A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  ‘What kind of dog were you thinking of?’ I ask after a while. When I’m in my St Francis uniform, my voice comes easy.

  ‘A gentle one,’ Sandra says with a little laugh. ‘Not too much energy.’

  ‘Maybe an older dog would suit you,’ I say. ‘In fact . . .’ I skip the next couple of kennels and come to a stop. ‘You know what? I think this is the perfect dog for you.’

  Petal is an eight-year-old spaniel who was brought to St Francis a couple of months ago after her elderly owner died. She’s the sweetest dog, but incredibly mopey – even getting her out for her daily walks is a trial sometimes.

  I rattle through the basics, squatting on to the floor next to Petal, who shuffles over to me and rests her head on my knee. ‘She’s got a lovely temperament,’ I say, stroking her ears. ‘And she’s very low-maintenance.’

  ‘Hello,’ Sandra says softly, awkwardly sinking down beside me. ‘Hello, Petal. Oh, you’re very beautiful.’

  ‘Shall we take her out for a run?’ I suggest cheerfully. ‘To help you visualize her being your dog?’

  Two hours later, I’m back at reception with Sandra, this time accompanied by Ivan and Petal. Sandra, looking a little shell-shocked but happy, is filling in a pile of forms and Petal is sitting at her feet.

  ‘We’d usually arrange a home visit first,’ Ivan is saying. ‘But as Steffi knows you and I trust her judgement I’m willing to waive that this time. So long as you don’t mind her checking up on you quite a bit in the first couple of months.’ He gives me a small, understanding smile. I smile back happily.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ll be very grateful for Steffi’s visits,’ Sandra says, and my smile grows into a beam.

  Petal is an extra excuse, if I ever needed one, to spend more time at the Gold house. She’s so well trained there’s not really much need to worry, but Rhys’s mother has never owned a dog so I go through all the basics, explaining about feeding times and regular walks. This is a topic I’m most comfortable with and that, plus the fact that I love the entire Gold family, builds my confidence in everything from my abilities to my speech.

  ‘You’re spending a lot of time over there,’ Dad says to me, about a week after Petal’s adoption. ‘If you and Rhys want to come over here instead sometimes, that’s fine with us.’

  ‘I know, Dad.’

  ‘OK, good. Just wanted to be sure.’

  ‘It’s only because of the dog,’ I remind him. ‘People need training just as much as dogs do, you know.’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, I’m sure. This kind of thing . . . helping people learn how to look after new animals . . . is this what you’d like to do for a career?’

  I nod. ‘Something like this, yeah. Working with animals, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe you should think about expanding,’ he says. He comes into my room – where I’m sitting on my bed doing homework – and leans slightly, anchoring his hands in his pockets. ‘Maybe turning some of the people you know from the kennels into clients. You could build up a client list before you’ve even left school. One day it could be your own business.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think I’ll start doing anything like that until after university. I’ll be more prepared then.’

  A slight frown passes over Dad’s face. ‘I meant as an alternative to university.’

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ I snap, instantly irritated. ‘Will you stop? I get enough of this from Mum. I want to go to uni, OK?’

  ‘I know that, love.’ His careful calmness gets my back up even more. ‘But I’m a little concerned that you haven’t made as much progress as we’d hoped. With your communication, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where you’re getting that from,’ I say, beginning to type more ferociously than necessary on my keyboard, not even looking at whatever nonsense is appearing on screen. ‘I’m doing a lot better, actually. I can talk at school now.’

  ‘A word or two, every now and then,’ Dad says. ‘That’s not really what we had in mind. By now I’d hoped that you’d be talking to more of your peers. But I don’t hear you mention anyone at school except Rhys.’

  ‘God, what do you want from me?’ I demand. ‘You’re meant to encourage me to push myself.’

  ‘That’s why I’m trying to do,’ he says, his forehead scrunching. ‘But I also want to protect you, Stef-Stef. There’s no shame in not going to university. It’s a good thing to consider alternatives.’

