She stares at me, eyes wide. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘No, I was actually being serious,’ I smile. ‘Come on.’
‘It’ll be freezing!’
‘That’s the point. Live a little,’ I tease.
‘We could get colds or worse, pneumonia.’
‘Quick dip and out. I’ll time you,’ I grin.
She rolls her eyes, and mutters something inaudible. Then she starts taking off her shoes. I laugh and join her, bending down to remove the prostheses. But as I unclip them from the socket, a searing pain takes control. I wince and squeeze my eyes shut.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
It burns. I can barely swallow the pain is that bad. ‘I’m fine,’ I stammer. ‘Just got a funny sensation, don’t worry, it happens all the time. It’s normal.’ I bite my lip cursing at revealing so much to Alice. ‘Maybe we should skip the swim for now though.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she sighs, dropping back down into the sand.
Alice
I’m standing at the library steps on a particularly dry crisp morning. A light dusting of snow sits by my feet after last night’s flurry. I have a hardbound copy of War and Peace in my hand, similar to a book I carried on the day. I didn’t exactly stop to pick up my belongings in the midst of a terrorist attack so that book is now gone, along with the others, but I wanted to keep the details as close to the day as possible. Ian said it would help. So, here I am. What now?
I’m panting, breathless, my chest is heaving. My fingertips tingle like before but this time the sensation that churns and churns inside me is dread, not panic. I made it this far, I got here. I battled my way through the commuters and the tourists to do so, risking another panic attack, in public and on my own - for this moment. I can’t turn back now. I can’t give up. Or I might never be here again. I look around. The streets bustle with people, some don’t even glance up, others take out their phones and snap photos. We’re all in London for different reasons, but we’re all here together. And I need to stop staring at everyone like they’re an enemy.
My feet slowly ascend towards the main entrance. It’s quieter in here than last time but then it was a Saturday. I certainly wasn’t riding the tube on a Saturday at peak time. I walk past the librarian’s desk; same woman, even looks like the same clothes she has on. I stretch my fingers out and graze the books on either side of me as I walk down the Classics aisle to where I always sit. The armchairs are empty, thankfully. I drop my bag on the ground and still clutching the book, I sit in the chair. The leather feels foreign on my back and under my thighs. I take off my winter gloves and close my eyes, remembering when I was last here. The noises, the smell, the feel of the leather under my palms. It’s like it was yesterday, not eight months ago.
A bang startles me and I drop my book. It hits the ground and makes a similar sound. When I look up, I see a woman standing in the aisle, book by her feet. She mouths ‘Sorry’ to me then bends to pick it up. I slide my gloves back on and stand to face the window, which looks out onto St James’s Square. I see runners, cyclists, walkers. And for a second, a split second, I think I see Jack. Running. Rain falling around him. Dodging other runners and walkers, he takes up so much space for one person. But when I blink and look again, it’s stopped raining and he’s gone.
I know what’s next.
And I don’t want to do it.
I bury my face into my gloves and let the tears come.
Please, no. I can’t. Not today. This is enough.
I lean back and take a loud deep breath in. I have to do this.
I stand up, taking my book with me, and walk out of the library. The librarian smiles at me as I leave. I hurry down the stairs then start the route, searching for the bench I never made it to that day. A man in a suit bumps me but I keep pushing on. Pushing through the crowds, the chaos. And then the crowds part, and there it is. Leicester Square.
I stand frozen, facing it. Safety barriers encircle areas and buildings still to be replaced, repaired, rebuilt. There’s still so much to be done here. I’m not the only one needing time to heal, to move on. Leicester Square suddenly isn’t as terrifying as it was. Because like me, it’s a victim too. Like me, it still lies in pieces; concrete shards of memories of that day. I walk around the Shakespeare fountain, touching the marble with my bare hands again. The air is crisp and bitter on my exposed fingers, but I still feel so warm inside. No, not warm. Burning. I’m burning inside. A young couple stand up from one of the benches opposite the fountain and walk away hand in hand. I take their spot, resting my book on the bench beside me. I unwrap my scarf from around my neck and slide the hat off my head. I tilt my head back and feel the December air nipping at my nose and ears.
