After the Rain Read online

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mom.’ I slide past her, being careful not to touch her with my ripped clothes, cut shoulder, bloody knees. When I get to the bathroom, I lock the door quickly before she insists on coming in with me. I turn around to switch on the shower to let it warm slightly, and stop. Who is this person in the mirror? I look like an extra from a post-apocalyptic movie. I look like I’ve been knocked down by a furniture delivery truck, got back up and been run over again. I look like – I look— It even hurts to cry. The tears scald my scratched cheeks and burn my fingers when I wipe them away. I take a deep breath and let the air fill me, every inch of me. Then I unzip my skirt and tug it down my hipbones. Eventually it loosens and drops around my feet. The T-shirt and bra is much harder to get off. My whole body is on fire.

  My face is blackened by ash, my hair clumps at the side and sticks to my hairline, my mascara streaks across to my temples. My bare skin tingles against the air, then the glass disappears in the steam and the face that I see, the body, the dried blood, distorts and blurs. And just like the boy I killed today, I disappear in a dense cloud too.

  Jack

  I hear a voice. An American voice. In my dream I look up and see a girl in front of me. She’s got long wavy red hair, and it sticks to her coat in the rain. She’s looking down at her shoes and all around her. Scattered books. A spilled coffee cup. And an umbrella. A yellow polka dot umbrella that’s spinning on its point like someone is flicking it with their fingers, never letting it slow, never letting it stop.

  It spins.

  And spins.

  I feel dizzy. Nauseous. I need to sit down. I am sitting down actually but I don’t remember how I got down here, on the ground, amongst the books and the spinning umbrella. The girl stands above me, looking down at me. She parts her lips and says my name. But now she sounds like my mum. A sliver of bright light appears from behind her and I gaze into it. The ground beneath me fades as I slowly wake. White fabric envelops me, encasing every part of me. I’m in a room. My mum and dad both stand beside my bed. On the other side are strangers – strangers in navy and white, like uniforms. Nurses. Doctors. I’m in a hospital. Why am I in a hospital?

  The girl with the spinning umbrella and red curly hair is gone.

  But the pain. The pain hits me hard. My mum’s hands are on me. Her touch is gentle but her fingertips sting my skin. Her mouth is open like she’s speaking but I can’t hear her. I can’t hear anything in this room. All I hear is ringing in my ears. It’s so loud. The nurse is over me shining a bright light in my eyes. Her breath is on my lips. She’s talking, but again no words are coming out. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m scared. I try to break free but now hands are on me. I try to push them off then one injects something through a long plastic tube that runs into me. I’m so tired. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. The darkness, it’s everywhere again.

  Alice

  The next couple of days are a blur. I close myself off in the bedroom and try to forget. Every second I’m awake I think about it. I feel the blast upon my skin, feel the trembles of the ground beneath me. The ringing in the ears is fading now but other sounds fill my head. The doctor thinks I’m suffering from ‘post-traumatic stress’ like a soldier returning from war. When did the streets outside our house become a war zone? When did the world change and become – this?

  So I sleep. And when I wake, when I remember, I sleep again. And that’s how the days go. I’m either in a hazy fog of lucid dreams, distorted reality, flashbacks pieced together by the sounds that still vibrate inside me, or I’m huddled in the corner of my bedroom like a frightened stray animal, waiting for a storm to subside. I have no idea what time it is, what day it is. The doorbell rings, the neighbor, the mailman, a representative from a new gas and electricity company. The only people who ask about me are my nana in Boston and the neighbor who I sometimes help with her bins on collection day. I don’t know anyone who goes through that much cardboard. It’s like an Amazon warehouse next door. My mom checks in on me every hour or so, makes sure I’m still breathing. Sometimes she knocks, sometimes she doesn’t. I thought crises were meant to bring people together but I all want is to be left alone.