  As far as I’m concerned, there is no alternative. I gave up on my dream of being a vet because of my stupid chronic anxiety when I started secondary school, which was when I realized that a job that required so much interaction with people was not exactly made for me. In its place I put a new dream, smaller, but more achievable. I would be an animal trainer, ideally working with guide dogs or other service animals. You don’t necessarily need a degree or anything like that to be an animal trainer, but my academic heart was set on university. I researched until I had formulated my new plan: Zoology with Animal Behaviour. I’d learn all about animals in beautiful North Wales. It would be perfect.

  When I first brought this up, aged fourteen, I quickly discovered that my mother didn’t agree. ‘But, Steffi,’ she said, frowning. ‘Steffi, you don’t need to go to university.’

  ‘I do,’ I said. As far as I was concerned, this comment made no sense. I had the online prospectus right in front of me. I was literally pointing to the course I wanted to take. ‘See? Eighty-five per cent of students are in full-time work after graduation. That’s pretty good, right?’

  ‘Anyone can work with animals,’ Mum said. ‘What I mean is, why put yourself through all of that if it’s not necessary? Work at the kennels, get some experience. Maybe you can work there full time one day.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to work in a kennels – I want to actually train the animals.’

  ‘I’m sure you can get experience doing that too, love. Isn’t it fairly simple to get a job in a zoo, or something?’

  ‘Firstly, no,’ I said, irritated. ‘And, secondly, I want to go to uni. I want to learn all that stuff. It sounds amazing. Look, Animal Ethics and Welfare. Herpetology!’

  ‘What’s herpetology?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if I do this course I can find out.’

  ‘Steffi,’ Mum said again. It was both annoying and worrying how she kept using my name. ‘Do you realize how difficult university would be for you? You can barely talk to your classmates, and you’ve known a lot of them since you were very young. There are thousands of students at universities, of all ages and from all over the world. Not to mention lecturers and professors. Do you think they’d be as accommodating of your problems as Windham has been?’

  Talk about a kick in the teeth. Mum and I have been having variations of this same argument ever since.

  Last summer, after I took my GCSEs, the whole parental troupe and I sat down over dinner to discuss it ‘calmly and rationally’ (Keir) without any ‘sulking or slamming of doors’ (Dad). The five of us went to the nearest Ask and talked it all over for the first time.

  ‘I’m just worried it might be too much for you,’ Mum said. ‘Why not work for a few years and then see if you still want to go when you’re a bit older?’

  ‘Because I want to go now,’ I said, already annoyed. We’d been in the restaurant for fifteen minutes. ‘With everyone else.’

  ‘Everyone else can talk,’ Mum said.

  ‘Joanne,’ Dad said.

  ‘I’m talking right now!’ I snapped.

  ‘Stefanie,’ Dad said.

  ‘Are you sure it’s what you really want?’ Lucy asked me gently. ‘University can be a very overwhelming experience, even for people who don’t have any kind of social anxiety. I think what your mother is trying to say is that the benefits might not balance out the risks.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘That is what I was trying to say. Thank you, Lucy.’

  I can never quite figure out if Mum and Lucy actually like each other.

  ‘I
t’s also a lot of money,’ Dad said. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it like that, Steffi, but it is the reality. It’s very expensive nowadays. You’ll be repaying the loans for decades. It’s not a cheap experiment.’

  ‘It’s not an experiment at all,’ I said. ‘It’s my life.’

  ‘It’s one small part of your life,’ Dad corrected. ‘Don’t go thinking it’s the be all and end all. Plenty of people don’t go. The majority, in fact.’

  ‘Why is it so important for you to go?’ Keir asked. This is a very Keir question. He teaches Philosophy at A level and likes to feel like he’s asking the deeper questions.

  ‘Because I want to,’ I said. Which was a shorter way of saying that I wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I didn’t want my anxiety to be the reason I didn’t do something so huge, even if it terrified me.

  ‘Do you understand why we’re concerned?’ Mum asked. She was using her put-upon voice.

