Dr. Myers shook her head. “It’s not at all selfish. When we’re younger, we tend to see things in a much more A-plus-B-equals-C sort of way, because we don’t really have a grasp of what’s moral and what isn’t. That’s why young brains are so unfiltered, and a child will often tell an adult if they look ugly, or if they really need to ‘go poo-poo.’ Social protocols haven’t registered, and we’re much more primitive and to-the-point.” She pursed her lips. “We don’t censor ourselves quite as much as we do when we’re grown up.”
Kayla detected the less-than-subtle hint. Dr. Myers knew she was hiding something. “Yeah. I guess.”
Dr. Myers leaned back in her chair and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Kayla noted, for the first time, how young she was. She couldn’t have been a day over thirty. And the perfume she was wearing, rather than being the kind of thick and musky scent often chosen by more confident and mature women, was sweet, like vanilla and coconut. Instead of throwing Kayla off, and causing her to doubt the young doctor’s capabilities, the realization made her feel more at ease. She liked that they were relatively close in age.
When Dr. Myers next spoke, her smooth voice seemed less polished, less sharp, though of course it hadn’t changed at all. “How did Gabe’s illness affect your childhood? If at all?”
Kayla puffed her cheeks up and slowly forced the air through her lips. “For the first few years, he was in and out of the hospital. At first, I didn’t really understand what was going on. Just that whenever my parents had friends over, they’d speak in hushed whispers whenever they discussed him. I wasn’t allowed to play with him, or even touch him. It was like he was a porcelain doll.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“Not really. I mean, I was little. I just did my own thing, and gave up trying to work out what was wrong. I just thought it was normal. It wasn’t until his health went downhill a couple of years later that my parents sat me down, and said that maybe Gabe wouldn’t be able to make it home from the hospital this time. I remember saying that was okay, because I could just go and visit him there instead. They just looked at me with these painfully sad faces, like I was too young to understand what was going on. Maybe I was. Anyway, from then on I barely saw them for months. They were constantly at his bedside, and I spent my evenings and weekends with Anna, our nanny.”
“I see. And did you ever feel resentful that Gabe received so much attention while you were left behind, in a way?”
Kayla had never thought of it that way, but the pang in her heart told her that it must ring true on some level. Her eyes felt hot and prickly. “I suppose so. I used to try and draw these amazing pictures, or write perfectly rhyming poems to show my parents. They’d smile and say, ‘That’s great, sweetheart,’ then never look at it again. I thought their apathy meant I was a rubbish writer, or a clumsy artist. Obviously Anna tried her best to make me feel special. She’d stick the drawings on the fridge and make me banana milk shakes and ruffle my hair. But there’s nothing quite like the approval of your parents.” Kayla laughed bitterly. What kind of twisted psychopath holds a grudge toward her sick little brother? “God, you must think I’m just some attention-seeking rich girl with Daddy issues.”
Cassandra leaned forward. “I’d never think that, Kayla. I know there’s something much deeper that’s making it more difficult for you to grieve. And I’m determined to help you figure out what that is.”
Kayla smiled. Not through happiness, but to show her gratitude. She was starting to see why her mother had warmed to Cassandra. “Thank you. I know I’m not doing it right, this whole bereavement thing. I can’t stop thinking about it from a purely physical perspective. Like, we’re all going to turn into dust, someday, it’s a guaranteed energy shift. At Gabe’s funeral, my nan read this poem about how when we die, we become a part of the earth, part of the elements. It was really beautiful, and it’s stuck with me. It hurts much less to think of death in a literal sense, so I cling onto that. When I start to go any deeper, it’s too excruciating.”
