After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

  He nods and turns back to the poster.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ he whispers.

  Jack

  Snow falls furiously outside my window as darkness descends upon my garden and driveway, swallowing everything in its path – the ceramic pots holding crisp, browned shrubs, the beech tree draped in tiny white lights, the path leading up to the front door, our house, me. A cold chill sits in the corner of my bedroom, occasionally pricking my skin. Cold never used to bother me but now I feel it everywhere I go. Cold shivers snake up my spine and sharply tickle my arms. I pull the hoodie down past my wrists and fist my hands inside the sleeves, searching for warmth. But there is no warmth to be found. Only more darkness.

  Soft music trickles up the stairs from the living room, spilling in under my door. ‘O Holy Night’. My mum’s favourite. Familiar smells of bronzed turkey, sage stuffing and rosemary-seasoned roast potatoes from the tray outside my bedroom fill my nose, tempting me out. It’s Christmas Day but I don’t feel like celebrating. Nothing feels magical or special about this day. It’s just another piercing reminder of time lost, of lost other things, my youth included. My fingertips graze over my thighs, massaging away the throbbing ache I still feel. The skin is still so tender and swollen to the touch. I can barely feel my fingers on my thighs with all the swelling. Beyond the stumps, where prosthetic legs once were, is nothing now.

  It’s been almost ten days since they were removed. Permanently. Dr McKenzie said it was something called verrucous hyperplasia of the amputated stumps – severe infection at the socket point of the prosthetic limbs meaning they had to be taken off indefinitely. She told my mum that problems like that are more common with lower-limb prostheses, especially when the amputation is above, not below, the knee. There was nothing she or anyone else could do. No one asked me how I felt. They just said, ‘Sorry, Jack,’ and then took my legs – again. My legs have been taken from me twice now. No one can ever possibly understand how that feels, and what that means for my future. Dr McKenzie suggested a cosmetic limb, one that looks like a real limb but doesn’t function as one. It’s for show only, I can’t stand or bear any weight on it. I said no. I don’t want to look like I have legs – I want legs.

  I could have lived with the pain from the infection, maybe. I could have found a way to get past it, stronger pain relief perhaps. Anything to get me to April’s marathon, to get me to that finish line. I know my time would haven’t have been anywhere close to what it would have been, but the point is I would have still been able to participate with my dad. I would have still felt part of something, good at something. I would have had a purpose. I would have felt like me again. Now I just feel like a bombing victim.

  I squeeze my eyes closed as they hurt. But I can’t block it out. Raindrops on concrete. Leather-bound books in puddles. Fiery red hair in a fog of ash and debris. An umbrella spinning on its head. Going around and around and around. And the heat. Insatiable, searing, blistering heat.

  I’ll never be able to escape it now.

  Alice

  I stand at the foot of the stairs at the Royal Botanic Gardens, looking for Jack, searching for the van. I’m bundled up in the thickest coat I could find in a box in the house, two pairs of gloves, a hat and two scarves. The winter here is brutal. The bitter cold found here is similar to New England, but I’ve still not got used to it. I pull a scarf up over my mouth, warming my breath, and glance again at the tickets in my hand. Our entry time for the Winter Lights festival was at 3 p.m. and Jack is already twenty minutes late which is unusual for him. I call him again. No answer. So I wait, but by 3:45 I realize he’s not coming. I would go home, give up, climb back into my PJs and watch TV with my mom but this is so out of character for Jack that I need to go see him.

  The bus ride from Kew Gardens to Richmond is quiet, but the South Western railway line is starting to fill with commuters. I sit, huddled in a corner of the train, with my eyes closed. Beyond the darkness I hear shuffling of footsteps, phone conversations, exchanges between strangers and friends. Beneath the gloves, my hands sweat and tingle. I count my breaths slowly, 10 … 9 … 8 … it regulates finally and I’m back to breathing normally. Although I still have them, the panic attacks are less frequent than they once were and they don’t last as long. When my mind pulls me back to that morning, I concentrate on breathing and battle to bring myself back to the here and now. We practice this in the support group each week, and my mom guides me through a similar meditative practice in yoga. Yes, I do yoga now. I’m one of those people that wear yoga pants around the house and sit cross-legged on a mat ‘ohm’-ing and chanting loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I never thought I’d say that. I also say ‘Namaste’ now. I’m not joking.

