After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  ‘Why don’t we take a rest day, see how your thighs are tomorrow and pick it up again on Friday?’

  ‘I’ll be fine for tomorrow, really,’ I argue. ‘I’ll let you know if it gets too much.’ That’s another lie. I wouldn’t let him know, I wouldn’t admit that. Not even to myself. But training takes consistency and that’s the only way I’ll see faster progress. I still feel guilty for not going to the support group with Alice on Monday night but this training is so important right now. These prostheses are still so new to me, and I’m still feeling a lot of discomfort. A lot. Once I’m past this, I can ease off the training and be there more for Alice.

  ‘OK, can you be here for two?’

  ‘I can do that,’ I nod. As I’m wheeling myself towards the exit, I pass Charlie the veteran guy. We lock eyes for a second then he looks away.

  ‘Hey,’ I say as I get closer to him.

  ‘Hey.’ He goes back to rubbing the towel over the back of his neck. I want to say something else but I don’t know what. The only thing that connects us at all is our mutual loss of two very missed limbs. I stay for a moment too long, switching between a statement about the weather or a question about his time here, then I start for the exit again.

  ‘Looks good,’ he eventually says, gesturing to my legs.

  ‘Yeah, they’re new.’

  ‘Right. How do they feel?’

  ‘OK, I think, but I don’t really know how they’re supposed to feel.’

  He pulls a thick navy hoodie out of his duffel on the floor and slams it over his head quickly.

  ‘Have you thought about getting prostheses?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I’m on the waitlist. Takes months through the NHS. Maybe even years, who knows?’

  I resist showing the expression building. Of course, he’s on the waitlist and I didn’t have to wait because I have private healthcare through my family. I feel guilty. He’s more deserving of these artificial legs than I am. He’s earned them, whereas I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He put himself intentionally in danger to save others and had he known he would end up in a wheelchair his whole life he’d probably still make the same decision again. Who knows how long he could be on that waitlist? And I’m sure at $15,000-$18,000 per prosthetic, per run blade, they are completely out the question for him. I’ve travelled all over the world and seen different levels of poverty, sure, but being here, face to face with a true war hero, I’ve never felt more ashamed of my wealth than I do now. I wish I could take these off now and hand them to him, say, ‘Here, you take these. I don’t deserve them.’

  But instead I say, ‘Good luck’ to him like an insensitive idiot.

  He nods and gets back to packing his bag.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did your injuries happen?’ I finally prompt.

  ‘Car accident.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I was home on leave, had just served two terms back-to-back in South Sudan with Op Trenton, I was crossing the street and got hit. Drunk driver.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I wasn’t expecting that. I’d assumed it was a war injury overseas, not one inflicted by another person here in his home country. That seems worse for some reason.

  ‘You? Car accident as well?’

  ‘Actually no, Leicester Square bombings.’ I wave at my wheelchair. ‘I was standing close to the blast zone, apparently.’

  He stops packing and sits back in his chair. ‘Shit.’

  I nod, everything I feel pretty much summed up by what Charlie said.

  ‘Well, look, if anyone knows how you feel it’s me so if you ever want to chat then I can give you my number?’

  I pull my phone out my pocket and start keying in the numbers as he rattles them off. As I slide my phone back into my pocket, I notice Charlie’s hand is extended. I slide mine into his and we shake. His grip is firm and steady, whereas mine feels limp and unsure. I leave it at that and push myself through the door. When I get to reception I hear an older guy making a complaint to the front desk about how his walking cane just got stuck in a low-hanging fake spider web and almost tripped him.

  Alice

  ‘Are you sure you want to be here tonight?’ he yells over music that’s so loud it might crack the walls.

  ‘Does the music have to be that loud?’ I ask, jaw clenching. ‘I mean, you can’t really hear the words at this volume. Sorta defeats the purpose of playing music at all, right?’

  Jack laughs like I’m joking. He’s wearing his prostheses tonight, covered up by a pair of gray chinos and shoes, like actual shoes. He’s out the chair but he uses a walking cane in each hand for balance when he moves. ‘I’ve already asked them to turn it down. This isn’t that loud, Alice.’

