by Lisa Jade
Finally he pulls away, and as I sniff back the remainder of my tears he breaks into a smile.
“You seem bigger than I remember,” he says, and it’s all I need. I hug him again.
“Ash?”
A smaller voice breaks into my joy, and I turn to see Bree standing beside me. Her lower lip trembles, and for a moment we stare at one another before she opens her arms to me. Her eyes plead with me, begging me to comfort her, and I do so gladly. I pull her into an embrace so tight that I fear I may never be able to let go, my hands joined together around her waist, my face embedded in her hair. By the time we break apart, I realise that the Scouts have stepped up behind me.
“Newton,” says Adam, and the two nod at one another. It’s strange how their relationship always seems to be one of equals, despite the fact they’re polar opposites.
Dr Newton places a hand on my shoulder and I close my eyes, enjoying the warmth of his fingers.
“Thank you for bringing her home.”
“That’s not all,” Adam tells him, “we brought you a guest.”
Dr Newton pauses, curiosity filling his eyes, and I find myself stepping aside. From all of Nicholas’ stories I know that the two of them were friends, companions in the hardest times. A small thrill courses through me – the desire to see them reunited.
“Who?”
Nicholas steps out from behind Brick, and a few people around us gasp. I feign a laugh – I can tell this is a big deal. It’s the first time someone like me, who’s been gone a few weeks, has been found. But Nicholas? He was a dead man. Everyone knew it. Though we had no body to grieve over, there was still a service held. Still mourners. Still a grave with his name on it out near the paddock.
Dr Newton’s face falls, and for a moment his eyes linger, examining Nicholas’ face as though he’s unsure of what he’s seeing. And then, without warning, his face cracks into a smile.
“Nick?” he gasps, and his voice is so weak I wonder if he even believes it himself.
Nicholas simply nods, his hands in his pockets, an uneasy look on his face.
“Hey, Doc.”
Suddenly Dr Newton is on him, pulling him close, into a hug stronger than even the one he gave me. Of course – I think most people would be overjoyed to find their old friend, whom they had grieved for, wasn’t dead at all. As they embrace, I swear I can see tears in his eyes.
But as I watch the two, something hurts in my chest. It's a strange kind of sorrow – sorrow for the time they grieved each other, the time they spent apart. Sadness for how much they've changed and concern for what lies before them. The feeling is heavy and solid, settling in my stomach like lead.
“You look dreadful!” Dr Newton laughs, pulling away from Nicholas. He eyes him up and down, then raises his arm and prods at his skinny wrists. Nicholas simply laughs in response; but I can see his legs shaking, quivering with the effort it takes to remain standing.
“Yeah. You could say I've not been in the best of health.”
“Come back to the infirmary,” he says, “I'll give you a once over.”
I expect him to go. It's been a long time since the two have spent time together, and even longer since he was treated by an actual doctor. I feel some remnant of guilt that remains from the times I've had to pin him down and force feed him – though it was necessary at the time, it seems almost cruel now.
But Nicholas shakes his head, a small, sad smile on his face.
“No can do, old friend. I've got lots of people to see and lots of things to catch up on.”
Dr Newton's face creases with concern.
“Are you sure?”
He nods.
“Yes. I'm as strong as I've ever been, though it may take a while to be completely back to normal. I'll run by the infirmary later – I think you and I have some catching up to do.”
Dr Newton smiles, but in his face I see a hundred unanswered questions. How did he survive? Where has he been all this time? What horrors has he faced, and did he ever think of him? Still, he steps aside and allows Nicholas to walk past. I can see his gaze following him, his eyes glazed over, like he still can't quite believe what he's seeing.
But then he turns to the Scouts, and his face flickers back to his normal expression, patient and kind and burning with intelligence. Instinct takes over and I step up beside him, an act of habit, my hands folded in front of me and a neutral look on my face. There's something about being with him again, something so comforting to me. So real.
He casts a cursory eye over the others, his eyes narrowing.
“And the rest of you? No further injuries, I hope?”
They all nod in turn, but then glance my way, and I feel Dr Newton's eyes settle on me, too. I had almost forgotten what I must look like. I haven't bathed in weeks and must smell like filth to them. I have dirt smeared across one cheek and bruises covering much of my body. Though in a way I feel stronger than before, I can understand their concern.
“Follow me,” says Dr Newton, and his hand finds my arm. I try to pull back, not wanting to break the spell of warmth and welcome, but his grip is too firm and I don't have the will to resist him. I allow him to pull me, and we break away from the group – though I can still feel them watching us.
“And... the left arm.”
I pull back my sleeve and show him my arm, a bored expression on my face. He's reviewed every part of me from the ground up, and I can feel my frustration building. I don't have the patience for this.
“Good,” he mutters, and then his eyes widen. He lifts a fingertip and gently touches the bruises on my neck – I wince a little, more from surprise than pain, and he pulls back.
“Sorry. Is it tender?”
I shake my head but I can tell he doesn't believe me. He studies my face for a moment, then sighs. I can tell there's so much he wants to ask me. Dr Newton is a curious man, the type who yearns for information in every moment. No doubt he wants me to sit with him and tell him everything – but he seems to be holding off for some reason.