  Outside the train, snow flurries and falls, lightly pattering the windows. When the conductor announces my stop, I gently flick my eyes open and with my gaze fixed on the exit I shimmy past people and let the cold air wash over me when I step out. I take a deep breath and quietly congratulate myself for another successful train ride.

  The country lane to Jack’s glistens with ice. The sun sets on my left, the afternoon sky already melting and twisting into night. I’m buzzed in at the gate by his dad and greeted at the front door by his mom. Her face is soft and she smiles, but the dark circles under her eyes tell me that it’s been a tough couple of weeks.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask, as I take off my wet coat and shake the snowdrops off.

  ‘He’s not doing well,’ his mom says quietly. ‘He’s not left his room much. He takes his meals in there too now. We’ve tried to give him space but now we’re afraid that we’ve given him too much.’

  I reach a hand out and lightly touch her arm. ‘I’m sure you couldn’t have done anything else. He’s not been responding to my messages much recently and he never takes my calls. I thought when he said he’d come today that he was feeling a bit brighter, but when he didn’t show I wanted to check on him. Hope it’s okay I stopped by like this?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says.

  I walk through the lobby, through the kitchen to the back of the house, past the gym until I come to his closed door where he’s hung a DO NOT DISTURB notice on the front like he’s in a hotel. Except I’m not the housekeeper, and I don’t take KEEP OUT signs seriously. I knock lightly. ‘Jack, it’s Alice. Can I come in?’ I wait a moment and hear shuffling from inside. At least he’s still alive in there. The familiar sound of wheels comes closer and the door opens. Jack sits beyond the doorway in a pair of navy joggers and a gray school hoodie. He’s unshaven and his hair looks matted on one side. I’m slightly taken aback by his appearance but I try not to let on. ‘There you are,’ I smile.

  He wheels himself back and lets me in. I take a seat at the desk. Dark spills into the room, creeping into the corners. ‘Do you mind?’ I ask, as I reach for the lamp switch. He shrugs so I turn it on, brightening the room and him. He looks even worse in the light. I gaze around at the books on the surfaces, the postcards propped up by textbooks, the laptop on the desk. His room doesn’t look too different to mine. His event medals are hung up by an exposed nail in the wall, and his travel books sit in a corner along with a sports jersey and what I assume is a squash racket.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  I bite my lip. ‘I waited for you today at the Royal Botanic Gardens.’

  His face drops, and he sighs. ‘That was today?’

  ‘That was today,’ I nod.

  He runs a hand through his hair and leans back. ‘I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.’

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. I just wanted to check on you anyway. I’ve not heard from you much?’

  He gazes down. ‘I’ve just been … busy, I suppose. I’m not ignoring you on purpose.’

  ‘I know,’ I smile. ‘I’m just worried about you, I guess. You don’t seem yourself.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m okay.’

  ‘Have you seen W
ill and Euan?’ Not that I care too much about those guys, but if he’s still seeing them then at least I know he hasn’t completely shut himself off from the world. Just from me.

  ‘No. I haven’t talked to them. They text, but I’m not great with getting back to people’s messages these days.’

  So it’s everyone he’s shutting out, not just me. Silence fills the room as I sit awkwardly on the edge of the chair. This feels like the first time we met at the hospital, when I didn’t know him. But I do now. I’ve gotten to know the real Jack, I think. The adventurous Jack that wants to go swimming in the ocean in late November, the thoughtful Jack that stopped by my house with coffee and dragged me out the house to water rosemary in a garden when I felt at my lowest, the kind Jack who texted me every day in the summer to ask me how I was. I don’t recognize this Jack in front of me. This defeated person who looks like he wants nothing more than to lock his door and never see anyone again.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I suggest. ‘We’ll grab some flashlights and take a stroll in the snow. I bet it’s beautiful at night here with the houses all lit up.’

