After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  My legs are tired now so I sit down on a bench. It’s stopped raining and patches of blue sky push through the gray clouds. I look down and notice an empty coffee cup under my bench. I bend down to pick it up, to throw it away. I hate litter on city streets. But as I do my jaw suddenly tightens and my fingers tremble as I remember my coffee from that morning, and how it spilled when Jack knocked into me. I remember how it trickled out the cup and spread over the pavement, seeping into the cracks. I stifle a cry. When I finally look up I realize I’m sitting outside London Bridge Hospital. I don’t remember coming here, looking for this. But I found it, or it found me.

  I fling my backpack over my shoulder and stagger exhausted inside. I sign in and head up to 10B. The door is open, a breeze flowing in through the window. When I enter I see a tray on the bedside table still full with breakfast. Jack is propped up, one of my magazines in his hand but he drops it to the floor when he sees me.

  ‘I thought I told you—’

  ‘I know. I just want to sit here for a while and not talk. Not think.’

  I let my bag fall to the floor. Sweat spills down my face. I shimmy out of my school blazer and drop into the chair.

  He continues to stare at me, but I ignore him and just stare at the tiled floor by my feet while my chest pounds and my mind keeps going back to the spilled coffee on the ground. I sit there for almost two hours in total silence, except for the short gasps of breath struggling to escape. I sit there until the screams fade from my ears and the dust clears from my eyes. And then I cry.

  And he lets me.

  Jack

  Volunteers in yellow vests scattered about like buttercups in a field. Brightly coloured tents pitched at the finish line – some giving analytics of your run, pace breakdown, endurance zones, advanced performance metrics. Others boast a marketing campaign to rival any competitor, selling big-brand running and active wear or multi-sport watches with GPS tracking-technology. Then there’s the sponsor tents where you can sit down at the end of a race, grab a sports drink or sneak a beer if you’re lucky, and meet other athletes. A chance to connect with people who think like you, who have dreams and ambitions like you. People who remind you that there’s more races to run, more athletes to bond with, more adventures to seek. I love those tents, those interactions, those moments.

  Energising upbeat music blasts from every speaker around the marathon event village which takes months to plan and days to assemble, but usually only hours to take apart. Music that hopes to propel you through the finish line, past the other runners who hesitate or lag for a second too long allowing you to take the lead.

  Food trucks tend to park in one area, all with potassium-filled and protein-packed hot meals, most you get for free with your race entry. I always refuel with a steak burger and chocolate milk. My dad always makes a beeline for the fish-and-chips van, and always regrets it. Oil, batter and salt: bad choice for a post-marathon meal, although sometimes it’s worth it. The marathon village in Lille housed a crêperie on wheels. We tucked into about half a dozen sweet crêpes and savoury galettes, most flavours I’d never heard of or imagined being put together – champagne and cinnamon, beer and chocolate, filet mignon and Roquefort, orange ricotta with sweet fennel. That was a fantastic day.

  All the perks that come with an upgraded race entry ticket pale in comparison to the best part of competing in a national marathon event – the crowds. Those who come to cheer on loved ones, and those who are there purely for the same adrenaline rush we athletes seek. A mix of people who just love to gather and socialise, or those who come for the food and atmosphere, and a small group who share the same goal – to one day be entrants themselves. To one day run alongside those who already can. I know how that feels. When I watch my dad compete in the adult runs I feel the same overwhelming desire to be on that start line with him. I can’t compete in the major city marathons until my eighteenth birthday. London was supposed to be my first. I had my place for next April. That was when my dad and I were going to run our first race together, side by side on the start line, pounding the pavements of London in unison. Supporting each other, encouraging each other.

  I can still hear it now. The crowd at my last race. I can hear them yelling, clanging cow bells and whistling with both hands. They’re cheering me on, edging me closer to the finish line. I’m almost there—

  ‘Jack?’

  I glance up and see my mum standing over my bedside table. The sounds of whistling and bells fade from my ears.

  ‘Hmm?’

  My mum moves closer to me, clutching an envelope in her hand. ‘You haven’t opened this. It’s addressed to you.’

  ‘It’s just a letter from Alice.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

  I shrug and look away. I don’t feel like talking about Alice today.

  My mum gently rubs my shoulder. The only part of my body that doesn’t ache with pain. ‘You know, Jack. You’re very lucky in the sense that you have a lot of friends who care about you. You’ve had a lot of visitors, a lot of flowers and cards come every day. People ask after you constantly. You have a lot of people who are here for you. Perhaps, she doesn’t. Maybe you’re the only person she has.’

  ‘But we’re not friends.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be best friends with her. I’m just asking you to not turn her away. Let her in. Maybe talking to you is all she has right now.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘Please, Jack. If not for her, then do it for me.’

  My mum has a big heart, she always has done. Helping people with her charities and fundraising galas and volunteering efforts is her passion. I can’t fault her for wanting to help one more, even if that one is the last person I want to see.

  I sigh deeply, and nod.

  I can almost hear those crowds again. They stay at the back of my mind, playing with my memories, playing with my sadness.

  Alice

  ‘Do you want a takeaway tray?’

