The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  “Are you okay?”

  She looked back at me, blinking away tears, nodding, just once. “I will be. When I’m out of here.”

  The glimmer of her old spirit satisfied me. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be back in school—and in my life.

  “Before . . .” I hesitate, not sure how to ask. “Why did you miss so much school?”

  But she didn’t answer, just stared toward the window.

  “‘Will you have to go back there?” I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice, at the thought of her going back there, near that man whose evil face still haunted me, but the alternative, of her going away, was even worse.

  “I don’t know yet.” Her voice was achingly empty. Then she sighed. “They’ve said I can’t. They’re talking about a place I can stay. Just until I’m better.”

  “What—like a hotel?” It was a stupid thing to say. Even in my naivety, I knew that, but I couldn’t imagine what else she meant. “Nearby, though, so you can finish school?”

  April looked away. “Maybe. They haven’t said.”

  I didn’t understand. Not who they were, or why April couldn’t carry on at school, stay with friends nearby—like Emily or Bea—or something. Just for a few weeks and pass her exams with flying colors, as I knew she would.

  “But it’s important, April.” Feeling myself blush at the sound of her name on my lips, but meaning every word. “You’re really clever. Even when you miss school, your grades are still good. You can’t give up.”

  But she just looked away from me. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  The full force of her sadness hit me. “Then tell me,” I said desperately. “Tell me all of it, because I want to know.”

  In that moment, I thought at last she was going to let me into her world, but then a nurse came over and I was asked to leave.

  * * *

  I returned the next day, and the one after that, noticing the color creeping into April’s cheeks and movement into her limbs; the trauma she’d been through brought us closer. But on the fourth day, just as I was setting off, my mother stopped me

  “You’re out so much recently, Noah. With your exams coming up, your father and I would rather you stayed at home.”

  I stared at her in horror. “I have to go.... It’s arranged.”

  But she shook her head, turning back to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, but that’s enough, Noah. It can wait until your exams are over.”

  This was how it was. My parents would issue orders I was expected to unquestioningly obey. Well, not this time. I felt an explosion of heat inside me. April was waiting for me. No way was I staying at home.

  “I have to meet a friend. From school,” I called after her. “They’re really ill, in hospital. I said I’d visit and you can’t stop me.”

  I liked how I sounded—wild, reckless even. I wasn’t a kid. Whatever my mother said, I was going.

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” But the anger in her voice was halfhearted enough not to stop me.

  It was the first time I’d openly defied my mother. It’s perhaps why, as I reached to open the front door, she answered as she did.

  “Just this once. I’ll drive you, Noah. As long as when you get back, you work.” As I listened to how tired she sounded, I knew that I’d found her Achilles heel; that it was easier for her to take me herself than try to stop me.

  We drove in a silence that bordered on glacial. My mother was clearly unhappy about what we were doing, yet unable to reason with me. As we parked, she unfastened her seat belt to get out.

  I shook my head at her, because this wasn’t part of the deal. Nurses were one thing, but my friendship with April was far too young and fragile for interlopers like my mother to come blundering between us.

  “There’s no point in you coming,” I told her abruptly. “It’s no one you know.”

  I was in too much of a hurry to get away to see the fear that flickered in her eyes. I raced along the familiar corridors, up the stairs two at a time because I knew from experience that it was faster than waiting for a lift. Turned right at the top, went along to the end and through double swing doors into the ward.

  Only when I checked my watch, saw how early I was, way before visiting times, I hesitated.

  “It’s lucky you’re early today!” It was one of the nurses, clearly recognizing me.

  “Am I too early?” Her comment puzzled me.

  “A bit.” Then she winked. “But if you’re quiet, you can go in.”

  At first, I didn’t see what she meant. At the far end of the ward, April was standing by the bed, her back to me. Then as I got closer, I saw she was fully dressed with a bag on the floor by her feet.

  Suddenly I realized what the nurse had been telling me. “You’re leaving. . . .”

  Hearing my footsteps, she turned. “Noah! You’re early.”

  “You’re leaving,” I repeated.

  My words were accusing, held the selfishness of my youth, I knew that, but I couldn’t help it. Then I saw the worry in her eyes.

  “It’s good! It means I’m better! And I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “You’re going back to that house?” Hating the thought of her being there, yet hating the thought of her going somewhere unknown, maybe farther away, even more.

  “It’s not up to me, Noah. I’m underage. I just have to do what they say. But we’ve got a few minutes—they’re not here yet.”

  “Who’s they?” I asked her, not understanding. “And you’ll be at school, won’t you? When you’re really better?”

  I waited for her to smile, to tell me that she’d need to rest a bit longer, but yes, she’d be back at school—and everything would return to normal. But her silence told me that wasn’t going to happen.

  “The thing is,” she said slowly, “I’m going away.”

  It was my worst nightmare. I felt my mouth open in protest. Then her hand touched my arm.

  “Listen, Noah. It’s for the best. It gets me away from . . .” She stopped, as I waited, knowing she was going to say something terrible. But all she said was “Horrible people. And a load of stuff.”

