by Lia Louis
My vision is blurred from the tears, and I know Ramesh has seen. He takes a deep breath. ‘He went to your grandad’s funeral. Well. Tried. I’m not sure if you knew that.’
I shake my head. It whooshes with my pulse. ‘I did, but … I didn’t know if that was really what happened.’
Ramesh nods, his hands balled together on the desk. ‘He came down for it. Couldn’t do it. Saw you across the churchyard and … just couldn’t bring himself to. He ended up here, and—’ he shakes his head. ‘Broke down. We went back together, later. He laid something at the grave, and then he left.’
My heart falls from my chest and settles in my gut. ‘What? Why would he not come and see me?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ramesh shakes his head sadly. ‘But … your grandad’s death affected him far more than I think anyone realised.’
I can’t speak. ‘He and Hubble were close, Roman thought the world of him, I—’ My hands shake, and Ramesh gestures towards the filmy mug of tea in front of me on his desk. I pick it up and drink some. It’s cool and bitter, and I wish I hadn’t.
‘Roman needed help,’ Ramesh says. ‘He was eighteen, in a toxic environment, and after many years with us, his programme with us had come to an end. Your grandfather’s death was the final nail, I think, if you like. And I think he needed to leave, Lizzie. Something physical. To move from the circles he was in, from people taking advantage of his mental health, from … using.’ Ramesh watches me for a moment. ‘Look, I’m going to go and see about getting us some fresh tea,’ he says, rising from his seat. ‘Take a breather. You’re OK?’
I nod.
Ramesh smiles, then steps out of the room, leaving the door pulled to. Silence. I dry my eyes and look down at the open binder in my lap. I place my finger on Roman’s face. He was there. He was at Hubble’s funeral, he was there, he could see me. But he couldn’t let me know. Why? And the way Ramesh had said, ‘Using.’ Using. My stomach gurgles and cramps and I want to run to the toilet. That’s not who he was. He was recovering. He was. He was getting better. He was better than me, most of the time, the most level-headed of us all at The Grove. It was just his mum. It was Ethan – Ethan and his dodgy circle, smoking, giving him stuff to help him sleep. He was getting better. Nine months and I’d have finished my first year at college, got my qualification and could’ve applied to take the second level elsewhere – anywhere. It was up to us. As long as we were far, far away from here.
Ramesh returns a few moments later, as I’m gazing down at an empty space in the binder on my lap, and a blob of something – old glue – in the gap.
‘That was one of you two,’ he says, placing down two fresh mugs of tea and settling back in his chair.
‘Was it?’
Ramesh nods, gulping down a mouthful. ‘Roman asked if he could have it. He took that and some other things from there, a leaflet for something in the town we stayed in. You know, as souvenirs.’
I put my fingers on the space. ‘What was it of?’
‘Just you two, on a bench. Smiling. He said you never smiled for cameras, always hid your face.’
Then there is more silence. Rain begins to spit against the glass and through the slats of the blinds, I can see the sky has turned to smoky grey.
Ramesh’s phone rings, and he diverts it. He looks at me and brings his hand to his chin. ‘When I said I didn’t know where he is,’ he utters, swallowing, ‘I wasn’t lying. I don’t. But I do have a number – a mobile.’ He pushes a pink Post-it note across the table. I reach out to take it, but Ramesh’s fingers don’t lift from it, fingertips pushing it to the desk. He clears his throat. The way his eyes seem sloped at the corners and the way his lips are now tightly closed, make me dread his next words. ‘Roman forgot his credit card. He booked a plane ticket at my desk and he left it here.’ His brow furrows. ‘Charlotte called the mobile a few times, but no joy. Eventually he called us after he’d realised he’d lost it, and Charlotte posted it out to him. This is what she remembers of where she posted it to.’
I glance down at the words written above the number in looping blue ink. ‘Friar Medical Group, Berkshire,’ I murmur, my brow furrowing involuntarily. I look up at Ramesh.
He looks at me sadly. ‘It’s a hospital,’ he says.
‘A hospital.’ My words are whispers. My chest tightens. My stomach contracts. ‘What’s he doing at a hospital?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ramesh says. ‘Although Charlotte is sure he said he works there.’
