A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  Why? I ask. Are you going to try to catch it?

  He’s already off, scampering across the grass in the general direction of the kestrel. He turns as he goes. I need a picture! he signs. For my dad!

  I roll my eyes and grin at him, waving him off and turning away to look back out over the view. Edinburgh is beautiful, I think for the millionth time. I watch a plane coming in to land over the water. I can just about make out the BA logo on the side. I think of all the people inside, coming home, beginning a holiday or going to a business meeting, perhaps. Looking out of the windows at the city growing larger beneath them.

  I bounce a little on my feet, take in the air in a deep breath, then turn back round. Rhys has gone. I blink at the empty air where I’d last seen him, then do a slow 360-degree turn, scanning the hill for his familiar broad shoulders, his smiling face. No Rhys.

  How long does it take to photograph a bird? How far has he decided to go? I frown at his absence, waiting for him to reappear, but anxiety is already starting to scratch at me. Could he be hiding behind a bush, ready to jump out and scare me? No. We don’t do that to each other.

  I know I’m being stupid. Silly, overreacting, anxious Steffi. But it’s Rhys. How can I be rational when it’s Rhys?

  A minute goes by, and he doesn’t reappear. My heart is starting to beat faster; I can feel panic preparing itself in my chest. I look all around me, but I’m alone. Alone, on the top of a mountain in Scotland.

  ‘Rhys!’ I shout instinctively, even though it’s pointless and stupid. ‘Rhys?’ For the first time ever, I wish my boyfriend could hear.

  I stumble over the rocky path and on to the grass where I last saw him, my anxiety now elevated to full-on alarm-bell levels. There’s an incline to the grass that I hadn’t noticed from where I was standing before and I follow it down, heart jack-rabbiting, and then I see him. I see him, and I swear my heart stops.

  Rhys, lying on his side on the ground, not even five feet away from me. Rhys, head touching the dust. Rhys, motionless.

  ‘Rhys!’ This time the word comes out like a gasp. Who would I be shouting for? No one but myself. I close the distance between us and fall to my knees beside him, reaching out and taking hold of his arm. ‘Rhys. Rhys.’

  He lets out a groan and even though it’s a noise of pain I’m so relieved I almost start crying. He turns his head so we can make eye contact and I take in that he’s completely conscious, there’s no blood on his face or head; he’s fine. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.

  What happened? I sign, still frantic. My brain has always had a hard time letting go of the worst-case scenario, and right now it remains convinced, despite the clear evidence, that Rhys is dead.

  Rhys groans again, then shakes his head.

  Can you sit up? There’s no response, so I try again. Sit up. What happened? You fell?

  When he doesn’t reply again – doesn’t even make the most basic of acknowledging signs – I realize he’s not even making eye contact. He’s looking at my face, but his eyes are so screwed up with pain that he’s not reading a word I’m saying.

  OK, Steffi. This is on you. Calm down. Be here for him.

  I try to breathe, bite on my lip and reach for Rhys, patting him gently, trying to find the source of his pain. Now I’m bothering to look somewhere other than his face, I can see that the ankle on his left foot has already swollen to twice its normal size. I wince and reach for it, but Rhys lets out a growl and pushes my hand away.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say out loud. I’m trying to be soothing. ‘I won’t touch it.’ I try to take his hand. ‘Rhys,’ I say. ‘Rhys, look at me so I can talk to you.’

  As my fingers close over his wrist, he lets out a yell of agony that frightens me so much I drop his hand and stumble backwards.

  ‘What?’ I am crying now. ‘Rhys, what? Tell me. Talk to me. What’s wrong?’

  This is what everyone talks about when they say we both have communication difficulties. This exact scenario.

  I would give every single one of my fingers and toes to be telepathic right now.

  ‘Can’t you sign?’ I ask, realization beginning to dawn. I look back at his arms, cradled to his chest. ‘Did you hurt your hands?’ My heart has now reached full-on thundering levels. It’s so loud I can hear it inside my ears.

  And then I see it. There’s something wrong with his right arm; the angle is all weird. It’s broken or dislocated or something. ‘Oh, Rhys,’ I try to say, my voice all mangled. My emotions are all over the place. I’m worried for him, of course, and I’m devastated that he’s in pain, but I’m also starting to panic. Rhys can’t walk, talk or sign, and we’re stuck at the top of Arthur’s Seat.