  ‘No,’ I said flatly.

  ‘We care about you,’ Lucy said. ‘That’s why we’re concerned.’

  We were having this conversation only a few weeks after the third anniversary of Clark’s death. I wanted to say, ‘I don’t even drive. It won’t happen to me.’ But what would have been the point of that?

  Instead, I said, ‘I thought you wanted me to be independent.’

  ‘We do,’ Dad said. ‘When you’re ready. I’m not sure you are ready yet, love.’

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded. Frustration was starting to spill over. ‘How can I prove it?’

  And that’s when they all came up with my Two Year Plan. That’s what they called it, like they were economists deciding the fate of a nation, or something. The first year – my first year of sixth form – would be the most crucial. I would need to try harder at school, talk to people I didn’t know, receive positive feedback regarding my voice from my teachers at parents’ evening. I’d work with my therapist to learn more coping strategies and to overcome more of my anxiety – they’d also have meetings with her so they could be updated on my progress.

  If I’d proven myself by the end of Year 12, I could go on to apply through UCAS as normal with everyone else in my year. Over the course of Year 13, I would jump through some more hoops to prove my gung-ho talky-talkiness. By the time my A-level exams came round and I’d received my acceptance (providing I was accepted, of course, though this had always been taken as a given), I’d be all ready to go. No one would try to stop me.

  When I try to explain all this to Rhys, he’s confused. But why don’t they want you to go? he asks. I don’t get it. Isn’t it exactly what they want?

  They’re worried, I say. Mum thinks I’ll have some kind of breakdown if I go away by myself. To be honest, I don’t know if there’s anything I could do that will stop her worrying about that.

  Why is she worried about that?

  I shrug. Because it’s a possibility. But I’d rather do it anyway, and she thinks it’s not worth the risk.

  He looks suddenly worried. What do you mean? Why is it a possibility?

  I tap the side of my forehead with one finger. Not so good in the head. She said once that if I had bad legs she wouldn’t encourage me to run a marathon.

  He makes a face. That doesn’t even make sense.

  I shrug again. Mothers.

  What about your dad? He seems so reasonable.

  That’s more complicated. I think of Clark packing up boxes on his last day at home before moving to Bristol University. Will you miss me, Steffi? Grief, sudden and acute, seizes my heart, then lets go. Dad’s worried too. But for different reasons.

  What reasons?

  I could tell him about Clark. I could explain how Clark didn’t even really want to go to university, but Dad and Lucy convinced him. They had what was basically the opposite argument with Clark than they now have with me. With him, it was, You should go, it’ll be so good for you. And Clark eventually gave in and went, and then, just as he was on his way back to us for the summer, he died. His death was an accident – we all know this – but grief has a way of twisting sadness into guilt, remorse into regret, until it becomes irrational. Now they want to keep me extra close, extra safe, from somewhere in their heads that has morphed into something dangerous. University.

  I could tell Rhys that in all the times my parents and I have spoken about me going to university we never mention this, never even mention Clark’s name, but he’s there. Every time. Dad stuff, I reply, which is meaningless but at least isn’t a lie. If I could just prove to them both that I can do it, I say. I think they still think of me as the mute kid, you know? But I’m not. I hesitate. Or am I?

  He smiles and touches my face. You’re not.

  But I think, to my parents – all four of them – I still am, and that’s why they act like the great university decision is theirs, not mine. The difficulty is mine; the dream is mine; the medication is mine; the therapist is mine. But the decision? All theirs.

  But now I have Rhys. My very own spanner in the works. No one saw someone like Rhys coming – especially not me.

  Reasons I want to go to university

  To learn stuff.

  To challenge myself.

  Everyone thinks I can’t.

  Tem’s not going to university, and at least one of us should go so the other can visit.

  The university has a Dog-walking Society. Really.

  Student discounts.

  I don’t want to be stuck selectively mute in Bedfordshire forever.

