another pain stabbed through his stomach. That was the reason, right? Jake had figured out how terrified Rye got?

He nodded slowly, and then, because he just needed to, he closed his eyes and said a quiet “Thank you.”

Using his voice felt so foreign still. And wrong. And he had to fight for every word. He still heard a voice, gruff and rotten, yelling at him to keep his mouth shut, to stay fucking quiet, or else... It made his stomach pulse with another of those sharp pains, and he clutched his side harder as a small whimper escaped him.

“Of course. You’re welcome.” The sound of a mug setting gently on the coffee table was followed by a quiet grunt as the couch creaked.

Rye flinched, though he wasn’t even entirely sure why.

“My nephew is supposed to be calling me in just a few—” Jake cut himself off as the phone rang, and Rye glanced up to see Jake grimacing as he leaned forward and picked up the phone sitting on the coffee table. Jake caught his eye and smiled. “Sorry, yeah. That’s Phil. I need to take this, okay?”

Rye didn’t respond; he just buried his head in his knees. The phone rang one more time, and then Jake answered, his voice taking on some light tone that Rye hadn’t heard from him before.

“Hey, kiddo, I was waiting for your call... Yeah, yeah. Your mom’s still working?... Yeah, it’s a busy night for her, I’m sure. What were you thinking tonight?... Aw, shoot, I don’t know, last time—”

Jake huffed some sort of laugh, and Rye heard sounds of rustling and shifting. His stomach felt hot now. Hot and burning. When he finally convinced himself to look back up, Jake was sitting on the edge of his seat a bit, fiddling with his laptop and then another device, and the TV was on.

“You just want to play that because you know you’ll kick my butt,” Jake said. He was grinning now, though, and he reached to the shelf under the coffee table and pulled out another device.

Rye bit his lip. Headphones . . . ? Headphones, yeah. And . . .

Jake glanced over at him, and his smile widened a bit. “Do you want to play too?” he asked Rye. “Phil picked Mario Kart . But I’ve gotta warn you, he’s ridiculously good. For a ten-year-old.”

Rye heard a high-pitched voice come through the phone, and Jake pulled it away from his ear for a minute, laughing. There was a funny twinkle in Jake’s eye .

“Yeah, yeah, I know, kiddo. I haven’t been able to beat you in at least a couple of years now,” Jake said as he moved the phone back to his ear. “Hang on, I’m gonna switch over to Discord. And I’ll just...”

Some more stuff happened as Jake fiddled with his computer and the... video game? He opted to not use his headset, he called it, and then, a young boy’s voice came through the speakers of Jake’s computer. Loud and laughing and silly. And he greeted Rye happily and also invited Rye to play with them.

Rye couldn’t find any words, although he did manage to shake his head. And Jake assured him that was okay.

Then, things got a bit louder—music from the video game mixed with laughing from Phil and Jake and more talking and joking. Rye’s stomach didn’t really like it much, but he almost wanted to. He tried to. Jake was smiling, and Rye liked that. He scooted himself out of the corner a bit to watch the TV better, although he didn’t make it all the way to the couch. And sometimes, Phil addressed Rye directly, asking him if he’d played before and if he had a Mii avatar and who his favorite character was.

Each time, Rye didn’t answer. But he thought maybe he might have, if he’d had a clue what Phil was talking about.

After a few rounds, even though Rye wasn’t really sure exactly how the game worked, it was clear Jake had been right—Phil was much, much better than him. When Jake lost yet another race, Phil cackled with what had to be joy.

“Aw, come on Uncle Jake. You should have had that one! You had that red shell! How did you even mess that one up?” Phil burst out laughing again, and Jake just groaned, even though he was still smiling.

“I don’t even know, kiddo,” Jake said, grinning, and he sat back on the couch and glanced at Rye. His smile seemed hesitant for a second, and Rye’s stomach cramped up again. He started to push himself back toward the corner, but Jake motioned to the couch and then held up the video game controller. “We’ve got time for one more race before dinner’s ready, I think. Maybe Phil would be nicer to you than he is to me. Do you want to give it a try?”

“Oh, yeah, come on, Rye!” Phil piped in, obviously excited. “I’ll even play Baby Rosalina with the Bandwagon. It’s soooooo slow!”

“Phil, I don’t think it matters which character you play,” Jake said, and he turned back to the TV and pressed a few buttons on the controller. “You’ll win even with the slowest combination possible.”

Rye stared at the small device in Jake’s hands, his chest starting to feel tight. He’d never played before, he kind of knew that. Somehow. And he also remembered that his mom hadn’t been a fan of video games. But that was all he remembered. Just that little piece. Nothing more .

“Here, Rye.”

He pulled his eyes away from the controller and looked up at Jake, who was patting the couch and watching him with one of those really, really kind smiles.

