After the Rain

by Natália Gomes

‘I know you thought you were helping, but I can’t go back there. Not yet.’

  ‘I understand. When you’re ready, I’ll come with you. Or if you want to go alone, then I’ll just be here to talk when you get back,’ she smiles.

  I bite my lip and take a deep breath. I can’t break, not now.

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Jack, to help you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she says quietly.

  ‘I’m just drained,’ I whisper, rubbing my forehead. ‘I just need to rest.’ I seem to be saying that a lot these days. Truth is, I sleep most of the day. How can I still feel so tired all the time?

  She nods and stands, reading my cue. She walks over to the door then turns back. ‘I know you just want to be alone right now. But I’m not giving up on you.’

  Alice

  I stare up at the poster of a man climbing a mountain on my ceiling. Shoes still on from a walk in the snow, jacket unbuttoned but wrapped around me, scarf on the floor. I’d wanted to know what it was like to just stare at this poster all day long like Jack had to, so I’d found a copy online and pasted it up on my own ceiling.

  I hate it.

  I tap my toes, boots banging together. I just don’t know what to do about Jack but I know I need to do something, soon. He’s slipping further away and I’ve never seen him like this before. I wish I knew how to help him. The peer support group wasn’t successful. Revisiting Leicester Square just made him more upset. My texts, emails and phone calls have all failed to reach him. Everything I say isn’t working. His mom is at a loss too. Patrick, his physio has been calling, and someone called Charlie too, but he won’t take their calls either. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what he needs right now.

  Ugh, I need to take this poster down.

  I sit up and swing my legs over the bed. The corkboard of photos still sits on the floor, propped against the wall, reminding me of the summer we shared together. Of the outings, the sun, the rain, the laughs, the teasing, the tears, the panic attacks, the night terrors. Those photos remind me of a year that was both happy and heart-wrenching. My mom didn’t understand why I pinned the photos up, why I’d want to be reminded of what was a difficult and painful summer for me. But it was also a time of healing, of learning. And a time when Alice Winters met Jack Addington. Sure, it’s sad to look at sometimes but it’s also calming, in a weird way. It reminds me of a summer that broke me then built me back up. I wish I could remind Jack there’s still so much to do, to achieve, to experience. There’s still so much to live for.

  Suddenly, I sit up straight, the hairs on my skin pricking. Maybe there is something else I can try. One last thing. I slide my phone off my bedside table and start typing a text to Mrs A. I’m going to need her help. And my mom’s. I open the bedroom door and call down the stairs. ‘Mom!’

  Her head appears at the bottom of the stairs. Her pink hair has now been dyed back to a more normal color. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Can you help me make something?’

  ‘Of course. What do you need?’

  ‘Can you look out the scissors, tape, glue, and anything you can find like ribbon, colored paper, borders, stickers?’

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘A gift for Jack,’ I smile.

  Jack

  It’s strange the things you think of when you’re all alone in a small space with hours and hours to just let your mind wander. The things your mind conjures are even stranger when you drift in and out of sleep, never fully knowing if you’re awake or dreaming. Beautiful fragments of the past collide with sharp images of the present. The mind can be cruel. It can guide you through the most beautiful memories, then rip them away or mould them into nightmares. The cold ground of a mountain, the crisp air of a summit, the soft cushion of Lauren’s lips when we first kissed, dissolve into darkness before re-emerging as something entirely different. Something I don’t want to be thinking about, like that moment I first came to in the hospital, the feeling of nothingness after my thighs, the absence of ground under my feet. Then my mind cruelly brings me back to the soft touch of my mum’s fingertips as they stroked my forehead as a child, the strong embrace of my dad’s arms as he pulls me in for a hug at the end of a race, the slapping on my back from friends as we pose at the top of a mountain. And suddenly, I’m back to the bright yellow of Alice’s umbrella the day of the bombing, the heat of the debris cloud as it engulfed me, the patter of rain on my face as I lay on the concrete drifting in and out of consciousness. My mind plays with sounds too, tormenting me all the same. The first song I remember hearing, the first playlist I created for a run, my parents’ voices, the shouts and claps of race supporters, the sound of waves crashing against the bottom of a cliff, all eventually turn into the screams of agony, the beeping of hospital machines, the ticking of a clock in an operating theatre.

