Shattered: A Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  I focus on his hand and his voice. He starts speaking in Gaelic, for the first time since I’ve returned home. ‘Aon, dhà, trì. S’math sin. Now hold for three. Aon, dhà …’

  The simple phrases take me back to the beginning of primary school, when we first met. We always thought it funny that S’math sin (That’s good) sounded like smashing. We’d say it with a posh English accent and get in trouble.

  ‘Aon, dhà, trì, ceithir. S’math sin, now hold. Aon, dhà, trì, ceithir. Now breathe out.’

  My lungs seize, then heave. It’d be a sob if I weren’t too terrified for tears.

  He whispers,‘Shhhh,’ which is the same in every language. Martin lifts his other hand to stroke my hair. ‘This’ll pass, mate. It’ll all pass.’ His thumb draws slow circles over my temple. The stabbing sensation in my chest eases a fraction.

  We count my breaths, Martin out loud and me silently. His voice is mesmerising, and soon my lungs unclamp from my ribs. My heart’s still racing, but at a marathoner’s speed now instead of a sprinter’s.

  Finally I lift my left hand, trembling and chilled. It’s like I’m operating someone else’s body with a remote control. I stare at it, front and back.

  ‘Dè tha ceàrr?’ he asks. What’s wrong?

  ‘It all feels far from me.’ I wave my hand through the air. ‘Like I can’t tell where my body ends and the world begins. I feel I could just … dissipate.’ I flex and stretch my fingers quickly, as if doing a magic trick.

  ‘Don’t dissipate.’ He lies on his side next to me, the front of his face pressing my pillow. ‘Sounds awfy painful.’

  ‘Can’t be worse than these panic attacks.’ I drop my arm, knocking it against his. His hand is still on my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I tuck my hand between us, over top the sheets.

  ‘This was a bad one, wasn’t it?’ he asks.

  ‘The worst. Felt I was going to die.’ I don’t add, I still feel that. His calm is the only thing keeping me from panicking again. ‘I’m all wrung out, twisted up.’

  As if punctuating my sentence, my legs spasm, then my shoulders. Martin gasps in surprise, an almost comical sound.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Someday ye will be, but not tonight.’

  I cover my face with my right hand, the one not wedged between our bodies. ‘Ach, I hate for you to see me like this, again and again.’

  ‘It’s awright. A good distraction from my own problems.’

  Speaking of distractions. ‘What problems?’ I ask him, hungry for a topic that isn’t me. ‘Yer man? Or yer parents?’

  ‘There’s nae man at the moment. Which I suppose is a problem, but not the big one. Ma rang me today, said I’m to come with her and Da to see Finn next week. But he hates when we visit. He hates us. He hates everything.’

  I remember what I learned earlier tonight (Was it only tonight? Edinburgh feels a million years ago). ‘Niall told me about your cat.’

  Martin’s breath catches, and when he speaks, his voice is cold and hard. ‘Now you know why I hate my brother.’

  ‘He wasn’t himself after the accident. The old Finn would’ve never—’

  ‘The old Finn was a bawfaced cunt. The new one is … a monster.’ His hand on my stomach curls into a fist. ‘I was there. It happened so fast, Penny was dead before I even knew what Finn was doing. Sophie started screaming, hitting him, and he pushed her off, said he’d kill her next. So I grabbed him and started punching him in the face. He got his knee up into my baws, but somehow I kept hitting and shaking him, banging his head on the floor until he stopped moving.’ Martin’s face twists, his freckles stark against his pale skin. ‘I beat my nine-year-old brother senseless,’ he chokes out. ‘I could’ve killed him. I wanted to kill him.’

  ‘You were defending your six-year-old sister, so there’s nae shame in it.’

  ‘She ran and got Ma, and Finn was gone in an hour. I didn’t visit him for more than a year. Sophie still hasn’t seen him.’ Martin sniffles. ‘Look at me, having a greet over a wee cat.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I should offer him a comforting shoulder pat or whatever people do when someone cries. But I’m still frozen here on my back, drained from the panic. ‘I always liked Penny.’

  ‘She liked you too. You were one of, I dunno, three people outside the family she’d let pet her.’ He attempts a smile, but it quickly fades.