Relief trickles through my body and I find myself letting out a long breath, as if I’d been holding it all along. ‘Right. I’ll get in contact with them.’ But Ramesh hasn’t moved a muscle. His hand still holds the Post-it note to his desk, and he’s still looking at me worriedly, like he used to all those years ago. When he wouldn’t take my ‘I’m fine’ for an answer.
‘Look, I don’t know much,’ he says, ‘but … I got the impression he’s under care of some sort.’
‘Care? What, you mean, he’s … sick?’
Ramesh holds a hand up, his lips parted, as if he was about to speak and thought better of it. ‘I mean, he … he seemed well. But he mentioned doctors, in passing a few times. And I noticed he set alarms for meds. Three or four.’
‘Three or four?’
I close the binder, which feels as heavy as a rock now on my lap. Medication? Hospitals? I feel the blood drain from my face.
‘As I said, he seemed OK,’ jumps in Ramesh, ducking to meet my gaze. ‘I just would rather you have all the information if you’re looking for him. I asked Charlotte if she remembered where his flight was to or where he might’ve been going, but she said she never asked and he never told. Lizzie? Are you OK?’
I nod, but I’m not. My head is racing, galloping at speed, and nausea is rising from my stomach to my chest.
There doesn’t seem to be much more to say now. We make small talk, Ramesh and I, about the new layout of the rooms, the weather, and old therapists and teachers I remember to lift the mood. It does little though, to disperse the dread that has begun clouding around me. When I leave, Ramesh promises he will pass Roman my details if he calls ‘before I get to him’, and places his hand on my back in the way he used to – when he was worried I might just crumble.
I walk to the train station, hood up against the rain, barely flinching as it sprays my face. I take the route we used to, past the large, old houses of Hillingbrook, past the post office, the Spar and the Chinese takeaway place we must’ve bought a tonne of chunky salty chips from, and for the first time in a very long time, I walk past the park; the park in which Hubble fell to the ground that terrible night. Alone. While I slept, while everyone danced and drank at Auntie Shall and Uncle Pete’s reception.
Sinking into a window seat on the train to London, I stare at the Post-it in my hand. I can’t call him. Text maybe? No. Not a text after all this time. I’ll call. Just not right now.
I unlock my phone. A text from Priscilla:
How did it go? I’m not in today. Called in sick.
I type back that I’ll call her later, but I can’t shake the unease that Priscilla is off. She never takes sick days. Even when she is sick.
Then I open an internet browser, and in the search bar I type in what Charlotte remembered of the address. ‘Friar Medical Group. Berkshire.’
The train lurches and rocks, like a boat on rough waves.
It comes up instantly – a website, and news articles about a new post-natal ward, about a £50,000 refurbishment, a skydiving surgeon raising money for its cardiology wing, the opening of a new hospice. The Friar Medical Group. It’s a group of hospitals in the south of England – two of which are in Berkshire, and one of which is where Roman is.
‘Hi, you’re through to the phone of Roman Matias, I am probably busy, asleep, or dead right now, so leave a message after the beep. If I’m either of the first two, I’ll get back to you. If I’m the last one … I’ll certainly have a good go.’
BEEP –
&nb
sp; Chapter Seventeen
9th March 2005
Hubble speaks to the receptionist. He says he’s Roman Meyers’s grandad and the woman on reception smiles sadly at him – a smile that says, ‘you poor thing. What must you be going through?’ I hang back behind him, trembling; it’s this whole place – the bleeping, the smell of disinfectant and hospital dinners, people being wheeled by, hunched, as if they are damaged inflatables, bowing and sagging into themselves. This is a place for sick, old people that need to be cut open and fixed. Roman isn’t like them. He is sad. He is lonely. He needs love and for his mum to stop fucking drinking and cook him a meal, ask him about his music and the books he’s reading, talk to him about his day. He doesn’t belong here. So, why is he here? Why did he do this? How could he? How could he do this to himself? To me? He said he’d never leave me. Oh, god, shut up. How can I ask that? I’m selfish. I am a selfish, horrible human being.
Hubble puts his arm on my back and says, ‘He’s in the Thomas Ward, Lizzie. Bay two. Bed four. The lady says it’s at the back by the window.’