I made it. I’m here.
And I’m still alive.
Jack
I hear her voice before I see her face.
When I finally turn around I see she’s shouting to me from across the road. She’s calling my name. She knows me. The soft city wind strikes her hair and lifts it away from her bare shoulders. She carries two books, neatly tucked under her left arm squeezed tight to her ribcage. They’re tattered hardcovers, the bindings frayed. I can’t make out the titles from here, but she carries them protectively like they’re important, like they mean something to her. She’s standing awkwardly, toes facing inwards, on the edge of the pavement by the pedestrian crossing. It’s flashing green but she’s not crossing. She’s not alone. Crowds of people gather around her. They all look in the same direction. They all face me. She calls my name again. I turn back at the pavements ahead, my legs throbbing from the run. I still have so many more miles to cover. I have so much further to go.
I hear my name again. When I look back at her, she’s alone now. She’s still standing at the edge of the road, she’s still not crossing, but her books are scattered around her on the ground by her feet. They’re covered in a murky brown liquid which spills out from a dropped coffee cup by her heels. The books are wet. They’re ruined. My phone beeps and the screen lights up. When I glance down I see the familiar Strava statistics – the graphs, the pace analyses, the run segments. Then I feel it. The flip in my belly, the shiver up my spine. The two words that enter my mind and tattoo themselves on my skull. Two simple words – Run, Jack. I pause, a moment too long. I don’t run, I wait. And then I feel the heat. It burns.
When I jolt awake, I come to and realise I’m in bed at home. I’m here, I’m safe. My chest is covered in sweat which dampens the top bedsheet. My pillow is wet from my neck. I take a deep breath and reach my hand out to touch the wall. It’s really home. Then my hand pulls in and rests on my pounding heart. I concentrate on my breathing in an effort to calm the beating. I release my hand and run my fingertips across the covers, over my thighs, but I don’t feel the leg I’m stroking. I grip the window ledge beside me and pull myself up. I quickly whip away the covers, letting them fall to the bedroom floor. My legs, where are they? My hand rushes to my face and muffles a scream before it escapes fully. My legs are gone. Where my legs should be are two swollen, dark red stumps that end at my thighs. My knees, my calves, my ankles, my feet, the blisters that always eat away at the skin on my toes from running – they’re all gone.
Then I remember. The dream I just had was real. That nightmare really happened. And I can’t stop the screaming. It flows from my belly, out my mouth and spills into the bedroom. It floods the house, stains the walls. They fade when I come to and realise I’m at home in bed. I pant wildly and try to forget the nightmare that just consumed me. And when I can’t forget, I text Alice and she calls me. And we talk until the images fade from my eyes and the screams fade from my ears. We talk until I’m laughing again.
Alice
I open the window, the crisp air hitting me in the face. It’s freezing, but sunny today. The sun beats warmly on my cheeks. I close my eyes and feel it soak through my skin.
‘Alice, it’s like the North Pole in here! Close the window,’ my mom calls to me, struggling
to get a big cardboard box through the door. She wrestles with the doorframe, cursing under her breath, her rose-hued hair flying over her face. Last month she dyed her ends a frosty blue. She suits the pink better.
‘Sorry, it’s just such a beautiful day,’ I smile. I close the window, securing the latch and help her carry the box over to the kitchen table.
‘What is this?’
‘Well, since it looks like we’ll be spending Christmas here I thought it would be nice if we decorated a little.’
‘Really? We never decorate.’
‘We’re never able to,’ she corrects me. ‘But one of the neighbors said they were getting rid of a lot of old decorations from their attic so asked if we wanted them.’
I open my mouth to make a quip about old people and rusty old Christmas ornaments, but then close it. Whatever we put up in the house is meaningless, because Christmas is about family. I wrap my arms around her instead. ‘Mom, whatever you do will look amazing. Now let’s see what’s in this box.’