  I awake today face down on my bedroom floor clutching a pillow to my chest. The carpet is damp beneath me and I can’t figure out if I’ve just woken up in a pool of sweat, or urine. That’s when I decide to finally leave the room. Not because I’m ready to talk or because I crave intimacy and affection from people but simply because I’m hungry. And I definitely need a shower. My mom stares at me at the bottom of the stairs, almost like she’s forgotten I’m up there, then eventually clears her throat. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I croak out.

  ‘It’s um … oh I don’t know.’ She checks her watch. ‘Two ten. So I guess I should say good afternoon.’

  I slump down the stairs, my muscles still aching. My limbs feel tight, constricted.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  I nod. ‘I’m going to make a grilled cheese, I think.’

  ‘I’ll make it. You sit.’ She scoots off into the kitchen, happy to finally feel needed. At least I helped one person this week.

  I slide onto the dining-room chair. We’ve moved so many times in my life that after a while houses start to merge together. Living rooms look the same, and my bedroom always seems to be beside the stairs. Backyards usually consist of a tiny wooden shed in the corner and a rusty swing in the center. Kitchens occasionally differ. Some have a center island or a hanging pot rack, others have a subway backsplash and a separate fridge freezer. One kitchen had yellow cabinets and Spanish tiling. That was back in Texas. I miss the food there. Tex Mex is the best. I’m so hungry.

  I inhale the sandwich. It barely touches my tongue. When I’m done I resist licking the plate which still sparkles with butter and oil. My mom sits down opposite me. I wonder what she thinks about this house. We never talk about the moves. We just say ‘OK’, pack, and get on with it. It’s never a question of whether we want to move because no one ever asks us. I’d thought maybe West Coast or Midwest as we’d jumped around the South and East Coast already, and Asia. Then Dad was offered an opportunity to contract with the British Army for a while and our move turned out to be 5,483 miles across the ocean. And once again, I moved schools. Like houses, schools are all the same, especially high schools. I’d like to say not making friends is because of constantly moving around – I don’t want to get attached to one place or one person and then have to say goodbye. But even if I’d lived in one town my whole life, I’d still have difficulty making friends. It’d still just be my mom and I. Navigating friendships and social situations have always been hard for me. Textbooks, novels, science experiments, chemistry models, essays – now that makes sense. There’s a clear structure for that. A mutual understanding between the learner and the material. But people and their conversation, as brief and trivial as it often is, can be unpredictable and lack structure.

  ‘It’s nice to see you out of your room. We were worried about you.’

  ‘Did I miss Dad’s call?’

  ‘He Skyped briefly this morning. I didn’t know whether to disturb you or not.’

  I see Mom’s handbag and keys on the table. ‘Have you been out?’

  ‘Just getting groceries. I’m going to try Dad’s famous Texan pulled pork burritos tonight. Your favorite,’ she smiles.

  A flicker of light hits the glass cabinet behind my mom’s head. I turn and see the TV muted. ‘Were you watching the news?’

  She stands quickly and hurries over to the set.

  ‘No, leave it. Please,’ I ask.

  ‘The nurse thought it was best to not let you see the TV updates. She thought it might add to the – the … anxiety.’

  ‘I just want to see what I’ve missed the past few days. I won’t watch for long.’

  She sighs and cradles the remote in her hand. She increases the volume, one bar at a time, until a female voice fill
s the kitchen and adjoining living room.

  ‘… ending a four-day manhunt for the suspected terrorists. This comes only a week after two homemade pressure-cooker bombs detonated 42 seconds and 190 meters apart at 10:55 a.m. near Leicester Square, killing 22 people so far and injuring over 40 others … the Metropolitan Police confirm a third bomb was dismantled near Covent Garden … the UK is now on red alert, with major airports in London grounding most flights, especially those bound for the US …’

  Images disperse across the screen. I hold my breath as faces of smiling victims fill the TV – I’m not ready for this, I can’t look; I close my eyes and try to block them out. Their faces. Their futures. All gone. No, please stop. I can’t stop the cry that escapes my lips. When I blink my eyes open I see them, all twenty-two of the victims. Their photos side by side, like they all knew each other, like they were friends or work colleagues. My mom jumps up and grabs for the remote control.

