A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  ‘Your boyfriend’s parents?’ she prompts. ‘So they can come and get you both?’

  Nausea rises, hot and thick in my throat. I will have to call people. I will have to call Rhys’s parents and explain that we took off without telling anyone and now Rhys has broken at least one bone on the top of a mountain in Scotland. They are going to yell at me.

  Oh shit.

  I suddenly want, more than anything else, to be back on top of that stupid mountain. Preferably by myself.

  ‘Do you have a phone?’ Connie asks when I don’t say anything.

  I nod wordlessly. I have a sudden, insane urge to ask her to make the calls for me. But how crazy would that look?

  ‘We’re just a few minutes away from the hospital, so you should wait until you’ve spoken to a doctor,’ Connie says. ‘You have some time.’ She gives me another smile, like she knows. Like she understands.

  The hospital is loud, chaotic and full of people. Three things I hate. Connie waits until Rhys and I have spoken to the woman on reception before she says her goodbyes. I’d hoped she would stay, but I know there’s no reason for her to do that.

  ‘We don’t have anyone who speaks sign language here.’ The receptionist has come over to where we’ve sat down to tell me this. ‘So you’ll need to make sure you’re always around to translate for your friend, OK?’

  I nod, because what else can I do, and sign a quick explanation to Rhys, who gives us both a tired thumbs-up.

  ‘It may be a while,’ the woman adds, standing up. ‘We’ve had a few messy ones today.’

  I don’t ask what she means by this, even though I really want to know. When she leaves, Rhys fumbles with his pocket, trying to pull out his phone.

  No phones, I sign, pointing at the written sign on the wall.

  He shakes me off, letting out an irritated huff.

  No phones, I sign again, reaching over and taking it from him.

  ‘Hey,’ Rhys barks, so loudly people turn to stare at us.

  ‘Hey yourself,’ I hiss back, flushing. Then add, for good measure, Shhh.

  Rhys raises both eyebrows and makes a face at me, which I’m pretty sure is his equivalent of a sarcastic comment about Silent Steffi telling someone else to shhh, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and let it go.

  The frustration is coming off him in waves and I both love and hate him for it. This isn’t easy for me either, I want to tell him. You think I’m enjoying this?

  We sit in silence for the next half an hour, which is how long it takes for Rhys’s name to be called. He’s given a wheelchair so he doesn’t have to hobble, but he doesn’t seem very grateful.

  The doctor directs all his questions at me and barely looks at Rhys, right down to ‘How much pain is he in?’ and ‘Did he hit his head?’. I have flashes of my mute childhood when people would talk about me instead of to me, using my name but never looking at me. I hated it just as much then as I do now.

  I want to share this feeling of annoyed understanding with Rhys, but he’s unusually crotchety, so I can’t. He keeps turning his head so I’m barely in his peripheral vision, let alone visible enough for him to read, and I know he’s doing it on purpose. His whole energy bristles.

  In between the X-rays and the results, when the two of us are left alone for a while behind a hastily pulled paper curtain, we still don’t talk. I recognize there’s something ironic about either of us giving anyone the silent treatment, but that is undoubtedly what is happening right now. I wonder if he blames me for what happened, but that doesn’t feel like it. He’s been given plenty of painkillers, so the creases have gone from his forehead and the crinkles from around his eyes. But still he scowls.

  My sweet, warm boyfriend has somehow been replaced by this sullen grump of a teenage boy. I don’t like this version so much.

  How old do you think that doctor is? I ask.

  Shrug.

  He seems young, right?

  Shrug.

  Have you ever broken any bones before?

  Yes.

  Which one?

  He points to his collarbone.

  When? How?

  A shake of the head.

  Talk to me.

  Rhys looks directly at me, his eyes meeting mine. He looks about ready to boil over. How? he mouths deliberately. The sign for How requires both his hands, and with one be-slinged he can’t say it. But his eyes are saying, Stop trying.

  So I do.