  And then the worst thing of all hits me. It really is all on me. No one is going to help us unless I – silent, useless Steffi – go and ask someone to help us. I am going to have to find a stranger on top of this Scottish mountain, explain that my deaf boyfriend has tripped on a rock and broken his arm and/or ankle and ask them to . . . what? Call someone? Carry Rhys down the mountainside? While I, what, trot alongside them and make conversation?

  Oh holy fuck, I can’t do this. Panic sears through me, lighting my blood on fire. My hands go cold, my stomach knots like a noose. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  Breathe.

  Breathe, Steffi.

  Now is not the time.

  But panic doesn’t care about stakes or context. It is loud and immediate and profoundly, all-encompassingly selfish. It has swallowed all my thoughts and my heartbeats and my breath. There is no one to rescue me; it is me who has to rescue Rhys. But I can’t even rescue myself.

  Breathe.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I close my mouth and breathe in slowly through my nose, counting out six beats, then let it out over eight beats. I do it again, and then again, and then again. The screaming in my ears eases, then stops. My heartbeat calms. I open my eyes.

  I touch my fingers to Rhys’s good shoulder and he looks at me. He’s in too much pain to have noticed that I just had a panic attack, and in a weird way I’m grateful. ‘I’m going to find someone to help,’ I say slowly, enunciating. ‘I will be right back.’

  As I walk away from him, I’m thinking how unfair this is. Not just that Rhys has hurt himself, but that the fact of him hurting himself hasn’t done what films and books have always promised me it would: it has not transformed me into a better version of myself. Where is the Super Steffi who is SUPPOSED to reveal herself at times of crisis? Shouldn’t my love for Rhys overcome everything? Why am I still worrying about talking to a stranger when the most important thing is getting him help?

  I am still me and all the crappy bits of myself are still in full attendance. When I spot a woman a few metres down the path ahead of me, my throat tightens and my palms get clammy, just as they would if I were in line at the bank. It’s not fair. It’s never fair.

  I make my way as fast as I can down the path, ignoring my stupid tight throat and stupid clammy hands, and reach the woman. ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  It comes out, of course, like a squeak.

  And she doesn’t hear me.

  For Christ’s sake, Stefanie. Get a goddam grip.

  ‘Excuse me.’ This time, I overcompensate and my voice comes out loud and harsh. The woman turns, clearly startled, and spots me. ‘Hello,’ I blurt.

  ‘Hello,’ the woman says politely. It is the cautious, very-British hello that means ‘I am capable of assisting you’ but also ‘I am ready to run and/or scream for help if necessary’.

  I look into this woman’s wary face, open my mouth and . . . nothing comes out. My words have gone. No. No, Steffi, not now.

  I let out a choking, grunting gasp of frustration and the woman’s eyes widen in alarm. She takes a step back.

  No, wait, I sign automatically. Sorry. Please don’t go.

  As she watches my hands, realization dawns on her face, just as it had done with the coach driver back in London, followed by an expression I recognize: pa
nic.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh, I . . . I’m afraid I don’t speak . . .’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I blurt out. My voice! My awful, shaky voice! There it is! ‘I can hear. I need help. My boyfriend needs help – he fell and he needs help.’ I realize I’m still signing as I talk, but it doesn’t matter.

  The woman’s expression gets even more panicked. ‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘Oh dear. Where is he?’

  For some reason, the fact that she seems as worried as me eases my anxiety a little. This is a situation where it is normal to be anxious.

  ‘Over here,’ I say, then turn and go, hoping she’ll follow.

  ‘Loki!’ the woman calls, and I glance back in confusion to see a Border collie racing up the grass towards us. The woman has a dog! A dog called Loki! A little bit more of my anxiety dissipates. ‘My name is Connie,’ she says as she catches up with me.

  ‘I’m Steffi,’ I say. ‘Hello, Loki.’ The dog has raced in front of us and is prancing happily in odd little semicircles on the grass. When I speak, he darts towards me and barks. I lift my voice, encouraging and excited, ‘Go find Rhys!’