  ‘You go. I don’t feel like it today.’

  ‘Come on, you’ll enjoy some fresh air.’

  ‘No, thank you, Alice. Really, I just want to stay here.’

  I nod and sit back down. I’m not sure what else to do. I was much easier to be coaxed out for a walk than him. ‘Do you want me to book the Royal Botanic Gardens again for this week? I heard the light show is cool.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m quite busy this week.’

  That’s definitely a lie.

  ‘Do you want to order pizza and watch a movie tonight? I can call my mom and say I’ll be home a little later?’

  He shakes his head again. ‘Actually, I don’t mean to be rude but I’m really tired. Do you mind if I rest for a bit?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, no problem,’ I stammer, feeling a little defeated myself. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’ I gaze back at him, one last time before I close the door. He sits slumped in his chair by the window, looking out at the gardens darkening outside. And when he glances back at me he wears no expression on his face, nothing I can read or understand anyway. He’s just – blank.

  Jack

  ‘Sorry to just stop by like this,’ Will says as he and Euan settle onto the sofa in the living room. ‘But we’ve not heard from you in a while and we were just worried.’

  First Alice, then them. I just need some space from people, is that too much to ask? But I smile and lie, ‘I’m glad you stopped by.’ I’m still in the same joggers and hoodie as when I saw Alice yesterday. No point getting dressed these days. I don’t feel like going out or entertaining much. Although people don’t seem to be getting the message.

  Euan pokes at a shortbread finger on the plate my mum laid out on the Harris Tweed ottoman, along with crackers, dips, cheese skewers and olives. ‘How was your Christmas?’

  ‘Yeah, it was all right, thanks,’ I mutter, even though I spent the entire day in my bedroom in the dark. ‘Yours? Were you in France this year again?’

  ‘No, we didn’t go this Christmas since we’ll be there shortly for the ski trip anyway.’

  Silence inches into the room as Will glances at Euan, his face clenched.

  ‘Oh, right. The ski trip.’

  Will clears his throat. ‘Yeah, we debated whether to still go. I mean, of course, it’s not going to be the same without you this year.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I mutter. ‘Is Alex going?’

  The room falls quiet again. ‘Yeah,’ Will says. ‘He wanted to come today to see you too but he said you’ve not been responding to his messages? You know, he’s really sorry about Lauren.’

  I nod, but don’t say anything else. I get the feeling whatever I say will just go back to Alex, and I don’t play those games. When I’m ready to talk to him, I will. But the Alex drama is the least of my concerns just now.

  ‘Maybe come next year for skiing? You could come and just chill out?’ Euan suggests.

  Chill out? Is that all I can do now, just sit in my wheelchair and chill out? ‘Yeah, maybe next year,’ I say. ‘Where are you guys going anyway?’

  ‘Um … well, we decided to still go to Courchevel like you’d suggested.’

  ‘Oh.’ I found that place. Out of all the options, I chose that specific location for our first ski trip without our parents. It would be the first of many. No matter where we were at university, in the world, what stage we were at in our lives, we agreed to always come together for an annual ski trip. I’m missing the most important one, our first one just us, and might miss the rest too.

  ‘I know we talked about us all going there together, but we didn’t think you’d mind if we still went ahead with it this year?’ asks Euan.

  ‘No, of course not. You should still go. It would make me feel worse if you didn’t,’ I say, gazing down at the floor beneath my wheels. I don’t want the guys to see the disappointment in my face.

  ‘Well,’ starts Will nervously, ‘I’m glad you said that, because we’ve decided to still run the London Marathon in April too—’

  Now this hurts. It stings. All these things were once within my reach, now they slip away and they’re only plans made by others.

  ‘—but we’re going to do it for a charity. Raise as much money as we can for a good cause,’ Will smiles.

  ‘What charity?’ I ask.

  ‘The Jack Addington Foundation.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘We’ve set up a foundation on your behalf. We want to run the marathon this spring in your honour.’

