The Way We Are

by Shandi Boyes

  My lips fan Savannah’s ear when I faintly whisper, “I promise.”

  27

  Ryan

  I grunt before rolling away from the voice trying to wake me up. My change in position reminds me that I’m sleeping on a rock-hard chair in the middle of a bustling waiting room. It also prompts me to the circumstances of my visit. I jackknife to a half-seated position, barely missing bumping heads with Cybil, who is crouched down in front of me.

  “Savannah? Is she alright? Is she awake?”

  “She’s fine; she’s still sleeping,” Cybil assures me, moving to sit in the vacant chair next to me.

  While rubbing sleep from my eyes, I scan the room, seeking a clock. There isn’t one. The sun peeking through the curtains alerts that it is morning, but the thumping of my head assures me it's still early.

  I had no intentions of falling asleep, but after forcing Brax and Chris to go home at 3 AM, my tiredness must have gotten the better of me. Although peeved at the hospital’s strict visiting protocol, I’m grateful Cybil kept me updated through the night.

  “Is your shift over?” I ask Cybil, noticing she has a black handbag resting on her stocking-covered knees.

  Smiling, she nods. “I wanted to stay until Savannah was awake, but since I already did a double, the head of department sent me home.”

  The smile on her face morphs onto mine when I hear the annoyance in her voice.

  “Has Savannah’s dad arrived yet?” Although I am asking a question, I stand from my chair and move into the hallway to check for myself. I can’t see Savannah from my angle, but I can see anyone standing in her room.

  “He still hasn’t arrived?” I ask, shifting on my feet to face Cybil, my words as hazy as my mind. “Did you call him?”

  “Yes,” she assures me, her tone lowering. “Several times.”

  She breathes out heavily before standing from her chair. “I really wish you’d go home and get some sleep, Ryan. Savannah is going to wake up as fresh as a daisy, and you’re going to look like...” The grimace crossing her face finalizes her comment.

  “Shit? Thanks.”

  Cybil laughs, taking my comment as I had intended: playfully.

  “Come on, let me give you a ride home. The sedative Savannah was given won’t wear off for a few more hours. She won’t even notice you’ve left.”

  “She won’t, but I will,” I summarize, expressing the reason I refused Regina’s repeated pleas to drive me home hours ago. “Besides, Brax brought my truck. It’s parked out front.”

  “Alright. New tactic.” I swear I can hear her overworked brain ticking over. “Until Savannah’s father arrives, they won’t discharge her.”

  “Savannah’s eighteen. Can’t she discharge herself?”

  Cybil glares into my eyes. “Are you sure you don’t work with Regina? You’re a bit too quick off the mark for a high school boy.”

  Her words come out snippy, but I take them as a compliment, understanding a double shift has taken its toll on her easy-going nature.

  Cybil checks in both directions. Happy there are no spectators, she returns her eyes to mine. She looks like she's going to say something immensely compelling, so you can imagine my shock when she simply mutters, “You’re a good man, Ryan. Savannah is lucky to have you.”

  She runs her hand down my arm in a comforting manner before hotfooting it to the exit, her steps as fast as the ones she used after discovering Savannah’s identity. I watch her brisk trek across the half-empty parking lot before resuming my wait on the same chair I’ve been sitting in all night. It's the only one that has unimpeded views of the nurses’ station and the main entrance. When Savannah’s dad finally arrives, I’ll be on him faster than a bullet fired from a gun.

  Another hour passes before my frustration gets the better of me. Where the hell is Thorn? Five years have passed since I last saw him, but the man I used to know would never leave his daughter unattended in a hospital emergency ward. Yes, Savannah is an adult, but she's still his responsibility. Isn’t she?

  “Can I borrow that?” I ask a nurse with a tight pepper-gray bun and even sterner face sitting behind the nurses’ station desk.

  Her green eyes drop to the phone resting near her chubby hand before raising them to me. “Local calls only.”

  Nodding, I snag the phone off her desk and dial a number I know by heart. The annoyance thickening my blood grows when Savannah’s voice filters through my ears eight rings later.