“Phil, switch back to... maybe Toad Harbor? That’s a good one. You’ve never played before, Rye?”

Rye swallowed and then shook his head.

“If you want, you can. It’s pretty fun.” Jake offered the controller again.

And somehow, Rye managed to get his body to move, despite the discomfort of his stomachache. He stood, still with one arm clutched against his midsection, and then, on shaky legs, he took the few steps to the couch.

“You’ll try then?” Jake asked, and he was so clearly excited that for a second, Rye couldn’t not smile. He nodded as he stopped, his eyes darting back and forth between Jake and the controller. “Great! Here, I’ll show you...”

Rye managed to sit on the couch without squishing himself against the armrest, like he had the day before, and he also managed to not shrink away when Jake scooted a tiny, tiny bit closer and handed him the controller. It was blue and red and black, and there were way too many buttons.

“Yay! Come on, Rye, let’s go!” Phil squealed, and Jake laughed lightly.

“Give him a second here, kiddo,” Jake said. “Alright, it looks complicated, but it’s really not. Okay? So, you can just use my character. I’m playing Yoshi—”

“—cuz he likes to lose!”

Jake rolled his eyes. “You switch to Baby Rosalina, Phil, and then just wait. Rye’s gonna leave you in his dust!”

Rye laughed this time. He actually laughed. And then he looked down at the controller in his hands and shook his head. “No, I won’t,” he said quietly.

Jake huffed a laugh, too, and then he started explaining the few buttons on the controller that Rye would actually need to use. The race started a minute later. And Rye fumbled. Pretty badly.

He absolutely did not “leave Phil in his dust,” though he did manage to not come in last place, and when Yoshi crossed the finish line, Phil cheered for him, and Jake grinned.

Rye felt strange. Warm and buzzing. And the pain in his stomach had faded to a dull ache. He dipped his head and held out the controller to give it back to Jake.

“All right, that was awesome!” Phil said. “Did you have fun, Rye?” He didn’t wait for Rye to answer, which was good, because Rye thought maybe his words wouldn’t work right now anyway. “Ahh, Uncle Jake! I’ve got next Tuesday off from gym again. Can we play next week? Please! ”

Everything was suddenly overwhelming—the sounds, the talking, the feeling in his hands and chest. Being so close to Jake. The brightness of the room. The smell of food.

Jake was talking a bit more with Phil, but Rye had to close his eyes. He bent his knees up and pushed himself back into the corner of the couch, then he lowered his head to rest on his knees. His chest felt tight as he took a deep breath.

“Okay, bye, Uncle Jake! And bye, Rye! Thanks for playing! It was so much fun!”

There was a pause, and Rye just knew he was supposed to say something. That’s what a normal person would do. They’d say goodbye, maybe say how much fun they had too, maybe say how they’d love to do it again sometime.

But all Rye could do was turn his head a tiny bit and force his eyes open. Jake was looking at him with that gentle, kind expression of his, and then Jake just smiled and gave Rye a small nod.

“Goodbye, kiddo. Tell your mom I’ll call her later, okay?”

“She’s gonna call you first.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jake huffed and shook his head as he turned back to the TV and started hitting some buttons on the controller.

“I love you, Uncle Jake.”

“Love you too, kiddo.”

Rye closed his eyes, and he listened to the few other sounds that followed—probably Jake closing the lid of his laptop and then picking something up off the coffee table, and the TV shutting off, which oddly enough did have a sound. The couch shifted and creaked then, and Rye glanced over to see Jake pushing himself up to stand, one hand gripping his thigh.

“Our dinner’s probably ready. Are you hungry?” Jake said, and though the lighter, almost goofy tone he’d been using the whole time while talking to Phil was gone, Rye still felt the softness in his voice somehow. Something about it helped. Something about it was warm and eased the ache in Rye’s stomach.

Rye didn’t answer, though. He . . . couldn’t.

Jake turned and started to limp toward the kitchen, and Rye twisted a bit to watch him go.

“It’s a chicken and rice casserole. Sort of Kris’s recipe, but simplified. She does something fancier and adds some weird spices or something. But, you know...”

Jake kept talking, and Rye stayed right where he was, watching and listening. Sometimes, he’d respond in his mind. Like when Jake asked if he liked tomatoes, and Rye immediately thought, Eww, no, tomatoes are disgusting. He didn’t say anything, but he must have made a face, because Jake laughed .

“Ahh, well, you can pick them out then. There’s just a few. I didn’t like tomatoes for the longest time, but then Steve made me try this sandwich at a deli in Palo Alto, and he refused to let me order without tomatoes.”

And you actually liked it? Eww.