  ‘No, wait!’

  My mom freezes, her hand so tight on the remote that her knuckles turn white.

  ‘Wait. These are all the people who died?’ I get off my chair and walk closer to the screen. A blonde-haired girl, a redheaded male, a child, an elderly man, a middle-aged businessman, a woman in her thirties with long wavy brown hair … but no blond-haired runner of my age. He’s not there on the screen which means he’s not dead. He’s still alive.

  I didn’t kill him.

  Jack

  My ears are still ringing. I can’t hear anything. My mum and dad walk around the bed, occasionally sitting as I drift in and out of a deep dark sleep. I can’t escape images of a yellow polka dot umbrella and a girl with red curly hair. They flicker in my mind throughout waking and sleeping. Who is this girl?

  I remember more now. I remember the streets, the buildings, the people. I remember the screams and the car alarms, the shattering of glass windows and blown tarmac. I was running. Fast. And then I bumped into someone. Yes, the girl with the red hair. She stepped into my path as I ran, I collided with her and she’d dropped her things. Those were her books, her spinning umbrella. She was yelling at me, cursing, telling me to watch where I was going. She had an American accent and her face was familiar. I tried to help her and then I started running again. I crossed the street and turned back to see if she was still yelling. She was standing at the edge of the pavement on the other side of the crossing, next to the traffic lights. What happened next, though?

  I was hurt. I am hurt. That’s why I’m in hospital. And not just because of my ears, something else feels … wrong. I’m broken from whatever happened, damaged. My fingers graze my face. It stings under my touch. There’s a bandage around my hairline, maybe from where I fell forward. I’m OK, though, I think. What happened exactly is still a blur, but I remember my name, my age, where I go to school, my friends, all the cities I’ve visited, the pace of my last five runs. I still have my memory so I’m OK. My arms are bloody and cut but they’re also OK. Cuts heal, wounds close, blood is wiped clean. My abdomen feels sensitive, but probably just from the hunger. I’m still getting fluids from an IV. I can’t sit up unsupported yet to eat, and my lips are swollen. My hips ache when I prod them. I wiggle my toes. Odd. I feel them wiggling but I don’t feel them rub against the bed covers. I swallow hard, because I know a leg injury will take a while to heal. I may even have to rest them for the next few months before I can run again. I have events scheduled for the summer – three junior marathons, a duathlon in September and a triathlon in October. I’ve also got a golf weekend planned for the end of July, and my dad and I are travelling to Istanbul for some hiking in August before school starts back.

  I take a deep breath and ease my shoulders off the bed. My muscles throb with the movement but I need to see how bad the injury is so I know how long it’ll be before I can resume my training. My eyes narrow in on the bulging thighs. I’m so swollen, why? Beyond the thighs, there’s … there’s … nothing. My legs. Where are my legs?

  My legs are gone. There’s nothing from my thighs. It’s all gone.

  I can’t breathe. I gasp desperately for air as it thins out around me. Hands are on me pushing me back down to the bed. I open my mouth to scream but I can’t hear myself.

  I can’t hear my own crying.

  Alice

  My dad looks small through the laptop from where I sit. He’s hunched over the screen, leaning in to hear me. Except I’m not speaking. I haven’t said anything in about five minutes now. I’m not quite sure what to say. I’ve never enjoyed communicating with my dad over a long-distance Skype call. Crackling, slight distortion around the edges, the occasional echo of my own voice coming back to me, and the delays. Sometimes his WiFi connection is so bad that at least half a minute passes between us in a delay. I wish my dad was here sitting right in front of me. I wish I could reach out and touch his hand. I wish I could hug him, wrap my arms around him and pull him in like when I was a child and I’d had a bad dream at night. As an army sergeant and drill instructor he was pretty tough on me about some things, but when I had a nightmare he always let me sleep in their bed. Wedged between my mom and my dad I felt so safe, like nothing could harm me. But I see now. I see more clearly. There is no ‘safe.’

