After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  I don’t really know where to start looking so I ask Mom to fish the latest newspapers out of the paper bin, one of them having been used to mop up my spilled coffee from the morning before. Of course that was the edition in which the media shared the names of the survivors who were out of critical care.

  My laptop sits on top of a chemistry book from last term and next to a postcard of Boston, so I remember where I was born. It’s easy to forget when you live your whole life between borders and state lines. My accent is so neutral someone might think I’d spent years in elocution classes when really I’ve just never spent long enough in one place to allow the local dialect to spread through my veins and flow from my lips. I sound like one of those news anchors on TV who want viewers to focus on the content of their stories and not on their accents, debating whether it’s a Texan drawl or the rolled Rs of a New Yorker. When I was younger I thought I wanted the quintessential clipped accent of an Englishwoman. But then I realized that would mean spending more than a year in one place, and I don’t think that will ever happen. Although my parents won’t pull me out of university so once I enroll, I’ll be there for sure until I graduate – regardless of where Mom and Dad are.

  The postcard of Fenway Park drops flat as I push the laptop further away and rest my elbows on the desk. There are dozens of different reports on the bombings along with blogs, tweets, images, forums. Platforms for people to rant, to mourn. Most of the messages are filled with anger, hatred, confusion. I write down each of the people mentioned in the eight reports I read voraciously. One by one, I type them into every internet search I know – Google, Yahoo, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, even LinkedIn. But I can’t find him, yet something about him is so familiar. Maybe I’ve seen him at school? I type the school’s name into the search window and there it is. A student’s posted a message on Facebook asking where to send cards and flowers to Jack.

  Jack.

  I scroll through ‘Friends’ of the school and find two Jacks – Jack Muir and Jack Addington. Jack Number 1’s face is partially hidden by giant Ray-Ban sunglasses but Jack Number 2 has jet black hair with a slightly bigger build. It’s Jack Addington. I know him. Not to talk to, I’ve never said a word to him, or more accurately he’s never said a word to me, but I recognize him from school. Of course every social media account of his is set to ‘Public’, every aspect of his life being on display for all to see, and clearly admire. I’d probably have mine set to ‘Public’ too if I lived a life like his. Photos of him climbing mountains in Scotland, surfing in Costa Rica, cliff jumping in Maui. There’s even one of him feeding a tiger in Peru. How do you find time for mundane things like school and studying, Jack Addington?

  He’s sporty, but I knew that already. He plays squash, he runs marathons, he rows, he enters triathlons, he goes on ski trips every January usually to some fancy resort in the French Alps that begins with a ‘V’ or a ‘T’, none I can pronounce. Last January he went with a big group of guys – gym-goers, blond-haired preppy guys in expensive ski gear posing on top of snowy summits. Do they even ski? Or is this all a show for their Instagram followers? He ran the Chicago junior marathon last April. There’s a photo of him and his dad with their arms around each other just after the finish line. He’s holding a round medal in his hand and they’re both beaming at the camera. I’ve never run in my life, except maybe for a bus. I don’t think my body would let me even I wanted to. I’ve never had the athletic frame; I’ve always been stocky with limbs like a Hobbit. Here he is at the New York City junior marathon last November. Someone caught him crossing the line mid-stride. He looks happy – not happy as in relieved to be finishing that monstrosity of an activity people actually claim to enjoy, but genuinely happy, like he would run further if he could.

  He plays squash for the school team, and – damn – he even rows for Cambridge’s under 18s. That boy will be for sure going to Cambridge, although I wonder if he’d turn it down to go trekking through the Sahara Desert to ‘find himself.’ There’s a Bucket List on his Facebook page in which he lists ‘Climb Annapurna.’ Assuming that’s a mountain of some sort, I type in ‘Annapurna Mountain’ into Google search and immediately face some terrifying snow-capped mountains with sharp ridges and steep partial summits. It says here that it’s only been climbed by 130 people in the world and 53 people have died trying.

  He’s in a boat with three other guys here in this photo. They’re all facing front in a narrow column clutching oars. So that’s what rowing looks like. He looks like the youngest there.

