After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Weird. How did you waste away your youth?’ I move aside to let Jack have a turn. ‘Follow the dots but avoid the ghosts.’ I stack more 50ps on the side table beside an empty beer glass in case we need them. ‘Well, while you and your family were rubbing shoulders at galas with Prince Charles, I was spending my adolescence the proper way.’

  ‘Playing video games?’

  ‘Gaming isn’t just shoot-’em-up gunfire games like Call of Duty, or zombie survival role play. Some games are strategic and help develop your problem-solving and reasoning skills which in turn can be applied to many academic areas.’

  ‘Ah, I knew we’d find a way back to your textbooks and your school grades,’ he laughs. ‘And here I was thinking – for a split-second, of course – that you were maybe, possibly, potentially, slightly cooler than me.’

  He’s doing pretty good for his first turn on Pac-Man. Of course, he’s even good at this. ‘Wow, cooler, eh? I’ll take that compliment. It might be my only one from you.’

  ‘Probably,’ he smirks.

  I suddenly feel as if all the air has been sucked out my lungs. That smirk, that same smirk, the last time I saw it was across the street at Leicester Square, right before – right before – before—

  ‘Alice?’

  I can’t breathe. The air, it’s not coming back. I’m hanging suspended in an airless, ventless space, unable to move forward, to break free.

  ‘Alice?’

  A high-pitched frequency, like an out-of-tune radio, screeches from somewhere behind me then erupts into gunfire again.

  ‘Alice!’

  When I open my eyes, I’m on the ground on my knees. And I’m rocking. My hands are over my ears and I’m curled up into a ball between Jack’s chair and the arcade machine. I’m covered in sweat and my knees are sticky from the beer-stained floor. I put my hands down to steady myself and my fingertips graze something moist and yellow, like mustard. God, I hope it’s mustard.

  I slowly look to my left and thankfully don’t see anyone watching me. Then I turn to my right and see a girl standing at the bar casually looking over. I turn back to the floor and pretend to have dropped something.

  ‘What was that?’ he says.

  I eventually look up and see Jack staring at me. I don’t know why I was hoping he hadn’t noticed. Of course he noticed.

  ‘Did you just have another panic attack?’

  I open my mouth, not sure how the words are going to sound, and clear my throat. ‘I thought I dropped something.’

  ‘You had another panic attack.’ It’s not a question this time.

  I nod gently and then start to pick myself up. I slide back into the chair, hand on the table beside me to keep my balance. Stickiness everywhere. This time it feels like stale beer or spilled fizzy juice.

  ‘When are you going to talk to someone about this?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Your GP? A counselor?’

  ‘My dad found this group that meets up once a week at a Methodist church by Twickenham Stadium, not too far from my house,’ I mutter.

  ‘Great.’

  My shoulders start to soften and relax. ‘It’s on Monday evenings. I can meet you there or if you want to pick me up then we can go together?’

  Jack squints his eyes. ‘Oh, you mean both of us go?’

  ‘I thought when you said ‘Great’ that you wanted to go too, that we would go together.’

  He starts shifting uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I don’t know, Alice. I don’t think I would enjoy that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s particularly enjoyable for anyone who attends. It’s there to help us.’

  ‘I don’t think I need it, like you do.’

  I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks flush again.

  ‘What I mean is—’

  ‘Let’s just forget about it for now. I came here to have fun with you. Fancy another game?’

  ‘Let’s skip the game.’

  My shoulders drop. Did I just ruin the afternoon? ‘Do you want to just go home?’

  He shakes his head and looks off to the right towards the bar. ‘No, let’s get a drink instead.’

  ‘Good idea. I probably need something sugary after that episode, like a Coke or Dr Pepper. Do you guys have Cherry Coke over here?’

  ‘No, I mean a drink drink.’

  ‘What? Like an alcoholic drink?’

  ‘Yep. Please tell me you’ve had alcohol before?’

  ‘No, I’m underage. And so are you.’