  ‘Oh.’ It’s all I can say right now. Wow, I’m officially a charity. I’m not dead or dying, so why is there a foundation named after me? And they’re running a marathon – my marathon, the one I fought for, the one I endured weeks of prosthesis pain – for a charity they’ve named after me. That’s the only way I’ll be a part of this – a face for a T-shirt that dozens of people will wear crossing a finish line that I’ll never be able to step across ever again. I know they’re just trying to do something nice, but why does it feel like such a cruel reminder of just how much I’ve lost?

  ‘You OK?’ Will asks.

  I slowly shake my head, still in a haze. ‘I’m just tired. I’m on some strong pain meds too.’

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to get some rest,’ he says, getting up. ‘We missed you at the Christmas Half Marathon. A lot.’

  ‘How did everyone do?’ I quietly ask, not really wanting to know.

  ‘I got a PB,’ Euan grins. Will glares at him.

  ‘I’ll check it out on Strava.’ I gesture weakly to my phone. Thanks. Another reminder of another race I couldn’t enter.

  They nod and start for the door again. ‘See you when we get back, yeah?’ Will bends down and gives my shoulder a friendly slap. ‘We’ll hang out properly.’

  ‘Take some good photos of the ski trip,’ I mutter softly, turning back towards the window. It’s the closest I get to the outdoors now. The only breeze I feel is the one that slips in through an open window or a gap in the doorway. The only earth I can touch is the soil in my mum’s plant pots. If I want to feel the rain on my face, I need help unlocking the top lock on the front door to access the ramp down to the driveway. I need help with most things these days. I’m just so tired all the time, so drained.

  I hear the living-room door close behind me and the room falls silent again. Just me and this chair. My eyes flicker to the phone on my lap and I can’t help but unlock the screen. I just want to see what I’m missing, just one more time then I won’t look again. I open up the Strava app and the first thing I see is a partial run by me. I’m confused at first because it’s my profile, my run. But I haven’t used this app in a while. Then I realise what run this is, what day this is. The date, the time, the GPS map of my Saturday morning route, and where it ends – Leicester Square. I had been tracking my run the day of the bombing. This is the last thing I saw before it happened. My St
rava screen. I had been looking at my phone when I felt the heat on my back. When I felt my body on fire. When I felt my legs torn from my body.

  Oh God, I can’t breathe. I start gasping for air desperately.

  ‘Jack?’ Mum is standing at the doorway. ‘Did your friends leave already?’

  I swallow hard and throw my phone on the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ She rushes over to me.

  ‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ I stammer.

  ‘Tell me, Jack. Please, just talk to me. I want to know how you’re feeling.’

  ‘Mum, not now.’

  ‘If you won’t talk to me, then please talk to someone.’

  ‘I don’t want to meet with a therapist, I told you this already.’

  My eyes flicker back to the phone on the floor, to the screen frozen from that day, a never-ending reminder of that horrific, savage day.

  ‘Why don’t you go with Alice to the support group then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It might be helpful.’

  ‘I said, no.’

  ‘You might meet some other people your age with similar injuries.’

  ‘It’s not an injury, Mum!’ I explode, feeling anger bubble up from every inch of my body. ‘This is my life now! I’ve lost my legs! I’ve lost the prostheses! I’ve lost everything!’ I push myself away from the window, away from her, and thrust myself down the hall, through the kitchen and down to the home gym where I slam the door closed. I won’t be going in there anymore and I don’t want to be reminded of what I no longer need. I won’t be running in the marathon. I’ll never run with my dad again, with my friends. I don’t need any of those machines in there.

  When I get to my room I just start throwing things. I close my eyes and hear the thrashing and breaking of everything I once treasured – my event medals, my squash trophy from school, photo frames of me and my dad climbing our first Munro. Everything is pointless now, all these things I once collected. In my hand I hold a rock from the Cuillin Munros. It digs into my palm, opening the skin. Blood trickles from my fist down my wrist and onto the floor. In my mind I can still hear her. I can hear Alice yelling at me on the street that day. I can feel my body slowing down to hear her, bending down to help her. I can feel my body on fire because of her.