Demanding Ransom Page 10

  “Well, I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time right now and want to leave.”

  “That’s what you think? Really? That you and I…” he waves his hands back and forth in the empty space between us, “… that this is all wrong?”

  “There is no ‘you and I.’ ” I make childish air quotes around my words. “You and I have nothing in common, Ran.”

  Unfortunately, the time for his courteous sitting-while-I’m-standing-act is over and he rises to his feet and takes three steps toward me. My eyes are level with his chest and he has to lower his face so I won’t need to crane mine up to look at him. It’s not something he needs to do, because I don’t plan on making eye contact. Instead, I stare straight into the inked design on his shirt.

  “Maggie, we’re practically the same person.” I feel his eyes attempting to draw my gaze up to him, but I won’t surrender. “I think I get you.”

  “Now that is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said. Forget the lame attempts at charming me. You’re a certified psycho with that last one.”

  “Oh really, Miss-I-Have-Abandonment-Issues-I’m-Not-Willing-to-Face.”

  My breathing becomes labored, like each individual pull of oxygen that enters my lungs is pushed back out into the world in the form of burning anger. “And driving a motorcycle because my daddy who didn’t want me drove one just screams ‘I’m a completely whole person,’ Ran.”

  I had promised myself I wouldn’t, but when I give in and look up at his face, I wish I had been further up against the wall and not standing out in the open of the room, because my legs try to give out on me completely.

  Ran’s mouth straightens and he tucks in his bottom lip as though he’s biting back something terrible. Something that will put me in the horrible place I deserve. I wait for it—wait for him to yell, wait for him to launch into all the reasons why I deserve to be miserable—but it doesn’t come.

  The seconds of silence pulse around us and my ears flood with my own beating heart.

  “I think you should go, Maggie.”

  The quiver in my bottom lip takes everything in me to get under control, and I do that same lip biting he did to keep it from trembling. Unfortunately, I can’t find anything appropriate to do with the entire rest of my body that shakes just as violently.

  I nod, bringing my hands up to my mouth, biting on my thumbnail until it snaps off completely. “I’ll call Mikey.”

  “I think that would be best.”

  I pull the phone from my back pocket as Ran slides past me, exiting his room. The timer for our dinner beeps steadily from the kitchen.

  When I hear him open the oven and settle the pizzas onto a cooling rack, I collapse onto his bedroom floor, giving in to the guilty cry that’s been trapped inside me for more years than I can count.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I’m sorry I made you leave work, Dad.” I sink as far down into the passenger seat as possible, until I’m slumped so low I can hardly see over the dash.

  “No apology necessary, Maggie Girl.” Dad’s calloused hands hang over the steering wheel as he coasts the car into the garage. “I’ve stacked up my overtime and took on two extra shifts later in the week to cover the hours I missed last night.” Though everyone else’s hair—even Mikey’s—is starting to grow back, Dad’s kept his billiard ball look and still sports a closely shaved head. It looks good on him. “Plus, I’m just dropping you off. Heading back over to finish up my shift.”

  “How long were you there yesterday? At the ER?”

  “Just under twelve hours.” Dad twists off the headlights and the garage is sucked up in the hazy darkness of twilight.

  “You should have called me.” I pull on the handle.

  “It was just a blood clot, Mags. The doctors gave him some blood thinners to inject. He’s fine.”

  I step out of the car and slam the door back into place louder than I mean to. “Mikey’s not fine. He has cancer, Dad.”

  “Yes, he has cancer. But it could be a lot worse.” Dad’s careful to close his door with delicate ease.

  “Like there are many things worse than being an eighteen-year-old guy with brain cancer.”

  “There are many things worse.” Dad props the door open for me, but remains in the garage. “He has a scan next week to see how things are progressing. His doctor is very confident in this treatment plan.”

  “That’s good,” I say, realizing even if my own bubble has already been burst, it’s not fair to poke a hole in Dad’s. “See you in the morning?”

  “Yep. I’m off at 5:00. But you probably won’t see me then.”