  ‘She’d a great life. She was loved. Try to remember the good years, not the bad seconds.’

  ‘I do, but it makes me miss her more. It’s easier now, living in your house, where she never was.’ He gives a weak laugh. ‘So dinnae chuck me onto the street for snoring, awright?’

  ‘I wouldnae chuck you for anything.’

  He lifts his chin to look at me straight. I’m suddenly conscious our faces are just a few inches apart. If I move away, he’ll take it wrong. But it’s hard for me to be this close to anyone without panicking. Even Martin. Even now.

  ‘Mum and Dad love having you,’ I add.

  He blinks, then pulls his hand off my stomach. We’re so near, though, he has trouble finding a non-awkward place to put it.

  Without thinking, I take it in mine, then bring them to rest between us. It’s the second hand I’ve held tonight. My father’s was cold and fragile, while Martin’s is warm and strong.

  But it’s too much. I jerk my head away, making my neck spasm.

  ‘Augh!’ I wince, rubbing the spot between my neck and shoulder. ‘Got all knotted up in the stupid panic attack.’

  ‘That won’t work. You’re straining the same muscles you’re trying tae relax. ’Mon, turn this way.’

  The movement sends stabs of pain from the base of my skull out into my arms, but somehow I shift onto my left side facing him. Martin frowns as he tries to dig his thumb into the taut cords of tissue atop my shoulder. His right hand slips beneath my neck, steadying my head.

  It occurs to me that he could snap my spine in this position. A sudden vulnerability sweeps over me.

  Unable to speak, I take his wrists and pull his hands from my neck. But I don’t let go. Instead I press my forehead to his knuckles, trying in vain to steady my breath. Finally I move one of his hands to my chest and place his palm over my racing, stuttering heart.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Zach. It’s beating a million miles an hour. Am I making it worse?’

  ‘No. Maybe. It’s not you. It’s … being touched. I wasn’t, for so long, this summer. It feels … dangerous.’

  His fingers twitch, then curl, bunching the cloth of my T-shirt. ‘It’s not dangerous.’ One finger extends to trace below my collarbone. ‘Can I show you?’

  I shiver, thinking of Aura. What if I’m like this with her in Ireland? What if on our big night, during our precious short holiday, I still can’t bear to be touched?

  I let go of Martin’s wrists, a silent assent.

  His right hand stays over my heart, perhaps monitoring my reaction, as his left moves to the side of my neck, up into my hair. His thumb outlines my earlobe, tracing my shape back into existence, showing me where I end and Else begins.

  I close my eyes as he skims my brows, cheekbones, jaw. His ring and index finger drift over my lids, middle finger skating down my nose. They join together at my lips, just long enough to circle once. And then they’re gone.

  ‘Should I stop?’ he whispers.

  ‘No.’ This is working. For the first time since I woke, my body seems the right place to be. For the first time since I left 3A, I’m not afraid.

  His hand drifts over my shoulder, then my arm, reshaping me. Slowly he sculpts my wrist, hand, and fingertips. It’s from there, a few inches of skin, that life begins to spread through me again. I shift my legs beneath the covers, and it doesn’t hurt a bit.

  Martin hesitates, his palm against mine. ‘Promise you’ll say if ye need me tae stop.’

  ‘Promise.’

  He reaches out to stroke the back of my shoulder over my sh
irt. His thumb digs in, releasing a sharp bit of tension I didn’t know was there. I exhale as the pain radiates up to my neck and out to my elbow, then fades. He’s quite good at this.

  With his arm around me, we’re closer now. I shift nearer so he can reach the center of my back. Eyes closed in concentration, he works his way down. I notice his hair doesn’t smell of smoke.

  I lay a hand on his waist to steady myself. He opens his eyes in surprise. His mouth is so close to mine, I can feel his quickening breath.

  Martin shifts beneath my palm, and my hand slides forward over his lower back. This all feels so foreign, yet so familiar. Not like touching a girl for the first time. Not quite right, but not wrong either.

  Barely an inch of space separates the lengths of our bodies. We lie in our embrace, eyes locked, trembling with sudden uncertainty.

  ‘How is it no one touched you for weeks?’ he whispers, though there’s nobody to hear us. ‘Were you not … hurt?’