  “Hi, you’ve reached the Fontane’s. We’re not home. Please leave a message after the beep.”

  It's lucky I have no intentions to leave a message, as a recorded voice announces that their messages are full before disconnecting my call.

  As I place the receiver back on the console, my eyes catch sight of the time flashing on the dashboard. It's 7:13 AM. Recalling Cybil’s pledge that Savannah will be asleep for a few more hours, I make a drastic decision. If Thorn isn’t going to come to Savannah’s bedside willingly, I’ll force him here. She already lost one parent’s love because of my father, so I’ll do everything in my power to ensure she doesn’t lose another.

  “If the patient in room 32 wakes before I return, can you tell her I’ll be right back? I’ll be ten, fifteen minutes max,” I request to the nurse eyeing me oddly.

  “Please,” I beg when she takes a moment to consider my request. “I just want to find her dad.”

  “Oh, honey. You’re going to bring her dad here?”

  I nod, hiding my shock at the sweetness of her voice. It's nothing like the scold she was issuing me mere seconds ago.

  “Of course I’ll tell her. Quick, go,” she demands, waving me toward the door.

  “Thank you,” I praise before sprinting for the exit.

  “Hello? Mr. Fontane?” I shout, knocking on the front door of Savannah’s family home for the third time. “Are you home?”

  When he fails to answer me, I swivel the lock. My heart rate kicks up a gear when the door pops open without much force. After peering over my shoulder to ensure there aren’t any witnesses to my crime, I step into the marble-lined entranceway, closing the wooden door behind me.

  The confusion that bombarded me during the ten-minute drive grows when I scan the nearly empty surroundings. Gone are the priceless paintings and antique furniture, replaced with shadows where they once stood.

  I crank my neck to the side when murmured voices break through the silence.

  “Thorn?” My voice echoes like I’m standing in one of the many caves that line Bronte’s Peak.

  When my question is met with silence, I make my way to the curved stairwell. Although the voices were hushed, I’m confident they came from above. I take the stairs two at a time, noticing the living areas the staircase curves around are as empty as the foyer. Savannah is either moving or in the process of replacing more than just her patio furniture.

  Trekking down the blank-walled hallway sends me past Savannah’s childhood bedroom. Unlike the rest of the house, her room looks the same way it always did, minus a few important accessories. Instead of her large mattress sitting on its original four-poster frame, it's pushed up against the far corner of the room. The shelf formerly holding her Fabergé eggs is empty, and the clothes hanging in her closet are as sparse as mine.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I’m dragged from my disturbing thoughts when a flurry of white catches my eye. A lady I’d guess to be mid- to late-twenties with dark hair rushes past me so fast, she blasts my cheeks with hot air.

  “You’re over twenty minutes late. I have children to get ready for school,” she scolds while galloping down the stairs. “One more tardy slip will have them doing trash pick-up during lunch.” She growls a long, simpering groan. “God, Willis, you know this!”

  I glance over my shoulder, thinking she’s speaking to someone behind me, but I’m the only one standing in the corridor.

  “I’ve already done breakfast, but he needs a shower. Stay on your toes today. He’s wearing his
cheeky pants this morning.”

  After snagging a black satchel from the floor in the foyer, she raises her eyes to me standing frozen at the top of the stairs. “Oh. You’re not Willis.” She twists her lips. “I guess his gamble at Sin City paid off?”

  Not waiting for me to answer, she rushes for the door. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please don’t be late. I need to be out of here no later than 7 AM.”

  “I’m not... umm...I ...” Come on brain, now is not the time to fuck up.

  “You’ll be fine. Don’t let his size fool you. He's the size of a bear, but he’s really just a big pussycat.”

  My jaw falls open when she flees the Fontane mansion with the speed of a track star. I stop staring at the door, praying she will magically reappear when a shouted, “Goddammit,” roars through my ears.

  Although it’s been a few years since I’ve heard that voice, I know who the deep rumble belongs to. “Mr. Fontane?” I slowly open the bedroom door the raised voice came from.

