27. Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rye
Rye lay in bed facing the wall, staring at the dark-blue paint. It had a slight texture to it, and he wanted to reach out and touch it—to feel whether it was rough or smooth. But he didn’t dare move. He hadn’t moved in some time now. He just stared at the wall, wishing he could touch it and trying really, really hard to remember . . .
Had it always been this color? This particular shade of dark blue?
Wherever that memory was, though, it had to be tucked away somewhere very deep, because even as hard as he’d been trying, he still just couldn’t find it.
Little bits and pieces of memories had been coming back to him since he’d gotten home. Mostly good things, especially at dinner when they’d had his aunt’s homemade pizza, which she’d said used to be Rye’s favorite.
This one, though—any memory that would make his bedroom seem more familiar—continued to be just out of reach somehow. Or something.
And really, he knew he shouldn’t be worrying over it. He should be sleeping. Everyone had told him that.
Rest and you’ll feel better in no time.
Take it easy, hun.
Get some sleep, and we’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be able to talk then.
But any time he tried, any time he closed his eyes and tried to let himself really settle into sleep, the panic came. Darkness and cold and panic.
And so, instead, he was staring at the wall.
The house had long since quieted down, the deep but warm silence broken only by the sound of his mom’s soft snoring coming from her bedroom down the hallway.
His aunt and uncle had left hours ago, a while after Rye’s mom had gotten Rye “settled” into his old bedroom to try to sleep. And shortly after, the police officer lady, Rachel, had stopped by. Rye had heard Rachel and his mom talking quietly, the sound carrying all the way down the hallway and into his bedroom. Something about Rachel staying outside in her truck to keep watch.
Rye hadn’t wanted to think about what that meant, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
“I know where the fuck you live.”
The rotten words had brought with them another of those brief but absolutely terrifying moments of panic, and he’d barely been able to stop himself from crawling out of bed and retreating into the corner of the room.
And not less than three times since, he’d heard his mom’s light footsteps stop nearby, probably right in the doorway. He’d stayed still, keeping his eyes closed tight, his back to the open door, and he’d tried to breathe slowly and steadily so she’d think he was sleeping.
Only several minutes after she’d left each time had he let himself open his eyes again.
And then, he’d resumed staring at the wall.
It had probably been several hours since the last time his mom had come to the doorway and at least an hour or more since he’d heard her snoring coming from down the hallway. So it was probably safe now.
He frowned a little at the word. Safe. He wasn’t really sure anything felt safe right now.
But he finally allowed himself to move, to reach out and touch the wall. It was smoother than he’d thought it would feel. And warm.
And that made his racing heart slow down ever so slightly.
Rye let his fingers linger on the wall for a few more seconds, then he rolled over onto his back, carefully, trying to avoid making any sounds, and he pulled his blanket all the way up to his chin. Swallowing hard, he shifted one more time to lie on his right side and scooted all the way back so he could feel the wall behind him.
And he looked around the room.
His bedroom.
It was well-lit, the single light built into the ceiling fan up above brightening up the whole room. And it was small and plain, all the walls bare and painted that same dark-blue color. The beige carpet seemed newer, or maybe his mom had just taken good care of it, he didn’t really know.
The room didn’t spark any memories at all, and if his mom hadn’t told him it used to be his, he wouldn’t have known. That bothered him more than he’d expected.
A tear slipped down his cheek as he continued studying the room, but he quickly reached up and wiped it away with another frown .
The furniture was just as plain as the rest of the room—a small wooden desk tucked up against the corner opposite the bed and a single, matching dark-wood dresser, again bare, with nothing sitting on top of it. Nothing at all. No books or toys or games.
Not that he remembered what had once been there. But there had to have been something . And he wished there was something there now because maybe, just maybe, it would help him remember. Although he also didn’t blame his mom for packing everything up and putting it away somewhere, if that’s what she’d done. The closet maybe.
Or maybe she’d just gotten rid of everything.
He had been gone for fifteen years, after all.
Rye closed his eyes again as more unpleasantness bubbled up inside him. And then he started to shake, and his chest started to hurt, and for a long, long moment, he couldn’t breathe.
God, he hated this.
He was home. Home in his old house with his mom. And she was happy to have him back, and he was happy to be back. And so why, why, why couldn’t he remember what he wanted to and forget the rest?
Rough hands gripped his arms. Not really, but he could still feel them. And cigarette smoke, stale and rotten, filled his lungs as a low, gravelly voice whispered awful things in his ear. He whimpered and coughed and covered his head with both arms as he screwed his eyes shut and pushed himself back into the wall more, like that would help.