  I swallow. ‘Define “hurt.”’

  ‘Beaten.’

  I wish. ‘No.’

  ‘Then where did these demons come from?’ His right hand quivers, still pressed against my heart. ‘What did those people do to ye?’

  Lying with him here, having just escaped what felt like death, I feel safer than ever. So I tell the truth, in a way, hoping and fearing he’ll hear what I mean.

  ‘They did nothing.’

  ‘Nothing,’ he repeats, pensively.

  I expect him to add And ‘nothing’ gives you nightmares. ‘Nothing’ wakes you screaming. I expect him to doubt me like he did before. Like all the others do.

  Instead Martin gasps. ‘Oh. Oh, no.’ For a moment, his eyes fill with rage, and I know if DMP or Nighthawk agents were here right now, Martin would punch their throats until they never breathed again.

  But they’re not here. It’s just us.

  So he kisses my forehead, then tucks my face tight against his neck. ‘God, Zachary,’ he says in a rough voice that sounds on the edge of tears. ‘I cannae think of anything worse than nothing.’

  And I know he understands.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the morning I go back to the hospital, stopping at Mum’s favourite bakery on the way. The ICU nurse informs me Dad’s been moved to a room in the regular medical ward.

  ‘He’s quite improved overnight,’ she tells me. ‘Your father’s got a lot of fight in him.’

  ‘Believe me, I know.’ I return her smile and head for the lift.

  Downstairs in Medicine, Mum’s standing near the window of the waiting area, gazing out at the snow flurries. She looks at me with surprise, then glances at the clock.

  ‘Why, Zachary Moore, what brings you out at this early hour?’

  I chuckle as I set the teas and the bag of pastries on the table beside her. Ten fifty-seven isn’t early for normal people. I didn’t doze off again until after six, but it was the best sleep I’ve had in ages.

  ‘Mum.’ I reach out and take her in my arms. She gasps, frozen at first, then joins me in our long, tight hug.

  When we finally let go, her eyes are wet. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You might say I’ve had a breakthrough.’

  We sit on the low couch together as I tell her about my worst nightmare and anxiety attack ever, about Martin teaching me how to breathe. I leave out the muscle spasms and how he soothed them, and obviously the part where I told him the DMP had done ‘nothing’ to me, and how he was the first to understand that ‘nothing’ didn’t mean no harm. He understood that ‘nothing’ meant nothing.

  She gives me a warm, sad smile. ‘Whatever would we do without Martin?’

  I’ve no answer. While I lay in his arms this morning, memories pouring out of me like blood from a wound, he just … listened. I told him how, during those first two weeks in 3A, I’d fought back in fierce, futile ways: clogging the toilet with paper towels, or writing obscene notes on my walls with crayons, or having a defiant wank in full view of the ceiling camera. I told him how they outwitted and outwaited me. I told him how, as a last resort, I gave myself over to madness.

  I did not, however, tell him how Logan saved me. That’s between us.

  I hand the white-paper bakery bag to my mother. ‘They’d the blueberry scones you fancy. Got the last two.’

  She claps her hands like a little girl. ‘Who are you, and what have you done with my son?’

  I’m stung by her pleasure at my ‘return’. Was I so far gone that a hug and a pair of blueberry scones provoke such celebration?

  ‘So your father and I were talking this morning about the situation at home,’ she says as we set into breakfast. ‘He’s asked to have his own room, apart from me.’

  ‘Oh, no. Are you not getting on?’ My parents have always argued a lot, but they always make up quickly and fervently.

  ‘It’s not that. He doesn’t like disturbing my sleep. He says he wants his own space to be miserable in.’

  ‘That makes sense.’ I used to be that way too, when I was sick or unhappy. Back before I was terrified to be alone. ‘He hates being watched all the time, especially when we’re watching for signs he’s – he’s getting worse.’ I almost said signs he’s dying.

  ‘I think that’s it. If he can be out from under my worried eyes at night, it’ll let his mind rest. But that means you and Martin will share a room full-time. You can move into Martin’s room with the two single beds or stay in your room with the queen-sized.’

  It’s not an easy choice. In Martin’s room I’d still have his company, without having to share a bed. He’d be less likely to wake me coming home from work in the middle of the night.