  ‘How are you doing, Alice Bear?’

  My dad hasn’t called me that in years, not since I was a young girl. Not since the days of bad dreams were just that – dreams not reality.

  ‘I’m okay, Dad.’ I bite my lip and look down.

  ‘Are you really?’

  ‘Yep. Do you want me to put Mom on now?’ I just want to change the subject. I can’t hear it again – How are you? How are you feeling? How are you doing? How do I answer those questions truthfully?

  ‘I’m here for you if you need me, you know.’

  My belly churns. I swallow the anger down. ‘But you’re not here. You’re in Africa somewhere. I’m in London and you’re in Africa. You’re not just down the hall or a quick phone call away. We have to schedule calls with you, and only when you have internet connection. It’s not like I can call you anytime I want.’

  ‘I’m trying to get time off—’

  ‘Try harder. Better yet, get us transferred away from here,’ I snap. My chest heaves in and out wildly. I don’t know where that came from. The frustration and anger courses through me. I’ve never gotten this angry before, and never with my dad. But I didn’t want to move here, and I didn’t ask for this in my life. I didn’t sign up to the military – I don’t want a life of warfare, of market bombs and exploding buildings.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alice.’

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I know he’s sorry. He’s sorry his job landed us here in London, that if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have been in Leicester Square that morning. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I’m feeling like this, I’m sorry I can’t talk about it to him. And I’m sorry that deep down inside I blame him – I blame everyone.

  Jack

  Rain and wind beat against the hospital windows in my room but I can’t hear it. My ears still throb, are still empty of sound. I see gusts of rain hurtling down on the glass and branches swinging wildly in the wind, but I can’t hear its howls and moans. I read about a storm coming. I can’t remember its name just now, but I don’t how long I’ve been in the hospital for so I’m not sure if it’s already passed through or if this is it. I don’t know how many days and moments have been lost to this hospital bed. Stuck. Trapped. Everything is so foggy with the pain meds I’m on. Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s day or night. Sometimes everything is dark but it can’t be night-time all the time. Maybe the darkness is in my head, or maybe I’m sleeping and this is all one horrible nightmare that I just can’t seem to wake up from.

  Wake up.

  Wake up, Jack.

  I fumble around in a haze of confusion and grief, and find the pain relief drip. I push the button and wait for it to flow through my veins. I’m not in pain, but my thoughts are heavy and they hurt. My memories hurt. My past hurts. Afte
r a few moments I feel lighter like I’m floating above the pain. It must be starting to work. I close my eyes and let the drugs snake through my whole body, stretching to each fingertip. I’m still floating. I want to float as far away from this hospital bed as I can go. Somewhere no one can find me.

  Ophelia.

  That’s it. Storm Ophelia.

  Alice

  It rains more over the next couple of days, coming down harder than ever before. I’ve never seen so much rain. Every time I look out the window and see the drops hit the pavement, I’m brought back to Leicester Square, to that morning. My chest tightens like I’m having an asthma attack but I’m not asthmatic. I can’t get a deep enough breath in and out my lungs. It catches in my throat and threatens to suffocate me. When it happens I rub my chest until it relaxes and breath comes back to me. It only lasted for a few seconds when I first came home from the hospital but now it’s lasting for a couple of minutes. It might just be residual debris in my lungs. It’ll work its way out.

  I haven’t talked to my dad in days. Every time he Skypes us, I pretend to be asleep. I just feel so out of it. It’s like I’m dreaming and I can’t wake myself or control it. It’s just happening and all I can do is observe. The only time I feel ‘awake’ is when I think about that boy, which is weird because I don’t know him. But maybe if I found him and talked to him, he’d know exactly how I feel because he feels it too. Maybe he’s struggling to talk to his mom and dad about it too. Maybe he can help me.