After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  ‘She looks fine to me.’

  ‘Not a scratch on her.’

  ‘Why did they give her so much time off?’

  ‘I heard she doesn’t need to sit exams.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Stress or something.’

  ‘I wish I can skip exams. I’m stressed.’

  ‘I heard she was nowhere near the blast when it went off.’

  ‘I heard she wasn’t even there.’

  ‘That’s Americans for you, exaggerate everything.’

  ‘And here’s Jack Addington lying in a coma; now, he’s a real victim.’

  ‘I heard he’s on life support and might not make it.’

  ‘Such a shame.’

  There are so many voices now. I don’t know who’s who. I open my eyes and glance up at the teacher but he’s looking at me too. Why is everyone focused on me? What do they want from me? I close my eyes again and rest my forehead down on my hand. Sliding my palm down over my eyes, darkness takes me for a moment.

  Darkness. That’s all I saw after the first blast. Then came fragments of light, spots of sunshine that seemed to sparkle off the pavement under me. And the cloud. The thick dense smoke. I can still smell it. It fills my nostrils and burns the tiny hairs in my nose. It circles me like a fog, but it doesn’t block out those around me. I see them still. Watching me, whispering about me. I cover my eyes again—

  A loud alarm fills the room, jolting me up from the desk. Students stand up and start shuffling towards the classroom door. Bags, pencil cases, notepads, they sit scattered across the empty tables. The siren gets louder. The teacher lightly touches my arm to get my attention. He’s saying something but I can’t make out what the words are at first. Fire drill? I look back and see my bag beside the desk. I gesture to it and try to tell him my phone is in there. I need to call my mom. I need to go home. I can’t be here but he signals towards the door. Out in the hallway, bodies pack together and move towards the emergency exit. Footsteps flood the hallway, shoulders bumping into me. I no longer see my teacher, he’s gone. I edge towards the wall and let the stream of bodies trickle by.

  It’s happening again. It must be.

  Sliding down the wall, I bump down on the floor and hug my knees to my chest.

  Not again.

  Not again.

  I cup my hands over my face and let the world outside disappear. Hands are on me again, pulling at me, clawing at me. I push them away without looking up. I won’t go out there. It’s safer in here. It’s a trick. They want us to leave the safety of this building, to go outside. They’ll get us there. They – the bombs, the terrorists. They’re winning. Because all I feel right now, all that’s coursing through my veins, is terror. Absolute, infinite terror. Soon my screams are louder than the alarm.

  Summer Blooms

  Part 2

  Meadows of yellow buttercups,

  Sprigs of mint,

  Clusters of flat basil,

  Feathery pea shoots,

  Bulbous bluebells,

  Patches of snowdrops,

  Broken glass,

  Shards of metal,

  Cracked tarmac,

  Spatters of blood,

  Open briefcases,

  Papers spilling out,

  Abandoned shoes,

  Fields of daffodils and rows of poppies,

  I see chaos,

  And I see death.

  Alice Winters

  Jack

  Slumped shoulders, slightly gaunt face that’s lost the golden hue of time spent outdoors. Hair that now sits at the top of my shoulders and curls around my ears. A neck where a collarbone now juts out. A jawline that’s sharp, and clenched. My hands are clean, too clean. Hospital clean. Usually they have dirt under the nails from rock scrambling while hiking or the palms are riddled with callouses from cycling long distances. They don’t look or feel like my hands. These are the hands of a stranger, of someone who sits in a wheelchair staring at a mirror in a hospital room.

  This is the first time I’ve looked at myself, since everything happened. I don’t know who I see anymore. Yes, those are my eyes; ‘bluer than the open water we just swam in,’ Lauren said once. That’s my nose, although it looks a little out of place now that I’m thinner than I used to be. My old clothes are too big on me, having lost a lot of muscle mass. Mum’s tried her best to tailor my jeans at the knees, but it’s still obvious. The cuts around my face have healed well, with minimal scarring. Not that anyone will be looking at my face these days. The absence of legs on a person really captures the attention. It’s the main attraction. It’s now, and forever will be, my one defining trait. I’m no longer mountain-climbing Jack, the Jack who has an unbeaten record on any junior squash court in London, the Jack who can finish a 150km cycle and then go for a run, Jack who will say yes to anything because everything is an adventure. Well, almost everything. Who is this new person? This isn’t me. Please, don’t let this reflection be me. I still think this is all one horrific nightmare. That I’m still unconscious from the explosion, that I’ll wake in a hospital but be injury-free. This can’t be my life now. My jaw throbs. I’m clenching it so tightly. A hard knock on the door startles me.

  ‘Jack, you ready? Van’s outside,’ says my dad.

  I close my eyes and take a sharp inhale. My friends are waiting downstairs for me. They’re so excited for my discharge. I thought I was too. So why do I have this churning sensation in my belly that feels more like fear, than excitement? In here I have a goal, to get out. But out there, I have this overwhelming journey ahead. And I have no idea where to start. I raise my chin, swallow hard, and practise that smile that everyone downstairs will be looking for.