  But if Martin were across the room, I’d have to hold my own breath to hear his. There’d be that moment of panic when I’d wonder if I were alone.

  ‘I’d rather not change rooms, if that’s alright.’

  ‘Of course.’ She sips her tea and frowns. I must’ve put too much sugar in. ‘Martin helps you sleep, doesn’t he?’

  I nod. ‘And he’s better at ducking punches than you are.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Mum says with a light laugh. Then she reaches out cautiously and puts her hand over mine. ‘Zachary, you and Aura are in the midst of a long separation, in both time and space. Considering all you’re facing with your father and whatever memories still haunt you from this summer, if you were to find even the tiniest bit of comfort in Martin’s … well, I wouldn’t blame you. No one would.’

  I’m not exactly sure what she’s on about, but I am sure I don’t want to have this conversation with my mother. ‘If Dad moves to the guest room, then you or I can sleep in the other bed when he needs close watching.’

  Mum hesitates, perhaps wondering if I blanked out during her previous statement, since I failed to acknowledge it. Daftness has its uses.

  ‘An excellent point.’ She crumples the empty bakery bag and brushes nonexistent crumbs off her lap. ‘Speaking of your father, shall we go see if he’s awake?’

  Date: 19 November

  Weight: 65 kg

  Hours sleep in last week: 41

  Nightmares in last week: 5

  Flashbacks in last week: 2

  Panic attacks in last week: 2

  Days since 3A: 86

  Days until Aura: 31

  Aura’s wearing my favourite jumper tonight, the red V-necked cardigan that looks soft as kitten fur. As she speaks, fluttering her hand and shifting in her chair, my eyes are glued to the jumper’s top button, hoping it will magically pop open.

  It’s been weeks since I’ve thought about sex in anything but the abstract, but the last few days I can think of little else. The first morning I woke with a raging stauner in my boxer shorts, I felt like singing. It was like greeting a long-lost friend.

  Perhaps it’s the change in meds: after the severe panic attack I had the night Dad was in hospital, my doctor switched me from Klonopin back to the faster-acting Xanax, at least for the next month. Side effects may vary, as they say
. So that’s one explanation.

  Another explanation: I’m finally returning to life.

  Aura folds her arms on the desk and leans towards me. Does she know how this motion pushes up her tits? She must – she’s touching them right now with the backs of her wrists. She can touch them any time she wants. I’m pure jealous.

  I squirm in my seat. If I can somehow hint to Aura that this need has returned, maybe we could, I dunno, do something about it.

  ‘Isn’t your dad’s chemo tomorrow?’ she asks. ‘Third Thursday of the month?’

  I blink. That was a bit of a stauner kill.

  ‘Em, yeah.’ She keeps track of my life better than I do sometimes. ‘Mum said I could take him alone this time, just him and me. So that’ll be fun.’

  Aura laughs at my sarcasm. ‘He still hasn’t learned how to be a good patient?’

  ‘I guess he’s better than I’d be.’ No, don’t mention yourself. That’ll raise questions. ‘Tomorrow the key will be making sure he eats and drinks every few hours instead of passing out and sleeping straight through the night. Friday he’ll wake feeling spectacular, so I have to keep him from charging out of the house to climb Ben Nevis on a pogo stick while fighting terrorists in hand-to-hand combat.’

  She laughs again, a sound that now soothes my nerves instead of grating on them. ‘How do you keep him occupied?’

  ‘Mostly we play video games. The trick is to let him win without him knowing I’m letting him win. Which is easy, cos he’s better than I am.’ I revel in the sight of her smile and the fact that I’ve caused it. ‘Friday night the nausea’ll set in, and that’s when Mum takes over. She’s got a stronger stomach than I do, so she’s better with the boaking.’

  ‘Ugh. Sorry you have to go through that. I’m sure it doesn’t help you recover from – you know.’

  I grip the seat of my chair to keep my arms from wrapping around my own waist. All I want is one conversation where she doesn’t poke at my wounds.

  Instead of snapping at her, I just shrug. ‘That’s the way it goes.’

  She waits a few moments, then gives up and peers past me. ‘Where’s Martin? Doesn’t he have Wednesday nights off?’