July 23
Ana
Something wakes me up early in the morning. I squint at the dim light filtering in through the curtains and look at the clock on the bedside. It's just before 4 am. Why am I awake?
Casper is awake too, looking at me like I just kicked him.
"I don't know, pupito, it wasn't me," I tell him. He doesn't look convinced.
Casper's ears prick and I look up as an odd sound breaks the early morning quiet. I frown and climb out of bed, moving quietly toward the doorway. As I open the door, I hear the sound again, something between a moan and a cry of pain. It's coming from the couch.
What if Ryan's having another night terror? Dread fills my stomach. As I rush over to his side, his cries become more frequent and more distressed. I gasp when I reach him. Ryan is clawing at the right side of his face with both hands, his cries of pain bordering on screams now.
"Ryan!" I shout. I grab both of his wrists and pull hard. I have to plant one knee between his side and the back of the couch to gain enough leverage to tear his hands away from his face. His whole body is stiff, his muscles straining, and keeping my hold on his wrists is incredibly difficult.
"Ryan, wake up!" I say as he continues to emit wordless cries. He begins to writhe, nearly ripping his arms away from me. I'm already straddling him, so I sit on his legs to help keep my balance. "Ryan, it's ok, you're ok, please wake up. Please, Ryan, please wake up."
He turns his face into the couch cushion and screams.
"Por favor, Señor, ¡ven a liberarme! ¡Ven pronto, Señor, en mi auxilio! Tú eres mi socorro y mi libertador; ¡no te tardes, Dios mÃo!"
I don't even notice the tears spilling down my cheeks as I recite the prayer my mother used in the direst of circumstances. Ryan has stopped screaming now and is panting heavily, gasping for breath. I launch into the prayer again, hardly noticing that Ryan's arms aren't straining against my grip anymore as the tears blur my vision.
"Ana?"
Ryan's voice is more ragged than usual, but the sound of my name on his lips is the best sound I've ever heard.
"¡Oh gracias Señor!"
I pitch forward and collapse onto Ryan's chest, letting go of his wrists and wrapping my arms around him. I feel his chest rise as he inhales. When he begins to speak, I hear his words rumble beneath my ear.
"Did I hurt you?"
I pull away to look at him.
"What? No, I'm fine. Are you OK? What happened to you?"
"It was just a dream," he mumbles.
"Of what?" I ask before realizing he might be trying to avoid remembering it.
"Burning," he says simply, not meeting my eyes. He scoots away from me and props himself up on his elbow. My face flushes a little when I realize that I was just lying on top of him. Ryan sniffs and wipes at his eyes. His hand comes back with red streaks.
"You're bleeding!" I exclaim.
In the dim light, I can see blood on the scarred side of his face.
"It's fine," he says.
"No, it's not," I reply and stand. "Come with me," I demand.
He sighs and does not move to get up, still avoiding my gaze. I grab his wrist and pull, not realizing I've grabbed his right arm. He stumbles to his feet and I drag him behind me to the bathroom.
When I flip on the lightswitch, both of us are blinded for an instant. He cringes away from the light but I force my eyes open.
"Oh, Ryan," I breathe. The right side of his face has a number of small gashes. Those must have come from his fingernails. Was he trying to tear his own skin off?
I grab a washcloth, some disinfectant, and turn on the hot water. I seat myself on the edge of the counter by the sink to get better access to his face. He still won't look at me until I begin to pull his long hair back from his wounds. In an instant, his right hand grabs my wrist and his eyes lock on mine. I settle my hand against the side of his head, preventing his hair from falling into his wounds while keeping the spot where his ear should be concealed.
"Is this OK?" I ask.
His gaze drops and he doesn't say anything. I take that as a yes. His right hand stays on my wrist but his grip relaxes. Again I notice that his middle, ring, and pinky fingers are stiff and straight, his middle finger just barely putting some pressure on my wrist. I turn and run the washcloth under the hot water.
When I turn back, Ryan is looking at his own reflection in the mirror behind me. His expression holds a slight grimace. I bite the inside of my cheek and gently dab at the cuts on his face.
"Does it sting?" I ask.
"No," he says quietly. "No feeling."
"Ah, that's right," I say, cleaning the blood from his face and bathing his wounds gently.
As I work, I remember his first question when he woke.Did I hurt you? Could he have hurt me? I know I've heard of people with PTSD injuring others unintentionally. For the briefest second, I wonder if staying here might be dangerous for me. An instant later I remember the danger that's been stalking me since last November and almost laugh.
I apply the disinfectant to his wounds, almost asking again if it stings. I wonder how many times Ryan has had to patch himself up after episodes like this.
"Have you injured yourself like this before?" I ask.
He is quiet for so long that I'm starting to think he's giving me a silent affirmation. Then he speaks.
"I don't get these types of nightmares so often now. This makes twice since you've been here. But when I first moved up here-"
He falls silent.
"Have you ever injured yourself seriously?"
"Just once."
"What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
I slip off the counter, wrap my right arm around him, and press the side of my face into his chest. My other hand is still on the side of his head, his right hand still on my wrist.
"OK," I say into the hoodie he's wearing. He doesn't move for a moment. I'm about to pull away when he returns the hug, his left arm coming around my back to rest on my shoulder, ever so slightly pulling me just a little bit closer. His chin grazes my forehead gently.
