Pieces of Home

23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rye

Rye had planned to say many more words. He’d planned to explain who he was and how sorry he was for making the biggest, stupidest mistake ever in getting into the man’s car. He’d planned to beg the police officer lady to help find his mom, to explain that she used to live on Sycamore Avenue and how he hoped she still lived there and wanted to see him. He’d even planned to thank Jake for being so kind to him and bringing him to the police station.

But after he said his name once and then a second time, the weight on his chest became heavier and breathing became harder and his stomach felt awful, the years and years and years of being kept in silence—being forced into silence—bearing down on him again.

“Ryan? You’re Ryan Davis?”

Jake’s kind, gentle voice saying his full name sent another wave of something through him, and he reached out toward the chair in front of him, gasping for breath as the room started to spin. Somehow, he managed a nod, and then everything around him seemed to be too loud and too bright. He heard the police officer lady’s voice again—what was her name? Rachel?—and then Jake’s voice, and they both sounded upset or something.

They were probably upset with him. They had to be. He’d fucked everything up when he’d gotten into the car with that man. So of course everyone would be upset with him.

His stomach hurt even more and his chest felt even tighter as he let go of the chair and took a step backward, back toward the door, needing to get away or... or something. Because he was sure he was in the worst fucking trouble.

Fuckin’ dead.

He’d be fuckin’ dead .

The words echoed in his head, the man’s voice louder than the other voices around him, and he clapped his hands up over his ears as he backed up another step, running directly into something very warm and solid. He whimpered and shook his head.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.

God, he was in so much trouble. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have—

“Shh, hey, Rye, shh. You’re good, you’re okay. You’re okay. It’s just me, Jake. And Rachel is here too, and we’re both gonna help you, okay?”

The solid warmth behind him had arms, and they were nothing like the man’s. They were strong but gentle, supporting him as his legs seemed to fail.

“Jesus Christ, Jake, if he’s really Ryan Davis...”

“Yeah.”

“Did you . . . ?”

“I had no idea, Rachel, I swear. I’ve only known him as Rye. Help me? Can you pull out the chair for him?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Rye, hey, let’s get you sitting, okay?”

It was Jake. It was Jake’s arm that was around him now, gently helping him forward. And it was Jake’s voice talking to him. And that somehow softened everything else around him, all the loud sounds and the harsh, bright lights. He managed to take a short breath, though the air almost seemed to burn his lungs.

“It’s all okay, you’re okay. You’re safe, alright? God, I...” There was a hesitation, and then Jake’s voice broke as he repeated, “You’re—you’re safe. You’re safe now, Rye.”

Safe. Safe. Safe.

Rye repeated the word again as he let Jake help him sit. The chair was hard plastic and cold. Or maybe he was just cold. Cold and scared. And the feeling was gone from his fingers, which were now wringing together nervously in his lap.

“Stop your fiddling, stupid child. Sit still and let me—”

“Ryan?” Rachel’s voice cut through the other voice in Rye’s head. “Ryan, god, where have you been, hun? It’s been fifteen years.”

He wanted to answer, but he couldn’t. His voice wouldn’t work, again.

From his left, Jake spoke quietly. “Rachel, maybe that’s not the right question to ask right now...”

“I’m sorry, I know, just . . .”

Please, I just want to see my mom. I just want to go home.

Rye forced his eyes up, and he saw the police officer lady staring at him, studying him. She shook her head and then looked over at Jake and shook her head again .

“Christ, it’s really him, Jake,” she whispered, her voice rough with some emotion Rye couldn’t interpret. He scrunched his eyes closed again as his stomach twisted, and he shifted his arms to wrap low around his belly, willing the pain to go away.

Jake said something, but Rye couldn’t quite hear him. Then Rachel spoke again, and the world started to spin.

“Ryan, hun, god, your mama’s gonna be so happy to see you, you have no idea.”

His heart shuddered and stuttered and skipped around in his chest, like it wasn’t sure if it could work anymore but it knew it had to keep beating somehow, and his stomach did all sorts of funny things. And he probably made some sound—a sob or something—as he pulled his feet up onto the hard plastic chair, awkward as the position was, hid his face in his knees, and began to cry.

A hand settled very, very lightly on his upper back and then rubbed softly, gently. It was soothing, and he knew immediately that it was Jake.

“Rye, is this okay?” Jake asked quietly.

Yes. It was. Somehow. Although if it had been anyone else...

Rye nodded, but kept his head tucked down against his knees.

“Great, okay. You’re okay,” Jake murmured. “Rachel, we should call . . . your dad? And . . .”

“Yeah, yeah. This is amazing. This is... Christ, I need to call Shirley.”

“Shirley . . . ? Shirley at the general store? That’s his . . . Oh—”

That’s her name. My mom. My mom is Shirley. God, how he wanted to say the words. But they wouldn’t come, and with a painful burst of shame, he realized he’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten her name. How could he have done that? Or maybe it had been so long she’d have forgotten his name too.

He sucked in a breath, fighting against nausea. Jake’s hand rubbed his back again.

“Shh, Rye, it’s okay now,” Jake said softly. And oh, how Rye wanted to believe him. He wanted it more than anything. “You’re safe, and we’re gonna get you home, okay?”

Nodding again, Rye tightened his arms around his legs and pressed his forehead down against his knees.