  “No,” I smile, taking my overnight bag from his hand. “Probably more like 10:00.”

  Dad sweeps a light kiss on my cheek. “Night, Maggie Girl. You know you can call any hour of the night if you’re stuck in a situation with a guy you don’t like.” He gives me a fatherly look of worry mixed with a hint of don’t-mess-with-my-daughter.

  “Oh, it wasn’t like that, Dad.” Though pretending Ran was trying to take advantage of me feels safer than admitting what actually happened between us. “I just don’t like the guy.”

  “Listen to your instincts. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” He plants another kiss on the crown of my hair and slips back into his car.

  The house is dark and empty. Mikey’s over at Sadie’s, the reason why I called upon Dad to rescue me. Mikey offered to get me and said it was no big deal, but even though my own night with Ran didn’t go as planned, who was I to interfere with other, less volatile relationships? Some people deserve to be happy, and Mikey is definitely one of those people.

  I trudge to my bedroom and toss my bag on the hardwood. My bed is neatly made, Mikey’s returned ‘thank-you’ for doing his laundry, I’m sure. I never make my bed, something Mom always nagged me about. I’m sure her four newest children have perfectly washed, tucked, and smoothed bedding covering their mattresses. I’m sure they live up to her ridiculous expectations, because we’re coming up on year ten with them and as far as I can tell, there’s no indication she’s planning to run any time soon.

  Why do I hate her so much?

  I scold the unwelcome question from my brain, mostly because I can’t form a coherent answer for it, and also because I hear it spoken in Ran’s voice. His low, irritatingly controlled voice.

  It’s not late, but the thought of living this day for any more minutes than absolutely necessary feels unbearable. I slip on my pajamas, head down the hall to brush my teeth, and scrub my face as hard as I can without completely tearing at my skin. I wash away the mascara that raccoons my eyes and splash cold water on my skin, over and over until the shock of the temperature is more than I can handle.

  When I slip into bed and roll to my side, the side of the room without any windows that is bathed in darkness, Ran’s balloon seizes my gaze. Without thinking, I bolt out of bed and rip it from the wall, crumpling it between my fingers, focusing on the angry sound of crinkling foil as I scrunch and tear at it. When I’m finally pleased with the new, lopsided, twisted smirk that it now wears, rather than the unnaturally curled smile, I toss it to the floor. Then I climb back in bed and pull covers over my head and give up on the day.

  “Damn it!” Mikey’s voice vibrates on the shared wall that my headboard leans against. “Ahhhh!”

  I pull the alarm clock I remembered to bring home from the dorm off the nightstand and drop it down next to my face on the pillow. 3:00 a.m. The red glow of numbers burns my eyes.

  “Mikey?” I slide up and knock three times on my wall with my index knuckle. “You alright in there?”

  I hear the creak of Mikey abandoning his bed and the resonance of his heavy feet across the hallway floor.

  “Maggie?” He props the door open slightly. “Can I come in?”

  “No more bowls of vomit?”

  He laughs and he looks different. Thinner, with his smile stretched across his face more than usual. “No, I finished up that round.”

 
He paces toward me and extends something small and plastic my direction. “I need you to shoot me.”

  “Geez, Mikey. I know things might be rough, but suicide isn’t the answer.”

  Mikey eases onto the corner of my bed. “You know what I mean. And usually your sarcastic humor is endearing, but I don’t really think suicide is something to joke about, Mags.”

  Great. Now I’m getting reprimanded by my baby brother. Can I do nothing right?

  “I was supposed to do this earlier tonight, but I’ve spent the past three hours trying and I just can’t to it. It seriously freaks me out.”

  I take the needle from his hand and pop the cap off. “Where is it supposed to go?”

  He lifts up his shirt. “In my stomach—preferably in fat.”

  “Mikey, you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.” His abdominal muscles contract and he breathes in deep. Before the surgery and chemo Mikey was incredibly built, and even though he still is, he has even less extra weight wrapped over his muscular frame.