  Is he kidding? I could float a coffee mug in here with these reverberations. I place my hands over my ears. My whole body heats from the inside. That tingling, it’s back. My fingertips and toes only start to tingle like this when a panic attack is coming on. I’ve started writing down the physical sensations in a journal so I can learn to spot them early on. Ian told me to do that, and it’s actually helping. A lot of what he’s been saying makes sense to me now.

  Uh, the tingling. It’s getting worse.

  It’s too loud.

  Too loud.

  Too—

  ‘Can we go outside? Please!’ I scream.

  Jack nods and slowly maneuvers through the living room, past a group of people who seem to know him. Actually, everyone here seems to know him, and they all greet him with a boyish slap on the back of some sort. This is probably what it’s like at school for him too. No wonder he misses it. To me, Harrogate is just another school. Just another hallway, just another cafeteria, just another classroom, and just another set of cliques. The only thing that stands out compared to the dozens of other schools I’ve been enrolled at is the library. Harrogate has an incredible library. But I guess now that I’m being home-schooled, Harrogate is no longer my school.

  ‘Is this any better?’ he asks.

  We’re now outside, in a garden that looks more like the grounds at Versailles. Actually, I take that back, Jack’s garden looks like Versailles. This is perhaps slightly smaller but still large enough to warrant a mouth agape expression for at least five minutes. ‘This is the garden?’

  ‘Jack! Over here!’

  We turn and see Will and Euan with a couple of girls sitting over by the gazebo. They wave and then make incomprehensible hand signals in the air.

  Jack laughs and starts to move awkwardly down the stone path towards them. He doesn’t look particularly stable or comfortable in his prostheses but he says they’re great, so he must be doing well with them. ‘Mind if we go over and sit with them?’

  I nod hesitantly. I was just hoping it would be Jack and me tonight. With his hectic training schedule it’s been over two weeks since I’ve seen him. Every time I try to arrange something he’s got a physio appointment or a remedial massage or a session booked with a PT at the gym or with the swim instructor or he’s seeing his friends. He’s always busy. And I never am. As much as I didn’t want to come tonight, I wanted to see Jack, but we’ve been here for fifteen minutes and all I have to show for it is possible ear damage from the music volume. And now we’re going to sit with a group of people I don’t really know and make small talk.

  ‘Hey!’ Jack says greeting everyone when we get over there. I’m less enthusiastic and simply wave silently. He sits down and immediately starts a conversation with Will and Euan that I’m not a part of. The two girls start conversing about something they saw on Instagram, and I sit there awkwardly gazing around the extremely large garden wondering why I bothered to come at all.

  Jack laughs loudly with his friends, then reaches for the champagne bottle out the ice bucket on the table. The fizz bubbles and cracks as it rises all the way to the rim. Then he drinks it like it’s a glass of water. He holds up the bottle to me.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You don’t drink?’ asks one of
the girls. She’s perched on one of the armchairs, legs crossed at the ankles. She’s wearing a pair of tight jeans with a tucked-in silk blouse, and a pair of tan stilettos that I wouldn’t be able to walk one step in. Her black leather handbag with gold trim – or is it a satchel? – sits on the table by the champagne, probably too expensive to be cast to the ground like mine is.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘She had a Cosmo in a bar once and almost threw up after,’ grins Jack.

  They all laugh. Why would he share that story?

  ‘You guys are spending a lot of time together. You a couple now?’ asks Euan, with a smug little grin on his face.

  Jack laughs even harder now. ‘No, no.’ He dramatically shakes his head, like the word no – twice – wasn’t enough. I didn’t realize it was so far-fetched for us to be considered a couple. It’s not that I have feelings in that way for him. I’m just not that offended by Euan’s question like he apparently is.

  ‘Oh, see you hurt her feelings,’ Euan says, pointing at me.