She bites her lip and feigns anticipation, slowly opening the lid. ‘We have … one ceramic Santa for the doorstep—’
‘It’s London, so it may not be there in the morning but I like your optimism,’ I smile, taking the Santa from her. It’s heavier than I thought so I quickly put it down.
‘Three boxes of baubles for the tree—’
‘We don’t have a tree.’
‘Some garland, tinsel, and these I’m really excited about.’ She pulls out four large metal candy canes. ‘Stocking holders! See the hook?’
I nod and peer over at them. ‘Finally, we can hang our stockings over the fireplace again.’ When we started moving around more regularly and with minimal notice, we knew we wouldn’t be able to take all our things so we chose only what we absolutely needed, like some clothing, and absolutely treasured, like my War and Peace hardcover that I found in a second-hand shop down a cobbled alley in Boston’s west end, next to Mike’s Pastry Shop on Hanover. For my mom, it was photos, her wedding rings, a necklace my dad gave her for an anniversary and our Christmas stockings that my Nana knitted for us just after I was born. Every year, no matter where we are, we put them out. Because we’ve not decorated before, the stockings are usually laid out on a coffee table or the kitchen counter. We couldn’t do gifts really because of money and also because we couldn’t accumulate too many things that we’d then need to pack for the next transfer. But we always had stockings. My mom would fill my dad’s, my dad would choose things for my mom’s that I’d buy if he was away, and they would do mine together. On Christmas morning, we opened them. Chocolates, hand cream, a novelty toothbrush, nail polish (I’m partial to just a clear coat – practical and boring, I know), and small things like that.
She walks over to the white mantel and gingerly hangs three candy cane holders on the edge. ‘There,’ she beams.
‘Looks great.’
‘I know it’s not a real fireplace with actual fire, but it glows … if you turn the switch on at the wall,’ she shrugs sheepishly. ‘Hey, it even flickers. We can have a twinkling fireplace for Christmas!’
I laugh and watch her unpack the ornaments out the box, inspecting them for cracks and scratches. She slowly puts them down and looks at me, intently. ‘You’re different this week.’
‘How so?’
‘You just are. You seem … happier.’
A wide smile pushes into the corners of my face, and I nod gently. ‘I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself, I suppose. My old self anyway.’
‘The PTSD group is helping?’
‘A lot, actually. Ian – the guy who runs it – had me do an exercise last week and it was hard, but really helpful.’
She delicately cups my face with both hands, and tries to tuck my wild hair back but I can feel it slip out over my ears. She looks at me in a way that reminds me how lucky I am to have parents like mine. People who support me and will always be there for me, no matter how low I might find myself.
I pull her in for an embrace.
When I release I see she’s crying, again. I laugh and slide off the table, getting her a sheet of kitchen roll to wipe her face. ‘So, let’s talk about a tree.’
Jack
I’m up early today and exhausted, having not slept much this week. My body craved more rest today and when my alarm went off at 6:45 a.m. I was tempted to roll over and turn it off. Even now I’m up and dressed, I could still go back to bed and sleep for hours.
My thighs are aching. I couldn’t face massaging them with the gel before I put the prostheses on. The swelling and dark red sores made it almost unbearable to put them on. Hopefully an extra-strong coffee, a couple of pain meds and a google of last year’s marathon images will motivate me to get into the gym. I’ve been on the treadmill every morning before physio to increase movement. I’m dreading it today, though. Even the walk to the kitchen is gruelling. My hands clutch the walls as I take each excruciating step. When I reach the kitchen, the waft of espresso and warm croissants fills my nostrils. But I’ve somehow lost my appetite walking here.
‘Good morning,’ my mum smiles. She sits at the table under the lamp reading the newspaper from yesterday. The night still sits outside the window. Sunrise won’t be for another hour or so, now the days are shorter and the nights longer.
