by Haden, Ros;
Think, Peter. Think. What happened last night?
He heard a noise as a man and woman walked into the charge office. A cellphone rang. It was his favourite song. At that moment he remembered. He remembered everything, like it was just happening.
It was Saturday night again. They were leaving the party. He got into the car with Busie. David had got into a fight and they all had to leave. David pushed him and grabbed the car keys from him so Peter got into the backseat of the car. Busie sat next to him. They started moving. His phone rang then.
“What a whack ring tone,” Busie said and laughed.
He felt embarrassed.
“Here. Let me find you something better.” She took his cellphone and pressed the keys quickly, then she pressed it to his ear. She was singing. That was when the car began to race off the road, into the bush.
“David, slow down!” Peter shouted.
“Shut up, I know what I’m doing.”
“Please slow down,” Tshepo shouted too.
And then the car was skidding and sliding and ripping through grass and bushes as it spun off the road. When Peter opened his eyes, he was lying in the bush. The car lay upside down.
Tshepo had been flung out of the car, like him. “Tshepo. Tshepo.”
Tshepo groaned. “It’s my leg, man.”
“You’ll be fine. Don’t move. I’m going to look for the others.” He crawled to the car slowly, looked inside. “Busie. Busie,” Peter called. He stretched out his hand and gently touched Busie’s shoulder. She was still strapped into the back seat at the back, but she was alive. He could see her breathing. David sat in the driver’s seat with his head slumped to his chest.
“David. Talk to me … David. Are you okay?”
In the background, he heard sounds of the party. Over the music a siren was getting louder. Peter thought of his mother and father and knew he had to get home before his parents got back. Maybe, just maybe they would never find out what he had done. He started to run. He ran across the highway, weaving in between the cars. He found the kitchen door key under the welcome mat on the front stoep and tiptoed to his room.
~•~
The policeman’s voice snapped Peter back into the police station. “Hey. Mosimane, Boy.”
“Write,” said the policeman sitting opposite him. “We’re not here to play games.”
“Ee, rra. Yes, sir,” said Peter. He began to write. Why hadn’t he gone for help? Had he been too scared? He filled the page like he was writing an English composition. He put down everything that happened, in the correct order. When he was done he handed his statement to the policeman who was on the phone.
“Hello, sir. Yes, sir! We still need to talk to the driver.”
Peter stopped writing. It no longer mattered that he was in trouble. He had to know. When the policeman finished his call, Peter blurted out, “How are my friends?”
The policeman shrugged and shook his head.
“Please, sir …”
“They are alive.”
Peter felt the fear in his stomach again. He should have felt relieved because he was not the one driving. The policeman finished reading Peter’s statement and nodded. “He can go,” he said to Peter’s father.
His mother’s phone rang as they were driving home. “Yes. I know. I’m so, so sorry. Bana ba … These children … Yes. I understand. Yes. We must have hope.”
Peter watched his mother’s every move. “What is it, Mama?”
“That was Tshepo’s mother.”
“Where? Where is he?”
“Peter. Stop. There is nothing you can do now. We’re all meeting at home.”
There were cars parked outside his home. Peter watched his friends arriving. Busie was dragging her left leg a little. Thato walked next to Busie. She was fine. There were four adults he had never seen … and Tshepo’s parents. Tshepo was limping behind them, on crutches.
David was not with them.
~•~
Peter waited outside his home, pacing and peering down the road, hoping and praying that David would appear. He only stopped when he heard his father’s voice calling, “Get inside now, son.”
Peter glanced at the road one last time and his patience was rewarded. A boy appeared round the corner. He walked like David, a little less bounce, maybe, and he wore tighter pants, a baseball cap, red and black, like the one David had been wearing on Saturday. But then he disappeared round the corner.
“David! Hey, David, where are you going?” Peter shouted, but the boy kept walking.
“Peter, I said come inside. David’s brother has been in touch. He said he would call to let us know the minute they hear any news of David. Come inside now,” his father said firmly.
Hesitating at the doorway of the living room, Peter looked at the people and then at the wall clock. It was just after seven o’clock. Barely 24 hours before, he had sat where his mother was now sitting. On the table next to her were his maths textbook, a note pad, and new maths instrument set.
His mother patted the sofa next to her. Peter felt everyone’s eyes dragging him down as he walked across the room to her: his mother’s sad eyes, his father’s angry eyes, Thato’s swollen eyes and Busie’s beautiful, tear-filled eyes that refused to meet his gaze. She sat squeezed between her parents. Tshepo sat with his parents; Thato sat next to a woman who looked like she could be her older sister. He guessed the old man next to her was their grandfather.
Peter’s father spoke. “We need to know everything about the accident. We need to know what happened last night.”
Peter looked up in surprise. His father was not speaking in that angry voice that he usually used when he was upset. Instead, Peter heard disappointment in every word that his father spoke and the words seemed to pile up on his chest, making Peter feel like he needed air.