  I blink at the five coffee varieties sitting on the counter, wondering how I envisioned carrying them down the street to the hospital. ‘Um, yeah, that’d be great, thanks.’

  ‘That’ll be 15p. Sorry, we have to charge for disposable cups and trays now. You know, the environment and all.’

  ‘Right, the environment,’ I mutter, my eyes skimming across the tower of plastic water bottles stacked on the counter along with the plastic straws and minuscule glass jars of Dorset honey.

  When I get outside, a group of tourists on city bikes whizz by and I remember the photo on Jack’s Facebook of him and his friends biking the coastal trail on the west of Scotland. Jack, dressed in tight black cycling shorts and a fitted blue T-shirt. Blue like the color of an ocean on the brightest day possible with a sky so vivid and clear that the sea sparkles an effervescent cobalt blue. A sky so beautifully calm and inviting that even I would want to get my feet wet.

  On the steps close to the river sit a couple. He says something funny and the girl giggles and throws her head back, her blonde hair lifting slightly in the breeze. They look a little like Jack and that girl Lauren from his photos. I watch them for a second longer, wondering what it would be like to be them, then turn towards the green hospital doors.

  It’s always so quiet in here. I feel like the only one who truly comes and goes, the rest confined here either for medical shifts or patients themselves. I never see anyone being discharged, or other visitors signing in at the front desk or wandering the hallways looking for the rooms of their family members or friends. Why am I the only one here all the time?

  Although I don’t exactly have a busy schedule. My days have been unexpectedly freed up since—

  ‘Back so soon?’

  This receptionist must hate me. I don’t even know her name, yet I talk to her almost every day now.

  ‘Visiting doesn’t start for another ten minutes.’

  Perhaps today isn’t the day I’ll ask her for her name. Maybe tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll wait,�
�� I say. I perch on the closest armchair and balance the tray of cups on my lap.

  She leans out of her seat to call to me. ‘I don’t know if Jack will be up for visitors today.’

  ‘Can you ask, please?’

  She nods and lifts the phone receiver to her ear. She turns away from me, her whispers muffled by the buzzing of the humidifier on her desk. I lean towards her but still can’t hear anything. She cradles the phone between her cheek and shoulder and gets back to her computer screen. The tapping of long acrylic nails on plastic keys filter out the humidifier sounds. Is it a yes or no from upstairs? Probably a no. I gently slosh the warm liquid and wonder what would happen if I dropped the tray on these white chairs and all over this whitewashed flooring. Watch as spilled coffee stains this place, like the memory of it stains my thoughts. Would she yell, or just roll her eyes, not expecting anything less from me?

  ‘You can go up,’ she says, still cradling the receiver.

  ‘Really?’ I stifle a smile as I push open the stairway door, the tap-tap-tapping of nails and whirling of a moisture fan at my back. I’m worried about the temperature of the drinks by the time I reach Jack’s room but perhaps lukewarm coffee is still an upgrade from what he’s been getting here. A nurse walks by balancing a porcelain teapot and a large plate of muffins on a tray. Perhaps my lukewarm coffee in a paper cup won’t be so appealing now.

  The door’s open again today. Jack sits propped up by half a dozen pillows, his lower body covered by a thick gray blanket. The blanket flattens out after his thighs and I suddenly feel breakfast churn in my belly. I wonder how he feels when he looks down.

  He looks at me but doesn’t say anything when I enter, so neither do I. I slide the tray onto the bedside table between two vases of fresh flowers. I shimmy out my coat. ‘Coffee? I didn’t know what you’d like so there’s a latte – that’s the one in front – a flat white, the one in the red lid is an Americano, this one here is a cappuccino, and the one at the back is the seasonal special. I think she said a lavender chai latte. I don’t know what that will taste like though. It sounds … um … floral.’

  His eyes flicker to me then the tray then back to the TV on the wall. An old episode of The Simpsons is playing. The one at the theme park where Bart and Lisa get stuck on the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride. I like this one. Reminds me of the time I went to Disneyworld with my mom and dad. It was the only time we were ever in Florida. We drove there from Georgia. Took around five hours, I think. I’m not sure exactly, I just remember it felt like days being stuck on the backseat of a rental car with a broken A/C unit and a window sealed tight with child locks that my dad couldn’t figure out. We’d parked in lot F, which I still recall because my dad told me, ‘F for Fun.’ I thought it was funny at the time. We waited for the little pull train that picks you up and brings you to the park entrance. We showed our ticket and got yellow wrist bands. Then we went through the metal turnstiles. Staff at the ticket office had greeted my dad by his military rank. He must have got a discount and had to show ID. Even Goofy addressed him correctly.