“I understand that. But you need to go deeper, as hard as that is. And it’s best to do it in a safe place like this, rather than by yourself in the middle of the night. I can help you, Kayla. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
Kayla knew she meant it. A cynic would interpret Cassandra’s words as a moneymaking scheme, like a driving instructor who insisted a learner needed more lessons before they were ready to book their test. But something in Dr. Myers’s eyes, a warm intensity, convinced Kayla otherwise. For whatever reason, Cassandra was invested in her struggles. “I know. I know I need to confront it. But whenever I think about the fact I’ll never again hear Gabe sing, or Sam laugh, I feel like I’m being crushed. It’s like a moment of extreme pain, then I detach myself from the thought and it goes away. I put up a barrier. I can’t bear to stick around long enough to follow the thought pattern to the end.”
Cassandra’s voice softened, reaching an even gentler register than before. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say Sam’s name.”
Kayla swallowed hard. “Maybe it is.”
A pause. “Do you feel ready to talk about what happened to him?”
Kayla doubted she’d ever be ready. But she found herself taking a deep breath and answering, “Yes. I think I am.”
WHAT IS IT they say about watched pots? They never boil. But if you take an eye off them, for even a moment, they have a tendency to bubble over.
When Kayla got home from her therapy session, she took a long, steaming shower, flicked through one of the trashy but easy-to-digest magazines her mother was so obsessed with, and gave herself a manicure for the first time in years. It wasn’t until she was blowing aggressively onto her fingertips, encouraging the varnish to dry, that she remembered to check her e-mails.
Being careful not to smudge the crimson paint, she typed her e-mail address and password into her laptop. Inbox (38) flashed onto her screen—another spambot had found her third e-mail address in as many years. But as she was deleting the penis enlargement offers and advice on “how to shed an inch of belly fat every day using this one weird old tip,” one name in particular caught her eye.
Aran Peters.
Kayla’s heart pounded as she waited for the message to load. It pounded even harder when she read the response.
He was going to help her.
Chapter 14
May 15, Thailand
THOUGH DAVE WAS a chatterbox, it wasn’t until his health began to really suffer that he eventually told Russia about his condition. And even then it was through necessity, not guilt or obligation.
The group had completed their volunteering projects a few days earlier, and were allowed two days of downtime before taking to the hills, rivers, and forests of Sangkhlaburi on a two-day trekking and camping expedition. By the end of the first day it was clear Dave was struggling.
Having pitched up in an idyllic camping spot, nestled in the trees overlooking a vast lake, Dave, Russia, Bling, Kayla, and Sam were sitting around a paltry campfire that the boys had taken what felt like eight hours to gather and light. It felt too warm to be lighting a fire, but it seemed like the right thing to do on a camping trip. And besides, it helped keep the millions of bugs away.
The sun had not long set behind the hills, and the sky was a dusty shade of indigo streaked with pink and orange. Sam had pulled out his iPod and hit play on a nostalgic-sounding acoustic album, accompanied by a male singer’s voice full of grit and melancholy. Russia, who’d found a full day of physical exertion exhausting, had laid her head on Dave’s bony shoulder. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but as the reflections from the campfire danced across her face, Kayla thought the moment looked like it belonged on a romantic chick flick, rather than one that was shared between the most dysfunctional couple she’d ever met.
She shuffled closer to Sam and laced
her fingers between his. His cheeks dimpled as his lips curled into a smile. Her heart fluttered.
Dave took a deep breath. “Guys? I have something I have to tell you.” Kayla looked up from their intertwined fingers and fixed a look of interest on her face—she wasn’t supposed to know already. “I’m not very well.”
Bling giggled. “Well, we knew that, you idiot.”
For once, Dave didn’t laugh. His expression remained steely. Bling looked immediately chastened and pressed her lips together, staring at her bare feet. “No. I mean, I’m really not very well. I have something called ALS, which affects my muscles. It’s degenerative.”
Russia sat up, frowning. “What does that mean?”
“It means my muscles will eventually deteriorate to the point where I’m completely paralyzed.”
“What? Are you joking? If you are—”
“I’m not joking, Rush.”