  ‘He’s not really –’ Connie begins, but stops as Loki bounds away from us, still barking, and disappears over the incline, where Rhys is. ‘Oh.’ She lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘He’s usually a bit dim, for a Border collie.’

  I don’t know how to answer this so I pick up my pace and she follows my lead. Rhys is sitting up more now, leaning his weight on his uninjured thigh, his working hand rubbing tentatively on Loki’s head. Loki is sitting beside him, panting proudly. When Connie and I appear, he barks.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, good boy,’ Connie echoes.

  I kneel on the ground beside Rhys and smile at him. ‘This is Connie,’ I say, gesturing. ‘She’s going to help.’

  Rhys grimaces, sort of like what a smile would look like if you ran over it with a Zamboni. I love you, I sign. It will be fine.

  ‘I think he’s hurt his ankle and his arm,’ I say to Connie. I’m still signing as I talk, and I don’t look directly at her. Both these things make it easier to speak.

  ‘Can’t he tell you?’ Connie asks.

  ‘He’s deaf,’ I say to Loki. ‘He can’t sign because of his bad arm. And I think he’s in too much pain to talk. Usually, he can talk if he needs to.’

  ‘Hello,’ Connie says, squatting down beside us both. ‘I’m Connie.’

  This is Connie, I sign.

  ‘Hi,’ Rhys manages, and I have to stop myself throwing my arms around him.

  ‘His name is Rhys,’ I add.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ Connie asks me, and I shake my head. She swallows and smiles uncertainly at Rhys. ‘Well, we’ll need to get him down to ground level,’ she says to me. ‘I don’t think an air ambulance will come for a broken ankle. Between the two of us, do you think we could help him down?’

  I look at Rhys and then at her. Another jolt of panic, which I try to squash as far down as it will go. I nod, because my voice has deserted me again.

  ‘We can go straight to my car,’ Connie continues. I’m not sure who out of the three of us she’s talking to. It seems to be mostly herself. ‘And I’ll drive you both to A&E. Is that . . .’ she hesitates, then looks at me. ‘Does that sound right?’

  I nod again, because it’s not like I have any better ideas.

  ‘Right,’ Connie says briskly. ‘Rhys,’ she begins, her voice suddenly much louder. ‘I’m going to help you up now. Do you think you can manage?’

  Rhys looks at me, his face twisted in pain and frustration. When he says my name, it is a hoarse breath, barely a whisper. ‘Steffi.’

  We’re going to help you, I sign. It’ll be fine. I make myself smile encouragingly.

  He moves his uninjured hand to his chest and circles his fist around his heart. Sorry.

  You don’t need to be sorry. Get ready, OK? This might hurt.

  It’s awkward not only because a total stranger is helping me lift up my eleven-stone boyfriend, but also on a practical level: Rhys’s left leg and right arm are hurt, which means it is not as simple as acting like a crutch.

  We struggle for about three minutes before Connie stops, shaking her head. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she says, panting slightly. ‘We need someone else.’

  Before I can say anything in response she is jogging off towards a person further down the path. I spin round to face Rhys and look carefully at him, scanning his face, trying to read him. He manages a smile, and I smile back, lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

  Connie comes back with a man who must be around my dad’s age. ‘He’s a GP!’ she tells me, almost glowing with relief.

  ‘Hello,’ the man says, looking almost amused. ‘Not experienced climbers, then, are we?’

  This strikes me as a bit of a knobbish thing to say, all things considered, but I’m too me to say so, so I just shake my head like an idiot.

  ‘All right, chap,’ the man says to Rhys. ‘I’m Stuart. Let’s take a look at you before we try moving you any more.’

  ‘He’s deaf,’ I say.

  ‘Are you his interpreter?’ he asks me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m his girlfriend.’

  Stuart looks right past me and makes a long-suffering face at Connie, who smiles uncertainly back. ‘Do you speak sign language?’ he says to me, his voice an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ he says pointedly. ‘That’ll make things a bit easier.’ He turns back to Rhys. ‘Now, chap. What happened?’

  ‘His name is Rhys,’ I say.

