After the Rain Read online

  There’s still a ridiculous amount of balloons and Get Well Soon cards in here. Photos that friends have left for him, some in frames, others just scattered on table surfaces like the pages of a scrapbook. And then there’s me – the only thing here in this room that doesn’t fit. We weren’t friends before this. I never knew the boy in the Facebook photos who climbed mountains, dived from cliffs into water, and ran marathon distances all over the world, probably while maintaining an A average in his studies. Although I doubt his sixth-year syllabus consists of Math and Sciences like mine. His is probably made up of PE, languages and English Lit. My eyes wander over to a copy of On the Road on his table beside the lilies.

  Yeah, definitely English Lit.

  Maybe I’d have faced him in a literary debate about Kerouac or Faulkner if we’d taken the same English class. But I was in the US last year when I got my A+ in Advanced English. I helped out on set props on A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the end of it. I painted a tree. It was no Monet, that’s for sure, but it was a tree and for a play about the forest at night, it was central to the overall set design. Integral to the entire production, if you ask me.

  He’s still not said a word to me and it’s been twenty minutes since I arrived and said hi. I clear my throat and try again, ‘Jack? I’m still here.’

  Of course he knows that. And he doesn’t look at me.

  ‘I don’t think anyone can hear us if you want to talk?’

  Nothing. He just stares up at the poster. Silence encompasses us, presses us into an even tighter space. I hear no noises in the hallway. No footsteps, no groans of pain, no sounds of sleep or cries for loved ones. I hear no sounds from him. I just see the trembling of his temples, the twitching of his muscles underneath the covers which I read was normal after an amputation. The lavender from the tall vase by the window is strong and there’s also the scent of peonies from the corner table, my mom’s favorite. I wonder if he thinks any of it is me, my perfume. I don’t wear perfume, never have. I don’t wear makeup either unless I have a breakout on my chin which happens occasionally. I see his fingers on his left hand flicker and notice his breaths turning to deep sighs.

  Go on, Jack. Say something to me. Please just speak.

  I give up.

  Jack

  I take a deep breath and glance at my mum who came in shortly after Alice finally left. I don’t know how much longer I could have kept that up for. Twenty minutes felt like hours. My mum has her back to me and is trimming stems of calla lilies to fit the new vase she bought. Each snip reverberates around the room and through the empty hospital hallway. I haven’t heard any other patients in this wing, just me – visitors for me, medical staff fussing around my dressings and wounds, my mum sorting through the bouquets of flowers that still stream in every day. Everyone coming and going in this hallway appears to be here for me only. They think I can’t hear them but I do. I hear their whispers, footsteps and frustrated tears clearer than I ever have. The ringing in my ears is just a dull sound now in the background of the chaos of my thoughts.

  I was up again most of last night, thinking of how I would do this. But every scenario felt false, faked. I don’t want Mum to know I was pretending all this time and I don’t want my dad to know that I heard him the other night when he admitted that I was no longer the son he knew. But I also don’t want Alice to be the one who tells them.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my own voice. What if, after all this time, I have damage to my vocal chords and I can’t speak? Wouldn’t that be ironic. I pretend to be deaf, only to discover I actually can’t say anything.

  The clipping stops and I see my mum holding the vase up to the window light. The soft rays from the afternoon sun reflect off the lavender-hued vase and cast streaks of violet onto the white floor.

  ‘Mum?’ I croak out.

  She turns slowly to me, like she’s just heard a ghost.

  I clear my throat and say it again. ‘Mum.’

  She quickly places the vase on the windowsill and rushes to my side. ‘Jack, can you hear me? Can you – hear?’ Her hand sits on my shoulder, gently squeezing.

  ‘I can hear you. I can hear everything,’ I whisper. My voice, it’s so loud in my ears after all this time.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ she gasps. She reaches for the nurse call button and presses down. ‘I just want to get your ears checked, make sure there’s no fluid or blood or anything like that.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘When did this happen? When did you start hearing things again?’