  ‘By less than a year. Besides no one checks ID.’

  ‘You’re serious? You’re going to try and get served alcohol here? Now?’

  ‘We both are.’ He pushes on the wheels and starts heaving himself towards the bar. The front of his wheels hit the foot stop as he reaches the counter. ‘Excuse me, can I have a pint of IPA, please?’

  I saunter slowly over to him, and stand sheepishly behind him like a child waiting to be reprimanded. The bartender grabs a glass from the sink and starts pulling the lever down, pouring golden ale from the beer tap into the glass. That was worryingly easier than I thought. I’ve never tried to get served before. America is really strict with underage drinking. My mom got ID’d once. More than once. She looks young, I guess.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jack asks, gesturing to the bartender.

  Oh, it’s my turn. What do people drink at this kind of place? Something cheap, casual, cool, like a beer I’m sure but whenever I’ve tried some of my dad’s I’ve always been less than impressed. It’s bitter and tastes like sand. I can’t order wine, like my mom drinks, because I wouldn’t know what to ask for – even if I did I seriously doubt a place like this has a wide range of wines to choose from. I could do hard liquor and a mixer? Maybe something fruity, like apples? I like apples. Or maybe a cocktail. I know a few names of cocktails from dinner menus.

  ‘Can I have a Cosmo, please?’ Those are my mom’s favorites. That and margaritas. Damn, I should have asked for a margarita, that sounds way cooler.

  Jack squints and looks up at me. ‘A Cosmo?’

  The bartender leans on the counter and stares at me. Beads of sweat prick my skin and I feel a trickle down my back. She’s worse than my dad, and he’s a trained drill sergeant equipped with years of experience of operating lie detecting tests.

  ‘Do you have ID?’ she eventually asks.

  ‘No.’ I start to turn away.

  ‘You didn’t ask me for ID,’ Jack says.

  ‘Okay, do you have ID too?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Not any need to carry around a driver’s license anymore these days,’ he gestures to his wheelchair. ‘Not since I got my legs blown up in the London bombings a couple of months ago. Remember those? She was there too.’ He waves a hand at me. ‘We almost died.’

  The bartender takes a step back and for a moment I wonder if she’s going to cry, or maybe just call to her manager to throw us out. She glances over her shoulder then turns back and nods. Within the next three minutes Jack has a pint of beer in front of him on a small round table and I’m perched on a chair holding a wide-lipped glass filled with pink frothy juice. It even has an orange peel decoration. I poke at it for a moment, then unravel it from the glass edge and bring it up to my lips.

  ‘Don’t eat that,’ Jack says leaning forward. ‘It’s a garnish.’

  A garnish? Right. I knew that. I loop it back onto the glass and sit back still holding it up to my face like I’m posing for an Instagram picture.

  He smiles as he raises his beer. ‘Are you going to drink that?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not for show, you know.’ Actually, I hadn’t considered drinking it, or finishing it. I just ordered it to join Jack.

  He leans forward, that same unnerving smirk that stabs at my insides and almost forces me back to that day. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘What are we cheersing to?’

  He shrugs, ‘I don’t know. Cheers to being completely messed up?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’ll certainly cheers to that.’ Our glasses meet and tap.

  I hesitate for a moment, then let the liquid fill my mouth and trickle down my throat. It’s sweet and fruity. And burns. Warmth pricks at my throat and fills my belly. It’s a sugary mixture of oranges, cranberries and lemons. I can see why my mom drinks it.

  ‘Here, it’s my turn,’ he says pulling my Polaroid camera across the table by its string. He cups it gently in his hands and nods to my drink.

  I roll my eyes, then return to my Instagram-worthy pose – martini glass in hand, pouty duck face. I think I’ve nailed it. Those Instagram social media influencers have nothing on me.

  He laughs and a slow whirl of the lens snaps and spits out a sticky image of a girl who doesn’t look anything like me.

  ‘Well, what do you think of the Cosmo?’