  Rhys waves, gets my attention and then makes a series of gestures with his working hand, his face moving through a variety of expressions. He points at his foot, then moves his hand in a circular motion.

  ‘He tripped,’ I say to Stuart. Rhys coughs. ‘On a rock,’ I add.

  ‘Fell awkwardly, did you?’ Stuart says gamely. As annoying as he’s being, at least he doesn’t raise his voice when he talks to Rhys. ‘Let’s take a look.’ With gentle hands, he takes Rhys’s injured arm. ‘It looks like you’ve dislocated your elbow,’ he says. ‘The ankle could be broken or just sprained – you’ll need an X-ray to know for sure. Did you hit your head?’

  Rhys looks to me and I sign a quick translation. He shakes his head.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘That’s lucky, then. Let’s get you down to the ground, shall we?’

  With Stuart’s help, it’s definitely easier to manoeuvre Rhys down the green slopes of Holyrood Park, but it still takes a while. Rhys gives up trying to be stoic and groans pretty much the whole way down. After the first few sympathetic winces and worried signs, I stop bothering and instead listen in on Stuart and Connie, who are bonding over the fact that they’re both wearing North Face jackets. Loki is lolloping along beside me, and I tell him in soft whispers about Rhys and me, our Edinburgh adventure. Like all dogs, he’s a good listener.

  Connie’s car is a small olive Golf. Books cover the back seat and she apologizes as she hastily sweeps the lot into one corner. One slips out of her grip and bounces on to the concrete. ‘I’m a school librarian,’ she says. ‘I read a lot.’

  Stuart laughs and says something about how she should see his own car; it’s full of medical journals and issues of New Scientist. I’m already imagining how they’ll tell this story on their wedding day – ‘And then she opened her car door . . .’ ‘. . . And all the books fell out!’ *Pause for laughter* – and I quirk an eyebrow at Rhys, grinning, but he just looks at me in confusion. Of course, he’s missed the entire thing.

  I wonder how the two of us will feature in the retelling of this story. The deaf boy with the busted ankle. The girl who couldn’t speak. But then, I have spoken. So who am I? Just the girlfriend?

  Stuart helps to ease Rhys into the front seat of the car, having pushed it as far back as it will go so Rhys has room if he needs it. I sit in the back seat and tap Rhys’s shoulder. How are
you?

  He wiggles his hand. So-so.

  Does it hurt a lot?

  Yes.

  When Connie slides into the front seat and starts the car, I realize Stuart isn’t coming with us. He gives us a friendly wave as Connie reverses out of the space. I want to ask her if she got his number, but I don’t know how. What would Tem say? She’d make a joke out of it. She’d be so funny and charming that Connie would be laughing all the way to the hospital.

  Rhys leans his head against the rest and I see him close his eyes. There are pain wrinkles in his forehead.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Connie says, and I realize she’s looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

  Have I even said thank you to this woman?

  ‘Thanks for . . . um. Doing this.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ Connie replies easily. ‘Nothing like a spot of mountain rescue on a Saturday afternoon!’

  ‘I don’t really . . .’ I stop, embarrassed, but then the silence is so expectant and awkward I have to finish. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing.’

  There’s a pause as Connie slows for traffic. She glances at her rear-view mirror again and smiles at me. ‘What did you say your name was? Steffi?’

  I nod.

  ‘No one does, Steffi. No one knows what they’re doing.’

  ‘Stuart seemed like he did,’ I say, and Connie laughs. I made a joke! And she laughed!

  ‘Some people pretend better than others,’ she concedes. ‘It must be tough for you, having a deaf boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I say, defensive on his behalf. ‘He’s brilliant.’

  She smiles again, fond and a little wistful, even though she doesn’t know either of us. ‘I’m sure he is.’

  ‘He takes care of me,’ I add.

  ‘It seems like you take good care of him too.’

  This is a nice thing to say, so I don’t contradict her. I try to think of something else to say, because it’s kind of nice having a conversation instead of sitting in awkward silence, but I can’t think of anything.

  ‘Is there anyone you should call?’ Connie asks.

  ‘Call?’ I echo, instantly anxious again. The word alone is Pavlovian to me. I hear that one syllable and start sweating.