31. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Rye
Peanut and Butter.
The two yellow warblers Rye had seen earlier, and apparently the only two yellow warblers that could be seen in the area this time of year, had names. And they were Peanut and Butter.
Rye sat cross-legged on his bed, the house quiet except for the occasional clinking of dishes from the kitchen, where Aunt Tanya was working to make dinner. He had a book in his hands—one Jake had bought him at the gift shop in town—and he ran his fingers over the title on the front cover. Birds of Northern California: A Field Guide.
Jake had been right. Yellow warblers migrated south during the winter. The man at the gift shop, whose name Rye couldn’t remember right then, had been happy to tell them the story of how and why Peanut and Butter didn’t migrate south like they should. The two birds had fallen ill a few summers ago and had been taken in by someone in town and rehabilitated—which Jake had explained meant they’d been treated and taken care of until they were healthy. After they’d recovered and been released again, both birds had just stuck around town rather than migrate, making Rocky Cove their year-round home.
Rye flipped through to page fifty-two of the book—that was the beginning of the few pages on yellow warblers—and he stared at the colorful photograph on the page. The bird looked exactly like the ones he’d seen that morning. Bright yellow with some darker shading over its back and wings. A tiny bird, similar in size to the sparrows his mom had identified for him. He traced around the outline of the bird’s wings, wondering what it might be like to be able to fly.
Then he started slowly reading the page for the third time.
He could sort of hear Jake’s voice as he read, especially any time he had trouble remembering what a word was or meant. Jake had been so patient with him earlier, after they’d gotten back from town. They’d sat together on the couch, and Rye had done his best to read in his head. But so many of the words had been completely unfamiliar, and he’d struggled with either the meaning or with understanding what the word might sound like. And when he’d looked up at Jake and pointed to the word on the page, Jake had read the word for him and told him the definition. Every time and without ever getting upset or frustrated or making him feel bad about it.
It had helped a little, even though Rye still felt... stupid. A stupid child, who couldn’t even read. No, an adult. A stupid adult who couldn’t read and didn’t know what the words habitat and temperate and fledgling meant. That was even worse.
He closed his eyes and tried his best to hear Jake’s voice, not the voice in his head—which was usually some awful combination of the man’s voice and his own. Jake’s voice was much nicer to him, much easier to listen to. More... temperate .
The corners of Rye’s mouth twitched up into a tiny smile, though he shook his head at himself. The word probably didn’t really work that way anyway.
There was a light knock at the door then, and Rye flinched slightly at the noise as he lifted his eyes. Aunt Tanya stood in the doorway, a white apron tied around her waist and her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She smiled and tipped her head toward his book.
“Still reading, huh?”
His shoulders tightened, and he forced a nod.
Aunt Tanya stepped into the room a bit, and Rye absolutely hated that his heart sped up uncomfortably. He hated it. His aunt was so nice and kind, and he knew her now. He didn’t really remember her from before, but he’d known her for two weeks now, and she’d been nothing but sweet to him. Yet when she took another step forward, his fingers gripped the edges of his book tighter, and he wished he could ask her to stop. Back up. Please... leave.
He said nothing.
“So, dinner’ll be ready in about an hour.” Aunt Tanya reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone as though to double-check the time. “Your mom should be home about then, too.”
Rye nodded again and swallowed hard. And he hated how his stomach lurched when Aunt Tanya moved the rest of the way across the room and sat slowly on the edge of his bed. He pushed his back against the wall.
Please leave.
“I’m making chicken potpie. You used to love it.”
I don’t remember that.
“Did you want to come out and help me? It’s not too difficult. ”
He scrunched his eyes closed and shook his head just once.
“Okay, that’s okay. Just thought I’d check.” Her voice was soft and kind, which just made Rye even more upset with himself when the words echoed in his head again.
Please leave.
He didn’t open his eyes, but he felt the bed shift as she stood up.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay, hun?”
Another forced nod, this one quick and short, and then she was gone, and he was alone once more.
Rye let out the breath he’d been holding and looked back down at the book in his lap. It was... irrational. Another new word he’d learned recently. It meant that it didn’t really make sense—his reaction to Aunt Tanya. It made even less sense than his reaction to Uncle Jon, because at least that he could explain to himself in his head. Uncle Jon was a man, and his voice wasn’t soft like Jake’s. And he was tall and strong and older, with gray hair and no beard, like the man...