A chair scraped across the floor on the other side of the desk. “Jake, I’m gonna go into my office and make some phone calls, okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll stay here. And actually, can I use your phone? I was supposed to be meeting Sue”—Jake paused and let out a short huff of what might have been a laugh—“about now actually. I just need to tell her I can’t make it. ”

Rye scrunched his eyes closed tighter as the conversation continued around him for another few seconds. Then Rachel left the room, and he heard a door close to his left. Jake moved away from him briefly, and there was some rustling. Another chair scraped the ground, moving toward him. And he flinched and shuddered, and he held his breath again, waiting for whatever was going to happen. But all he heard was a quiet grunt and then Jake exhaling with a long shudder of his own.

Everything began to blur together then—Jake’s voice as he spoke on the phone, Rachel’s voice as she returned to the main room, the low hum coming from somewhere else. Another man arrived—someone they called Wayne—and he was loud and scary, but Jake was there the whole time, talking to Rye softly, reassuring him that he was safe.

And then Jake rubbed his back again and told him Rachel and Sue were going to find his mom. They knew where she was and wanted to tell her in person, and it shouldn’t be too much longer.

And Rye couldn’t breathe again. For a few very long seconds, he was stuck, his chest weighed down and his stomach coiled. It hurt. It hurt, and he was scared. And when he finally sucked in a breath, he started crying.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to cry, and that awful voice of that awful man screamed at him in his head about how he was a stupid child and to stop with the fucking tears already.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

This was all he’d ever wanted. For fifteen years, it was all he’d ever wanted. His mom. His mom to come and take him home. His mom to hug him, to tell him she loved him and she missed him.

Her face flashed in his mind—her eyes bright and smiling at him and her voice sing-songing his name. “Ryan Henry, I love you, you silly goose.” The image was then ripped away with a flurry of cold darkness filled with hate, doubt, angry words so freezing that they burned.

Would she even want him back? Would she still love him? Would she—

Jake’s soft voice cut through the darkness and the questions and the doubt as a large hand settled on his back, pressing into him lightly. “They’re on their way, Rye. Five minutes at most. Five minutes. Okay?”

He really had no concept of time. He hadn’t for years now. And yet, the next five minutes had to have been the longest five minutes of his life.

He sat in the hard, cold chair, focusing with everything he had on Jake’s hand on his back, because that kept his thoughts from drifting back to that dark place where his mom didn’t love him anymore and the home he remembered and wanted so much didn’t exist.

Jake spoke quietly, sometimes to him and sometimes to the other man in the room—Wayne—who’d been in and out of the other back office, talking loudly on the phone or asking Rye questions that Jake answered for him.

At what must have been the end of those long, long five minutes, Wayne came out of his office again, and Jake’s hand paused where it had been rubbing Rye’s back.

“They just pulled up.” Wayne’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way across the room. Rye’s stomach twisted into all sorts of knots. “Well, I’ll be damned, this is really happening. I never thought I’d see this day come, I tell you, Jake. And Shirley... Christ, Rachel’s having to hold her up, looks like.”

The nausea returned, even stronger now, along with the sound of his heart pounding, and Rye couldn’t breathe again, the weight on his chest too heavy. He pulled his knees in tighter against him as Jake’s hand left his back only to return a few seconds later from his other side.

“Hey, Rye, they’re here,” Jake murmured, his voice closer to Rye’s ear now and so gentle and kind. Rye scrunched his eyes closed more and tried again to breathe. “They’re here, and your mom really, really wants to see you. Can I help you up?”

She wanted to see him? Really? His heart raced faster, and some dizzy, lightheaded feeling hit him, making the room around him sway, even though he was still seated.

Mom?

God, his voice wouldn’t even work to say that one word now. Would she care? Would she care if he couldn’t talk? If he couldn’t say I’m sorry and I love you and I missed you so much ? And would she care that he... really , really wasn’t her little baby boy anymore? He was taller and older, and even when he could talk, his voice was different. And he’d fucked up and—

“Ryan? ”

Something inside him broke open, every question and doubt cracking under the sweet sound of her voice.

Mom.

“Here, Rye.” Jake’s hand slipped under his arm, and the next thing he knew, he was standing up, his legs shaking and weak.

And then the most wonderful, wonderful warmth surrounded him as two smaller arms encircled his waist. He smelled cookies and bread and lemon, sweetness and warmth together, and it felt suddenly so, so familiar.

She was crying as she hugged him, crying and saying something that he couldn’t hear, and then her hands were on his cheeks, wiping away his own tears. She lifted his chin just slightly so he was looking down at her.

His mom.

He took in all the details—the deep lines of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the redness on her cheeks, the streaks of gray in her dark-blonde hair, which she had pulled back into a messy bun. It was her; not her from his memory, exactly. But he still knew it was her.

She’d grown older, just like he had. It seemed impossible, but time hadn’t frozen the day he’d disappeared.

She squinted as though studying him, but there wasn’t even the smallest hint of anything even close to uncertainty in her eyes. Just the same look she’d always had. The same look he now remembered from forever ago. The same love.

“Ryan, my beautiful boy, I missed you so, so much.”

I’m so sorry, Mom. I missed you too. I love you. Please...

He tried to blink away his tears, but they just fell in warm, wet streaks down his face, and his mom’s thumbs swept lightly across his cheeks once more, brushing them away. She shook her head as she looked slightly up at him.

Then she hugged him again, her head coming to rest against his cheek, and he closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair and wrapped his arms around her as a fresh sob escaped him.

And finally, finally , he managed to choke out one word, rough and stuttering.

“M-Mom?”

His mom held him tighter. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s me, sweetie. It’s me. It’s me.”