James Grippando: Leapholes

He didn't want to see that look of disapproval anymore- not from anyone ever again, starting with this nurse.

"My name's Ryan…" He scrunched his face, as if straining his brain. "I-I don't remember my last name."

"Oh, my. That's not a good thing. Do you remember your phone number, maybe? Or where you live?"

Ryan gave her that same blank expression. "Nope, sorry. All I seem to remember is that my name is Ryan."

"No need to apologize. It's not your fault, honey."

"What do we do now?"

"I'll let the ER physician know that you're awake. She'll come and examine you. Meanwhile, you just rest. I'm sure your memory will start coming back to you in time. And just as soon as it does, you can give us your phone number so we can call your parents. They must be so worried about you."

"I'm sure my mom is," said Ryan. Then he realized he wasn't supposed to have any memory of his parents. "And my dad, too," he added quickly. "Whoever they are."

She seemed puzzled by his response, but she let it go. "How's that elbow feeling?"

"Hurts."

"I'll see if I can get you a painkiller." She gave him a gentle pat on the hand and walked away.

Ryan retreated into thought, which took some of the edge off his elbow pain. He wondered how long he could pretend not' to know his own name. How long could he convince the world that he was not a Coolidge? He'd tried that charade only once before, and the results had been disastrous.

It was the day of his father's final court appearance, the worst day of his life. Many months had come and gone since then, but the memory still burned in Ryan's mind as if it had all happened yesterday. He closed his eyes, and even though he was still lying in a hospital bed, he could see the car pulling into their driveway. He could see the woman dressed in the gray business suit walking to their front door. It was all coming back to him again, playing in his mind's eye like an old movie from which there was no escape.

The doorbell rang, and Ryan knew it was the lawyer.

From the very beginning, Ryan's father had assured him that he was innocent of the charges against him. Ryan wanted to go with him to the court hearing. He needed to be there when his father looked the judge in the eye and told him that he'd done nothing wrong. For some reason, however, his parents told him to stay home. Courtrooms were open to the public, so Ryan couldn't understand what they were trying to hide from him. At three-thirty in the afternoon, his parents got in the car with the lawyer and drove to the court hearing, leaving Ryan with his grandmother. Ten minutes later, Ryan snuck out of his room and bicycled to the courthouse.

It was impossible to approach the Justice Center and not get the immediate impression that something important was going on inside. It was an imposing limestone skyscraper more than eighty years old. Visitors had to climb not one but two long tiers of gray granite steps made smooth by decades of foot traffic. The fluted columns in front were at least fifty feet tall. Heavy brass doors at the entrance were encased in marble moldings. Ryan's teacher had taken him to the courthouse on a field trip once before, so he knew that the criminal trials were on the first floor. Ryan quickly chained his bike to the rack and scampered up the steps, and he was still trying to catch his breath as he entered the building. He hurried down the long corridor and peeked into a few empty courtrooms before he found the right place. Without a sound, he slipped into the last row of public seating. No one seemed to notice. His father and the lawyer were standing before the judge, their backs toward Ryan.

The judge was seated high on the bench, rocking back and forth in his big leather chair. On the wall behind him was a brass plaque with the scales of justice. His hair was the color of ash, and he was quite possibly the oldest living person Ryan had ever seen. The judge peered over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses and asked, "Mr. Coolidge, how do you plead?"

Ryan's heart raced. He'd arrived just in time. You tell him, Dad. You tell him that you're innocent.

Ryan's father glanced at his lawyer, then lowered his head and said softly, "Guilty, Your Honor."

It was as if the air had suddenly been sucked from Ryan's lungs. Guilty? What do you mean, guilty?

The judge said, "Mr. Coolidge, do you understand that by entering a plea of guilty, you are waiving your right to a trial by jury?"

"I do, Your Honor."

"Do you enter this plea of your own free will, without any pressure or coercion from any person?"

Again Mr. Coolidge glanced at his lawyer. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well, then. The court will accept the plea of guilty. Does the state attorney have any recommendation as to sentencing?"

A man rose. He was wearing a pinstriped suit, and the bright ceiling lights reflected off the perfectly round bald spot on the crown of his head. He cleared his throat and said, "Yes, Judge. The government recommends that Mr. Coolidge receive a sentence of-"

"Wait!" shouted Ryan.

All heads turned, and Ryan immediately felt the weight of their collective stares. Ryan was on his feet, alone in the back row, not sure what to say. His shouting had been completely involuntary, a gut reaction brought about by absolute shock.

The judge banged his gavel. "Young man, there will be order in my courtroom. I won't tolerate outbursts from anyone, least of all spectators. Who are you?"

Ryan's mouth opened, but the words didn't come. He'd heard the judge's question-Who are you?-but he couldn't answer. Ryan's gaze slid across the courtroom, from the judge to the prosecutor to his father's lawyer. His mother was seated in the first row of public seating, and the pained expression on her face seemed to say, Good gosh, Ryan, what are you doing here? Finally, he made eye contact with his father. Ryan searched in vain for a silent explanation, some signal from his father that this was all a mistake, a terrible misunderstanding. But Ryan sensed only betrayal.

Once again, the judge's gravelly voice filled the courtroom. "Young man, 1 asked you a question. Who are you?"

Ryan couldn't speak. It wasn't enough to say My name's Ryan Coolidge. He needed to say, My name's Ryan Coolidge, and my father is innocent. But not even his father was willing to say that much. He'd told the judge that he was guilty, and Ryan had heard it with his own ears.

"For the last time!" the judge said. "Who are you?"

A bitterness rose up in Ryan's throat, and the words seemed to leap from his lips, something beyond his control. "I'm nobody!" he shouted.

Then he turned and ran from the courtroom.

For breakfast Ryan ate blueberry waffles with butter and extra maple syrup. To drink, he had a chocolate milkshake. A whole pitcher of milkshakes, and another one with whipped cream, and the pitchers were never empty, no matter how many glasses he filled.

Then he woke, and there was nothing but hunger in his belly.

He'd had no food since breakfast. Even then he'd managed only a few bites of toast and some cereal before his anger had driven him from the kitchen. That painkiller from the nurse had promptly sent him off to dreamland, and the dreams were only making him hungry.

"Man, what does it take to get something to eat around here?" He was speaking aloud but to no one in particular.

The plastic curtain slid open, and suddenly Ryan was no longer alone. A girl was in the cubicle beside him, lying in a bed just like his. With the curtain thrown back, it was suddenly as if they were sharing a room. She said, "I have a granola bar, if you want one."

Ryan looked at her curiously. She seemed nice enough, with light brown hair, a dimple when she smiled, and hazel eyes that sparkled. Girls that pretty often made him nervous, especially when they looked older than him.