Uncle Jon was nice, though, just like Aunt Tanya. They both cared about him a lot, and he knew that and could tell that every time they talked to him. Yet as much as he tried, he couldn’t seem to get himself to be comfortable around either of them.
Maybe it didn’t help that they both liked to try to ask him questions all the time. Questions that he couldn’t answer. Questions that made his whole body freeze up and his breathing fail and his heart do really weird, painful things in his chest.
They just wanted to help. Like the police officers and detectives who were always coming around and asking him things. They all just wanted to help.
But Rye couldn’t answer. He usually couldn’t even nod or shake his head when they started asking him certain questions. He couldn’t write things down either; they’d tried that once or twice. He’d practice writing things, like his name and what day of the week it was. He’d even started copying sentences from the magazines he liked to look at and try to read. But it was the same as trying to talk—he’d freeze up and start to feel icky as soon as the questions got... invasive or related at all to the time he’d spent... away.
He blinked several times, forcing back tears that wanted to fall, and he tried to start over on the sentence he’d been reading before Aunt Tanya had come in.
The yellow warbler’s habitat spans most of the North American continent.
His stomach twisted.
“You can do it. Do you remember what habitat means?”
He nodded, even though the kind, deep voice was just in his head. He did remember. Habitat meant where it lived. Where the bird lived. And.. .
“Spans? It means, hmm, covering a certain area. So here, they’re saying...”
The knot in his stomach loosened, and Rye opened his eyes as the words came together in his head—Jake’s words from earlier, explaining to him so gently and kindly and without any expectation.
A tear slipped down his cheek and dropped onto his shirt. Jake was always so nice. He was... he was such a good friend. If that was what he was. It felt like that was what he was. And maybe he was actually Rye’s only friend right now.
Swallowing back that thought, Rye started on the next sentence, tracing along under the words with his finger.
“You can do it, Rye.”
He nodded again. He could. He could, and he would.
“How good is this, huh, sweetie?”
Rye glanced up at his mom, who sat across the table from him, and he managed a nod as he took another bite of his dinner. It was good. Chicken potpie. Something he apparently used to love—as Aunt Tanya had told him earlier and then Uncle Jon and his mom had both repeated more than once.
He could do without the peas; they were just slightly more acceptable than tomatoes. But he ate them anyway and wouldn’t dream of complaining, especially since his mom seemed so much happier when he ate all his dinner.
He was too thin, everyone said. He needed “more meat on his bones.”
Even though he hated that phrase, he knew they were right. Hunger and the dull ache of emptiness had become “normal” for him a long time ago, and it was still easy for him to just forget to eat if no one was around to actively remind him to. In the last two weeks, he’d also heard the word “malnourished” being thrown around a lot, especially when they thought he wasn’t listening. He was too skinny, too thin, malnourished, frail.
He’d meant to ask Jake what frail meant, but he was pretty sure he had an idea.
And not that they were wrong. But he sure wished they wouldn’t point it out all the time.
“So, sweetie, do you want to tell me about that book Aunt Tanya said you were reading all afternoon?” his mom asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Or about the outing you took with Jake? He said you went to the beach? ”
Rye couldn’t answer even his mom now, despite the urge to say something . He set his fork down and lowered his hands into his lap, trying to keep them from shaking. Maybe if it was just him and his mom, then he’d be able to tell her.
Yes, we went to the café in town, and Jake bought me a hot chocolate. It had those little marshmallows in it, just like I think you used to make for me on Christmas. Is that right? And a strawberry turnover. And then we went and walked on the beach. The water was freezing, but it felt so incredible to walk in it. It almost tickled. The waves, I mean. And it felt so... freeing, Mom. And for a few minutes, I was really smiling, really laughing. It was so, so freeing. Because, Mom, you have no idea...
The darkness threatened then, sneaking in right at the edges of his vision. He kept his eyes open, staring down at the gray sweatpants he wore, and he made himself open up his hand and feel the soft fabric with his fingertips. It was an easy reminder—the softness. An easy reminder of where he was, or maybe more of a reminder of where he was not. And sometimes, when the darkness started to come, just that reminder was enough.