  I feel my cheeks warm, and my belly flip a little. I just want to go home. Jack makes an expression that I can’t read, and downs the last of his champagne. Then he reaches for another.

  ‘Should you be drinking like this on your meds?’

  Now his face is as beetroot red as mine. I don’t mean to embarrass him or nag him, but I should say something. He had a beer inside too. What if I didn’t say anything and the alcohol caused some horrible side effects with the medication?

  ‘I’m fine,’ he mutters.

  ‘I just think you should slow down.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘You sure you’re not a couple? You’re certainly bossing him around like you are,’ Euan quips. Everyone laughs, except me. And except Jack.

  He leans in. ‘Why don’t I ask my mum to take you home?’

  I think that was an attempt at a whisper but after a beer and two glasses of champagne, it definitely wasn’t a whisper. I gaze up and see his friends awkwardly looking at each other. No matter where you are in the world, high schools are all the same. ‘Fine. Do whatever you want,’ I mumble, as I pick up my cheap bag from the ground and swing it over my shoulder.

  Jack staggers quickly after me. ‘Alice, wait. I can’t keep up,’ he pants.

  I stop at the fire pit and turn around.

  ‘I’m sorry. But I can see you’re uncomfortable being here and you’re not having a good time. I wasn’t trying to be rude or exclude you from the group.’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to boss you around. You’re almost an adult. I’m just really tired and drained from the last few weeks. Let’s forget it,’ I mutter.

  ‘Forgotten,’ Jack says, gently smiling at me. He gestures back to the table, back to his friends. ‘Come over for a bit?’

  ‘No, I’ll just get the bus home but thanks. I’m quite tired.’

  ‘I know I’ve been busy but let’s hang out next week, okay?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I smile. ‘How about Monday?’

  ‘Monday I’m at the clinic in the morning, then I have tutoring in the afternoon.’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘I’m in London on Tuesday morning meeting with the headteacher about my return back, then I have tutoring at school, then I’m having dinner with the squash team. Wednesday I’m back at the clinic, then in the pool for an afternoon session, Thursday and Friday is tutoring and training, then I’m away at the weekend with my mum and dad to the Lake District.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I sigh. He really is busy. ‘How about the following week?’

  ‘That Monday I’m free?’

  ‘Great, let’s do that. That’s the week of Thanksgiving so I’ll plan something for us.’

  ‘I know things have been hectic and we haven’t hung out as much as before, but we’re okay, right?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re good,’ I say, leaving Jack to go back to the party, back to his old friends and his old life.

  Jack

  ‘Slow down,’ Alice calls after me as I speed down the promenade at Brighton Beach in my wheelchair. I awoke today with my thighs throbbing and burning again, so even though I’m wearing the prostheses, I’m happy to spend some time back in the chair. It’s practically empty here apart from a couple of dog-walkers. The November chill keeps away the beachgoers and tourists. Not me, though. I’ve never liked the beach in the peak of summer. Too busy, too crowded, too uneventful. What’s exciting about sunbathing all day long? I prefer beaches when it’s like this. Deserted, with a crisp autumn breeze coming in off the ocean. The cold’s never bothered me. I welcome it. Alice, on the other hand, is covered head to toe in as many layers of thick fabric she could probably find in her whole wardrobe. She waddles behind me, panting heavily under the numerous bundles of wool. She’s carrying a large picnic basket that swings wildly off her hip, clattering whatever is inside.

  ‘Warm enough?’ I call back.

  ‘I don’t think I wore enough socks. My toes are like icicles.’

  ‘What was that?’ I joke.

  ‘Slow down and you’ll be able to hear me!’

  I rest my hand on the edge of the wheel plate and lean back in the chair, letting it slow itself.

  ‘I said my toes are like icicles,’ she says, finally catching up.

  ‘Do you want my socks? It’s not like they’re serving a purpose. Plastic toes, remember?’ I kick off my shoes and lean over to slide the socks off. She smiles awkwardly and takes them, veering off to a bench to put them on.