  “Oh, shit, sorry,” I apologize when I walk in on him yanking his pajama pants down his legs. Just like me, he isn’t wearing any underwear.

  “Stupid liquid. I spilled it on my pants,” Thorn grumbles under his breath as I divert my eyes to anything but his naked backside.

  I keep my eyes fixated on the wall, waiting for him to replace his pants. When several long seconds pass in silence, I chance a glance back. Thorn is standing in the exact same spot with his pants huddled around his slippers, glaring at his feet like he can’t figure out he needs to remove his slippers before he can step out of his pants.

  The reason for his confused look comes to light when I scan the room. Although his room is furnished in the same palette it’s always had, the textbooks stacked on his bedside table are new additions. They all have the same theme. They are about living with Alzheimer’s.

  Fuck.

  “Did you... ah ... do you need help?” My words are as shaky as my heart. This isn’t a disease that happens overnight. This is a painstaking disease that develops over years.

  Thorn shifts on his feet to face me. The youthfulness of his face is shocking. I swear he hasn’t aged a day in over a decade. His sandy blonde hair sits whispery around his ears, and his green eyes sparkle in the early morning sun. I always thought Savannah got her looks from her mother and personality from her father, but I’m realizing now her father’s genes were stronger than first perceived. They look so much alike, it's uncanny.

  “Hey. You’re...ah...ahh...” Anguish crosses Thorn’s face as he struggles to remember.

  “Ryan,” I fill in, moving closer to him.

  “Ryan. Right.” His voice isn’t as confident as he is hoping.

  I drop down to my knees to assist him in removing his hard-soled shoes. “You’ve just gotta take your feet out of your slippers first, then your pants will slide right off,” I advise.

  “Well, look at that,” Thorn replies with a grin. “It’s like magic.” After stepping out of his pants, he snags an identical pair resting on the wooden chair he's standing next to.

  “Here, let me,” I offer when his blond brows join together, seemingly confused.

  He watches me cautiously as I assist him in getting dressed. “Ryan.”

  His tone sounds like he's testing my name out for familiarity, so I don’t reply.

  “Why does your name ring a bell?” he eventually asks when he comes up stumped.

  “I’m a friend of Savannah’s. We used to go to school together. It’s been a few years since I last saw you.”

  “Oh,” he replies with a smile that matches his daughter’s in more ways than I can count. “That’s good.” His head bobs up and down four times before he questions, “Who’s Savannah?”

  Oh, Jesus.

  My heart smashes against my ribs when I admit, “She’s... ah... She’s your daughter.” I thought my confession would weaken his smile. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest.

  “I have a daughter?” When I nod my head, Thorn repeats, “I have a daughter.”

  His excitement is impossible to ignore. It's so potent, it forces the first smile on my face in hours.

  After removing the bedding stained with orange juice and dumping it into a wicker basket in his massive ensuite bathroom, I assist him back into his bed.

  “That’s Savannah,” I say, nudging my head to one of the many photos of Savannah sitting on his bedside table.

  Thorn’s smile grows as he gathers the photo in his hand. “She’s really pretty, just like me.”

  I laugh at the confidence in his tone. I’m glad a horrible disease hasn’t wiped out his cheeky personality.

  “She's very pretty,” I agree.

  “Where is she now?” Thorn asks, placing the photo back on the wooden table.

  I take a moment to contemplate a reply. I don’t want him to worry, but I don’t want to lie to him either. “She’s at the hospital. She was in an accident last night. But she’s okay now.” My last sentence comes out in a rush, mindful of the anguish dampening his eyes.

  “She’s at the hospital?” he asks, his deep timbre dipping at his last word.

  I nod.

  “Then we should go see her.”

  He scoots across the bed before rushing into the bathroom. He stands in the middle of the marble-tiled space for several seconds before pivoting on his heels and walking back out. As he peers around the room, looking a little lost, my brows furl, unsure how to help.