“It rained today. They went to the beach in the rain?” Uncle Jon asked when Rye still didn’t answer his mom.
No, it rained later, after we left the gift shop.
Oh, how he wished he could just talk.
“They went early, so I don’t think it was raining, was it, sweetie?”
He forced himself to answer this time with a shake of his head.
More conversation went on around him, with his mom continuing to try to include him in the conversation, his uncle occasionally commenting on how Rye needed to have a second helping, and his aunt reminding him, yet again, how much he used to really love the chicken potpie.
He really was so, so incredibly thankful to be here—here where he belonged, at home and with his family. And at the same time, he just wanted to go back to his room, where there were fewer... expectations.
His uncle was talking about Thanksgiving now, asking his mom who all was coming, and Rye tried to listen as he pushed the last few bites of his dinner around on his plate. But he couldn’t recognize most of the names his mom started listing, and that made his already-full stomach feel a bit queasy.
“Oh, how about Amber?” Aunt Tanya cut in. “She’s living up in Fortuna now, right?”
Amber. Just another name Rye didn’t have a face to put to.
“Yes! Amber’s coming and bringing her new boyfriend! She just texted me this morning. It’s going to be a full house. Everyone’s so excited. I’m glad I managed to snag two turkeys before we sold out at the store. Tanya, are you still bringing the sweet potato casserole? ”
“Mm-hmm, yep! And Jon’s baking an apple pie.”
“Apple and pumpkin,” Jon corrected.
“Ooh, pumpkin used to be Rye’s favorite. Isn’t that right, hun?”
Rye’s fork scraped loudly to a stop on his plate as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. Did they really... expect him to remember? He closed his eyes tightly and let his chin drop down to his chest, forcing himself to take a breath. Slowly in and out. Cold and dark came with it. Cold and dark and heavy.
“He did like it. Hopefully he still will. Right, sweetie?” His mom saved him somehow, and he managed a small nod. The dark heaviness had settled square in the middle of his chest now, and it was starting to get painful. “So, Tanya, tell me about this new mixer you got. Your KitchenAid finally stopped working, huh?”
“Finally! After, oh my, it’s gotta be almost forty years old now. I just adored that mixer. But Jenna—Renee’s friend from Eureka, you remember her?—she told me all about this new brand...”
Again, more conversation swirled around him, and he let himself sort of drift away from it as he stared at the few peas remaining on his plate. He should eat them.
His stomach twisted and churned.
He’d eaten a lot already and was full. But his mom had glanced at him and his plate with a nervous expression minutes ago, and he didn’t want to upset her.
He stabbed a single pea with one of the tines on his fork, and then lifted it to his mouth. One pea. Then a second and then a third. A memory tugged at his mind, wanting him to know, but when he reached for it, it vanished. Only another horribly empty feeling remained.
Some random, odd memory about peas probably wasn’t terribly important anyway. Yet Rye missed it. Something told him it was a good memory. Maybe it was about chicken potpie even. Not that it mattered, because he hadn’t been able to grasp it, and now it was gone. Gone into that dark void that was so cold and scary and—
“Ryan, sweetie?”
His hands froze, and he only realized just then that he’d dropped his fork on his plate and was pressing his palms against his eyes. And crying. He was crying.
“Ryan, are you okay?” His mom’s voice was full of concern, and he didn’t blame her.
He carefully wiped the tears from his cheeks and then nodded. He wanted to say he was sorry, too, because he hated that he’d upset her. But just like most of the afternoon, no words would come.
He’d caused way too many scenes lately, moments just like this one where he’d get pulled away from the present and not even realize it. Or moments where he’d panic and suddenly find himself sitting in a corner somewhere, his knees pulled up to his chest. Or moments where his muscles seized up and he couldn’t breathe. He hated it, and he knew it upset everyone too.
“Maybe we should get going, Shirley.” Uncle Jon’s voice was too loud now, and Rye had to work to hold himself still.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You’re working tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but only from one to five.”
“Should we come over again while you’re gone?”
A hesitation, and then his mom sniffled quietly.
“Shirl . . .”
“Not now, Jon. I’ll call you later to talk, okay?”
Rye’s shoulders tightened, and he closed his eyes. How was it that he was somehow still causing his mom so much pain? How was it that they weren’t all just absurdly happy all the time? He was home, after all.