  “Try to find some.”

  I scan his stomach for a place to insert the tip of the syringe, but I can’t find anything. Which actually makes me relieved, because as I stare down at the needle, I notice it shaking like a leaf between my fingers.

  “Mikey, I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing here.”

  Mikey grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. “Come on, Maggie,” he pleads. “I have to be able to do this. Find something.”

  I look back at his ribs, at his waist, and have no clue where to put this needle.

  “What is this anyway?”

  “Blood thinner.” Mikey’s words mumble because he has his shirt scrunched up and is holding it under his chin. “Can we just get this over with already?”

  “I don’t think I can.” I hate admitting it, because I can handle a lot of things. Stabbing my brother is not one of them.

  “Do you know someone who can?”

  ***

  “For future reference, you can inject in the thigh or the back of the arm if there isn’t enough fatty tissue in the stomach.” Ran rests his hand on Mikey’s leg and swiftly inserts the point of the needle, pressing the liquid into it slowly. Mikey grimaces and his forehead wrinkles.

  “Breathe, Buddy.” Ran withdraws the syringe and slaps Mikey on the shoulder, using it to push him up off the couch. “Not so bad. You can handle this.” He directs the tip of the needle my way. “Just pretend he’s a voodoo doll and this is just a needle. I’m sure you can think of someone you’re angry enough with to summon the motivation necessary.”

  “Whoa, what happened between you two?” Mikey says, massaging the puncture spot on his thigh. His eyes flit back and forth.

  “Nothing,” I sneer. Ran steps closer to me and I catch a waft of his soapy smell. “Sorry to text so late.”

  “Not a problem.” Ran places the syringe into a clear canister on the breakfast bar. It looks so sterile and out of place next to the decorative jars containing olive oils and dried pastas. “3:00 a.m. texting seems to be our routine.”

  “We don’t have a routine.” I walk toward the front door, hoping he’ll take the hint and follow. Instead he drops his elbows down on the surface behind him and crosses his ankles, making himself too comfortable in my home.

  “I’m going to bed.” Mikey lifts off of the couch and heads down the hall. “Thanks for making the house call, man,” he says as he shuffles away from us.

  “Anytime,” Ran echoes back, but his eyes are glued on mine. I try to intimidate him by making my own eyes nothing but angry slivers on my face, but he just laughs. “You seriously hate me that much, Maggie? Because I don’t think you do. I think if you hated me as much as you pretend, you wouldn’t have texted me asking for help.”

  “Mikey needed medical attention.”

  “And there are hospitals that provide that.” He takes a step toward me and I mirror him with one over-emphasized step back.

  “He spent all day in a hospital yesterday. I didn’t want him to have to go back there just for this.”

  Ran nods. “So tomorrow, when he needs another injection, are you going to text me again? Or are you going to suck it up and do it.”

  “I’ll do it. I don’t want to be indebted to you for anything.” I break our mini stare-down and turn away to take up position on the couch. It’s obvious Ran doesn’t plan on leaving any time soon. “I can learn to do something that makes me uncomfortable if it helps Mikey heal.”

  “That’s a very mature statement.” Ran plops down right next to me, even though there’s an entire empty couch just to the left.

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not.” He thumbs his chin with the pad of his finger. “I think you should extend that same selflessness your own direction. Do something that makes you uncomfortable for the sake of your own healing.”

  “What is your obsession with me forgiving my mother all about?” I throw my words out at him, but he doesn’t flinch like I hope he would.

  “It’s not an obsession. It’s a wish. I wish you could experience how good it feels to forgive someone who has wronged you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, Pastor Ran. Thank you for that thought-provoking sermon.”