Russia stared at her boyfriend in stunned silence, unsure whether to shout at him for not telling her. Sam, who Dave had already told, reached across and slapped him on the back. “Sorry, mate. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
“I’m sorry, Dave,” Bling said. “That’s awful. And I’m sorry I implied you were stupid.” A sadness-laced twinkle in her eye. “I really thought you already knew,” she added. Dave pushed her over and chuckled.
He turned to Russia and cupped her chin in his hand. “Russia?”
Russia’s shoulders started to shake and her bottom lip trembled. “How did you . . . ? Why? Wh-When?”
“There is no why. It’s a genetic defect. No rhyme or reason. It’s supposed to run in families, but I don’t have any relatives that have or had it. Do you mean how did I find out?” She nodded and closed her eyes. “Well, last year my muscles were twitching and cramping a lot, and they got stiff pretty easily after I went to the gym. I was finding it hard to run too, even though I’d been a sprinter in my early teens. I can’t explain, really, but running and walking just didn’t feel . . . natural. Which is a strange sensation when you’ve done those things your whole life. I put it down to being unfit, ’cause what else would you really think? I hired a personal trainer, which is pretty funny in hindsight.” Dave laughed his signature laugh, but it didn’t meet his eyes. He blinked hard. “Thankfully, my overprotective mum made me go to the doctors. And that’s when they discovered I had ALS. At least, I think thankfully is the word. I still can’t work out if I’d rather not know how ill I am. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.”
A fat tear rolled down Russia’s cheek, and Dave wiped it away with his thumb. Kayla desperately wanted Sam to turn off the downbeat music, but knew it’d be too obvious to do so. Russia asked, “When will it . . . happen? Fully?”
Dave turned and faced the campfire, staring intensely into the flickering flames. “That’s why I’m bringing it up now. I’m losing movement in my right foot. And the toes on my left have no feeling.” He ran his hands through his thick black hair, which somehow seemed less shiny than it had five minutes ago. “The process has started. And once that happens, it doesn’t take long at all.”
AT THE END of the second day of hiking, the group was exhausted, but they’d promised Dave a night out on which he could drown his sorrows. That morning, a minibus had taken him back to their guesthouse upon Russia’s insistence that he couldn’t possibly complete the hike with only one functional foot. He’d protested, but only meekly so.
When they’d met him in a Hawaiian-themed bar down a side street in town, his eyes were already glazed over and his face was slack—he’d been drinking all afternoon. The barmaids wandering around the tiki-bedecked bar in grass skirts and lays kept shooting him concerned glances. He was, after all, their only customer, and had been for quite some time, yet his wicker table was covered in small tumblers with tiny shot glasses inside. The deserted bar stunk of stale beer.
“I’ll buy the first round. Five beers, five tequilas?” Bling said, heading to the bar without waiting for a response.
Russia pecked Dave lightly on the cheek and sat down next to him without saying a word. None of them knew quite what to say, or what kind of spirits he would be in. If it had been Kayla, she’d be sinking into a deep depression around about now. But she knew that Dave’s happiness wasn’t as volatile as most. If anyone could tackle this with a smile, it’d be him.
It took less than sixty seconds for him to prove her theory right. A dopey grin spread across his face and he announced, “You know what? You wanna know something? I love you guys. Like. I can’t believe I’ve not even known you for eight weeks, and already you’re like family. You know what we are? We’re the famous fucking five.”
Sam laughed. “Mate, the famous five was a series of children’s books by Enid Blyton. You can’t go around calling us that. It’s tragic.”
“Stupid foreigners,” Bling joked, arriving back at the table with a tray full of glasses, wobbling precariously and splashing the already sticky floor with amber-colored liquid. “Come on, let’s drink these and go somewhere more lively, where we can dance?” She froze, and glanced awkwardly at Dave. Thankfully, he was too intoxicated to pick up on the reference to physical activity. Bling shot a relieved look at Kayla, miming at wiping her forehead with the back of one hand and throwing a shot of tequila down her throat with the other.
“I’m just nipping outside for a cigarette. You coming, Russia?” Kayla asked, before realizing that Russia was too concerned with jamming her tongue down Dave’s throat to listen.