  His perplexed expression clears when he spots a coat hanging over a freestanding closet on his left.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” I ask when he shoves his arms in the sleeves of his wool jacket before grabbing a thick scarf from the closet. “It’s fairly warm outside... ”

  My words trail off when he flings open his bedroom door with force before stepping into the hallway. I freeze for all of two seconds before taking off after him. Although the circumstances of my visit haven’t followed the path I intended, the final outcome is still the same.

  Thorn is halfway down the stairwell before his brisk strides abruptly halt. I’m not expecting his stop, so I crash into his back. Savannah didn’t get her height from her father. Thorn would easily be six foot three inches tall. His shoulders are double the width of mine, and his hips sit near my chest. He's massive, but in an unintimidating type of way.

  “Ruth,” Thorn calls out, his voice pained. “Ruth! Where are you, Ruth?”

  His chest thrusts up and down as his eyes absorb the blank canvas that used to be filled with expensive paintings and antique furniture. He appears as shocked as I was by the emptiness of his home.

  “Ruth!” He pants in quick succession, his breaths so ragged he sounds like an animal. “Ruth!!”

  Unsure what has caused his sudden change in composure, I freeze, not speaking or breathing.

  “Ruth. Where are you, Ruth?”

  He gallops down the stairs before darting back up them. When he spots me standing frozen at the side, he charges for me so fast, I don’t have a chance to protest.

  “Where’s Ruth? What did you do with Ruth?” He shakes me by the scruff of my shirt, his grip remarkably strong.

  “I-I-I don’t know who Ruth is?” I admit. I met most of Savannah’s family during my childhood. None of them were named Ruth.

  I don’t know what I said, but it was obviously wrong, because not only does the anger in Thorn’s eyes triple, so does his grip on my shirt.

  He thrusts me to within an inch of his face before screaming. “Where’s my Ruth?!”

  “Here... here... she’s right here,” says a male voice to my left, his words breathless from scaling the stairs at a record pace.

  The stranger with inky black hair and a panicked face thrusts a hand-painted picture of Savannah between Thorn and me. Faster than I can blink, the expression on Thorn’s face switches from psychotic to the man I was interacting with only minutes ago.

  “Ruth,” he breathes out slowly as his thumb glides down Sava
nnah’s golden hair in the painting. “There’s my Ruth.”

  I lean against the wall when he spins on his heels and stalks back to his bedroom at the end of the hall, his steps as brisk as my heart rate.

  Once he enters his room, the stranger turns his eyes to me. “What the hell were you thinking? He has displacement issues when you take him out of his domain.” His nearly black eyes dance between mine before asking, “Did they not tell you that before your placement?”

  With my mouth refusing to cooperate with the prompts of my brain, I shake my head.

  “God damn motherfucking budget cuts,” the stranger grumbles in a roar.

  He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin when Thorn parrots his gripe.

  “Great...” he murmurs in a long drawl. “I’ve got three days to wipe that string of words from his extensive vocabulary before my next in-house appraisal. Thanks for that. You just made my week ten times harder.”

  I release a ragged breath when he shoves a bag full of groceries into my chest. “Do me a favor: put these away before you leave.” His voice sounds peeved, like he thinks I’m an idiot.

  When I attempt to tell him I’m not a home nurse, he continues talking, interrupting me, “I know I’m late, and I know I promised I wouldn’t do it again, but it was Savannah’s prom last night, so I had to get her something special.”

  The elaborate flair of his words halts my jealousy. He doesn’t speak of Savannah as if she's on his radar; he talks about her like they are girlfriends.

  “Check it out,” he hoots showily as his hands expand dramatically.

  The entrance of Savannah’s home is no longer bland and uninviting. The large “Congratulations!” balloon hanging above a dozen smaller helium balloons gives it the touch of color it desperately needed.

  “What do you think? She’s gonna love it, won’t she?”

  The eagerness is wiped off his face in one fell swoop when I blubber out, “Savannah’s in the hospital. She was in an accident last night.” His chocolate skin mottles more with every syllable I speak. “She’s okay now, but it was ... uh ... pretty scary last night.” I hook my thumb in the direction Thorn walked. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to take Thorn to see her.”