  I gazed into her eyes, hungry for a glimpse of whatever it was, as she blinked at me.

  “Oh, Noah, you don’t want to know.”

  “I do,” I said stubbornly. “I’ve already told you that.”

  She sighed; then I felt her hand reach for mine. “You were right—what you said about exams being important. They are, to you. You’ll get good grades and be a doctor or a politician and you’ll be someone, Noah. I know you will.”

  For the second time that afternoon, I felt powerless. There were so many people intent on controlling our lives. Being a teenager sucked. I looked at April, following her gaze out the window onto the rooftops, then turned to face her.

  “So will you,” I told her, biting back my frustration. “Be someone, I mean. You know you can. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  But she shook her head. “I’m not like you. I won’t be doing my exams. I’ve missed too much school, anyway.” She said it in a quiet, resigned way that told me she’d decided.

  I couldn’t bear it. As I pulled my hand from hers, I wanted to shout and rage about how unfair this was. How whoever was behind this should seriously think what was best for April, because one thing I did know was that taking her away from school, and from her friends, wasn’t it.

  “Noah?”

  I didn’t want to believe that there was another world, one I didn’t understand. Nor was I giving up. Not yet. I couldn’t. I was about to tell her what a big mistake this was, but it wasn’t to be.

  “April? Your car’s here. Are you ready?” It was the same nurse I’d seen on my way in.

  Turning my back on her, I walked over to the window, unable to believe this was happening, feeling my fists clenched in my pockets, my entire body rigid. She couldn’t go. Not now. Not like this.

  As I stared into the distance, I fe
lt her standing beside me.

  “Please, Noah . . . Try to understand. It’s for the best.”

  I was convinced she was wrong. Then I got my first glimpse of how breathtakingly cruel life can be, as in what was simultaneously the most brilliant and most wretched moment of my life, she reached up and kissed my cheek. I don’t remember exactly what happened next. I was too consumed with my own pain to notice how she walked out of the ward and disappeared from sight. Nor, to start with, did I see my mother, standing at the nurses’ station, a look of horror on her face.

  * * *

  Somehow I dragged myself out of there along the same corridors I’d just flown in on. Just ten minutes later, I was in my mother’s car. Ten minutes during which I replayed my fantasies for the last time, of April staying here in Musgrove, metamorphosing back into the goddess she really was, of her finally being a part of my real life.

  As the fantasies faded, I tried to tell myself that it was for the good—for April at least. That people would look after her and that she wouldn’t have to go back to that awful house. But it was not knowing when I’d see her again. The pain I felt, so awful and so real, so deep in my chest, I actually believed was from my heart.

  * * *

  It didn’t help that I knew my parents wouldn’t let this go. But I’d no idea how serious their reaction was until it turned into a full-blown family summit at the dining table, my father, stern, at the head, my mother opposite me.

  I sat down, my heart heavy as lead, as my father started, stark disapproval in his voice.

  “Noah, your mother’s been telling me what happened. How well do you know this . . . April?”

  Instantly I felt myself tense. Her name on his lips was wrong. “She started school when I did. I don’t know her that well, really, I mean, I like her, a lot as it happens, but we don’t talk that much.”

  Even though I didn’t want to be there, talking about her, with them, I prided myself on the honesty of my reply, regretful that I couldn’t tell them differently and that actually we’d become really, really close friends. I missed the glances they gave each other.

  “We’ve been to see Mrs. Jones.”

  Suddenly I was crippled with embarrassment. Mrs. Jones was my class teacher.

  “Why?” I cried out. “It’s got nothing to do with her.”

  “That’s enough.” My father’s voice was sharp.

  “So you’d been to her house before?” My mother’s face was unfamiliarly horrified.

  “No! I’d no idea where she lived, not till a few days ago. Emily . . . Someone at school told me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said my father slowly, “why you’ve been visiting her in hospital. And if you were friends, as you say, why you didn’t tell us.”

  I didn’t like the accusing note in his voice. I’d done nothing wrong. What was he getting at?

  “She’d been absent from school. I was worried she’d mess up her exams. She’s really smart, only she’d missed too many classes. I was taking her some study notes when I found her, that was all. Then I called an ambulance.”

  For reasons I didn’t understand, this was turning into some kind of a moral inquisition. Instead of telling me “well done,” and how I’d done exactly the right thing, they exchanged anxious, uncertain looks.

  “I don’t understand why you’re being like this,” I cried, sliding my chair back, about to get up. “She was hurt, I tried to help her, only I couldn’t. It’s obvious you don’t trust me, either.” I glanced at my mother. “I asked you to stay in the car.”

  My father frowned. “Don’t speak to your mother like that.”

  “This is ridiculous. I can’t tell you what actually happened, because I don’t know. I just know April’s better—and that’s all that matters,” I told them angrily.

  “She didn’t tell you?” My mother seemed relieved. “I was talking to one of the nurses. Apparently a man hit her.” She hesitated. “In the stomach.”

  “He hit her?” I felt horrified, sick at the thought of anyone intentionally hurting her, and thought of that horrible, ugly man who’d followed me. Could it have been him? I remembered how he’d watched me about to go inside.