We walk with speed, the wards quiet, except for the squeaking of trolley wheels and the jangling of buckles on coats and shoes as visitors walk purposely to their sick loved ones. This doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t belong here. The anger rises in my chest like lava as we walk, and it sits in my throat.
We arrive at the entrance to bay two. There are four beds. All men. Two are old – seventies, eighties, one hunched over a Zimmer frame, the other sunken and grey, asleep with his mouth open, tubes snaking from his nose. And the other is a small Asian man with yellowing skin and bruises on his face, who sits on the edge of his bed, staring out of the window. The other bed – bed four, Roman’s bed – has its curtain drawn around it.
Hubble’s hand lands softly on my back again. ‘I’ll wait here,’ he says. ‘Or do you want me to come with you?’
I want to run. I want to bury my face in Hubble’s chest and hide and tell him to take me away. From everything – from Mum, Dad, Nathan, Auntie Shall and Uncle Pete, school, social workers, The Grove … all of it. This whole mess. I want to be fixed. I want this all to go away. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask for any of this. I can’t take much more. I won’t.
‘Darling? Are you sure about this?’
I nod. Despite myself, I nod. ‘I’ll be OK. I want to.’ Because this is my only chance to see him. Dad thinks I’m at The Grove. Ramesh thinks I’m at a dentist appointment. No questions will be asked, and nobody will know. Dad banned me from seeing Roman last week, before and after school hours. He found out about Mum and Clark getting engaged and I chose that same evening to get home half an hour late, after Roman and I fell asleep watching films in Sea Fog.
He practically spat it at me as I walked in. ‘You’ve proved you can’t be trusted when you’re around him,’ he growled, ‘and if you think for one minute you’ll be seeing him before or after school, then you’re bloody mistaken. Try it. I dare you.’
When I tore up the stairs and locked the bathroom door, my chest caving in, choking, drowning, I heard him crying downstairs, deep sobs. And I didn’t care. I wouldn’t care if I never saw Dad, or even Mum again in this moment. I just want to run away. Now. I wish we could. I wish we were at an airport now, me and Roman, or at a service station, on our way to the rest of our lives. Instead of here, in this building, full of sick and dying people. God, I hope he’s OK. I need to see him. I need to know he is alright.
I walk slowly across the ward, past noisy breathing, the bleeping, the inflating and deflating of a blood pressure machine, the scratching of a pen on a clipboard in a nurse’s hand. And now I stand face to face with the green flecked curtain that surrounds Roman’s bed; which guards him.
‘Think he’s still sleeping, my love,’ says the nurse with the clipboard, all rosy cheeks and white teeth. ‘You here for Roman?’
I nod, rigid to the spot.
‘You can go on in,’ she says, and she smiles that sad smile again. The one the lady on reception had given Hubble. The ‘poor unfortunate teenager’ smile.
My hand trembles as I pull back the drape and for a moment, I can’t see where the curtain ends, or splits. But then they part – just a sliver. I freeze. It’s him. My friend. Asleep. Peaceful. I step inside and turn to see Hubble standing tall, hands in the pockets of his beige trousers. I close the curtains. It’s just me and him now. Pain that feels like hot solder soars through my chest. A long sting of sadness and anger, all mixed together, bubbling, rumbling inside me. My legs are desperate to collapse. I want to sink to the ground and scream, ‘Why aren’t you listening? Why don’t you care? This is Roman. Roman Meyers. This is my best friend. He is so clever and he knows so much about so many things, and despite everything he wants good for people and for the world. Why would you let this happen? Why doesn’t anyone fucking care?’
But I am silent, besides the breath hiccupping in my throat. I grip the bottom of the bed and stare at him. He’s on his back, his chestnut hair brushed out of his face. Pale. Beautiful. His lashes feathery and criss-crossing, his lips so pink and parted ever so slightly. Just asleep. Like he looks when we fall asleep in Sea Fog and I wake up before he does and stare at his forehead, wishing I could watch his thoughts like a movie.