  I close my eyes, squeezing them as tight as I can and try to imagine something else, anything else. Then I hear Alice, the muffled murmurings of an American accent coming down the hallway as she talks to my mum. The voice gets louder, filling the whole house, seeping in under my closed door which has a sign up to say I’m not feeling well and not to wake me until dinner. Then it gets softer, fading slowly away before it disappears forever. I don’t know whether it was in my head, another fragment of a dream, or if Alice really was here. A soft knock on my door confirms it.

  ‘I’m sleeping.’

  I hear a sigh from behind the door, and feel a twinge of guilt in my belly. ‘Alice dropped something off for you, I’ll just leave it outside your door.’

  Footsteps fade as she moves away. I take a deep breath and slowly open the door, afraid Alice is still out there and I’ll have to fake my way through a polite conversation when all I want to do is sleep. Sleep and dream. The hallway is empty, dark. On the floor is a large square book of some kind. I bring it onto my lap and close the door again. It’s wrapped in grey tissue paper with silver stars which rustles when I tear it off and let it fall to the ground by my wheels. It’s a scrapbook or a photo album. I open the first page. There’s a photo of me leaving the hospital on the day I was discharged. I didn’t even know she’d taken a photo. My friends are pushing me towards the new van my mum had just bought. It’s my face I can’t stop looking at. On my face aren’t tears of disappointment or a visible fear of an unknown future. On my face is a smile. I’m smiling. Across the van is a WELCOME HOME sign and I seem happy to be getting released from the hospital. On the page next to the photo are messages from the doctors and nurses who took care of me. The next page are photos of me at home – in the garden, by the duck pond, at the kitchen table. My mum must have given Alice these. Next to them are messages from my mum, my dad and even from my neighbours. My dad, he’s proud of me, he says. There’s a folded-up piece of paper inside. When I unfold it I see a cutout of a wheelchair but one that looks different to mine. The wheels are thinner and the frame looks lighter, with an option to hold on to dropped handlebars like on a race bike. The cutout is paperclipped to a printout of an advanced entry to next year’s London Marathon. I don’t understand at first then I read the section he’s highlighted in yellow:

  The Virgin Money London Marathon is run under British Athletics, World Para Athletics and IAAF rules which clearly state that the marathon is an athletics event and only a recognised racing wheelchair is permitted.

  Then I understand, he’s telling me I can still enter and finish the marathon, not on artificial legs like I’d hoped, but with a racing wheelchair. With a racing wheelchair I can still do this. I can still achieve my goal of completing the marathon with him. That’s what he was trying to tell me yesterday. And I didn’t let him speak.

  Photos of our summer last year dot the next few pages – of our trips to the community garden, to Thorpe Park, to the arcade, to the top of the Shard, to a silent disco in Hyde Park, our Thanksgiving Day picnic on the beach. There’s that photo I took of Alice with her Cosmo cocktail at th
e arcade bar. Around it is a brief message from her. Thirteen words, that’s all she wrote. That’s all she needed to write. I skim her words with my fingertips:

  We’re still here. We owe it to these people to keep on living.

  The final pages aren’t photos of me, or of her, but faces of all those who died the day of the bombing: Zaffir Ashok, an NHS nurse; James Maitland, a University of Cambridge graduate; Sarah Jones, a mother of two; David Chang, a local businessman. Tourists, families, friends, couples, even an off-duty Met police officer. Twenty-two people died that day and forty-eight were critically injured. Then there are photos and media images of other survivors like Alice. Like me. Yes, I am a survivor, and I need to keep on living.