  “The nurse said she’ll be fine.... But I don’t think she’ll be going back to school, Noah. In fact, I don’t think you’ll be seeing April again.”

  I already knew that, from April, but the relief in my mother’s words and the worry smoothed from her rippled brow made it all the more real. As I sat there, trapped between them, I felt the bottom fall out of my world, leaving a whirling, empty void from which I couldn’t escape.

  But somehow I pulled myself away. Running from the room, I slammed the door behind me, ignored the roar of my father’s voice demanding I come back, right now. What was wrong with them? This was so utterly unfair. Not only did they not understand, but my parents sucked. My life sucked. This shouldn’t happen. Everything was going wrong. I was the person who’d gone to rescue April and now she’d left me.

  Ella

  Everyone I know has a secret. Sophie’s is her crush on Mr. McKenzie, our art teacher. Kat’s is that even though everyone thinks she wants to be a Hollywood star, in her dreams, she wants to be a surfer. But there’s that thing with secrets, too, how they take over your head, feeding on your every thought, growing bigger all the time until the day comes they’re so heavy you can’t walk.

  “Oh, Ella—are you hurt?”

  I hobble over to my usual chair and stare at the ugly painting. “Not really. Just ache a bit.”

  My therapist looks sympathetic. “You look really sore. Maybe your mum should take you to see someone?”

  Oh jeez, please not more strangers sticking their noses in my life. Anyway, my mother’s still away.

  “I guess my back hurts a bit.” So does my brain and my heart, in a sad, stabbing kind of way.

  “You’ve probably pulled a muscle.”

  “Yeah,” I say, in a way that even to me sounds like “no,” but then the ache comes from deep inside myself.

  She frowns.

  “It’s okay. Really,” I tell her, meaning it this time, because it’s no big deal and I hate being pitied.

  Her face softens. “Oh, Ella . . .”

  Two gentle words that stab me, a knife in my heart.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I can’t even look at her. I bend my head to pick at an invisible spot on my jeans, for what feels like ages. Then hear myself sigh as I realize that now she knows there really is something wrong, if I don’t tell her, it’ll only be the next time—or the one after. But can I trust her?

  Then, because I can’t bear this any longer, and because the air is so thick that I’m suffocating, I break the rule.

  “It’s my brother.” As I speak, my jaw clenches.

  Then I make myself look up to watch her face, because words hide things but faces don’t, and because you can’t trust even the most likely people.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother!” Which is what she was always going to say—but from the way her eyes startle, her involuntary surprise, I want to believe her.

  “No one does. He’s eighteen.” I shrug, swallowing the lump in my throat, watching a puzzled look cross her face as she takes in what I’ve said.

  “How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”

  I shrug.

  “Is he in trouble?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. He doesn’t come to our house.”

  “Oh? Did something happen?”

  I hold her gaze. Now, for the million-dollar question. Do I really trust her?

  “I think so. . . .” I’m stalling. Then I take a deep breath that sticks in my lungs, because even the air is heavy. “I’m really scared to tell you.”

  She doesn’t speak for a moment. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Ella. But think of it like this. What’s the worst that can happen if you do?”

  I feel the millions of little capillaries inside my ches
t tighten. The answer to that depends on whether she can keep a secret. What’s the worst that can happen if she can’t? “Can you open the window, please?”

  I watch her get up and go over to the window, throw it open, and I feel relief as cooler air reaches me. Buying time—for both of us. I mean, it’s some bombshell, telling her I have a brother no one knows about.

  When she sits back down, neither of us moves. And suddenly I know that whatever comes next, I have to tell someone. That if I don’t, it’s going to crush me. Nice choice you have here, Ella. Death by crushing or death by telling the truth.

  “My mother isn’t his mother.” It comes out in a rush, even before I’ve decided I’m doing this. “In fact . . .” I hesitate, because what I’m about to say sounds unbelievable. “I’m not sure she even knows about him.”

  She looks shocked. “But if you know about him . . . Surely your father wouldn’t keep something like that from her?”

  “You won’t say anything, will you?” I’m holding my breath. I mean, she must know I’d sue her or report her if she did, but it’s really important. I need to make sure.

  She waits. She does that a lot. Waits. Therapists’ code again, meaning tell me more.

  “Look,” I tell her, trying to sound casual, even though my heart is thudding and my head feels light, because she needs some perspective. “Most families are weird—you’re a therapist. You must see it all the time. They all have stuff they don’t want people to know about. Like Sophie’s mother’s having an affair. It’s like really, really obvious—but no one talks about it.” I shrug. “Theo’s kind of a secret, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

  Just big enough that some days it paralyzes me. I read upside down as she writes Theo, then adds a question mark, before looking up again, puzzled.

  I say it again. “You won’t mention him to my mother, will you? Please?”

  She hesitates. “Not if you don’t want me to. Patient confidentiality applies to therapists, as well as doctors, as I’m sure you know. But . . .”

  I follow her glance toward the clock, where the minute hand creeps toward the hour, as I hear the next question forming, the one I’ve already decided not to answer.