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say, collapsing into a chair. Normally I’d make my own breakfast, but I can’t face getting up and walking around the kitchen.
‘Croissant? Toast? I can make you some eggs since it’s a busy day of training again?’
‘I’ll stick with coffee for now,’ I mutter.
‘You OK?’ She brushes my hair off my temple. ‘You look tired today.’
‘I just didn’t sleep well.’ I cradle the hot mug in my hands.
‘Why don’t you take today off, Jack? Go back to bed for a bit, rest up. You’ve been working yourself too hard. Putting strain on your body isn’t going to help you in the long term. It’ll just slow your progress with the prostheses.’
I know she’s right, but I can’t stop. I need to keep going. A day off might turn into two days off, or three, and every day is critical right now. I can’t skip a training day. There’s only four months until the marathon. My run blades arrive the first week in January and it’ll be non-stop strength and speed training from then on. I’ve already made a lot of progress. I’m not using the crutches anymore and I don’t need a walking stick. I’m completely supporting my own weight now, and I’m starting to do some light jogs on the treadmill too. I’m taking paracetamol every four hours for the pain. Surely that should have subsided by now? Is it normal for it still to be this sore and uncomfortable?
A click of the toaster brings two perfectly browned slices up to the surface. In the corner of the kitchen, Mum fusses with the butter on a ceramic dish and pours a large glass of fresh orange juice. She walks back over with a breakfast tray, filled with small pots of honey, jam and marmalade. ‘At least bring a tray into the gym with you, if you get hungry. You can pick on toast in between reps.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I rise and carry the tray down the hall, it wobbles as I wince with each step but it doesn’t drop. When I get to the training room beside the pool, I quickly slide the tray onto a bench and take a deep breath. Then I pop two extra-strength pain meds in my mouth and wash it down with a couple of big gulps of juice.
Searing pain burns my flesh with each step I take on the treadmill. My fingers hover above the ‘Incline’ button, shaking involuntarily. I feel nauseous. The pain, it’s too much. Sweat drips down my face, tickling my neck and shoulders. Then everything starts to get fuzzy in front of me. The heat pounds my skin and my heartbeat gets faster, louder. I can barely reach the emergency button pull-string on the wall before my prosthetic legs start to buckle under me. I grab for the string and fall with it. It tugs and a high-pitched alarm floods the room, spilling out into the hallway. I start screaming out in agony. My mum is through the door and at my
side in no time. She fumbles at her phone while cradling my head in her lap. I succumb to the pain finally, closing my eyes and letting the darkness take me.
Alice
Here we are again, back in the hospital. Me in the armchair, Jack in the bed. Always Jack in the bed. He’s been in there for too long. It’s just not fair. And that poster is back. Does every bedroom in this hospital have that same stupid poster? They’re going to keep Jack in for a few more days to monitor the infection, but it’s bad. They had to take off the prostheses. I don’t think he’ll get them back.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask. ‘Water? Coffee?’
He shakes his head. ‘No thanks.’
‘Are you in pain?’
He swallows hard and stares up at the poster. ‘No, it’s not too bad,’ he says, his jaw clenched.
‘It’s okay to say if it does hurt. Nothing wrong with that.’
Outside the room, footsteps fill the hall, a food cart whirls through the room bringing lunches to patients. It’s strange to think of Jack as a patient again. ‘How long were your thighs like that?’
He shrugs.
‘Were you in pain for long? Why didn’t you say anything?’
Jack turns to me, his cheeks flushed. His bottom lip trembles and for the first time in a while I feel my eyes stinging with tears.
‘If there’s anything I can do, please tell me.’
‘Alice, thank you for coming here. But I just need to be alone right now. Is it okay if you leave?’
I nod slowly, and start fumbling for my coat and gloves. I glance over at the bag of magazines and sweets on his bedside table feeling silly for bringing them again. I want to help, I want to do something but there’s nothing I can do to make him feel better right now. ‘Call or text me if you want to talk?’
After the Rain Page 20