“We need to know what really happened … how this terrible thing happened. We left you here, trusted you to look after the home …” His mother was speaking. Her voice changed to a whisper and she shook her head as she looked at him.
“My friends came over yesterday afternoon,” Peter said. “We sat around for a little while before we … we decided to go to a party.” He rushed the last words out.
“You said you were going to study. That’s why we left you here.” She picked up his maths book and put it down again. “So you never even opened this.”
“Mmaagwe Peter. Please, give him a chance to speak,” said Thato’s grandfather.
“Then the accident happened. The van rolled and the next thing I know is when I opened my eyes. I came home. I can’t remember how I got home. I just remember running … running to get away from the place.”
“Who was driving?” asked his mother.
Busie’s mother shook her head. “I know it was not my child. She would never have done anything like this. I’ve told her to stay away from bad company.” Disdain sharpened her voice and face. She sat on the edge of the sofa like she could not wait to get away. “We’ve sent her to the most expensive schools all her life, to try to shield her from boys like these … and then, she comes home on holiday and meets these hooligans.”
“No, Mama. Please, don’t say that. No one forced me to do anything.” Busie was speaking now. “That’s not how …”
“We thought we were coming together to try to resolve this matter, to hear what our children have done, but if this is the attitude you’re coming here with, Mma, it is better we stop …” said Peter’s father.
Then the phone started to ring, putting a full stop to the argument that had been brewing. Peter’s father got up to answer it, muttering to himself: “It must be the hospital …” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.” Silence. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Silence. He nodded. “Yes … I’m Peter’s father. Yes. We’re on our way.”
Peter’s father turned to look at Peter. “That was
good news − from David’s brother. David is in the hospital. He was brought in unconscious. They thought he was in a coma but now he has opened his eyes!”
All around the room were involuntary cries of joy and thanks to God. Peter felt a rush of something like adrenaline through his body. He realised it was intense, painful relief.
“He’s speaking. He’s asking for you, Peter,” said his father gravely.
“For me?” Peter looked around the room, panic in his voice.
“Yes. Let’s go. This meeting will have to wait.” His mother looked at Busie’s mother as she spoke.
Peter watched the adults exchange chilly goodbyes. All he wanted was for Busie to look at him, maybe even smile at him and make him feel like everything was going to be all right. Busie would not face him. He knew he had lost her, even before they really became friends. He was sure of it. Watching her limping behind her mother and father made him so sad. He felt tears stinging his eyes, but he was not going to cry.
Everyone seemed to think he was to blame but he knew there was nothing that could be done to fix that. He couldn’t run to the national stadium and announce to the world that he was not guilty, that he hadn’t been driving, that it was not his fault that David was now lying in the intensive care unit. And he knew that even though he had not been driving, that fact did not absolve him of responsibility.
As they were about to turn into the hospital, an ambulance overtook them. Peter’s father pulled to the side of the road. Peter wondered who was inside the ambulance. A police car raced past them. Its red light swirled round and round, throwing him back to the night before. He felt the panic again. He wanted to run back to Saturday afternoon, to before the night of the accident.
I know I shouldn’t have run away. Maybe if I had stayed, I could’ve helped David, he thought regretfully.
~•~
It was visiting time at the hospital − busy. His father circled the parking lot twice before he found a parking space. An ambulance was parked at the entrance to the emergency room. Two medics were wheeling a patient into the hospital. Peter looked on, numb with fear at the thought of seeing his friend. They went to the reception. Peter waited with his mother. She looked at him and pulled him close.
“He’s on the third floor,” the receptionist said.
“ICU can be scary, Peter,” warned his mother. “Nurses, doctors, machines … Remember they’re there to give 24-hour care … and he wasn’t speaking before … Now he is. That’s a very good sign. We need to stay positive.”
They walked up the stairs in silence. Peter walked slightly behind his parents as they made their way to the ICU. His mother held out her hand but he shook his head. He was clutching on to the words she had just spoken. Every step he took, he said to himself: David is going to be okay. He is going to get better. He is.
~•~
David’s brother was sitting outside the ICU ward. He stood up. “Only two people can go in at a time. He’s been calling out Peter’s name since he regained consciousness.”
“Well, let’s go inside then. You ready, my boy?” Peter’s father asked.
Peter’s father pressed the bell and a nurse opened the door. The first thing Peter saw when he walked into the ward was two beds. He could not tell on which David was lying. Spaghetti-like tubes wrapped themselves round the bodies that lay unmoving. A screen with two jagged lines rolling across it stood next to each bed. Beep! Beep! Beep! The sound filled the room.
A nurse was wheeling a trolley away from the bed on the right-hand side of the room when the regular beeping sound changed suddenly to a continuous hum. Peter didn’t know what had happened. One second the nurse was standing by the bed, the next, everyone in the room was scurrying around him. Something terrible had happened, he knew it.
“Wait outside, please. Now, please!” barked the nurse to Peter and his father.