  I take another deep breath and remember my mum and dad standing over me the other night, my dad’s words. ‘Just this morning,’ I lie.

  Alice

  I slide a bag of magazines, chocolate buttons and sea-salt crisps onto the reception counter and smile at the women behind it. I don’t know what Jack likes to read other than Kerouac so I got magazines on pretty much every subject I could find at the WH Smith downstairs. Helicopters, boats/sailing, DIY/carpentry, travel and leisure, Runners Monthly, Cycling Addicts, Wellbeing Weekly. I even got him a copy of Yoga Journal, in case he’s into the ‘ohm’-ing. Truth is, even after hours of what I’m hesitant to label as ‘social media stalking,’ I really don’t know him at all. I know the online character he’s created but I don’t know the real Jack Addington.

  ‘Can I leave this here for room 10B? It’s just magazines, chocolate and so on. In case, he’s … I don’t know, bored or hungry or something. Will you give it to him for me?’

  ‘Would you like to go up and give it to him yourself? Visiting hours have just started.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  She slides the sign-in log to me. I look up at the ceiling, as if I can see through the concrete and copper and steel beams, right to his room, where he’s probably staring at the ceiling too. ‘Okay, I’ll take it up.’

  When I get to 10B the door is open, propped wide by what strangely seems to be a weighted toy bunny. ‘Nice rabbit.’

  He doesn’t turn his face to me, but I know he knows it’s me. He’s looking up at that poster again.

  ‘Nice view?’

  He turns to me, his eyes burning into me. ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’

  His accent is just as I imagined, clipped English with an unnecessary hint of formality for his age, but his voice is deeper. ‘No, sorry. I just meant … Never mind.’ I rub my forehead and try again. ‘I think there’s more flowers this week, if that’s possible. Looks like a garden in here.’

  ‘I hate flowers.’

  ‘Oh, um, want me to get rid of them?’

  ‘Forget it. Just sit down if you’re going to.’

  I scoot over to the leather armchair by the window and plop down. ‘Nice room.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he mutters staring out the window.

  ‘How’s the food here?’

  He turns to me, forehead creased.

  I shrug. ‘Sorry, I just don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You’ve been coming here all this time and you haven’t thought about what to say?’

  ‘I guess.’

  He turns his head away from me again. Was that my cue to leave?

  I get up and move for the door. What if he refuses to see me again? If this is our only and last meeting, I should say something. ‘Look, I know what you’re going through so if you ever want to talk, I’m here.’

  ‘You know what I’m going through?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘Did you also have your legs blown off? Because from what I can see, you don’t even have a scratch on you. Were you even there?’

  ‘You bumped into me!’ My cheeks burn and I’m breathing loudly. How dare he, of course I was there.

  ‘I bumped into you? I think you mean you bumped into me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You stepped onto my path while I was running—’

  ‘You weren’t looking where you were going and you—’

  ‘You almost knocked me over—’


  ‘I dropped all my stuff—’

  ‘I stopped to help you with your things. Then you started yelling at me on the street—’

  ‘My coffee, my books, my umbrella—’

  He takes a sharp inhale like someone’s just punched him. ‘I don’t know why you’re here. But please don’t pretend like you have any idea how I feel.’

  ‘I do. I was there. I know exactly how you feel,’ I argue, the heat building inside me.

  ‘I have no legs, Alice!’ he screams. His voice reverberates and thumps against the walls that hold us.

  There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better. But what words will make him hate me less?

  ‘Please just leave,’ he whispers.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I stammer.

  ‘Just leave.’

  This isn’t why I came. I wanted to make him feel better. I wanted to comfort him, to be comforted myself. And now I feel worse. I slowly slide the letter out my pocket and leave it on the bedside table.

  Jack

  ‘Will Alice be visiting again today?’