He stands and walks over to his desk, removing his glasses and wiping them on his sleeve.
“Well, you seem well enough. The only issue I can see is that cut on your arm, but it looks mostly healed. I take it you treated it yourself?”
I nod, and he smiles a little.
“Good work. It's very well done.”
I puff out my chest a little and beam, taken aback but pleased by the sudden compliment. He's not the kind to dish out positives at every turn; so when he does, it fills me with pride.
“Well, I suppose you'll be wanting to rest up,” he continues, “I don't expect you to come back to work here for a week or so, perhaps longer.”
His face changes, and I can tell he wants to ask me. Not just about Street, but about what I've been through. The pain and the fear and the loneliness. I expect he wants to tell me it's okay, and see me cry as I try to get over all the suffering.
Guilt licks through me as I realise that even if he asks me, even if he demands to know, I can't honestly answer him. I could tell him the facts – the hospital, the attacks on the wall, their struggle for survival. But how can I tell him the rest of it? Their kindness, their acceptance of me. Their gratitude and respect and dare I say love for me? I feel like even if I tried to explain, I would never be able to. Signs simply don't do it justice.
“Go and wash up,” he tells me, “I've got some spare scrubs here – you can wear these until your clothes are cleaned. And for a few days, I'd rather you sleep here.”
I stare and he shuffles a little, perhaps uncomfortable with the eye contact.
“I don't know what happened to you,” he admits, “I don't know how it's affected you or even if it has. But for a while, however silly it may seem, I'd like you to remain in the back rooms of the infirmary. I'll give you your privacy of course, but it's important to me that you have someone nearby in case something happens.”
I shake my head. A small part of me has been excited, thrilled at the though
t of finally collapsing onto my rickety camp bed in the dorms, staring up through the rusted hole in the ceiling. The part of me that's been yearning to wind back time and pretend this never happened.
“Please,” he urges, “I just need to know you're safe.”
He smiles, and a new thought occurs to me. Could it be that he, as professional and mature as he is, was worried about me? Despite my lack of usefulness and uninteresting presence, maybe he actually missed having me around? My brain rejects the idea outright – this is Dr Newton. At most, he would have been upset at the years of training lost. He's always tried his best to support my endeavours, but I assumed it was because they fit with what he felt was best for Fairground. It never occurred to me that he might actually care for me.
I meet his eyes, and despite my better judgement, I nod.
As I make my way to the showers, all eyes are on me. I can feel them – people stop what they're doing to stare, they whisper behind their hands, they openly gape. It's uncomfortable and embarrassing; I feel like an alien among them now. Strange and small and not quite what they expected. On a conscious level I can understand why they'd be intrigued. Countless people died in the city, many on Scouting trips. People stronger and smarter and braver than me all died. What makes me so special? What makes me deserving of coming home, when so many more worthy people have been lost?
I lower my head and walk faster, those very same questions racing around in my head. They're right. There's nothing special about me, nothing that makes me better than others who have died. I just got lucky – I came across the right people at the right time and they saved me. Everything that happened after that was unimportant. I didn't earn this chance, and I know it.
But as I strip off and step under the water, my spirit lifts. It's been so long since I've washed – sometimes in Street they rinse their faces with water, but since there's so little to spare they generally just let themselves get dirty instead. I run a hand over my face, feeling the dried dirt of two months flake away under my fingertips. It feels strange – like the muck has become a second skin to me, made me tougher and more durable – and now, I'm just scraping it away. My skin feels pink and sore and inflamed, so used to being hidden by the mud. I have a terrible feeling that despite the hot sun and the time spent outdoors, I'm likely to be even paler than before.
I breathe in deeply, inhaling the steam, and rub my hands through my hair. It's caked too, tangled and knotted into an indecipherable mess. Now more than ever, I can feel how long it's become. Despite years of remaining around my chin, a mess of twists and kinks, it's now longer, not far from my shoulders. I don't know how it's grown so much so quickly, but it feels good. Freeing.
I towel off and pull on the scrubs Dr Newton gave me. They're too big and I have a sneaking suspicion they were built for the male form, but I don't care. I step out into the cool evening air, and take a seat outside the showers.
Pulling a small comb from my bag, I ready myself. I don't want to tackle my hair right now, but it needs to be done. If left too long it'll wrap together and become a single mass, thick and dirty. I can deal with it being a little unkempt. I pull the comb through the back – and it holds fast, coming to a standstill about half an inch down.
Oh, great.
I pull at it, trying to remove it from my hair, but somehow it's already entangled. I pull harder, not caring if I have to rip out some hair to get it out. But a hand closes around mine, and I can feel someone lean down next to me.
“You're terrible, did you know that? Here, let me help.”
Sparrow. I smile at her presence, but she can't see me. She works the comb free and sits behind me, helping me, teasing the knots out. It takes a while, but then she pushes my hair behind one ear and steps back, a smirk on her face.
