Chapter Text
Ryland is 10 when he throws up in the backyard.
Specifically, he throws up in the blackberry bush.
It used to bloom until this past summer. Then, without warning, it died. The random blackberry bush that his mother did not plant used to fruit every June through September. Ryland knows because he studied it diligently while school was out. Sometimes, the blackberries were the only thing he had to eat throughout the day; he always made sure to wash them beforehand. He would catalogue all the trees and the weeds and the native flowers, then he moved on to searching for bugs and staring up at the sky, the lawn overgrown but shaded by the dilapidated privacy fence.
The backyard is supposed to be his safe place, not a space for throwing up. But Ryland can’t help it. His stomach has been aching all day. He palms his abdomen through his too big coat with one hand and wipes his mouth with the back of the other. Sweat pours from his hairline and drips down his neck. His eyes water behind his cracked glasses. He sinks to his knees in dried mud, legs shaking too much to hold his weight, and watches his breath come out in rapid puffs. The freezing December air hurts his lungs. He sniffles and curls into a ball on the ground.
Mom isn’t home.
He doesn’t have a key because Mom won’t give him one. She says it’s pointless when all he does is go to school and come home. If she’s home, then great; she’ll let him in. If not, then Ryland can wait outside like a good boy. Usually, Mom is either smoking in bed or on the couch, too drunk or too high to notice him, and leaves the door unlocked. But today must be an ‘out’ day. Ryland knows she’ll come home with another guy in tow, and then he’ll be allowed in the house eventually, but only if he goes straight to his room and doesn’t make a peep. That part is easy enough. Ryland has no one to talk to anyway.
The hard part is that he’s currently outside. It’s cold. He wants to hide under the covers and never come out.
His stomach presses uncomfortably against his skin. The pain he woke up with is now, thankfully, only nausea. He sat in the back of his fifth grade class all day, silently wishing to be home in bed. But now it’s past five o’clock, and the sun is setting, and he’s been waiting for his mom to get back since the bus dropped him off around 3:30. He wants to forget this day ever happened and try again tomorrow. Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he hiccups unsteadily, shivering up a storm.
Which, of course, is impossible.
He can’t ‘shiver up a storm.’ It’s an expression. It means he’s freezing. His mom begged him to stop being so literal long ago, her hands yanking at his hair and tugging at his ears and, one time, snapping his wrist on accident, so he did. Kind of. It’s hard. It’s almost like he’s compelled to do it, like it’s a part of him he can’t wash away, but he tries for her. It’s not like they talk much to begin with, but it’s difficult when they do. Ryland isn’t great at reading her face or gestures.
Through the cracks in the fence, he sees the Humphreys Christmas tree. The lights are bright, twinkling shades of gold, red, and green. There’s a silver star perched on top. Ryland wraps his arms around himself and stares. Mom never puts up a tree. For the longest time, Ryland thought maybe they were Jewish or Muslim or something, but they’re not. They’re not anything, not even Jehovah’s Witnesses. The Grace’s, Ryland and Lyla, just are. Mom says all holidays are for greeting cards and mass consumerism, favoring those who have money and looking down on those who don’t. They don't have much money, so he guesses Christmas should be pointless to him.
He doesn’t talk about holidays anymore. Doesn’t get excited. Doesn’t secretly hope Mom buys him a gift to unwrap on December 25th.
The closest he gets to Christmas is right here on the backyard ground, holding onto his stomach and staring at the Humphreys tree.
He hears the car pull into the driveway and watches the lights bounce off the house.
Ryland knows better than to sit up or call out to her.
Mom laughs loudly. A man’s voice follows suit. Mom and the man enter the house together.
Ryland closes his eyes and listens to his teeth chatter. Nausea brews in his gut. Tears swim in his eyes. He shrivels up like a shrimp because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. It’s the only thing he can control. Mom always comes and gets him when she’s ready.
He doesn’t know how much longer he’s outside. Only knows that the San Francisco sky is pitch black, and eventually the lights on the Humphreys tree go dark too.
The glass door slides open.
Ryland gets to his feet quickly, despite the fact that his extremities are numb. Despite the fact that his stomach vibrates angrily. Despite the fact that he doesn’t feel good. If the door closes, then he’s missed his chance, and he can’t spend another night out here on the ground.
Mom and the man are in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes and drinking scotch from the bottle. Mom looks at him and points down the hall.
Ryland ducks his head and tiptoes to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.
He immediately curls up on his mattress, backpack, shoes, coat, and all. He cries into his pillow, long and hard. He can’t help it. He can’t help it. He can't help it. His stomach hurts, and Mom’s are supposed to care and help and make soup and tuck kids in and read them bedtime stories until they’re asleep. They’re supposed to care, and his mom doesn’t. His mom doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if he’s throwing up in a blackberry bush or locked out of the house or never given lunch money or sleeps outside more often than in his own bed. It doesn't matter that he's pretty sure he's running a fever and needs to take medicine to get better. Nothing will ever matter.
Ryland sobs himself to sleep.
He throws up - silently into a pillowcase and utterly alone - two more times before the night melts and gives way to day.