  A photo with a blonde girl catches my eye and I don’t pretend to hesitate before I click on it. There’s four of them in this one, sitting on a wall before a beach that I know is in Brighton because of a café sign on their left that reads BETTY’S BRIGHTON BAKES. The girl is sitting close to him and he has his arm around her. She’s pretty, like really pretty, as in Victoria’s Secret supermodel pretty. She’s thin and her long hair sparkles in the sun like she’s in a perfume commercial. She’s wearing a red floral sundress with spaghetti straps and a thin fabric belt around her waist that only skinny people can wear. I’ve never worn a dress like that. This girl seems to be in a lot of his photos. Here they are hiking. Of course she hikes too. Now they’re paddle boarding, now bowling. This last one they’re in a restaurant. She’s wearing a leopard print top and dark jeans that fit her narrow hips perfectly as if they were sewn onto her just for that picture.

  I don’t wear jeans. I do actually own a pair, though. Dark and slightly bootcut at the bottom because skinny leg definitely does not suit me, but they’re a size too small. Not because I’ve gained weight since purchasing them at a Gap in San Diego last summer but because I intentionally bought them a size too small. I’d hoped that the smaller size would encourage me to lose weight, but they’re still packed in a box and will likely be auctioned off on eBay very shortly.

  My finger hovers over the girl’s face until her name pops up – Lauren Peterson. I wonder if they’re in a relationship. I wonder if she’s sitting with him right now in a hospital room somewhere, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up. But what if he never wakes up? I need to know if he’s okay. I also strangely kind of want to know who the real Jack Addington is. I want the real story, not the highlight reel of a perfect life.

  12:17 a.m. I’m never up this late. I’m usually in bed by 9:30 p.m. so I can rise at 6:00 to read and prep for my classes before school. I guess tomorrow isn’t a school day for me, though. I’ve been granted a further few weeks off to ‘recover.’ Recover from what – from a terrorist attack?

  I click on ‘Sleep Mode’ in the top left corner and watch the screen go dark on my laptop. Darkness surrounds me. It sits on me like a heavy blanket, pressing on my lungs until I can’t breathe anymore.

  Car alarms.

  Voices.

  Sirens.

  My fingertips lunge for the lamp switch. My breathing returns to normal after a few seconds. I’ll leave the lamp on tonight.

  Jack

  Sometimes I don’t know when I’m dreaming or awake. But last night I had a dream I’d died in Leicester Square. And I awoke the next afternoon in such a state of confusion, and medication haze, that for a moment I believed it. I really thought I was dead, and just watching the people in my hospital room moving around. The nurses, the doctors, the consultants, my parents, my friends, Lauren. It got me thinking about what my funeral would have been like. Morbid, I know, but in situations like this you can’t stop thinking about death and what that would have meant to the lives around me.

  It would be a nice funeral – huge turnout – photos of me on poster boards balancing on easels around the casket, images of my achievements to remind people of just how well I lived my life. A string quartet, because Mum would want that, playing Barber’s ‘Adagio for Strings’. A bit dramatic, I know, but fitting for an Addington funeral. The quartet would be positioned at the altar like it’s a concert performance, and they’d play everyone in before starting their masterpiece. B
ehind them would be a large projection screen with fading slides of me from baby to present. I was a cute baby. There I am in Morocco with my dad, now we’re posing with our new bikes at his Snowdonia Slateman Triathlon. Here’s me kayaking with my friends and Lauren. She’d be in the front pew with my parents, gripping a packet of Kleenex to occasionally blot away a tear. The church would fill with everyone from school – my year, and the years above and below. My teachers, my squash coach, my French tutor, my old rugby captain. Our household staff – Martin our caretaker for the estate, our cleaners who come on Mondays and Thursdays, the landscape designer, our caterers. My dad’s work colleagues and golf buddies, my mum’s friends from the charity foundation and Parents First committee. And everyone who thinks they deserve to be there – that girl I sit next to in History, the boy who takes our racquets at the end of squash games, the woman from Winter Adventures who helps us book our ski holidays, the caddy at Wentworth Golf Club, even that shop assistant at M&S who seems to always be working when I stop in for a protein shake at the end of my city runs.