I'm sure that later I'll realize I was wrapped up in the arms of a fabulously wealthy, extremely famous, and very attractive man. But in this moment, he's just Ryan, an incredibly broken man and the only friend I have left.
He pulls away first, after what seems like only an instant of returning my embrace. When I look up, he's looking at his reflection in the mirror again, that vague expression of disgust back in his face. I turn to look at the mirror, noticing my hair is a hot mess. His gaze flicks over to meet mine and I give him a little smile. He doesn't return it, but his expression softens.
"Do you think you'll go back to sleep?" I ask.
"No," he says.
"How about breakfast, then?"
"OK."
"How do pancakes sound?"
"Fine," he says, not sounding annoyed but simply exhausted.
I turn back to him and finally remove my hand from the side of his head, gently finger-combing his hair back in place.
"Maybe I'll even put some chocolate chips in yours," I say, giving him a teasing smile.
He offers up a half-hearted smile that I suspect is just to get me to stop badgering him. But I'll take what I can get.
~~~
I hop up the steps to the cabin after a hot afternoon out in the garden. Weeding. Again. I wanted to buy a weedkiller, but Ryan refused. Something about pesticides polluting his precious compost. I threatened him with weeding duty, but never actually made good on that threat. Somehow it doesn't seem right to make a man with burn scars and a bad leg kneel in the dirt on a hot day. I can tell that he's not a big fan of warm weather. His refusal to wear short-sleeved shirts certainly doesn't help.
I settle into a chair on the porch, grateful for the shade. I have to laugh at myself just a tiny bit for considering this weather "hot." Mid-eighties is nothing for an Arizona girl. Maybe it's just because I hate weeding so much and the garden has no shade. Despite the detestable chore, I'm a little relieved to have some time to myself just now.
I thought I was getting over my little crush on Ryan, but the events of this morning have quickly reversed any progress I thought I'd made. I really shouldn't have thrown myself on him. I really shouldn't have straddled him in my efforts to wake him. When I think about our short embrace in front of the sink, I can feel a stupid grin spreading across my face while I remember how he hugged me back.
I huff in frustration.Get a hold of yourself, girl! Dwelling on the sad context of that hug does manage to tamp down most of my glee. Remembering how Ryan pulled away from me on the couch finishes the job. He definitely isn't interested in me.
Now I'm embarrassed. My behavior this morning was... ugh. I bury my head in my hands and groan internally. How would I like it if I woke up to find some guy I'm not interested in straddling me? I'd flip out.What was I thinking?
Should I apologize? I grimace. The last thing I want to do is remind him of what happened this morning. Maybe I should pretend it never happened and we'll both just forget about it. Yeah. I'll keep my distance so I don't do something stupid like that again and eventually he'll forget it ever happened and will never discover that I'm secretly into him. I just have to be cool. Aloof, even. I've never purposefully tried to be aloof before. Perhaps I'll discover I have a talent for it.
I stand and breeze into the living room, prepared to be cool, collected, and vaguely distant. Like the total opposite of someone with a crush on her reluctant roommate. My careful gaze, aimed casually at the kitchen side of the main room, is quickly drawn to the couch by the sound of something hitting the floor. Ryan is rapidly adjusting his posture to appear relaxed, but tension radiates from him.
He looks over at me slowly, but can't hold my gaze for more than a second before looking away. I narrow my eyes at him. I can tell he's hiding something from my view, but I can't tell what.
Determined to be calm, I glide to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. Tripping over the toe of my own shoe has a somewhat diminishing effect on my air of graceful calm, but I ignore it. I seat myself at the table and sip from the glass casually.
Ryan remains in the living room, silent. He doesn't appear to move as I discreetly observe him at the periphery of my vision. After a few moments of silence that I hope haven't been as intensely awkward for him as they have been for me, he rises and moves to the desk. He drops a few things into that drawer he always keeps locked. I hadn't even noticed it was open. He picks up the satellite phone and goes outside, shutting the door behind him without a word.
I really, really want to dash over to the drawer and see what it was he'd been hiding. Snooping through his private stuff would be wrong. I didn't feel too bad about doing it before, but I know him now. Besides, he could come back in at any moment. I'm always surprised at how quickly he can make a phone call. I guess he just hates talking to his brother.
He reenters the cabin even sooner than I'd expected. He looks a little bit... perturbed. I study his face as surreptitiously as possible while he crosses the room to the gun cabinet. He begins pulling out all his assorted weaponry and spreads an old towel across the table.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. He must be upset about something. I've begun to pick up on his habits. Cleaning his guns when he's not in a good headspace is one of them.
I'd ask him what's going on, but I'm pretty sure he'd rather go talk to his brother again than discuss his feelings with me. He doesn't open up easily. Maybe I can't get him to share his burdens with me, but I can offer moral support. I walk over to the gun cabinet and pull out the two firearms he got for me. When I set them down on the dirty old towel beside his, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at me and his expression doesn't change. Not at first. But over the next hour, as we both scrape off carbon particles and conversation gradually begins to flow, his expression slowly lightens and the ghost of a smile creeps onto his face. By the time he's packing the guns back in the closet, I've even managed to get a real laugh out of him.
I can't fix him or his problems. But at least I can make him forget about them sometimes.