“I know, I know. Don’t make that face. Really. It was amazing.” Jake paused, his brow furrowing. “This is okay, right? It’s just got baked chicken and rice with a little cheddar cheese, the tomatoes, and some peas and carrots. It’s really simple.”

You have no idea how okay that sounds. Rye nodded and then dropped his eyes to his hands, which were now clasped together in his lap. He nodded again. “It sounds good.”

“Except the tomatoes?” Jake said. And somehow, his voice was still soft, even though there was a hint of something else in it.

Rye nodded.

It was just a couple more minutes by the time Jake had served both of them and set the table. He’d made fresh tea, too. Lemon and honey this time. Rye wondered if Jake made the lemon tea since he hadn’t touched his ginger tea from earlier. But if that was the case, Jake didn’t say so.

His body was tired when he tried to move from his spot on the couch—everything aching and stiff. And he still wasn’t sure about his stomach. The closer he got to the table, the more it churned. And the more his mind started racing, reminding him of the conversation they’d had the last time they’d been sitting together at the table. The conversation he’d been doing such a good job of forgetting about all day.

“. . . do you have a place to go? . . . do you have family nearby?”

Rye stopped suddenly, gripping the back of the couch for support, and his eyes shot up to Jake, who was just setting down both mugs of fresh tea on the table.

I’m Ryan Henry Davis. I was kidnapped when I was eight. I lived with my mom on Sycamore Avenue. I don’t know if... I’m scared to find out if she’s still here. And if she misses me. If she’d want me. I can’t... answer your questions.

He willed Jake to understand him, even though he’d said nothing at all. But Jake just looked at him and gave him a kind smile.

“Here we go. I, uh, hope you like it. If not, I’ve got more eggs and toast.”

“Sycamore.” Rye breathed the word as his stomach lurched again, pain radiating all the way up into his chest this time.

“Hmm? What was that? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear...” Jake seemed to take a cautious step in Rye’s direction, and even though the movement was slow, Rye couldn’t stop himself from flinching hard this time. He scrunched his eyes shut and tried to force the word out again. But it wouldn’t come. He couldn’t do it. Jake’s voice was softer as he said, “Hey, Rye, you’re okay. Here, you can come and sit, if you want.”

He couldn’t move, though. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t speak, and the air turned cold.

No. No, he didn’t want... he didn’t even know.

“You’re okay. Slowly now. Here. Here we go.” Somehow, he was being guided, a large, warm, gentle hand on his arm, under his elbow, supporting him. Soft skin. Not rough. And the kind voice—Jake’s kind voice—continued. “You’ve got it. You’re okay. Sorry, but you looked like you were about to fall, and, well, I’m not sure I’d have been able to help you off the ground like you did for me yesterday.” A light laugh. And more warmth.

Then he was at the table and sitting in his chair, and the hand on his arm disappeared.

“There we go. Better?”

I don’t know.

Small sounds surrounded him. Jake’s footsteps shuffling away. Jake’s chair scooting back. Jake letting out a short, pained breath. And then there was quiet, and he heard the ocean.

“I’m sorry if that was too much with my nephew and everything,” Jake said after another few minutes. “We usually do that a couple of times a month, and my sister, well, she’s quite busy tonight with the election stuff going on. So Phil really needed that. He’s a fun kid. A good kid. Sweet and smart. But I didn’t mean to pressure you into anything, if that... was why...”

Rye frowned and shook his head. That wasn’t why. That wasn’t why. He’d actually had fun playing that game. It had been good. Something... something normal.

“Okay. Uh, good then. I... um...” There was a low hum, and then a sound like Jake had picked up his fork. “Maybe we should just eat then, before it gets cold?”

They should. He should. After all, he’d skipped lunch, and he was hungry.

He forced his eyes open and tried to say yes. Just the one word. Something so, so very simple.

But no words would come.

So instead, he nodded stiffly, and then, keeping his eyes downcast, he picked up his fork and speared a small piece of chicken with a shaky, trembling hand.

Just like everything else Jake had fed him, it tasted amazing. He chewed slowly and swallowed, then he scooped up another bite, this one with rice and carrots and peas and yes, even what looked like a small piece of tomato .

It was also amazing. Because this bite, somehow, reminded him of home. Of his mom. Of his mom sitting at the kitchen table with him, smoothing out the slightly off-white tablecloth she liked to keep draped across its surface, talking to him, asking him how his day went.

And telling him to make sure to eat his peas and carrots.

“Do you like it?” Jake asked, his voice sounding strangely distant against the soft background lull of the ocean waves and the whispering remnants of his mom’s voice in his head.

Rye looked up. And he still couldn’t talk. But he nodded a yes, and that made Jake smile.

“Good. Good, I’m really glad.”

Rye lowered his eyes back to his fork and lifted it to his mouth to take another bite.