  I look out the window again – through what’s left – at the sun setting beyond the hills. London seems so far away from here even though it’s only forty-five minutes. Slivers of deep purple, misty grey and feathery white start to unfold over the hills and snake towards my house. Peppered into the deep purple hues of the sunset are spots of dark pink and red. It’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen. And it’s not one from the top of a mountain or from the edge of a forest trail after a run. It’s from my own window. It’s nature at its most raw and vulnerable, from my own house. My fingers graze the top of the scrapbook again, the images and words inside becoming ingrained into my mind. I can still feel Alice on the pages. I can still feel her strength. And as if it’s ink spilling onto me from the pages, I let her strength penetrate my skin and sink into my flesh, onto the limbs remaining and the ones lost.

  I close my eyes and see her standing at the other side of the road, the pedestrian crossing flashing bursts of green. Her toes slightly over the edge of the pavement, she stands facing me. Her fire-red hair lifting in the breeze. Her mouth opens and she’s calling my name. The heat at my back gets warmer, stronger. But it doesn’t take me this time. It builds around me, destroying everything else in its path then it turns to a small heap of grey ash at my feet. My feet are still on the ground, the concrete earth beneath my running shoes. The palm of my hands are clean. The debris is gone from my knees. My running shorts are still intact. And Alice, Alice is still there. She’s still standing on the other side of the road. And her hand is stretched out towards me. I step out onto the empty road and I walk towards her.

  I bite down on my lip and when I open my eyes finally, I don’t see the reflection of a gaunt, broken person in the mirror. I don’t see the awards or photos of a time long ago on the walls. I don’t see my running shoes on the floor that I reclaimed from the back of a cupboard. Or my reflective cycling jacket hanging on the wardrobe handle. I just see the sunset. I shuffle forward and open the window wide. Crisp winter air floods the room. My mouth opens wide and I gulp the air around me like it’s the first time I’m taking a breath. Warmth pricks the corners of my eyes as I stare into the sunset. I take another deep breath, letting it fill every inch of my body, every moment of my memories. My hand rests on my chest feeling the thump and pound of every heartbeat.

  Alice

  I pull on another pair of gloves, the biting chill of February nipping at my fingers. It would be 18 to 20 degrees back in San Diego at this time of the year but here temperatures barely break 7 degrees on most days. Spring certainly feels like a long way away. It’s been over a month since I gave Jack the scrapbook – and since he finally emerged from his bedroom from the thick haze of depression that had taken him from me. And exactly two hours and twenty-two minutes since we arrived here at the run track at school. I’ve been watching him and his dad race laps in his new chair for the past two hours while I sit on the astroturf in the middle with my poetry journal, a pen and a coffee that’s cooling fast. I occasionally break from my writing and latte to take photos and scream cheers of encouragement. He’s fast, and if he trains like this for the rest of the year there will be no stopping him at the marathon. He’s already signed up for a half marathon in the fall and another by Christmas. He’ll be a pro with this new racing wheelchair by the time next April comes around.

  Sweat pours from him as he wheels past me in a flurry. I feel the ground tremble as he whizzes past. At this rate I’ll have to invest in a motion lens for the camera to capture him. He flies through the finish line as the sound of his dad clapping reverberates around the track. I join in, clapping my palms loudly. Jack wheels over to me, chest heaving with effort.

  ‘I just got my best time,’ he pants.

  ‘Nice! Congrats.’ I toss my journal down and lean back on my hands, the cold ground piercing through my gloves. ‘I’m going to have to stop coming here. People will start to think I’m some sort of groupie or something. Next thing I know I’ll be wearing a T-shirt with your face on it.’

  ‘It’ll be an improvement on your current outfit,’ he grins.

  ‘Hey, if I have to sit out here in this cold I’m wearing three pairs of pants.’

  ‘We say trousers here. Pants are something else,’ he grins.

  ‘It’s freezing, I don’t care what you Brits call them. Speaking of, my toes are going to fall off if I stay any longer. Mind if I head home?’

  ‘No, you go on. You look cold. Besides, I have the therapist right after this anyway.’

  ‘How is that going?’ I ask, wiggling my toes to keep the circulation going.

  ‘It’s going well. I’m not one for talking about myself but it’s a little easier to do in private I suppose.’

  ‘Well, when you feel ready, we’d love to have you back at the support group on Mondays.’

  ‘Well, when you feel ready, I’d love to read that journal of yours one day,’ he grins.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I shake my head.

