Don't Go L.J. Breedlove (books to read fiction TXT) 📖

“So, they’re the parents of my father? My mother? What are they then?”

“Parents of your mother,” Dr. Clarke said slowly. “Your parents are serving life in prison, Ryan, for the death of your younger brother and for the multiple assaults on you. There is no easy way to tell you that.”

Ryan felt lightheaded as if he was going to pass out. He came inside, shut the door and sat in a chair next to the door, not the one by Clarke’s desk that he usually sat in. He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe. Dimly he heard Clarke talk to his nurse about canceling her next appointment.

“My parents killed my brother,” he said. “And I can’t remember it?”

“That’s a protective strategy our brains use to cope with things we can’t face,” Clarke said gently. “That compartmentalizing you refer to.”

“It’s one thing to compartmentalize being beaten, but the death of a brother?” he demanded, not looking up. There was still a dark halo around what he could see: his fingers, and through them, his feet.

“You were badly beaten as well,” Clarke said. “According to the police reports, you were both unconscious when they arrived. You survived, your brother didn’t.”

“That’s when I entered into the CPS system? How old was I then?”

“You were six. Your brother was three.”

“And I have no memories of those foster homes either.”

“No, and I find that troubling. Although I would be more concerned if you were still having gaps.”

Ryan considered that. Blackouts, he had a few of those. But that was different. Was he really sure he wasn’t missing some time during his sophomore year? What about his time with Teresa? Were there missing memories that he couldn’t face that would explain why she left him? Jesus.

The intercom on Clarke’s phone buzzed and she picked it up. She listened. Ryan was barely aware of anything except the horror of what he’d learned about his past, and the apprehension of more recent events.

“Send him in,” Clarke was saying. “He might be very helpful right now.”

Ryan looked up, half expecting Rev. Washington to enter, but it was Cage Washington instead.

“Hi, Ryan,” Cage said. “Emily got concerned when you didn’t return as expected. She seemed to think you might need a ride home. You know how she is when she’s decided something? Yeah. So, I came up to see if you wanted a ride.”

Ryan knew he was in no shape to drive. He wasn’t sure he was in any shape to walk out of this building unassisted. But he didn’t want to leave his car up here. He mumbled something.

“How about I drive you and your car out to Mom and Dad’s? And then I can hop the bus back. I’m very familiar with that bus route. Might even score some dinner first.”

Ryan didn’t miss the look his friend gave the doctor or Clarke’s approving nod.

“Ryan?” Clarke said. “You can’t drive. If you don’t want to go to the Washingtons I can admit you for the night instead. Which would you rather do? The Washingtons’ house is going to be bustling with people. Are you up for that?”

Ryan considered that. “Rafael,” he mumbled. “I need to go home.”

“OK, then, big guy,” Cage said. “Let’s go home.”

“I’ll see you Saturday night,” Dr. Clarke said as she walked out with them. “And, if you want, I’ll have your case file for you to read. When you’re ready.”

Ryan nodded. He felt better when the fresh air hit him, and he started to follow Cage out to his car. Then he stopped and looked back at Clarke.

“How old was my brother?” He thought she’d told him, but he couldn’t remember.

Clarke closed her eyes as if she was in pain, but she answered. “He was three,” she repeated. “He’d just turned three.”

Chapter 11

5 p.m., Thursday, Washingtons’ home — By the time Cage got to his parents, Ryan could barely stay awake. Cage told him about what he’d learned at the ICE protest. He talked about Sarah and what it was like to have a woman roommate.

“I don’t know, bro,” he said. “She’s as independent as they come. And she’s been in the military. But she cooks meals. And expects us to eat them. And if she cooks, we clean. Last night? Corey cooked, and she cleaned up. It’s like she’s housebreaking him. Us.”

Ryan smiled. “Is it working?”

“Hell yeah, she’s a great cook, but when she cooks every pot and pan in the house gets used, and we have to scrub them. Corey made spaghetti and a salad. One pan, one pot, two bowls.”

Ryan tried to pay attention, but his body knew it had enough and was shutting down. He was going to go to sleep whether he wanted to or not.

“I gave Teresa’s journal to Emily to read,” he said, his eyes closed. “I’d like you to read it too. Emily brought up staff vulnerability. I think I’ll send out an email tomorrow to everyone about your story and that it might put Eyewitness News in ICE’s crosshairs, and anyone with concerns should come see me.”

Cage drove silently for a minute. He exited 405 onto I-82, then made the turn onto Greeley. “Do you have reservations about pursuing the ICE protests?” he said.

“Do you?”

Cage thought about it. “Not after talking to the protesters over there. They’ve been doing this for over two years, Ryan. Two years! Because children have been torn from their parents, put in camps, separated from their parents in other camps. Not released to the families who are here lawfully even. That’s awful. The courts have ordered them to reunite the children, and they claim they can’t. Now 500-600 kids have no family and live alone in detention centers.”

Something registered with Ryan that Cage had said something important to Teresa’s story, but he couldn’t focus on it. His mind had given up. He hoped this wasn’t how he ended up with holes in his memory.

“Read Teresa’s journal,” he said. Had he already said that?

Cage