by S. K. Perry
12
It’s Ellie who finds me. She sits down next to me on the bench and I look up.
She’s brought antibiotics and a flask of ginger tea. I don’t ask where she got them or how she knew where I was; I just curl into her lap. I’ve been cold for a long time now and my fingers are stiff, like tiny rolled up newspapers.
‘He’s going to be OK, Holly,’ she says.
I look at her.
‘Are they sure?’
She nods. She strokes my hair and asks me why I’m out here on my own.
‘I thought it would help me feel nothing,’ I say.
‘I shouldn’t think that’s working too well.’
‘Not really.’
‘For the best I think, in the long run.’
She lights a cigarette and passes it to me.
‘Is he still at the hospital?’
‘Yeah, but they’re letting him go in the morning. It was only a mini stroke so they’ll have to monitor him and follow it up but they think he’ll be alright.’
There’s a silence while I draw on my cigarette but my lungs are itchy and sore so I cough and just sit there with it instead.
‘I didn’t come.’
‘I know. Are you alright?’
She lights a second cigarette for herself and waits.
‘I didn’t get to Sam in time,’ I say. ‘I arrived eleven minutes after he’d stopped breathing and he was still warm. I hate hospitals.’
‘No one’s cross with you Holly.’
‘Not even Danny?’
‘Danny’s worried. You turned off your phone so for all we knew you could have thrown yourself off a cliff or something dramatic like that. We were a bit concerned but we guessed what had happened.’
She puts an arm round me and I breath out as I lean into her.
‘But it’s OK, sweetheart; you’re here. And Frank’s going to be fine.’
‘What time is it?’
‘About 11. You’ve been on the run for a while.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be, darling. It’s all been incredibly exciting. I’ve never been part of a search party before. But if you’re going to disappear again you must dress a little warmer. Personally I think you look great and I can tell why you’ve gone for the bedraggled look, but Frank will be up in arms. We all love you so much. I hope you know that.’
Later Danny walks down to where we’re sitting and tells me I’m going to stay at Gabriella’s for the rest of the night. He doesn’t say anything else; he just gives me a scarf and drives me and Ellie up to the London Road. Gabriella gives me pyjamas to wear and cooks lasagne. We sit and eat and neither of them mention that it’s the middle of the night.
Harris is at Gabriella’s house now too, and he sleeps at the end of my bed. I haven’t slept properly in days and when I wake up in Gabriella’s spare room there’s a little vase of flowers on the table next to me. My parents come down later that day and drive me home.
13
At your funeral the priest said, ‘All that any of us are is an accumulation of our moments. Every act we take part in is written on the definition of our lives forever, and nothing good that Sam did will pass away with him. Those moments will remain as residue in the lives of the people who loved him.’
I’d told Frank about this and about how it bothered me because surely that meant our fights – the crap stuff we’d done, the mean things – would always be there too.
He said love didn’t work like that.
14
I sit with my mum watching reruns of Grand Designs. I curl into her on our sofa and Dad makes big pots of soup that I eat out of a mug. I tell them I’m still really sad and they say they think that’s normal. I tell them how scared I am that one day I’ll stop missing you. I tell them how scared I am of being happy. They just hug me then, and we sit with it, the pain and the memories, and time passes on the hands of my little watch.
I call your mum that weekend and she tells me she misses me. I ask if I can go and see her over Easter. I tell her I’m sorry I sent your Christmas present to her house, that I hope it didn’t upset her and I should have said sorry before but I didn’t know how. We both cry and she tells me everything upsets her so I shouldn’t worry.
15
I go back to Brighton about a week later. Frank has invited me and Gabriella over for dinner the evening I get back. I take a cake I’ve baked at Mum and Dad’s to give to him. They drive me all the way to his and when we get there they get out of the car to say goodbye and we all cry a bit.
‘I’ll see you in a week anyway, after Easter,’ I say. ‘I love you.’