Home and . . . very much not okay.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, pressing his hands into his thighs. The conversation around him stopped, and his mom almost immediately jumped in to reassure him.
“No, no, sweetie. It’s not your fault. I’m just...”
Sad because of me. Worried to go to work because of me.
He made himself look up and across the table. His mom’s eyes were glistening, though there were no tears on her cheeks, and her expression was indeed filled with a deep sadness. God, he just wanted to make her happy. He wanted a way to make her happy.
I love you, Mom. That would make her happy.
But he couldn’t say anything.
Aunt Tanya stood and cleared the plates from the table, and Uncle Jon left to help her. Then both of them came over and said goodbye to Rye and his mom. They didn’t insist on hugs tonight, and that was good—he’d have gone right over the edge then, hurtling into the darkness with nothing to break his fall.
But as they were walking out the door a moment later, a horrible thought hit him.
Thanksgiving.
The holiday was in only a few days. He’d known that, of course. They’d been talking about it at dinner, and even Jake had mentioned it when they were at the beach. There was going to be a lot of people—a full house, his mom had said. And just like he’d managed to tell Jake earlier, there would be a lot of people he didn’t know. A lot of people who would expect things of him .
Like hugs.
And talking.
And answers to questions he couldn’t answer.
And they’d tell him he was too thin and that he needed to eat more food.
And they’d probably tell him how much he used to like turkey and mashed potatoes. And pumpkin pie.
He wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not even for a minute.
He lifted his eyes up as his mom came back to the table and sat in the chair next to him this time. She said something, but the words didn’t even make sense. They were fuzzy and jumbled. She repeated herself, but he had the same problem.
So he just nodded. And then she smiled and reached over slowly to pat him on the shoulder.
“Good, good,” she said, her voice soft now. “And I’m sorry if I sound so excited about it, but having you home is the best gift I could have ever asked for. There’s... so, so much to be thankful for.”
The little bit of panic in his chest flared up. What had he agreed to? But his mom was quick to keep talking.
“I hope it won’t be too much for you. Thanksgiving, that is. It will be a lot of people, and...”
It will be too much, Mom. It will be.
He knew his expression had tightened when his mom pursed her lips and shook her head slowly.
“Oh, sweetie, is it? It all is, isn’t it?”
And the stupid fucking tears started falling again, down his cheeks. Hot, wet tears that he shouldn’t be crying. Damn stupid child.
“Shh, no, sweetie. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Breathe with me, okay?”
He did. He took deep, slow breaths, and when her hand settled gently on his back, he focused on its warmth and weight. After another few minutes, his mom spoke again.
“Should I cancel?” she said softly, and there was a note to her voice that tugged at him. An honesty. An understanding. “It’s okay, Ryan.”
Something inside him shuddered, and he held back a sob.
“It’s okay if it’s too soon. It’s okay.”
“I-I don’t want to... make you sad,” he admitted, finally finding at least some words.
He remembered the conversation with Jake earlier and how Jake had said he hadn’t wanted to tell Steve he wasn’t up for the party because he knew Steve just wanted to do something nice for him. Steve hadn’t known that Jake just needed more time to adjust to his situation first. If Steve had known, maybe... maybe he’d have been just as happy hanging out with Jake without a bunch of other people. And maybe it was the same for his mom. Maybe if his mom just knew...
But she couldn’t know if he couldn’t find the words to tell her.
“It’s . . . too many people.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Carefully, as though waiting for his permission, his mom scooted her chair closer and then wrapped him up in a hug. It felt so good and so warm, and for a moment, he leaned into her, letting his tears fall. And she just held him, her hand gently rubbing his back, her voice whispering quietly in his ear that it was okay. That it would be okay.
“We’ll figure something else out,” she said after another few minutes. “Your comfort and health are more important to me than anything else. You know that, right?”
He nodded against her, keeping his head buried in her hair.
“And if that means that Tanya and Jon host everyone, and it’s just you and me here for Thanksgiving this year, that’s okay. Okay, sweetie?”
God, that sounded perfect. Him and his mom. And maybe he could help her cook. And maybe he could tell her then, tell her and show her just how thankful he was for her.
“O-okay, mama,” he said, and he hugged her just a little tighter.