  Alice

  A large black van sits outside the hospital when I arrive. It’s parked close to the curb, with a silver rubber-matted ramp spilling out onto the pavement edge. The windows look tinted like a celebrity escort vehicle. I wonder who’s checking in today. A hospital this private and this nice must attract the wealthier patients, unlike the old clinic Mom and I went to once in the San Diego valley after she tripped down the stairs and landed on her ankle. We’d thought she’d fractured it, the way it swelled up and turned purple, but it ended up just being a bad sprain. She was on crutches for two weeks, rehab and physiotherapy for two months after that, until she could get back to her morning jogs and occasional weekend hikes with Dad when he was home.

  I’m walking to the visitor log book when the sound of the elevator turns my head. The high-pitched beep fills the reception area and when the doors slide open I see Jack sitting in a wheelchair. His dad appears from behind and pushes him out into the lobby.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

  His dad stops the chair at my feet and maneuvers around me to get to the desk.

  ‘I’m being discharged early,’ Jack says.

  ‘Oh.’ The room feels cold suddenly, as if someone’s just opened a window and let a gush of cold air in. But it’s summer outside. ‘To where?’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Is that your van outside?’

  ‘Yeah, must be. Dad said they got a new one that can accommodate wheelchairs. How does it look?’

  ‘Fancy,’ I smile, feeling the forced pressure of it burrowing into my cheeks. Do I look as shocked as I feel?

  ‘Looks like you get your days back to yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No more visiting me in hospital.’

  ‘Right, yeah …’ I don’t know what to say. Everything I think of gives away how I’m really feeling inside, and I don’t want him to know. It’s silly because we barely know each other. ‘Shame, I’d just gotten on first-name terms with Mrs Clarence. I was quite enjoying calling her Bridget.’

  ‘You should visit her every now and then,’ he laughs.

  ‘Nah, I’m sure she’s glad to see the back of me.’

  ‘So you’re at school again?’

  ‘No, there’s only a couple of weeks left before
summer break. No point now,’ I mutter. I won’t burden him with my recollection of the fire-drill incident. This is his day.

  ‘Any big summer plans?’ he asks.

  ‘No I guess not, not now you’re being discharged.’

  There it is again, that word, discharged.

  ‘You?’ Suddenly I feel like we’re strangers, having bumped into each other on the street and making small talk about our summer plans. Next we’ll be talking about the weather.

  ‘Hopefully the weather will be nice this summer for you. First British summer, eh?’

  There it is.

  ‘You must be so happy to finally get out of here,’ I mutter.

  He smiles and nods.

  ‘Discharged, finally. I’m so happy for you.’ But why don’t I feel happy for him? If I was a true friend, I’d want to see him out here, back to his old life and with the people who love him. Why do I suddenly feel left out, and left behind?

  ‘Hey, look at you, Jack!’ I turn round and see two guys from school. One of them looks a bit like Jack. The other is taller, bigger, with dark hair. They sport an attempt at facial hair and wear T-shirts that look two sizes too small.

  ‘Guys, you know Alice from school.’ He gestures towards me but I already know they won’t recognize me. They’ve probably never glanced my way for a split second. ‘Alice, this is Euan and Will.’

  I smile and awkwardly hold out my hand, as if I’m being interviewed for a job. The bigger one laughs and cautiously takes it, practically dislocating all five fingers whilst shaking it.

  ‘Ready, Jack?’ asks the other one.

  Mrs Addington appears from behind them. ‘Ready?’

  Jack nods, his shoulders stiffening. Is he okay?

  ‘Thanks, boys, for your help today,’ his mom continues.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Addington. We’ve missed our boy J here.’

  Mrs Addington touches my arm gently, as I watch Jack being wheeled out. ‘Alice, thank you for coming here so often to visit him. I hope you both stay in touch.’

  ‘Of course,’ is all I can manage just now.

  ‘Take care of yourself. I hope to see you at the house.’ She smiles then leaves out the same green doors I’ve been walking through for weeks.

  Discharged.

  I knew it was going to happen sometime, obviously. Patients in hospitals don’t stay patients forever, they either get better and are discharged to go back to their old lives, or they – well, you know. Maybe that’s why it’s so confusing for me right now – Jack is neither ‘better’ in the ‘whole’ sense of the word, nor is he returning to his old life. He can’t. Can he? And what happens to me now? After all these weeks of visiting him, all those conversations, all that effort in the beginning to find him, to know him. I thought we were becoming friends, like real friends. But that’s what we agreed. I visit, we hang out – until he’s discharged. And now he is. So that’s it then. No more Jack Addington. Now what?

  Jack

  The first thing I notice when the van pulls up to my house is the new ramp that’s been installed at the entryway. It changes the whole look of the front. It looks like the entrance to the hospital I just left, not to my home. I’m unloaded out of the van like a suitcase from the boot of a car. I’m still getting used to the chair, but I try for the ramp. The wheels catch on the crushed stone in the driveway.