  The pews fill up fast. Soon people are shuffling along, having to squish together on benches to make room. My mum stands to make the opening speech. At first, she speaks so eloquently, well-paced, and with vocal clarity that shows years spent with a voice coach. But then her voice cracks and she begins to struggle. My dad will come up and take over but will be lacking the same emotion my mum brought to the pulpit. He’ll instead speak of my fitness endeavours, my competitive achievements, my golf handicap, my average run pace and half marathon PB time – one hour, fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds at the Lille Half Marathon Under 18s last year. He’ll talk only about what I did, what we did, because he’s proud. But also because that’s the only thing he knows about me.

  My friends will make eulogies, with a brief funny anecdote like the time I tried to ski backwards to impress a girl at Val d’Isère and fell over. Then the quartet will wrap up what has now become a very long funeral service for a 17-year-old. Everyone will be invited back to the golf club for cucumber sandwiches, Victoria sponge, Earl Grey tea and elderflower spritzes. Aged single malt whisky, champagne and olives for the adults, of course. Attendees will continue to swap stories about me but then as the afternoon wears on conversations will start to digress until eventually no one will be talking about me at my own funeral. Life will go on. I know mine will too, after this. I just don’t know where, or how, to start.

  Alice

  ‘Where are you going?’ My mom is frozen in the kitchen, dishtowel in one hand, wet coffee mug in the other. It drips onto the floor by her feet but she doesn’t notice. I recognize the mug from the last place we lived in. She bought it in a souvenir shop in La Jolla, San Diego, which is funny because only tourists buy keepsakes like that but that’s what we are when we live in places – tourists, only there for a brief time. So sometimes we collect little things like keyrings, mugs, the odd postcard or pen. Only from the states or countries that we really like, never from the ones we want to forget.

  ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ I say, sliding on my green raincoat. Weather here can be so temperamental, it’s best to plan for all four seasons in one day.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ She puts down the coffee mug which she never got around to drying and wipes her hands on the towel.

  ‘No, really, it’s fine. I’ll be okay alone.’

  There are some things I just need to do alone. But I can’t tell her that. ‘I mean, I might meet up with a friend from school. Walk around the river a bit.’

  She smiles. She likes that answer – ‘a friend.’ She’d love me to make some one day, have them over for dinner, maybe even a sleepover, go shopping with them, do each other’s makeup and hair, talk about boys and other things that people my age consume their time with other than homework and poetry.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a friend from school.’

  ‘We just met. She reached out to me after, you know, what happened.’

  My mom walks quickly towards me and before I can remind her of the stitches in my back she pulls me in for a deep hug.

  ‘Mom, my back,’ I grimace, squirming out.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ She brushes a loose hair off my cheek. ‘Well, don’t be too late. Make sure your phone is charged, okay? So I can reach you.’

  I nod and rush out the door for the bus. I can’t face the train. The crowds, the noise. The bus will take twice as long but at least they don’t tend to be crowded like trains here. There are fourteen hospitals in London. That’s a lot of hospitals to visit in one day, and that’s certainly a lot of receptionists to try and obtain confidential information from. This is going to be harder than I thought. What am I doing? A part of me wants to just give up now and send a get well card like everyone else. I don’t know him, we’re not friends at school. But a larger part knows that this is the right thing to do. I need to see how he is and say I’m sorry. Then I’ll be free of this guilt I’m feeling lately. So, I decide to start at Royal London Hospital which is the biggest according to Google and the most likely to house the majority of survivors from last week.

  ‘How can I help you?’ The receptionist is older, Mom’s age I think, and looks like she doesn’t have time for what’s to come.

  ‘Good morning, nice day, isn’t it?’ – I don’t let her answer – ‘I’m here to visit a patient called Jack Addington. He was injured in the bombings last week. Is he here?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, sorry.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’re not talking to the press. If you want an official statement as to the well-being of the bombing victims then you can contact our press liaison officer or—’

  ‘Oh, I’m not press. I’m just a … schoolmate.’