  We’re at the hospital for several hours while Rhys gets fixed up, and it’s all just about as fun as it sounds. I get sick of playing interpreter but I do it anyway, of course. They realign Rhys’s elbow and set it, telling him – through me – about recovery times and early motion exercises. His ankle is sprained rather than broken, which is something at least. The only time I leave him is for the few minutes it takes for me to call Aled, and even then it’s only after I’ve put it off for as long as I can.

  It takes me seven minutes to work up the courage to press call on the phone I have borrowed from Rhys. I do it sitting on a garden wall opposite the hospital, biting my thumbnail until it splits and bleeds.

  ‘Hello!’ Aled reveals himself as the kind of person who answers the phone with an exclamation instead of a question.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I say. I clutch my hand around my wrist and squeeze until my nails dig into my skin. I imagine the half-moon marks appearing. I try to remember to breathe.

  ‘Hello,’ Aled repeats, sounding amused. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Um,’ I say again. I dig my nails in tighter. ‘My name is Steffi.’

  ‘Steffi who?’ And then, before I can reply, he answers his own question. ‘Rhys’s Steffi?’

  ‘Um.’ STOP UMMING, STEFFI. ‘Yeah.’

  There’s a pause, and then suddenly Aled’s voice is urgent and serious. ‘Has something happened to my brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well, I mean, no, nothing, like, really bad. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘OK, stop. You’re rambling.’ There’s a control and authority to the way he speaks that I find both impressive and intimidating. ‘Just give me the facts.’

  I give myself a moment to get my nerves under control, and the fact that he allows me this makes me think that Rhys has told him more than just a little about my issues. ‘We’re in Edinburgh,’ I begin. ‘We went up Arthur’s Seat. And Rhys kind of . . . fell.’

  ‘Shit.’ There’s a catch in his voice, and something about it makes me think of Clark.

  ‘It’s just broken bones,’ I say hastily. I probably should have opened with that. ‘He’s fine. It’s just, he can’t sign because . . . well, you know. So . . .’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘The hospital. Can you . . .’

  ‘Yes. I’ll come right now, OK? I’m on my way.’

  Seven hours later and I am in bed at Dad’s house, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out exactly how I got here.

  It just seems so, overwhelmingly, unfair. Rhys stumbles slightly on a pebble and by a trick of misfortune he falls awkwardly instead of righting himself, as he would have done ninety-nine other times out of a hundred. And that tiny accident – the step he took to right himself being off by a couple of degrees – has ruined everything.

  After Aled arrived at the hospital, everything seemed to happen really fast. I was suddenly no longer necessary now that a functioning male adult was present and, worst of all, I found myself out of reasons to put off calling my parents. Any hope I might have had of Rhys and I being able to continue our mini-holiday were well and truly dashed. Aled was friendly, but he had a no-nonsense way about him and it was clear that secret fun time was over.

  I called Dad and explained what had happened, which was not the most enjoyable conversation of my life, especially when I had to ask him for money so I could buy a ticket home.

  ‘I’ll do one better,’ he said. ‘I’m coming to get you.’

  And he did. He went straight to the airport and got on a flight t
o Edinburgh so fast he actually made it there before I’d even left the hospital.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ I ventured, ten minutes after take-off. He’d barely said three words to me up to that point.

  Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Surprised. Disappointed, maybe.’ He blinked a little, then slid his glasses back up his nose before looking directly at me. ‘And a little proud.’

  I felt my face jerk in surprise. ‘Proud?’

  ‘Just a little.’ I saw a small smile spread on his face before he looked away from me and out of the window at the darkening sky.

  I’m staring at the dark ceiling, letting this memory wind its way lazily through my mind, when my heart gives an almighty, sickening lurch.

  Tem.

  I have forgotten Tem.

  I grab for my phone, tapping on to WhatsApp, hearing my panicked breath in my ears. Why did I turn the notifications off? Why?! There are seventeen unread messages from her and seven missed calls. Oh God.

  Tem:

  Why can’t I come over?