‘Call us, OK? And no more staying up all night.’
They drive off and Frank opens the door, smiling. He looks a bit tired and is moving slower than normal but he’s wearing a lopsided party hat and music’s blaring out of his speakers. The house is filled with the smell of steak and fried onions.
‘Gabby couldn’t resist the opportunity to cook for me. Who knew an escape from hospital was such a good excuse for a party. And you’ve brought cake!’
We go through to the kitchen where Gabriella is stood at the hob, sleeves rolled up and flicking onions round a frying pan. She winks at me and throws over a party hat. I notice that an armchair’s been moved in from the sitting room. Frank stands next to it, one hand leaning slightly on its back.
‘It’s a sorry cake really,’ I say. ‘For standing you up at the hospital.’
‘Holly,’ he replies. ‘I completely understand. Hospitals are dreadful places and a terrible choice for a date. The cake more than makes up for it and thank God for all your baking lessons because it looks quite edible.’
I put on the hat and he carries on, ‘If I’d actually been dying it would have been inexcusable of course. When the time comes for that I need you to be ready to sing at my bedside. But I don’t intend to die for a good few years yet and when I do we won’t rely on public transport to get you there.’
Gabriella laughs.
‘I mean it though,’ I say. ‘I really wanted to come; I just –’
Frank looks at me seriously and I remember he’s a magician. He smiles.
‘Enough said. You’re here now. Get yourself a drink. What kind of a party do you think this is?’
Gabriella serves up the steak, and I sit down next to them with a bottle of beer. Frank taps it on the bottom and the cap pops off.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘let’s quiz Gabriella on her romantic exploits from the other week; don’t think I’ve forgotten in all the drama that you’ve been off gallivanting with handsome strangers.’
16
Danny rings me at lunch the next day. I’ve been hoping he’d call but I haven’t known what I wanted to say. I’m running away from so many things; please don’t take it personally. Can I just have a bit of time to work out how you’re tied up in all this?
‘I heard you were back. Are you sticking around for Easter or going back home?’
The question surprises me. We’ve barely spoken since we kissed on the beach and I don’t know how to answer him; I’m going to York to visit your family but that feels complicated so I say, ‘I’m going away for the weekend. Why?’
‘I want to see you before you go. I’ve got you an Easter egg.’
‘OK…I’m teaching tonight, but after? Or we could have breakfast before work tomorrow.’
‘Come over later,’ he says.
I do. He buzzes me up to his flat. The floor of the lift is green; this feels incongruous. When I get to the seventh floor the lift pings like it’s a microwave and I’ve just finished cooking.
I walk down the corridor to Danny’s door and he’s left it open for me so I go straight inside. He’s sat in the living room at the dining table reading a book. He buzzed me in about two minutes earlier so he’s either deeply engrossed or he’s acting.
‘Hey, Danny.’
17
I get the train from Brighton to Victoria, then the tube to King�
��s Cross and the train to York. I sleep for a lot of the journey, and the bits I’m awake for are sore.
At York your mum meets me at the station. Your eyes look out at me from her face. I swallow a bit. She hugs me for a little too long as other people come through the ticket barrier and go off to wherever they’re going. She says, ‘Don’t stay away so long next time,’ and we make our way into the city centre to walk by the river and remember things. We speak in English and French, understanding each other but not always being able to say what we mean. It’s like it’s always been; the words aren’t the bits that matter.
We meet Danielle and Alfie in town and I watch him feed the ducks. I go and squat down next to him and he says, ‘Uncle Sam couldn’t come with you today because he’s in heaven now. Mummy says you might be feeling sad. Are you feeling sad?’
‘I am a bit, Alfie, but it’s good to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you too. Did you bring me an Easter egg?’
I laugh.
‘Yeah I did. You can have it in the morning.’
He smiles at me and offers me a slice of bread. I take it and break off a chunk to throw to the ducks.