I move to the chair at his side and sit down in it. I see his hand, open, above the blanket at his side. I move my chair slowly across the shiny floor and reach out and hold it. It’s warm. Smooth. Nibbled nails, scratches of old purple polish on the thumb. I bring his hand to my face. It doesn’t have its smell – the Roman smell, of cigarettes and lemon shower gel. But he’s here. He’s alive. I take Roman’s hand in both of mine on the bed and stare at his face. I’m sorry, Roman. I’m so sorry you’re so sad. I wish I could do something. I wish I could take it away. I wish I could fix all this.
He looks so young lying here. I always see Roman as a man; so tall, so strong in build, that it’s hard to remember, sometimes, that he isn’t even two years older than me. He’s brought himself up – ‘dragged’ himself up as he said – and he’s savvy and street smart and he likes the things older people do. But he’s a kid. He’s a seventeen-year-old kid. Two people made him seventeen years ago, and now he lies in a hospital bed on his own. Their child. Their baby. How can they sleep at night? How do they live with themselves?
His finger twitches in my palm. He stirs; sniffing, letting out long breaths, eyelashes bristling. I stop breathing. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to do.
His eyes open. Slowly shutting, then opening again. He stares at me, then weakly, his beautiful pink mouth smiles.
‘Hey, J.’
‘Hi,’ I say. My lip is quivering, and I am shaking from head to toe. I try to stop, to steady myself. Roman sees. His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare. I think he’s going to speak but he doesn’t. He just looks at me, as if the world has ended. As if he has never been more sorry.
‘Roman, are you …’ I can’t continue. He says nothing either, just tightens his hand on mine. Then I try again. I open my mouth. ‘Are you in p— are …’ And I can’t. I can’t. I burst into tears, my hand flying up to hide my face.
‘Lizzie,’ he says. I hear the creak of the bed and moving sheets. He groans – his stomach, maybe? Does it hurt after? I don’t know and I don’t want to ask. He’s sitting up now, and both of his hands hold mine.
‘Don’t– don’t do that again,’ I say, words morphing instantly to sobs. ‘Please. Please, Roman.’
‘J, I …’ He looks away, turning his face. I hear his breath quiver. He strokes his thumb across my knuckles and I squeeze his hand tighter.
‘Whatever it is, we can sort it together,’ I say, tears running. ‘You just ring me. Come round. B-bang on the door. Anything. Please, Ro. Please. We can sort it. It’s us remember? And we can sort anything.’ I hear him take a deep, shaky sigh and when I look up, he’s looking at me. Roman is crying, tears sliding down his cheeks and onto his baggy hospital gown.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, and quickly, violently rubs the tears off his cheek with the back of his forearm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. Don’t say sorry.’
‘But I hate seeing you cry.’
Then there’s quiet, between us both. We stare at each other, across the sheets, crying quietly, in the stillness of the ward. Our grips tighten on each other’s hands. There’re so many unspoken words, but there’s no place for them here. Not now. My best friend is in a hospital bed because he didn’t want to be here, on this earth, anymore. He didn’t want to live. He could have succeeded. And I would have woken up in a world where he didn’t exist. No Roman. And nothing seems to matter anymore. Other than him. Other than us together, behind this curtain, hearts beating, blood pumping. Here.
I bring his hand to my lips. ‘I love you,’ I whisper, and I kiss his knuckles. ‘I have never told you that, but I do. I love you.’ I know if he ever needed to hear those words, now is the time. That’s more important than my fear of saying them, to this boy I’ve known nine months; my fear of him taking it the wrong way or thinking I’m too heavy. He needs to hear it. He needs to know. Because I wonder when it was that Roman last heard those words.
He pauses, as if thinking about what I’ve said, then lifts one of his fingers from our grip and strokes my cheek. ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘I love you, too, J.’ His face is wet with tears. He bites his bottom lip as if to stop more.
‘Just don’t leave.’
He shakes his head. ‘I won’t. I promise I won’t.’
‘I’m here,’ I tell him. ‘Always. No matter the time, no matter how old we are.’
I reach over to hold him, and I lay there, across the bed, across him, my head on his chest, his arms tight around me. We lay there like that for a while, and it’s oddly calming. The quiet ward, the curtain around us, protecting us, and the window on our right, looking out to nothing but blue sky. Just us two, here. Just us, and the sky.