Peter felt something squeezing him, stopping him from breathing, preventing him from moving. He looked back at the screen that had been beeping just a few minutes before. Both lines were straight. Peter had seen that happen before, on TV. It meant the patient had died.
Tears poured down Peter’s face. “No. Please. David can’t die. He has to live.” Peter’s father put his arm across Peter’s shoulder and propelled him out of the ward.
“Shhhhh. Shhhh, son. Be strong.”
Peter was leaning against the wall outside the ICU ward when Busie and her father arrived. He did not hear them approaching. He heard a voice saying his name, a sweet, gentle voice. When he looked up, he was looking straight at Busie. She held out her hand.
“Shhhhh … Peter. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It was an accident. Everyone knows it was an accident. No one could have known this would happen.” But Busie’s words were too late. They smashed into him, adding to the weight of the pain and regret that he was carrying. He slid down to the floor of the hospital with his head in his hands.
As Busie was trying to comfort Peter, a group of people approached the ICU ward: an older woman and man and a young woman. The man pressed the bell to the ward and went inside. Within a few minutes the young woman came running out of the ward, back the way she had come. She was sobbing.
The man and woman followed after a few minutes. The man leaned on the old woman, like she was a crutch. She steered him down the passage towards the exit.
The nurse who had been there came to the door. “You’re here to see David Tau, aren’t you? You can come in now but you can’t stay long. Just go in to see him for five minutes.”
“David is alive?” Peter looked at the nurse, then his father and mother. He smiled at Busie.
“Yes. Yes. He is. Go in and see him, but you can only stay for a few minutes.”
There was no one on the bed on the right-hand side of the ward. Peter looked away from the empty bed and went to stand next to where David was lying. It was a shocking sight. Peter could hardly recognise him. His head was covered in bandages with only one swollen, bruised eye showing. Peter searched for David’s hand but both of them were wrapped up, like he was a mummy.
“David … David. It’s me. Peter. Hang in there. You’ve got to hold on … Busie is here. She’s fine. So are Tshepo and Thato …”
Maybe he was imagining it, but he felt that under the thick bandages David gave a tiny nod, and then he heard the faintest whisper: “Good.”
He rushed on: “We’re all waiting for you to walk out of here …” He didn’t know what else to say. He knew he wasn’t going to mention the accident and everything that had gone on before. It was enough for him to let him know he was there.
The nurse walked towards them. “You need to leave now,” she spoke softly. “He needs to rest.”
Busie looked up at him when he walked out of the ward.
“How is he? What did he say?”
Peter shrugged uncertainly. “He didn’t really speak to me … well, when I told him we were all fine, I am sure he managed to nod ever so slightly and whisper ‘Good’. I guess he had no clue about us. Maybe he thought we were dead? But I spoke to him for a little while. Told him we’re waiting for him to get out of the place … didn’t know what to say, really.”
Busie smiled. “He heard you. Bet next time we come here, he’ll be walking.”
“I hope so. I really do. Wish there was something I could do.”
“Just be his friend. That’s all you can do.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow after I see the doctor. I’ve got to go to back to school.”
“How’s your leg?”
“I’ll be fine,” she laughed. “No broken bones, just a sprained ankle. Ma’s the one insisting I should see the doctor again. You know, she’s not always like that. This accident thing really freaked her out … my dad was in an accident once and he nearly died. I guess this sort of reminded her of that, you know
.”
Peter nodded. He looked at his own father walking like he needed a walking stick. He looked like he had sprouted grey stubble overnight and his mother − he could not bear to think of her. She had been so proud of him, always. Always boasting about what a good boy he was, how blessed she was to have a son like him … and now because of one night of madness, all that had changed. He wished he had been stronger. He wished he had been himself and not tried to impress Busie and be cool and all that.
Busie’s father was calling her. “Got to go, Peter,” she said.
“Can I call you?”
“Um … you know, maybe its best we stay away from each other for a while, you know, until all this is settled. There’s going to be a court case and police … I don’t know, you know. I’m just a bit confused right now … and Ma’s taken my phone away.”
Busie was brushing him off, telling him in a roundabout way that he was no good, that he brought nothing but trouble. That hurt, but he wasn’t going to let her know that.
“I understand. I do,” is all he said.
He watched her walk away from him, limping still, and he immediately felt bad for being angry with her. She had done nothing wrong.
~•~
Peter lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He had thought he would not be able to sleep but exhaustion had finally caught up with him.
When he opened his eyes, he found his mother sitting on his bed, patting his shoulder.
“Wake up, Peter. You need to get ready for school or you’ll be late.”
“Okay, Mma.”
She got up and walked to the door.
“Mama. I’m sorry. So sorry for what has happened.”
She nodded. “I know you are and you know, Peter, we all make mistakes. Small ones, big ones. But we all make mistakes. Get ready for school now.”
As he got out of bed, a pain in his right arm reminded him again of Saturday. He was dreading school, dreading seeing his classmates. But he could not run away from life. He knew that.