We go to church on Easter Sunday and your mum cries as the priest reads the bit from the gospel about Jesus rising again. Danielle holds her hand and we all sing that song about the Lord of the Dance and when we go home we put on Ray Charles and dance in the kitchen while we prepare roast vegetables together and the beef cooks. Your mum doesn’t want to let me help. I just about get away with peeling some potatoes and then I play with Alfie while they finish up. We eat round a big oak table in the living room. It’s new since the funeral and the house feels more settled into now.
Your mum says she wants to have a party on your birthday in the autumn: somewhere in London so all your friends can get together.
‘Are you in touch with many of them?’ I ask.
‘They write on big days,’ she says. ‘Occasionally some of them phone. But it’s hard when the only reason to talk is feeling sad.’
‘Everyone asks after to you, Holly,’ Danielle says. She’s gentle, softer than you but as direct. ‘I think they found it pretty hard to lose both of you.’
I nod. Being with your family is taking me back to all our old grooves: the people we slid along with. I’ve pushed myself so far away from them all.
‘She’s here now,’ your mum says.
When we’ve put Alfie to bed we stay up late into the night talking about you, drinking wine and then whisky, and it isn’t as sad as I thought it would be. It’s like finding old clothes you’ve forgotten about, and even though they’re slightly patchy they fit so well. It’s so good to be with people who remember you and I feel bad for having been so far away.
Your mum says she has a box of your things she’s kept for me to look through before I go home. She says there are a bunch of cards and letters I’d sent you there too and she hadn’t wanted to throw them away. I feel a bit embarrassed because I know some of the stuff I’ve written in them is a bit fruity. She must know what I’m thinking about because she laughs and says she thinks we were lovely. Nous sommes seulement dans le passé. Je suis moi maintenant; je ne sera jamais nous.
Your mum goes to bed but your sister sits up with me a bit longer and we make a cup of tea and sing along to the music a bit and talk about stuff going on in the world. I tell her she reminds me of you a lot and she says she doesn’t know how to make your mum happy. We sit on the sofa and try to fill the spaces in each other for a while.
Just before we go to bed we rinse out the tea cups in the kitchen and she says, ‘I’m sure you know this anyway, Holly, but when you fall in love again it will be alright with us. It would’ve been alright with Sam too.’
18
I haven’t spoken to Danny since I left his house the morning after I’d felt like I was being cooked in his microwave lift. We’d slept in his bed together, with all our clothes on and our mouths pushed together and his left hand holding mine on the pillow and his right hand where my hips start to curve around. We talked about none of it and I left before breakfast feeling guilty that someone other than you felt so comfortable.
19
In that last April I’d gone away on holiday with my friends from school for a week and I’d promised you a postcard. Instead I’d written you seven little letters: one each day. You’d kept them all in a box with other bits and pieces, some of which I can’t place at all. There’s a ticket stub from Avatar, which we’d been to see together; that token we’d won in an arcade in Scarborough; a little menu from our friend Ruby’s twenty-first birthday party; and a couple of pebbles and a Christmas cracker hat. I don’t know why you kept those.
We always told each other not to bother with cards on Valentine’s Day because we agreed we didn’t need a designated day for being nice to each other. But one day in the summer I’d given you a ‘This Is Not a Valentine’s Day Card’ and we’d gone out for cocktails and to one of those old-fashioned cinemas with red velvet seats.
You told me once you loved listening to me singing in the shower and I’d been embarrassed because in my head the bathroom was soundproof. But you’d said you liked to hear my voice bounce through the walls and to think about me in there naked. You’d said you could never hear the words because of the water and the concrete, but you liked to imagine I was singing love songs to you. I’d laughed at you and told you you were soppy, but in your ‘This Is a Not Valentine’s Day Card’ I’d written: All my songs are for you, Sam.