  My mum is sitting in the armchair in the corner, by the window. A heavy hardcover book with a frayed brown binding sits on her lap.

  ‘She won’t be coming back again,’ I mutter, prodding the bag Alice brought. It still sits on the table. I place a hand on the top and push down. It crinkles and crunches, like crisps. I tug at the handle until it spills open. Is that a Curly Wurly poking out of the top?

  ‘Why won’t she be coming back?’ She places her book on the windowsill behind her.

  ‘Because I don’t know her.’

  ‘I thought she goes to your school?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘It’s a big school.’

  ‘It’s a small school, Jack. Too small to not know every face.’

  It is fairly small compared to most London schools, especially the state ones. But it’s not the kind of school where everyone is friends and we all sit round one big communal table at lunch and share stories. The school is divided up into three simple yet defined groups. My group consists of mostly athletes, albeit some with a passing or feigned interest in a particular sport their dads have roped them into, like rowing or golf. We love to compete – contact sports, races, duathlons, triathlons, junior marathons, basically all competitive events. Our grades aren’t the best but they’re good enough to advance to a university of our parents’ choosing. Then there’s the serious students, those with Oxford or Cambridge or MIT in their futures. Their social skills are lacking, I’d say, but to them socialising is a distraction from their studies. Then there’s the third group, the ‘transfers’ like Alice. Children of foreign diplomats or military officers, those from big financial or oil families who get transferred to London for specific projects or to cater to high-end clients. They don’t tend to stay long. They float in, some with very limited English, then they disappear before the school year ends. They’re relocated to some other part of the world. We don’t tend to get to know them. They won’t be here for very long so what’s the point?

  ‘She seemed very upset when she left yesterday.’

  I remember her standing there, in the doorway, flushed red cheeks, eyes watering. I don’t like seeing that. But I don’t want pity from one more person. ‘And?’

  ‘And I was just wondering why she was so upset.’

  ‘Mum,’ I sigh. I know she means well, but I’m tired of this conversation.

  ‘Jack, you have an opportunity to talk to someone else who was there that day, someone else who was a victim of terrorism—’

  ‘She’s not a victim. She seems to be just fine,’ I mutter.

  ‘We don’t really know what happened to her.’

  ‘Well, she fared better than me. I think we can both see that.’

  ‘Just because she doesn’t have any physical injuries doesn’t mean she wasn’t injured.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  My mum takes a deep, loud breath and sits back in the armchair. ‘OK,’ she finally says. Then goes back to her novel.

  I gaze past her, out the big picture windows. The rain beats hard again against the glass, giving me that fluttery feeling in my belly again. I wonder if Alice gets the same feeling every time it rains. I wonder if loud noises scare her, if she can go back into the centre of London without looking over her shoulder and wondering if the building behind is about to explode. I wonder what she remembers about that day. I’m wondering about a lot. I could just ask her. But that would mean letting her in, opening up to her. I don’t know this girl. I don’t know what she wants from me. All I know is that no one could possibly understand what I’m going through. Not even her.

  Alice

  ‘I don’t know, Mom. This just seems too soon.’

  I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, wearing my navy floral skirt that sits below the knee, gray ribbed tights, and my school jumper with the insignia on the chest. My mom stands behind me finishing the French braid she insisted would look good on me. She lied.

  ‘It’ll be good to return to a predictable routine, and be back with your peers.’ She sounds like she’s rehearsed that. She turns my body toward her and starts hairspraying loose strands. She pats them down against my head until I hear a crinkling sound like a crisp packet being scrunched up. I think the crisp packet is my hair.

  We take the bus together, swaying silently beside each other. Outside the rain hits my face, and I flinch, remembering. I look to the school gates, a group of students rushing by me. I freeze at the entrance. ‘I’ll be fine from here,’ I lie.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I should do this myself.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  I nod and resist glancing a second time at the man who just passed us with a long, dark coat and a black backpack.