“There we go. You're starting to look like you again.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I wait until I reach the infirmary before reflecting on her words. What does it mean to look like me? She could mean the basics – clean skin, loose hair, tidy clothes. Or she could mean the worse, more unpleasant option; that I'm slowly starting to look like I used to. Meek and mild and naive. Dread settles in the pit of my stomach and I resolve to look at myself the first chance I get.
The room Dr Newton has set up for me is at the back of the infirmary, just a door away from his own. It's a small, dark room lit by a single oil lamp, and populated only by a lone bed and a small set of drawers. I sit down on the creaking mattress and pull open the top drawer. Bingo.
It's a small mirror, round and thick with a short, tapered handle. I lift it to my face, and it takes a moment to register what I'm seeing.
It's me – but it's not me.
I've never been one to stare at a mirror, or to be captured by my own appearance; as far as I'm concerned, being pretty never factored into all the things I wanted to do. It was irrelevant, like my silence. Pointless to worry about.
But this face in front of me is so different from what I've always known. Sure, I'm in there. It's my nose, my chin, my unruly brows. But my hair is longer, my skin not quite so pale. My shoulders seem bigger, less bony, and my neck, though bruised, no longer seems fragile. My expression, far from my usual look of fear and apprehension, is now one of confidence and might. There's a fire in my eyes, a strange burning that seems to permeate my soul and make me a little afraid of myself.
Still. It's not all changed. I can still see me – my eyes are still large, my lashes light and soft. My mouth is still small and pink and my forehead is still dotted with the occasional blemish. My eyes are the same, light brown with flecks of green and gold, like I couldn't decide what I liked more.
I lower the mirror and frown. Is this what they see now? I finally seem to understand why they were all so concerned about me when I first stepped out to them at Street. So dirty, so different, with a strength in my body and a fire in my eyes. So massively changed from the person they once knew.
Memories flash of those evenings on the rooftop with Max, how he would gaze at me with this unseen softness, this easy smile that seemed to tell me it was okay. To him, it didn't matter how I looked. We could both be caked in dirt and blood and he would still care.
Suddenly, I can't stand to think any longer. I tuck the mirror away and roll over, wrapping the blanket tightly around my shoulders and forcing my eyes shut.
I don't wait around the next day. Though Dr Newton urges me to rest, I simply can't. I've been wanting to come back here for so long, and it wasn't just so that I could lie in bed. I feel it in me, the desire to run headfirst into the day and reclaim my old life.
But I'm not permitted in the infirmary. We have a silent argument, each of us signing at the other. I plead with him to let me come back and he refuses, telling me I'm not ready. I huff and demand to know why, but he tries to avoid the question. I leave with a sour expression; I know what he's thinking. I've been through a lot, and have only shown a few seconds of weakness. He thinks there's still more to come, more tears, more upset, and doesn't want to push me. But I'm done crying now. I want to move on.
Initially I venture over to the guard towers, hoping that I can take a turn on watch, but the people there eye me carefully, their faces unsure, and then firmly explain they've only just come up. I know it's a lie – I saw them there last night – but like Dr Newton, they think they're being kind. They think it would be wrong to ask anything of me right now.
Despite the fact that I know they're trying to help me, I can't help but feel a little frustrated by it. I don't need their help. If I were presented with a task I couldn't do I'd find a way to explain that I couldn't do it. If I'm offering – giving them a break – then they should accept that I can handle it.
It takes me a few hours of aimless wandering before it clicks, and the moment it does, fury licks through me. How could I not have noticed?
The look is back. That expression, that pitying and sorrowful look that pins me as a lost child, that grimace that expresses their desire to rescue
me, protect me. The realisation comes like a swift kick to the stomach – and suddenly I feel aware of myself, uneasy, overly self-conscious. Blood rushes to my face and I clench my fists tight.
What was I expecting? Did I really think that anything would have changed now I'm back? They believed I was helpless before, and despite my physical changes they can never know the details of what happened to me. They have no reason to consider that I might have changed, that I might no longer need their protection.
Damn. All I went through. Proving myself to Adam, working hard in the city. Surviving against the odds and growing, changing, becoming better. All of that work and it doesn't change a thing.
“Hey, Mouse.”
I look up – Kicker walks towards me, his strides wide, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He reaches up and pushes a lock of grey-brown hair from his eyes.
“I was just looking for you. Wanted to see how you're doing.”
Somehow, that strikes me as odd. Kicker is a good guy – friendly enough and loyal as anything – but I find it hard to believe that he would come and look for me of his own accord. My disbelief must show on my face, because he chokes back a laugh and smirks.
“Is it that obvious? Hey, I tried at least. It's actually Adam who wants to know how you're doing.”
I tilt my head. I figured that, after what happened in the city, he was done with me. That he had washed his hands of me entirely.
“You know that idiot,” Kicker sighs, scratching his head, “he's too proud and arrogant to admit when he's being a prick. He feels horrible about your argument and he's worried, but he doesn't want to show weakness by letting you know. So he sent me.”
I mimic a laugh. I get the feeling that Adam pleaded with Kicker to keep that a secret, and to just make it seem like a coincidence. If so, he chose the wrong person. Kicker doesn't understand the meaning of a secret – he blurts his thoughts without a moment's hesitation, regardless of who hears.