And he wanted to get away. So, so badly, he wanted to get away.
But how could he get away from things that were only in his own mind?
More hours passed. And maybe he drifted in and out of sleep briefly, though he couldn’t be sure. By the time the morning light began to shine through the shutters on the window up over the dresser, he’d been sitting up for some time, his back still pushed against the wall and the blanket still tugged all the way to his chin.
Birds chirped outside, a bunch of different ones making sounds that seemed familiar and comforting. He’d been focusing on that for a while, picking out each different sound and just listening quietly, his eyes lightly closed, when there was a gentle knock at his door.
Rye managed not to react, and he knew he should probably consider that a win in some way. But the fact that he couldn’t open his eyes and look up, even though he knew it was just his mom there, and the fact that his chest suddenly felt heavy and tight sure didn’t feel like wins .
“Good morning, my beautiful boy.” Her voice was soft and sweet, and it hurt, how much he wanted to feel comforted by it.
He forced his eyes open and up and made himself look at her, fighting every one of those awful thoughts, every one of those rotten words. Fighting against the panic rooted deep in his gut.
She stood there in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe, and she smiled at him. Her eyes, misty but bright, were filled with some happiness that Rye only wished he could feel. And it did help.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, but he thought maybe he sounded unsure, like it was a question. He closed his eyes and lowered his forehead back to his knees.
Good morning. It’s the best morning in so long because I’m here with you. He meant it, even if he couldn’t say it, and even if he was fighting against everything jumbled up in his brain.
“Rachel just texted me asking if we can go back to the police station around ten. Answer more questions and all.” His mom paused, and he made himself look up at her again. She was still smiling, but it was sadder now or worried, maybe, and he definitely didn’t like that.
So he forced a small nod and then made himself speak again. “O-okay.” And even though it was just one more word, and a pathetic, stuttering word at that, his mom’s smile softened, and that sadness in her eyes fell away a bit.
“Wonderful. And I thought we might stop at the store before we go. That’s... that’s where I work now, at the general store. Do you remember it?”
He bit his lip hard and tried not to react again except to shake his head.
“That’s okay, sweetie,” his mom said. She stepped forward a bit into the room and then hesitated for a second before coming the rest of the way over to the bed and sitting just at the edge. “I work there now. At the general store, I mean. And we’ve got this nice secondhand clothing section that’s got at least some basic clothes and shoes that might fit you, so we can return Jake’s stuff to him? And maybe later next week, or when you’re feeling up to it, we can drive up to Eureka and get you... well, whatever you need. How does all that sound?”
Like something a normal twenty-three-year-old should be able to handle.
He wouldn’t have said the words, even if he’d been able to, though he did force a short nod in response. His stomach was already in knots just thinking about it—both about the fact that going out meant being around people, which terrified him, and about the fact that he had absolutely nothing. No clothes, no shoes, no socks, no comb for his hair or razor to shave, no coat, no wallet or money. All things an adult should have, he assumed. And he didn’t have a job and didn’t know how to drive, and he probably couldn’t read or write or do math .
A tiny sliver of a thought fought against the negativity, though, telling him that he could still learn all these things, that he wasn’t helpless or hopeless. Jake had even taught him a bunch of things, like how to make tea and how to crack and cook eggs and how to play Mario Kart . And he’d learned. Pretty quickly, actually.
The memory made him smile a little, which kind of felt really, really good. And when he glanced back up at his mom, she was smiling softly too.
“Great,” she said. “I’ll make us some breakfast, and then—”
“Eggs?” he cut in quickly, surprising himself maybe as much as he surprised his mom.
She paused, her eyes widening, and then she was blinking back tears. “Scrambled?”
He nodded right away, and he swallowed hard and said, “I... can help.”
“You want... to help make the eggs?” At Rye’s nod, his mom sucked in a breath and pursed her lips. A tear ran down her cheek, and he frowned. She just wiped it away and shook her head. “Of course, sweetie. Of course you can help. I’d love that.”
She shook her head again and brushed away another few tears as she stood. Then she sniffled a bit and gave him a small, hopeful smile. He could feel its warmth, her love and support, and he tried his best to smile back, wanting to give her the same.
“Okay, sweetie, come on. Let’s go make breakfast, huh?”
With another nod, he slowly pushed the blanket off of himself, scooted over to the edge of the bed, and lowered his feet to the floor, sliding them into the fuzzy pink-and-blue slippers Jake had let him borrow the day before. Then his mom reached out, and he took her hand and let her lead him into the kitchen so they could make breakfast. Together.