  Clark never got to finish university, and when I graduate I can tell myself it’s for both of us.

  Three weeks after Rhys and I become a couple, I turn seventeen. It’s a Thursday, the same day as the American Thanksgiving, and so my dad and I host Bronsgiving in my honour. I invite Tem and Rhys, because they’re the only guests I need, and Mum comes along too, leaving Keir at home to look after Bell. Lucy goes all out, making traditional American dishes like pumpkin pie and green-bean casserole as well as the giant turkey and trimmings.

  We sit in the dining room together with the lights dimmed low and candles lit all around the room. We drink champagne and I feel cosy and happy and special. Instead of the American tradition of everyone saying something they’re thankful for, everyone toasts me, one by one. If I were anywhere else, it would be awful, but I’m here at home with my best people, so I blush with happiness instead of shame.

  It’s all pretty perfect, is what I’m saying.

  Tem has bought me a panda charm for my bracelet, plus seventeen individually wrapped Lindor truffles. Her card features a black Labrador puppy and a white cat cuddling on a cushion. Inside she’s written,

  They’re almost as cute as us!

  Happy birthday, bestie.

  Love, The Tempest xxx

  ‘The Tem-best,’ I say, because some things never change, and hug her.

  My first ever present from my boyfriend – from a boyfriend generally, in fact – is a couple of Pop! figures: one Wall-E, one Eve. They are adorable and perfect. I thought about getting you Toy Story ones, Rhys says. But it’s not a love story.

  I reach over and hug him. When we break apart, I see every single person in the room beaming at me.

  If this whole thing were a film, this is where it would end. Me, bubbly happy, surrounded by people I love and who love me. Secure in myself and my place at the table. Talking freely. This would be the final shot: me sitting back after hugging Rhys, taking in the smiles of my family, smiling back as Rhys’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes.

  But this isn’t a film. He lets go of my hand, we eat cake and then he leaves, followed half an hour later by Tem and my mother. There are dishes to wash and leftovers to wrap in foil and cling-film. Lucy drinks a glass of wine and sits on the sofa, her fingers on her forehead, eyes closed. I take Rita for a late-night walk, and it rains.

  When I get home, I shower and go straight to bed, still feeling the warmth of the day, and I snuggle under my covers, replaying the moments
in my head. How good it all felt. How lucky I am.

  And then it happens. The panic. It’s slow at first, creeping through the cracks in my thoughts until everything starts to feel heavy. It builds; it becomes something physical that clutches at my insides and squeezes out the air and the blood.

  Who am I to be this lucky?

  It won’t last.

  It won’t last.

  Rhys will get bored of me.

  Tem will find better friends.

  I make Lucy miserable because I remind her that her son’s dead and all she’s got is me.

  Of course you’re happy with people who love you. What about everyone that doesn’t? They’re all still around.

  I can’t breathe.

  You don’t even have any real problems and look at you.

  I sit up in bed and rake my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  Imagine if you had real problems.

  This is pathetic.

  You’re pathetic.

  My breath is wheezy. A tiny whimper escapes.

  You thought getting a boyfriend would solve everything?

  Rita has jumped on to my bed. She’s nuzzling my face with her wet nose. I try to inhale through my nose, smelling her fur.

  You’re taking medication and it’s still not enough.

  Nothing will ever be enough.

  There’s just you. Never enough.

  Not even close.

  It takes me a long time to calm down and when I do I realize I’m crying, clutching the ruff of Rita’s neck. I’ve drowned out my own cruel thoughts by reciting the lyrics to ‘American Pie’ – my dad’s favourite song – half in my head, half in a whisper.

  I breathe in a deep, shuddering breath and let go of Rita. She lets out a whiny huff, then licks my face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper, touching my cheek to hers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I wait until my hands have stopped shaking, then lean over to my bedside cabinet to pick up the notepad my therapist gave me when I first started taking medication. I glance at the clock and write 2.11 a.m. Panic attack. I hesitate, the words blurring through a film of tears, and add, Help.