  ‘Actually, it’s pretty good.’ I take another sip, which turns out to be more of a gulp.

  ‘Slow down!’ he laughs.

  ‘Martin’s coming back for us, right? I don’t have to drive?’

  ‘Yeah, but still, slow down. I can’t return you to your parents in a state. They’ll never let you out with me again.’

  ‘You – a bad influence?’ I take another sip, a smaller sip this time. ‘What were you like? Before, I mean.’

  He takes a swig of beer and clears his throat. ‘I was … lucky.’

  ‘Lucky, how?’

  ‘Things were easy for me.’

  ‘Sum up “Old Jack” in three words.’

  ‘Three words, eh? Okay. Brave. Crazy … Free.’

  ‘You don’t feel any of these things anymore? Not brave or free?’

  He puckers his lips, creases burying into his forehead. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Well, I guess my three words are ones I’d still use now. Cautious. Organized. Committed.’

  ‘Sounds like a person who has a lot of control in her life.’

  ‘Not really, I mean, yes when it comes to certain things like academia or my extracurricular activities, but no when it comes to the bigger decisions in my life, like where we live, where I go to school. That’s out of my control, entirely dictated by my dad’s military career and deployment rota.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m really lucky when it comes to my parents, they’ve been really supportive. Especially my dad, because he gets it, you know. How about your parents?’

  ‘My mum tries, she does. My dad, he’s another story. He comes from that English stiff-upper-lip background. I can’t really talk about how I feel around him.’

  ‘At least you have your friends?’

  Jack shakes his head and takes another drink, the beer spilling down his chin. He clumsily wipes it away, an unfamiliar look of sadness or pain in his eyes. ‘I don’t like to talk about this kind of stuff with my friends.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I suppose I don’t want to burden them with it, or sound like I’m complaining all the time. I know I’m lucky, it could have been worse that day. But sometimes, waking up, remembering what happened … it just sucks and I want to say that, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  He shrugs. ‘At least the flowers and cards have pretty much stopped.’

  ‘Finally,’ I smile, taking another big sip of my drink, feeling warmer like my insides are melting.

  ‘Yep, there are only so many sunflowers a person can stand after a while. And roses. Those things prick.’

  ‘I hate roses, reminds me of Valentine’s Day,’ I say.

  ‘Bad experience?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a story here, I can tell.’

  ‘Shut up and drink your beer.’

  Jack

  Rain beats down hard outside, hammering the windows in the living room. It drowns out the dance music pounding from the speakers by the TV system. Bodies are packed in, standing in corners, slumped on sofas, in the kitchen, the hallways. Everyone from school is here. Except Alice. I was going to ask her if she wanted to come with me tonight, but I don’t think parties are her scene. Besides, I can’t imagine her here with me and my friends. It’s odd because we’ve been spending so much time together lately, but we’re essentially strangers to each other. I didn’t know her before this, and probably wouldn’t have ever had a conversation with her otherwise. We have no mutual interests, no shared friend groups, absolutely nothing in common. Before that day, she’d have been cooped up in some library or hipster coffee shop sipping a ridiculously named frothy milky beverage with powdered sugar on top like a pumpkin and nutmeg spiced latte, writing poetry and reading Jane Austen. Before that day, I’d be here, at this party, with these people, drinking this beer. I’d have run at least 20km, maybe biked too. And I’d be standing in that corner, away from the music, laughing with Will, Euan and Alex, and probably with Lauren at my side. Alice and I are polar opposites, always will be. So, why would I rather be hanging out with her right now?

  ‘Want another beer?’ Will leans in, holding a bottle in his hand. It’s slightly warm, but I take it anyway.

  ‘So how you been?’ It’s strange, asking someone else how they are doing, how they feel. Actually, it feels pretty good to not be the one being asked for once.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ Will says, taking a swig from his bottle. ‘Been busy.’

  I know what busy means – running, cycling, hiking, camping, hanging out with friends. I used to be busy too. Now if I’m not with Alice, I’m spending my days at home wheeling myself around a house that feels smaller and smaller every day.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, you too.’