  ‘Come on. I’d love to read your poems.’

  I sigh deeply, my warm breath filling the cold air around me. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, why not. But be warned, I’m no Robert Frost.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Just a warning, I wrote a little about last year and how I was feeling at the time,’ I say quietly.

  ‘I’d like to read those,’ he smiles. His dad calls him back over. ‘Hey, thanks for coming today.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ I quip, jumping up. I swing my bag over my shoulder.

  ‘Got your dress for Saturday?’

  ‘What’s happening on Saturday again?’ I tease.

  He rolls his eyes and wheels himself back to the start line.

  ‘You’re racing again?’ I exclaim.

  ‘Again,’ he shouts back.

  Jack

  She stands at the doorway, the edge of her heels spilling onto the steps of the driveway. She tugs awkwardly at the neckline, pulling it up. She hears my chair come towards her and turns unsteadily. She holds her hands out as she totters on her heels then takes a deep breath. She’s wearing a long emerald green dress and her red curly hair is pulled back off her face. She even has make-up on, I think. She laughs when she sees me. ‘Don’t we look a pair?’

  I tug at the collar of my tux that feels tight and restrictive around my neck after months in nothing but pyjamas, hoodies and joggers, or ‘sweatpants’ as Alice calls them. I’m getting used to her jargon, and she to mine. I understand now that when she refers to her ‘pants’ she thankfully isn’t talking about her underwear, and she now correctly uses the term ‘knackered’ instead of ‘knickered’. When she told me she was so ‘knickered’ after our walk, I thought she was again referring to her underwear.

  She glances up at the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses from inside the house. Our parents have just met for the first time, and so far it’s going really well. In fact, Alice’s mum has really hit it off with mine. They may even become friends after this. It’ll be nice for my mum to have a new friend, someone to spend time with outside of the house. Like me, she’s spent most of the last year inside this building, surrounded by brick, antiques and a son who couldn’t face the world. And from the sounds of it, Mrs Winters could do with a fr
iend too. Who knew, first Alice and me, now our mothers?

  Alice fiddles with the strap on her dress.

  ‘You look fine.’

  ‘Gee, thanks. I look “fine”? Is that a compliment?’ she mumbles, still fiddling with her neckline.

  ‘I mean you look nice – pretty.’

  Her cheeks suddenly go red. ‘Thanks,’ she mutters. Then she shakes her head and shakes off my compliment. ‘I’m totally bringing my sweatpants to change into after the dinner though. It’s a seven-course meal – no dress is that forgiving.’

  I smile and look past her, out onto the front garden. Raindrops hit the grass and overflow the bird baths. Droplets spatter on the stone and tickle our feet. We shift back, huddling under the archway of the front door.

  ‘Can’t believe it’s raining tonight,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t you have a brolly?’

  ‘A what?’ she asks.

  ‘An umbrella,’ I smile. There’s one I need to work on.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s bright blue with yellow stars on it. It’ll totally clash with my dress.’

  ‘Look at you, turning into quite the fashionista,’ I grin.

  ‘Well,’ she says in a very theatrical English accent, ‘I am going to a fancy schmancy charity ball at the V&A Museum. I have to look the part.’ She starts parading around the lobby, and immediately stumbles over her heels.

  ‘Do you have other shoes?’ I grimace.

  She pops her feet out of them, and kicks them away. ‘Yeah, I have some sneakers in my bag. Do you think people will notice? It’s a long dress?’

  ‘Nah, you’ll be fine.’

  We turn and see Alice’s dad in the hallway, dressed in military uniform. Alice has his smile. ‘You guys ready to go?’

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Alice nods.

  We take the van, Martin driving, also dressed in a tuxedo. He had the day off today but he insisted on coming to support the cause which was kind. We ride most of the fifty minutes into the city in silence, occasionally exchanging glances. She sits beside my chair, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. The sun sets through the window next to me. It’s bright tonight and stretches wide across the subtle hilltops of Surrey. Soon the sunset-soaked countryside fades into city buildings, dimly lit streetlamps, and bustling London streets.