  It’s OK if you’re with Rhys! I can come over later ☺

  Steeefffffffffiiiiiiii

  Stef?

  [Missed call x 3]

  Why have you stopped replying? ☹

  Please call me. I need you.

  STEFFI

  [Missed call]

  Tem:

  My heart is broken. I need my best friend.

  Where.

  Are.

  You.

  K I’m starting to get mad now.

  [Missed call x 2]

  Are you seriously ignoring me for a boy?

  FOR GOD’S SAKE STEF I’M CRYING HERE

  My heart hurts

  [Missed call]

  Fine. Have fun with your boyfriend.

  I hate you.

  My hands are shaking as I send the quickest replies I can.

  Steffi:

  I’m here. I’m SO sorry. Rhys had an accident,

  have been in the hospital. Turned off phone.

  I know it’s not enough. It’s almost ten hours since I stopped replying to her first messages. There’s no excuse for ignoring her for that long.

  I’m too wired with nerves to wait for her to reply, so I carry on.

  Steffi:

  I was in Edinburgh. It was a secret trip

  for me and Rhys. I was going to tell you.

  I end up sending her five messages in my panic, too full of adrenalin to stop and think about whether or not this is a good idea. Trying to explain myself is suddenly all that’s important in the entire world.

  It’s in the silence after my frantic typing that I realize what I’ve just done, which is to pour out my guilt with no context or accompanying apology-face. I’ve made a giant, colossal mistake. I should have apologized briefly but sincerely, then waited until tomorrow morning to go and speak to her in person. Sending her a stream of consciousness ramble is the worst thing I could have done.

  I can’t take the messages back. They sit there, taunting me, just waiting for Tem’s eyes to take them in and narrow in fury.

  It’s midnight. I’m lying alone in the dark of my bedroom. And I have ruined everything.

  I’m prepared for the fallout to last all week.

  I try to avoid it for as long as I can, burying myself into my pillow and hoping everyone will think I’m sleeping. But eventually Lucy knocks on my door and pokes her head round.

  ‘Good morning, sunshine,’ she says. There’s a smile in her voice, which surprises me. ‘Stop hiding.’

  I poke my head out from under the covers. ‘Not hiding.’

  ‘It looks quite a bit like hiding to me,’ Lucy says. ‘I’ll make you some breakfast if you get up now. Your dad’s at work, and your mother is coming over this evening so we can all have a chat about what happened.’

  Oh, great. Not only do I get to have the ‘we’re so disappointed’ speech from three of my parents, I also get an entire day of anticipation.

  ‘Hmph,’ I mutter.

  ‘Your dad gave Rhys’s parents a ring before he left this morning,’ Lucy adds. I sit up immediately and brush my hair out of my eyes. ‘He stayed in Edinburgh last night with his brother, and he’s getting the train back this morning. In fact –’ she glances at her watch – ‘he’s most likely well on the way. So if you wanted to go and see him, go this afternoon. Give his parents a little time to grill him first, though.’ She smiles at me. ‘Now. Breakfast?’

  I stare at her, a little thrown. To be honest, this isn’t what I was expecting. Why is she being so friendly? Is she trying to lull me into a false sense of security? Is she getting me to Rhys’s house so they can all ambush us together?

  But as worried as I am about that, it’s nothing compared to how I feel about seeing Rhys again. I haven’t heard a word from him since I last saw him in the hospital – no jackbytes, not even a text. I keep thinking about his grumpy face, how he barely touched me when we said goodbye. What if what happened has ruined things between us? Has he realized that I’m too much of a liability to have around? Panicking in times of turmoil instead of taking control, losing my voice when I’m the one who should speak for us both. Does he think he’d be better off with someone who speaks his language properly? Or, at the very least, someone who can speak for herself?

  I want desperately to see my boyfriend. I ache with needing to see him. But what if he doesn’t want to be my boyfriend any more? What do I do then?