  My favorite ride had been ‘It’s a Small World’ which is probably odd because it’s usually the one most people skip. The queue is always tiny, one of the reasons why I liked it so much, but it’s predictable, repetitive. I know the song, I know the way the dolls move, I know the pace and rhythm of the boat as it sails gently through the water that I know is only two feet deep. I can see the metal tracks beneath the water, the direction of the plates, the slow, steady churns of the boat wheels as it sails past knee-high mountains of cardboard houses and plastic figures dressed in hats and satin clothes. My least favorite had been Splash Mountain. I hate rollercoasters, and I certainly hated being plunged 53 feet into cold water. And each time I plummeted down – yes, my dad insisted I went on at least twice to ‘face my fear’ – the water hit me in a different way, depending on where staff seated me in the single-row boat. The first time it hit me right in the face, filling my nostrils and stinging my eyes. The second time I turned away and it hit me on my cheek and at the back of my neck. I cried. Seems silly now, being terrified of a Disney ride, of being wet, being cold. I didn’t know how safe I really was. I’ll probably never feel that safe again. ‘I miss my dad.’

  Jack turns to me. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I feel silly again. I wiggle the lavender chai latte out the tray and plop down into the armchair. He’s still looking at me. I take a sip of the coffee and immediately cough. When I look up, he’s smiling.

  ‘Definitely floral,’ I splutter, sliding the cup back onto the table. ‘Mind if I take the Americano?’

  He shrugs and I feel slightly happy at receiving a response at least. I tip two sugar packets into the black coffee and sink back into the chair, cradling the lip of the cup between my hands and my chin. We watch the rest of The Simpsons episode in silence, bar the slurping of my coffee. It ends, the credits flashing on the screen in rhythm to the tune that I remember fondly from my childhood evenings, then Jack flicks to the next channel.

  A BBC broadcast shows a group of heavily armed police officers filing into a house in a residential area followed by images of five men. ‘Following the tragic bombing of Leicester Square, members of the Met Police and MI5 have made several further arrests this morning in East London. At least five members of a known terrorist group have been taken into custody following one of the worst terrorist attacks in the UK where twenty-two people lost their lives and …’

  Jack quickly turns off the TV and throws the remote control on the floor. The crack echoes against the walls. Batteries spill out on the white tiles and roll towards me. We sit there in silence, images of the men responsible for what happened to us burning painfully in our minds.

  Jack

  I didn’t ask her to leave yesterday and I didn’t push the call button to have her removed by hospital security. I let her stay, sit, watch TV and drink her ridiculous-sounding coffees. I even engaged in a brief exchange over the drinks. Sort of. I don’t dislike her because there’s nothing to dislike. She seems like a nice person, albeit a little overly ‘American’. We don’t appear to have much in common, other than the obvious. She doesn’t seem into athletics, or hiking or skiing, or travelling, or getting outside really. I just don’t know how much longer to let this go on for. Do I let her visit me indefinitely? Do I try to forge a friendship from this? What is Alice – and my mum – expecting from me? I’ve been polite, isn’t that enough?

  Her letter still sits sealed on my bedside table beside another delivery of fresh flowers – gerbera daisies this time, my mum tells me. I slowly pick at the paper edges of the envelope and pull out the folded-up note. The first thing I notice is the neatness and precision of her handwriting. It’s quite impressive. She’s dated it. She wrote it the day before she caught me pretending to not hear. I wonder why she didn’t give it to me then? I skim her words with my finger.

  Jack,

  I didn’t know how else to communicate with you upon learning of your hearing loss.

  You don’t know me. We go to school together but I haven’t been a student there for long and we have very different social circles. See, I move around a lot, never sticking to one place for much time. And because of it, I don’t make friends easily – or at all. You probably think it’s strange that I’ve been coming to the hospital since we don’t know each other. Truth is, I’m not exactly sure why I do. I think that this is the first time in my life that I’ve needed a friend, and I realize I have none. I’m not asking you to be my friend, I know you have many. I’m just asking to keep visiting for a little longer, until you get discharged, maybe, then I’ll leave you alone. We don’t have to talk about that day, or what happened. I’m happy to not talk at all. I think I just need to be around someone who was there, who understands.

  I will say one thing, though, since I have this opportunity, since I have your attention – I am so very sorry for that day. I’m sorry we collided and I’m sorry our exchange cost you those precious few m
inutes that you’ll never get back.

  If after reading this letter, you still want me to not visit then I’ll respect that, and I wish you well.

  Thank you for reading.

  Regards,

  Alice J. Winters

  I fold the note slowly and loudly exhale. I think I’ve been holding my breath for that whole time. I stare at the torn envelope in my lap, the folded letter with the words still visible, and feel a hot sting at my eyes. The faces of the men on the news yesterday still flicker in my mind. I don’t know Alice Winters but after this letter, maybe I should try to know her. Even for a short while, like she said, until my discharge. I can do that.

  Alice

  I stand at the door to his hospital room, peering inside. It’s a little later than I usually come, close to dinnertime, and I can see my letter sitting on the bed in front of him. He’s read it, now what? I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. His face is expressionless and his shoulders are stiff. Is he angry? Did I say too much, or not enough? In my first draft I wrote that I thought he might need me, then I realized how patronizing that sounded, like I’m doing him a favor when really it’s the other way around. He’d be helping me, if he lets me in. I stand here for what feels like forever, awkwardly holding my takeaway coffee until he finally waves me in. I take a deep sigh of relief, and step through. I shuffle in and lean against the window ledge, my back to the river and to the rain. Why does it always rain in this country?