I find that card in your box, sat on the same bed where I’d sat and smelt for you on the day of your funeral. The room is too hot because your mum always keeps the heating on and I’m wearing Frank’s jumper and it’s making me itch. I bite into my cheeks. I can’t stay sitting down with all these things you’ve stashed away so instead I get up and walk around the room. I’m angry with the stupid rose-patterned wallpaper, angry with you. I don’t feel like my skin can take any more tears without coming off altogether and I’m not going to cry. I don’t want to blow my nose anymore. I feel like my face is raw from it all, like your body on the road, like your head in my eyes when I close them, like every time I dream of skin and faces and traffic.
20
Ellie phones me in the morning.
‘How’s York, Holly?’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Do you mean intensely painful and overwhelming?’
I laugh.
‘A bit. It’s good to be here though.’
‘Sweetheart, there is nothing bitty about total and utter despair. Danny told me you two snogged. Are you very confused?’
‘Yeah, kind of. Are you annoyed with me?’
‘Goodness no. Mr DeVito is devilishly attractive; it was inevitable at some point. I just wanted to check you’re OK.’
‘I’m alright. Just riding it out, you know? Thanks for phoning, Ellie. You’re great.’
‘I know. Listen, Frank once told me – on a very thin day – that whenever I felt frightened by the pain I should close my eyes and count to ten and then keep crying until something was funny again. He told me to remember babies learn to laugh before they learn to speak, and because happiness is as instinctive as pain, I’d never be completely without both. Now as a doctor of neuroscience I can tell you this isn’t entirely true and the total physical devastation you’re currently experiencing is totally valid. But at least Frank’s a cheesy old optimist eh?’
I laugh at her.
‘Are you in pain, Ellie?’ I say.
She thinks.
‘I’m always very cold, but it’s getting better. Don’t worry about me; just hurry home, OK? We can nuzzle each other into full recovery.’
21
I call a taxi and say goodbye to your mum and Danielle and Alfie at the house. We hug and cry; that seems to be what happens when I say goodbye to people now. But they’re good tears, and I feel like we’ve all breathed something out in the night.
I ask the taxi to take me to York Hosp
ital. When we get there I go in through the revolving doors and stand just inside the waiting room. I must look upset because a woman walks past me and asks if I’m OK.
I say, ‘Yeah I am, thanks. I just don’t like hospitals.’
She smiles and says, ‘I don’t think anyone does.’
The things I remember about the hospital are the vending machine in the waiting room by the entrance, the green pot plant outside the Intensive Care Unit and the revolving doors. They are all still here. I walk through the same corridors with the strip lighting overhead and think about the person whose job it is to water the plants. There is a little bug in the corner of the wall outside the ICU and the harshness of the light makes it pop in my eyes, like a camera flash staining my lids when I close them. I stand there and look at the pot plant, and nobody dies.
Afterwards I walk outside and stand – leaning on the hospital wall. I haven’t noticed that I’m hot until I feel the air on my face and ears, and I stand there, leaning backwards and breathing. I light a cigarette and watch a taxi pull up and a woman on crutches carrying a carrier bag with the hospital’s name printed on it gets in. It drives off and I look at the sky. It’s unremarkable. I unclench my fist and put my lighter back into my pocket.
There’s a couple sitting on a bench not far from where I’m standing. She’s pregnant and he’s smoking and they look like they’re teenagers or maybe in their early twenties. I watch as she puts her hand to her stomach and then pulls his in, and they look back up at each other and laugh as their baby moves. He kisses her and she wrinkles her nose and says something about the smoke. He throws his cigarette on the floor and treads it out, and then puts his head in his hands with his elbows resting on his knees and his ear by her stomach. It looks like maybe he’s saying something to her bump. She puts one of her hands on his back and he looks up at her sideways. He says something else and she laughs again and gives him a shove. I wonder what they’re going to call their baby and then I look away at something else – a car driving, a door slamming – and when I look back at the bench they’re gone. It still hurts. I think maybe it always will.