  She finally glances up from her computer screen and meets my eyes. ‘I still can’t access the admission records to confirm who’s being treated here and who’s not. Sorry. Have you tried contacting the family?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I was just hoping—’

  ‘Sorry I can’t be of more help. Next?’

  I guess that’s done.

  I leave through the way I came in, and pull the scrunched-up paper to my face. Someone at these hospitals has to know where he is, and more importantly be willing to tell me. But by 4:15, I’ve already made my way through thirteen hospitals, a prawn and mayonnaise sandwich, a bag of cheese puffs and a Snickers bar. When I get to the last one on my list, I’m greeted by the queue that seems to have preceded me to each hospital. Why are waiting rooms always so busy? After thirteen introductions, I’ve finally perfected the opening greeting for the receptionist. ‘Oh, good afternoon, my name is Lauren, and I’m here to see my boyfriend, Jack Addington? I missed a call from his mom this morning about where to stop by and now I’m worried I’m at the wrong hospital. I hate to ask, but can you please help me?’

  She pauses.

  ‘Please, I’m really worried about him.’

  Here’s where the tears help me. Her face softens, and she reaches across to her computer and starts scrolling. She has a small cluster of black crows tattooed on her wrist. ‘What’s your boyfriend’s name again?’

  ‘Jack Addington.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can access all the NHS hospitals online through this general patient system and I’m not seeing a Jack Addington listed anywhere.’

  ‘How can that be? He’s surely still in care, the blast – he – he was close to it, I think. He must still be in a hospital somewhere.’

  ‘If you’re sure he’s still getting medical care then he’ll be checked into a private hospital if he’s not listed here.’

  ‘Private? How many private hospitals are there?’

  ‘Try the London Bridge Hospital, over by the station. I know they admitted some patients from the bombings. Maybe your boyfriend is there.’

  ‘London Bridge Hospital? Thank you.’

  I’m still typing in the address into Maps on my phone when my mom texts, Where are you? Dinner w
ill be ready at 6 xx

  I quickly key in, Home soon xx and head for the nearest bus station.

  London Bridge Hospital resembles more of a modern art gallery or a five-star New York City hotel than a hospital. Past the dark green doors is Reception Number 1, then comes Reception Number 2 and then 3. The main waiting room is a large modern space with pure white leather armchairs and crisp white walls. Reception Number 3 proves to be much harder to access than the first two.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Lauren Peterson. I’m Jack Addington’s girlfriend, I’m here to visit him. He’ll be expecting me.’

  ‘Jack isn’t seeing visitors at the moment. It’s immediate family only.’

  He’s here. I found him. Now I just need to get up the stairs. ‘If you could just check with a senior medical staff member because his mom specifically told me if I came here at this time I would be allowed to see him for ten minutes.’ I hope the receptionist doesn’t hear my heart bashing against my chest. I’m not used to lying like this.

  She rises from her seat, her uniform just as clean and white as the walls and the armchairs around us. I couldn’t work here. I’d have coffee or ketchup on my shirt by midday. ‘Let me just make a quick phone call,’ she says, and disappears down the hallway. Then I do something else equally distasteful and shameful as lying, I lean over the desk and scan the confidential patient/visitor sign-in log until I find his name and his room number. I glance down the hallway then head for the nearest stairwell. 10B is the last room on the right. I take a deep breath, and slowly push the door open, finally about to come face to face with the boy I haven’t been able to get out of my mind.

  A loud gasp escapes me.

  My hands grip the doorframe until my fingers tingle and go numb. He’s there, lying in bed, eyes closed, surrounded by get well cards, flowers, helium balloons and stuffed bears with messages of ‘We Miss You’ and ‘Thinking of You.’ But where I pictured his golden hair would be is instead a large burn mark, his athletic frame is wrapped in bandages, his face puffy from the bruises and cuts. And his legs – oh God, his legs – they’re not there. Where his strong mountain-climbing, marathon-running, hill-walking, ski-adventuring, cliff-jumping legs should be are two swollen stumps that end at the thighs.