  ‘Do you want to see how well my chair does on the sand?’ I say, pointing to a dip in the edge of the path that leads down.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come on.’ She rushes to grab my handles as I start to lower myself onto the sand. The front wheels sink in immediately.

  ‘Why aren’t you walking today?’

  ‘What can I say, I missed the chair,’ I laugh, not wanting to worry her. Also, she might tell my mum if she knows that I’m having a lot of pain and then my mum will make an appointment with Dr McKenzie again. ‘When you said we were coming here, I figured the chair was easier.’

  She nods and kneels down beside me. She opens the basket and starts unpacking small plastic containers of I-don’t-know-what. She closes the basket and places the containers on top like a table. ‘So, I have made you a feast today. And by a feast, I mean a traditional Thanksgiving Day meal. And by I, I mean my mom has done all the cooking, of course.’

  ‘Of course. So what do we have here? Am I scared to ask?’

  ‘In this one is sliced turkey.’ She stops and glances up at me.

  ‘I know what turkey is.’

  ‘In this one is a green bean casserole, here’s some candied yams and this is my mom’s famous corn bread.’

  ‘You might have to explain those.’

  ‘Green bean casserole is basically green beans in a creamy sauce with crispy fried onions on top. This is sliced yams with maple syrup and brown sugar—’

  ‘Is that dessert?’

  ‘—and corn bread is, well, corn bread. I don’t know how to describe that. It’s just good and is always served at the table on Thanksgiving Day as a side.’

  ‘Happy Thanksgiving, then.’

  ‘It’s not till Thursday, but I know you have training then so I didn’t know if I’d see you. So, have you ever had a proper Thanksgiving meal cooked by Americans before?’

  ‘Actually no, this is a first so thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. Turkey?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She pulls out two paper plates emblazoned with the American flag and matching napkins. She looks around.

  ‘Forgot something?’

  ‘Silverware. Oops.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can eat with my hands.’

  ‘What? A member of the Addington family eating with anything other than pure gold silverware? Wait, can you get gold silverware or is that a contradiction?’ She gingerly fingers a little of everything onto my plate and passes it to me. It’s cold
and looks a little mushy now, but she seems to have gone to a lot of trouble so I finish the whole plate before she’s even got through a quarter of hers.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asks, her eyes lighting up.

  It tasted about as good as it looked. And the sweet yams? I don’t understand why anyone would serve sweet with savoury. Even the corn bread was sweet. It was more like a muffin. I don’t think we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving Day in the Addington household anytime soon. ‘Loved it, thank you.’

  She plays with the rest of her plate, pushing a yam away with her thumb to get to a small mountain of fried onions. ‘Shame you couldn’t make it again last week to the meet-up at the church?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I’ve been in the gym and pool at home in the evenings. How’s it going anyway?’

  ‘It’s actually going well. I like the people there, and it’s really casual. We basically sit around in a circle and chat. There’s even cookies.’

  ‘Do you have to talk?’

  ‘There’s no pressure at all to talk. It’s only if you want to.’

  ‘Have you talked yet?’

  ‘I’ve shared a little about that day. But not as much as some of the other people there.’

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘There’s one tonight,’ she smirks.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Try one meet-up, that’s all, and if you hate it I won’t mention it again.’

  ‘I can’t manage tonight, but soon.’

  She nods and thankfully changes the subject. ‘Can’t believe it’s only four and a half weeks until Christmas. Where has the year gone?’

  ‘Feels like it was only last week you were dragging me to a garden in the middle of nowhere to plant rosemary,’ I laugh, thinking back to that time, when my days were unoccupied and I’d look forward to those outings with Alice. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably have spent the whole summer cooped up in the house.’

  ‘Do you think our rosemary survived?’

  ‘No, that’s definitely dead,’ I laugh. The waves overlap and a gulping sound fills the air around us. I wonder what the water would feel like on my bare skin. I want so badly to stand and walk into the water, feel it rise to my thighs and up to my waist; the cold sharpness of the ocean prick at my skin and flood my whole body. ‘Do you want to go for a swim?’