  And then there’s Tem. Tem, who hasn’t replied to any of my messages even though I can tell by the blue WhatsApp ticks that she’s seen them. Tem, who feels so deeply. Tem, who depends on me.

  Could I just stay here in bed all day and pretend that none of this is happening? I burrow down into my pillow and seriously consider it. I’m just wondering if I could get food delivered directly to my bedroom if I ordered online and asked very nicely, when something warm, heavy and furry lands directly on me. A nose snuffles into my ear.

  I groan. ‘Get off, Rita.’

  Rita flops down beside me, head on my pillow, one plaintive eye trained on me.

  ‘OK, OK.’ I throw back my covers and she leaps up happily, jumping on to the floor and spinning in a circle.

  Maybe I could pretend to myself. I could even pretend to my family. But Rita would never be fooled.

  I go to the Gold house sometime after lunch, taking Rita for moral support. She’s thrilled by the unusually long walk, happy, as ever, just to be with me. This might sound stupid, but that helps. When I walk down the street, I wrap the lead round my hand, concentrating on the sensation of tightness on my fingers, anchoring myself in the moment to stop myself spiralling.

  This is Rhys. It’s stupid to be so nervous. But . . . it’s Rhys.

  ‘Oh.’ It’s his mother who opens the door. ‘Hello, Stefanie.’

  God, I didn’t even think about being scared of seeing his mother. She’s looking at me like I just trampled her chrysanthemums. I have a sudden flash of how she used to check on us in Rhys’s room, how we always had to keep the door open. Ah. She knows why we were in Edinburgh.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeak. ‘Um. Can I see Rhys?’

  I half expect her to make some comment about me having seen quite enough of him over the weekend, but she doesn’t. She nods, tells me to wait in the garden with Rita, then disappears back into the house.

  It takes a few minutes for Rhys to come and join me in the garden. He’s not using a crutch, which I take to be a good sign. I stand to greet him, my heart already pounding.

  I swallow. Hi.

  His eyes meet mine. Hi.

  Rhys. There’s a cut by his right eye, a sling around his injured arm. His expression isn’t angry or disappointed. It’s just blank.

  We look at each other for a moment, neither of us speaking in any language. I have no idea what to say. I want to ask him if he’s angry with me, but I can’t bear to hear the answer if it’s yes. Can you sign? I ask eventually.

&
nbsp; He nods and shrugs at the same time. If I take it slow.

  Another silence. I open with the only thing I can think of. I’m sorry.

  He frowns. Why?

  My heart tightens. Is he really so angry with me he’s going to make me go through it all? That you got hurt.

  That wasn’t your fault.

  For not looking after you.

  You did.

  I take in his set jaw and feel my own start to quiver. Don’t cry. Why didn’t you message me? I ask.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  You could have said anything.

  You didn’t message me, either.

  I was waiting for you!

  Is this an argument? It’s so hard to tell. I don’t understand what he means by what he’s saying. BSL depends just as much on body language and facial expressions as it does on individual signs, and he’s giving me absolutely nothing in this area.

  Are you angry with me? A last resort. A pathetic thing to say. But I have to ask.

  Now he makes an expression. It’s like his whole face crumples. No, Bronze, he says. I’m angry with me.

  I’m startled. Why?!

  Now he looks angry. Because I screwed everything up. I ruined our trip. I made you panic. You had to look after me. I’m supposed to look after you.

  I shake my head. I’m about to say that we look after each other, but his hands are already moving again.

  I had to depend on you. I don’t want to do that.

  My heart hurts. You don’t want to depend on me?

  No.

  Why not? But I know why. Because I’m not strong enough. Because I am the last person who can carry the weight of another. Didn’t I prove that on Arthur’s Seat? If he has to depend on someone, it needs to be someone better than me.

  Because I want to be able to look after you.

  You can do that too!

  But I didn’t. I finally understand what the expression on his face is. Frustration. He’s buzzing with it. I didn’t look after you. I just made things harder. I can’t take that. It’s too hard.