  ‘Sorry, I should have thought of that,’ my mum mutters, a look of disappointment quickly spreading across her face.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.’ I slide the heel of my hand down on the wheels like they taught me at the hospital and start to edge myself up the ramp. It’s harder in reality, and I can feel exactly where I’ve lost the muscle and strength in my arms and shoulders. My mum takes a step towards me. ‘I’ll get it,’ I splutter, sweat already dripping. When I finally get to the top and into the house, I lean back in my chair and pant heavily. Then I continue pushing myself further inside the house, through the entryway, past the stairs that have been fitted with a mobile stairlift, up the next ramp into the kitchen. Dishes and containers of meals and homebakes from neighbours and family friends flood the countertops, vying for space.

  ‘Here, I’ll show you your new room.’

  ‘I’m not in my bedroom upstairs anymore?’

  ‘We thought – for the first couple of months – you’d be more comfortable down here in the guest suite?’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d actually been looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.

  ‘Here, just take a look and see what you think,’ my mum says, leading the way through the kitchen.

  I follow after her, already struggling to keep up. But I pause at the back door.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

  The shoe rack. It’s empty. The white wooden rack that once held my run trainers, my trail runners, my hiking boots, my cleats for the bike, my squash shoes. I even leaned my hiking poles against the stand, and sometimes a squash racquet. But now it sits empty. The whole thing. This was the door I left from. I’d sit on the back step, lacing my trainers while staring out at the gardens my mum spent most of her days tending to. I’d breathe in the country air, stretch, then go down the garden path, out the back gate to the lane to start running. Down the farm road until the dead end then up through Epsom Downs, through the woods for about five miles, passing the fields where they hold the Derby every June then around and back home. I’d come through the back, slide out the shoes, spray them and place them on the rack for the next day’s run.

  ‘Sorry, Jack.’ My mum gently places a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your father and I thought it would be best to move your shoes to the cupboard for now.’

  I nod slowly, and continue pushing myself down the hall. The guest room is tucked away at the back of the house with views of the garden I once played football in with my dad. It’s a big space with an en-suite bathroom, and right next to the social room where I held parties for my friends and the gym where I trained for my events when the weather was bad. The indoor pool is back here too, not that I’ll manage many swims now. My mum’s replicated my bedroom upstairs as best she could. The walls are filled with photos and posters. The cupboard has all my clothes already hung up. A pile of schoolbooks sit on the desk by my laptop. Looks just like my bedroom. But it’s not.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Let you settle in. Let me know if you want to take a nap, I can help you into bed.’ She closes the door behind her, silence suddenly pouring in and trapping me. I glance around. For the first time in almost three months, I’m finally alone.

  And I already hate it.

  Alice

  Heathrow Airport is packed with bodies. People leaving, people arriving, people just standing still while they wait on their loved ones. I couldn’t get two feet through the doors without hyperventilating. So instead we’re standing outside, near the drop-off zone. The cars make me nervous but at least we’re away from the crowds and chaos. We stand facing the sliding doors, cardboard signs in our hands that we made with old Amazon packaging, a few multi-colored Sharpies and some silver star stickers. The corners are still a little damp from the drizzle of rain that greeted us when we left the house. One of the stars is stuck to my coat collar and I’m sure I have some pink Sharpie on my chin somewhere. We don’t get to do this very often for him because sometimes he flies direct to the military base but today he’s flying commercial to get home to us faster.

  ‘He should be coming through any moment now,’ Mom says eagerly, checking her phone. And as if he heard her words, the doors open and there he is. His boots are polished meticulously so I can see my reflection from here. Camouflage print from neckline to boot edge, an array of medals pinned to his chest, and a crest of stripes encasing a star on his arm. Even after twenty hours of sitting on a plane or walking between transfers, there’s not a crease to be found. When I was young, he’d iron my clothes for hours. Straight edges, flat
surfaces, absolutely no wrinkles. Now he doesn’t even try to iron my clothes, mostly because I don’t let him. I like looking a little ‘imperfect,’ it matches the rest of my appearance, I guess.

  My mom is in his arms, her sign on the floor by his feet. I’m still clutching mine, the sweat from my fingertips staining the edges. He releases her slowly and walks over to me. ‘Alice Bear,’ he says, his arms stretched out.

  I close my eyes and hear him call me that over and over again, feeling like a child again, warm, safe. I rest my cheek against his chest as he hugs me tight, gently rocking side to side. He grips me tighter, and whispers in my ear, ‘Sorry I couldn’t get home sooner.’ He finally releases me and I sink back down, suddenly aware of the people and sounds around us. Faces turn towards us but their eyes aren’t on me this time, not like school. They’re on my dad – the returning soldier. The war hero. As my dad picks up his camouflage duffel by his feet and hoists it over his shoulder, a man approaches us from the side. My whole body tenses. Sweat tickles the skin around my forehead and under my arms as the air around me heats up. I grab my dad’s hand and squeeze tight. He doesn’t flinch. His body manner doesn’t change in the slightest. He stands strong, unnerved by this stranger in dark clothing with black eyes and creases in his forehead, who now stands in front of us. The man holds his hand out. My dad takes it and they shake.

  ‘Thank you, for all you guys are doing over there,’ he says.

  My dad nods and squeezes my hand back to let me know that I’m okay. The man walks away, back to his family who wait for him with their suitcases. They all smile at us. My dad puts his hand around my shoulders and we slowly walk back to the car.