Sam piped up, “I’ll come.” Kayla looked puzzled. “Not to smoke, obviously. Just to keep you company.”
Once outside, Kayla stood with her back and one foot against the wall and sparked up her first cigarette of the day. Sam slid down the wall and sat with his back to it, resting his elbows on his knees. “Makes you think, doesn’t it.”
Kayla inhaled deeply and blew a stream of white smoke up toward the rapidly darkening sky. “What, Dave?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. It’s just so . . . shit. You know? How can a guy that great possibly deserve to be slowly paralyzed by his own faulty genes?”
“It makes me feel sick. Genuinely sick to my stomach.”
Sam sighed. “Me too. I’d do anything to change things for him. You hear all these stories about people his age essentially digging their own graves, with drugs and whatever, when he’d probably kill to have a chance at a full life. It just seems so selfish. Stuff like taking ketamine, driving at a hundred miles an hour . . .”
“Committing suicide?”
Sam closed his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Kayla. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Kayla tapped the ash dangling from the end of her cigarette onto the pavement. “No, it’s fine. If I’m being honest, sometimes I catch myself feeling pissed off at Gabe. That’s an awful thing to admit, I know, and I understand that he was driven to it. Or at least, I try to understand. I loved him to pieces, and still do. But why couldn’t he just have asked for help? Gone to the police, or deleted his Facebook, instead of throwing it all away? It seems like such a waste.” She slid down the wall so she was sitting next to Sam, making sure to edge close enough to him so their shoulders and knees were lightly touching.
“It sucks that we have to learn life lessons like this the hard way,” Sam said. “I guess you never really have perspective until you go through severe grief, or meet someone like Dave. You can’t teach it in schools, can you? My school uniform had a little castle sewn onto the top pocket of the blazers with Carpe Diem embroidered underneath. I’ve never really understood that saying until now. Seizing the day back in high school meant having a double cheeseburger for lunch, or nipping behind the sports hall to meet up with a girl instead of going to maths.” Sam glanced quickly at Kayla. “Not that I ever did that . . .”
Kayla smiled, crushing the stub of her cigarette beneath her battered flip-flop. She leaned
in a little closer to Sam, trying not to feel too self-conscious that she almost definitely smelled of smoke. Brushing her hair out of her face, she asked softly, “And what do you think it means now?”
“I’m . . . not sure. But I’m starting to understand the power of good moments.” Sam reached across and cupped Kayla’s tiny hand in his oversized one.
She turned to him, relinquishing all attempts at appearing coy or cute. Gently pulling him toward her, she kissed the only man in the world capable of making her stomach flip and her chest ache the way it did whenever he smiled, or talked, or laughed.
His lips were warm and soft as he brushed them against hers. The blaring sounds of the karaoke seemed to die down into the background, and the scent of warm pavement and barbecue smoke faded away. Kayla closed her eyes, relaxing into Sam as he stroked the nape of her neck with his thumb. Gentle pecks became firmer, more insistent. She shuddered despite the warm night.
Kayla thought back to that first night in the park. How she’d regretted not kissing him back almost as soon as she’d pulled away. How she kept lying awake at night, imagining how things could have been if she’d reciprocated. How good it would feel to kiss him. How good it would feel to never stop.
Yeah. This feels good.
As she erupted into a huge grin, the rhythm of the kiss was broken. Sam pulled away—but just a few millimeters, so his nose was still touching hers—and mirrored her smile. “What? Why are you smiling?” he mumbled.
“I think you know,” Kayla whispered.
Then the sound came back. Bling stumbled through the exit, which had strands of beads in place of a traditional door. She didn’t seem to notice—or care—that she’d interrupted a moment. She exclaimed, “They’re firing up the karaoke machine! Dave is warming up. He sounds like a duck caught in a blender.” Holding out her hands to help Sam up off the floor, she asked, “Who wants to sing Shania Twain with me?”
Run Away Page 9
