Freefall
oo8.
“How old are you, Ryan?”
“Five,” he smiles, playfully.
“No, Ryan, how old are you, right now?”
“Five,” he repeats, silly grin still apparent on his face.
Aniston sighs, rubs his eyes in a tired fashion. “When were you born, Ryan?”
“Mommy didn’t like games. She never ever played with me. Do you like games, Mister?” he asks, shrugging off Aniston’s question as if he hadn’t even heard it. Ryan is talkative today, jumpy and restless on the crisp November morning. This was an entirely different person than the one he had encountered in the previous days. It was almost unnerving, Ryan’s changes between the two. It was like putting on a hat, just a matter of seconds and he was a whole different person.
“I like games, yes. Did you want to play one?” Aniston concedes, leaning back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. If he was going to get anywhere it was going to have to be done Ryan’s way. Aniston would play by Ryan’s rules, would follow Ryan’s train of thought.
Ryan brushes off his question once again. “Was your momma nice, Mister?” It wasn’t said disdainfully, or with anger. It was just a simple question, asked because it needed to be. Ryan needed to know if there was really something else out there.
“Umm…” Aniston pauses, ponders a valid response. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, as he was so afraid of doing as of late. “Yes, Ryan, my mom was nice. She took good care of us.” He studies him, trying to predict Ryan’s next move.
Ryan’s face twists in thought, his brow furrows, his forehead wrinkles up. Finally, “That’s good. I’m glad you had a nice momma.” He sighs, head drooping. “I wish I had a nice momma… I was a good boy and everything… I was a good boy, really,” he pouts, bottom lip quivering.
“It’s not your fault, Ryan. Your mother was sick. I know you were a good boy. It’s not your fault,” he repeats in an effort to console the boy.
“Promise?” He lifts his head slowly upward as if expecting to be let down again.
“I promise,” Aniston smiles weakly, offering little comfort. But Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles big, crinkling his nose.
“Can we go for a walk?” Ryan asks, eyes hopeful.
“No, Ryan, not today, I’m afraid.”
Ryan’s face falls in disappointment, and he sits, twiddling his fingers, memorizing a pattern on the floor. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asks after a minute, raising his eyes to study Aniston’s.
“About what, Ryan?”
“You don’t think I’m really five, do you?” He raises an eyebrow, challenging the doctor with all the wit that a small child could possibly muster.
“I’m not sure, Ryan. I’m really not sure…”
“Well, I have a secret,” he whispers, covering his mouth with his sleeve to stifle a laugh. “I’m really five and a half!” he bursts, shooting Aniston a toothy grin.
A chuckle erupts inside the doctor, breaking his pristine character. But they both need it. They smile at one another: a kind of unspoken knowing. One was lost, one was desperately trying to find him, bring him back, both feeling so alone these past few days. Then:
“Ryan, why did you jump?”
The boy’s face turns stoic, void of all previous emotion. Had he gone too far again?
“It’s a secret, Mister. You have to play the game to find out…” he whispers, a devilish smile trapped on his lips.
“Five,” he smiles, playfully.
“No, Ryan, how old are you, right now?”
“Five,” he repeats, silly grin still apparent on his face.
Aniston sighs, rubs his eyes in a tired fashion. “When were you born, Ryan?”
“Mommy didn’t like games. She never ever played with me. Do you like games, Mister?” he asks, shrugging off Aniston’s question as if he hadn’t even heard it. Ryan is talkative today, jumpy and restless on the crisp November morning. This was an entirely different person than the one he had encountered in the previous days. It was almost unnerving, Ryan’s changes between the two. It was like putting on a hat, just a matter of seconds and he was a whole different person.
“I like games, yes. Did you want to play one?” Aniston concedes, leaning back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. If he was going to get anywhere it was going to have to be done Ryan’s way. Aniston would play by Ryan’s rules, would follow Ryan’s train of thought.
Ryan brushes off his question once again. “Was your momma nice, Mister?” It wasn’t said disdainfully, or with anger. It was just a simple question, asked because it needed to be. Ryan needed to know if there was really something else out there.
“Umm…” Aniston pauses, ponders a valid response. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, as he was so afraid of doing as of late. “Yes, Ryan, my mom was nice. She took good care of us.” He studies him, trying to predict Ryan’s next move.
Ryan’s face twists in thought, his brow furrows, his forehead wrinkles up. Finally, “That’s good. I’m glad you had a nice momma.” He sighs, head drooping. “I wish I had a nice momma… I was a good boy and everything… I was a good boy, really,” he pouts, bottom lip quivering.
“It’s not your fault, Ryan. Your mother was sick. I know you were a good boy. It’s not your fault,” he repeats in an effort to console the boy.
“Promise?” He lifts his head slowly upward as if expecting to be let down again.
“I promise,” Aniston smiles weakly, offering little comfort. But Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles big, crinkling his nose.
“Can we go for a walk?” Ryan asks, eyes hopeful.
“No, Ryan, not today, I’m afraid.”
Ryan’s face falls in disappointment, and he sits, twiddling his fingers, memorizing a pattern on the floor. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asks after a minute, raising his eyes to study Aniston’s.
“About what, Ryan?”
“You don’t think I’m really five, do you?” He raises an eyebrow, challenging the doctor with all the wit that a small child could possibly muster.
“I’m not sure, Ryan. I’m really not sure…”
“Well, I have a secret,” he whispers, covering his mouth with his sleeve to stifle a laugh. “I’m really five and a half!” he bursts, shooting Aniston a toothy grin.
A chuckle erupts inside the doctor, breaking his pristine character. But they both need it. They smile at one another: a kind of unspoken knowing. One was lost, one was desperately trying to find him, bring him back, both feeling so alone these past few days. Then:
“Ryan, why did you jump?”
The boy’s face turns stoic, void of all previous emotion. Had he gone too far again?
“It’s a secret, Mister. You have to play the game to find out…” he whispers, a devilish smile trapped on his lips.