  Will leans against the doorway and starts playing with the label on his bottle. Why is it so awkward and formal between us now?

  ‘Jack!’ I turn and see Alex and Euan coming through the door, six packs under their arms. Behind them is Lauren and her friend Verity. I wave, immediately feeling stupid for doing so. A wave?

  They gently clap me on the back, softer than usual, and huddle around me. ‘How you doing?’ asks Alex. Back to me again, I guess.

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  ‘Heard you’re back in for surgery in a few weeks?’

  ‘Just a minor op.’

  They nod and gaze down to the floor. I suddenly become aware of how loud the music is around us, and how far everyone is standing away from me. I don’t blame them. I’d act the same, I think. If the bomb had happened to one of them, I’d probably avoid them altogether. What could I possibly say to someone in a wheelchair to make them feel better? I’d just end up saying something stupid or feeling awkward around them. No one wants to spend time with someone who got their legs blown off.

  ‘Oh hey, I’m actually going to be getting prostheses,’ I blurt out, hoping to lighten the mood slightly.

  ‘Pro—?’ stammers Euan, gazing up like he’s trying to pronounce the word in his head.

  ‘Prostheses,’ repeats Lauren, rolling her eyes. She looks at me and smiles. ‘That’s great, Jack.’

  ‘What is that?’ asks Euan.

  ‘Basically, it’s plastic legs. But it means I’ll be out of this thing,’ I say, slamming the arm rest on the chair.

  ‘You mean you’ll be up walking around again?’

  ‘Yeah, hopefully.’

  ‘And running? Will you be able to run again?’ asks Euan.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Will smacks him on the arm.

  ‘What? My cousin says you can run a marathon with pro – pro – um, plastic legs.’

  Alex looks down at me, his eyes wide. ‘Is that true, Jack? Will you be able to run the London Marathon in prostheses?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe … Really?’ I gasp. My cheeks suddenly warm and a familiar sensation fills my belly, just like when I’m about to start a run. That early stage of an adrenaline rush, like your body knows what’s coming and it’s already getting ready to move. I hadn’t thought about it before. Is this true? Can I still run the marathon next year with my dad?

 
Alex claps my shoulder. ‘Definitely look into it. That would be amazing. We could all run it together!’

  ‘Fancy a beer outside?’ asks Will.

  ‘Nah, you all go on ahead. I’m getting picked up in a few minutes.’ Truth is, I haven’t texted my mum to come get me yet. But now I can’t stop thinking about this marathon and all I want to do is go home and google it. I need to know if this is true. If it is, and I can, this changes everything.

  Alice

  ‘Close your eyes, Alice.’

  I blink furiously, my body fighting the urge to comply.

  ‘It’s okay, go on.’

  My eyelids drop and darkness fills my sight.

  ‘Tell me what you feel, physically, I mean. What do you feel in this space?’

  ‘I feel … cold.’

  ‘Okay, good. Tell me more. Be specific. What is it exactly in this space that makes you cold?’

  ‘I feel the fan blowing on my bare skin—’

  ‘Good. Where is the fan?’

  ‘It’s in the corner of your office, behind your chair.’

  ‘Okay. What else?’

  ‘I feel the leather from the chair sticking to my bare legs even though I’m cold. I feel my hair tickling my back where some of it has fallen out from the ponytail.’

  ‘What about sounds; what do you hear in this room?’

  ‘The fan, your voice, the clock on the wall, the traffic outside—’

  ‘Try to focus on the sounds inside this room, your immediate space, your “bubble,” shall we say.’

  ‘Okay. Well, now I hear the phone ringing from reception but I guess that’s outside this room too.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Nothing. You made me close my eyes, remember?’

  ‘Exactly. You can’t see anything. But do you feel safe?’

  ‘No. Is this exercise supposed to make me feel safe if I close my eyes? Should I be closing my eyes outside if I don’t feel safe?’