  Mom hugs me tight. ‘Be careful. Text me if you want me to come get you.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks.’

  I watch her leave and rub my chest as if I can physically calm my heart rate. But I can’t. I stand for a moment longer, a stillness among the chaos of students, teachers and parents. Then when I can’t take the stillness any longer, I start moving again, closer to the front door. I recognize a couple of girls ahead but they don’t turn around, and even if they did they wouldn’t notice me. If they don’t notice me in a small IT lab, they’re not going to notice me out here.

  The school is smaller than I remember, the gates weaker. If a bomb went off the building would crumble and we would all die inside. A slight tremble on the ground around my feet unbalances me and I stagger back a few steps. It’s just the Underground, it runs right below here.

  Screams inside the building force my head to snap upwards. It’s just people excited to see each other or telling a story, or the first years playing stupid childish games like tag or something. It’s not …

  It’s not—

  The bell blasts and I scream. I cover my ears, pushing so hard against my head that it hurts. I can’t block it out, it’s getting louder. Is it the school bell? It sounds different today. It’s slightly higher-pitched, a burst of separate sounds then one long, endless stream. A little too loud. Perhaps too deep in tone. Maybe it’s not an alarm at all, but a warning bell. No one else seems to be panicking apart from me, though. Everyone else seems to be going about their day, not noticing it. But they weren’t there. They didn’t see the chaos I did, the crowds, the blood. They didn’t hear the screams I heard. They don’t know. Or maybe they do know. Maybe they’re a part of it. No one can be trusted, no street is safe.

  Someone bumps my arm running into school and I fall to the ground imagining the crowds fleeing from the blast, knocking others over. Many stopped to pick each other up, while others ran faster, stepping over the fallen ones. I read somewhere once that people have three natural instinctive responses to an emergency – fight, flee, or freeze. I froze that day. I didn’t run to safety or battle to save others. I just sat t
here, like I am now.

  There’s a car alarm going off too. I hear it above the school bell.

  It’s happening again.

  I rush over to the black bin by the gates and cower behind it. I pull my knees into my chest and hold myself tight into a ball. Maybe the bombers won’t see me if I’m small. I cover my ears to block out the alarms. It’s not working, I still hear them. They’re coming for me. I won’t survive this time. Maybe I’ll lose a leg too, or an arm, or my head.

  The alarms get louder, pounding and pounding against my eardrums. It hurts. My brain is going to swell and explode, blood will seep out of my ears and nose.

  I don’t realize I’m screaming until the alarms stop. By then people within the gates have stopped and are now staring at me. A man in a burgundy blazer and tie starts walking over to me but I don’t recognize him. What if he’s not a teacher? He could be a terrorist. Anyone could be a terrorist.

  I stagger to my feet and stumble against the bin. Then I turn and start running. My thighs throb, my body begs me to stop. I run and run and run until I can’t run anymore. Air. I can’t breathe.

  I walk aimlessly through the streets, still in a fog of confusion and fear. I hear my heartbeat through my clothes. It’s all I can hear at first, then it gets quieter and I start to hear the world. I hear footsteps, mumbled conversations, phones ringing, birds, raindrops on restaurant canopies opening for breakfast specials. I hear a boat. I open my eyes and glance over the bridge, seeing a Thames tour boat sailing down the river; tourists gripping their cameras. Some look up at me and wave, like I’m part of the sights, a static point of interest. I slowly wave back. A little boy in a red cap and a raincoat keeps waving, as the boat moves further away down the river, away from me, finally blurring out of sight. I cross the bridge and continue wandering the streets. Everyone moves so fast, passing each other but not really looking, living in the world but not really experiencing it. That’s what I did. It was all about my books, my schoolwork, my future. I wish it was still about that. I wish that’s all that occupies my thoughts. But it isn’t. Now I’ve experienced life. And I don’t like it. I don’t like one moment of it. I can see now that books exist purely to transport us from this reality to another, a better one.