  “Hey, I’m preaching to the choir here, alright?” Ran slides closer to me and our 2,500 square foot house never felt so confining. “You think I don’t know how hard it is to forgive?” His brow is so tight over his eyes I almost can’t see them, like they’re tucked in the hollow shadow created there. “Damn it, Maggie. My biological parents were teenage drug addicts. For the four years they had me, they would drag me to run-down crack-houses and lock me in a filthy room with a TV blaring late night television while they got high in some other part of the house.” My hands feel numb and I ball them up in fists to try to bring some sort of sensation back to them. “So if you think needles don’t bother me, too, you’re wrong.” I trap in all of my breath as he continues. “I used to play with their used up syringes, Maggie. I’d inject my stuffed animals and would pretend that it was some kind of magic potion I was shooting them up with, not the narcotics that turned my parents into lost, nervous shells of people.” A single tear skates down Ran’s cheekbone and I want nothing more than to wipe it away. To erase its marring smear from existence on his tortured face. But I don’t have the right to touch him. “I hated them for what they did to me. But then I realized it’s all they knew. That for as much hurt as they caused me, they were hurting even more under the surface. Even if their constant state of hallucinations would always hinder them from ever seeing that reality.”

  “Ran, I’m sorry—” I breathe.

  “Don’t be. I have a great life, Maggie.”

  My shoulders sag. “Ran, your mom is dead, your dad has Alzheimer’s, and your biological parents were druggies.”

  Ran continues to stare up at the ceiling and his face doesn’t change. “Like I said, I have a great life.” He sweeps the back of his hand across his cheek and there’s now no proof the tear was ever there. “I have more people than I can count that love and support me. I had fifteen years with my adoptive mom. I was able to share twelve lucid years with my adoptive dad. I have great friends and amazing coworkers. I have love in my life.”

  “But how can you feel loved when the very people who brought you into this world obviously didn’t love you?” I ask, heartbroken over the thought of a little boy completely tossed aside by his parents. It reminds me of another child I know that was abandoned by someone who, by default, should have loved her, too.

  “There are certain things in life that everyone has a right to, Maggie. Being loved is one of those rights. If someone—or some circumstance—has taken that from you, you can’t just wait for it to come back,” Ran says, his voice calm, like the truth he’s speaking keeps him steady and assured. “You can’t even ask for it. You have to demand it. You have every right to.”

  I swallow back the deluge of tears that threaten. “Your parents were awfu
l.”

  “You’re absolutely right, they were. They were horrible.” Ran drops his head onto the pillowed back of the couch and the hazy stream of light from the streetlamp outside the window curves over his features. He’s beautiful. I never realized that being broken could be beautiful. It never made me feel beautiful. “They sucked as parents, Maggie. Hell, they sucked as human beings. Forgiving them doesn’t mean I don’t still think they’re awful. It doesn’t excuse them from that.”

  “Then what’s the point?” I slip my head onto the couch too. “What’s the point in forgiving them if it doesn’t change anything?”

  “Because it changed me. I don’t feel awful anymore. Yeah, maybe they were horrible, screwed up junkies, but at least I’m not a screwed up man that’s unable to love because I harbor so much hatred in my heart there’s not any room for love to exist.”

  Everything he’s saying I’ve heard before, hundreds of times. I’ve read about it in books and seen it portrayed in movies. It’s not a new concept he’s telling me—the idea that forgiveness frees the forgiver more than the one actually in need of forgiveness. But I’ve never seen it living and breathing, sitting and embodied right in front of me.

  When Ran’s head rolls to the side and his hair brushes my cheek, I don’t pull back like I would have ten minutes ago. Back when I wanted to throw things—both in the form of physical objects as well as spiteful insults—at him. It’s as though there’s been some shift, some turning point where the anger I felt for him morphed into feelings that I don’t even have words for. It’s strange to think how similar those emotions are—hatred and affection. They’re both forms of passion, and that’s what I feel: passionate over this equally broken man sitting beside me.

  So I don’t recoil when he moves closer. Instead I lean into him, slinking my body down on the couch so I fit along this curve of his, needing to be closer to him. I haven’t felt this close to anyone in a long time, and I’m surprised that my actual body wants in on that closeness, too.

  “Maggie,” he exhales against my hair, slipping his arm behind my back so he can draw me in.