Leo reached over and took what remained of the roll out of my hand. He put it back on the plate and looked up.
‘Take it easy,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be sick.’
I nodded, knowing he was right. I could already feel the food working its way through me. Even those few little bites were filling me up. I sat back, as Leo tucked into his own roll. Every so
often he would tear off a bit and offer it to me. Just a little bit at a time.
I ate it eagerly, wondering how he was managing to swallow the food, knowing how much he hated honey.
Soon all the rolls were gone. Leo picked up the plate and smiled.
‘Your dad was wondering if it would help to see any of your friends. Grace, maybe?’
I shook my head. Friends would expect conversation – and I didn’t have that to give. I took Leo’s hand and squeezed it, trying to show with my eyes that he was enough. Leo
smiled again and went downstairs. I slipped into a deep sleep almost straight away and didn’t wake up until the following morning.
The doctor was a woman – youngish and friendly. She seemed nice but as soon as she started asking me questions I could feel myself closing up like I had around Mum and
Dad.
Flynn was in my head, filling me up. There was no room for anything else. I forced myself to nod and shake my head to the doctor’s questions.
No, I wasn’t in any pain
.
No, I wasn’t having suicidal thoughts
.
Yes, I was sure that at some point I would start talking again
.
While the first two things were true, I didn’t, in fact, feel confident that I would ever speak. The longer I went without doing so, the less point I could see in starting again.
I had everything I could possibly need. Food and shelter and Leo reading to me. That filled up the five per cent of me that wasn’t consumed by Flynn. The rest of the time, with the rest of
my being, I thought about him.
I was with him in my silence, reliving his presence, his voice, his laugh, his body – all the things we did and said, our lovemaking and our arguments, the way he looked at me. And all the
time there was this gaping hole in my stomach, this numbness, where I contained the pain of missing him, of knowing that I had driven him away, of having to face the fact that he hated me, that I
might never see him again.
After the doctor left, Mum and Dad and Gemma came in to see me. Dad explained that the doctor had recommended I was left to work through my feelings for a few more days. So long as I was eating
and sleeping, then she thought it was better not to pressure me further into speaking.
‘But we all agree that this can’t continue for too much longer and that once you do feel able to talk, you’ll see a therapist.’
I closed my eyes and turned away again.
No way was I talking to a stupid therapist.
I caught a whiff of Mum’s perfume and looked up. She was standing over me, her arms folded. ‘You should think yourself lucky you have people prepared to . . .’ She caught her
breath. ‘I will stay on here, River, but I need to know if that’s what you want.’
I looked into her eyes. The truth was I didn’t want her here. I could see how angry she was, and, also, how hurt. For a few seconds I felt deeply, horribly guilty. But I couldn’t
have her here every day, fussing over me with all that barely repressed fury. I just couldn’t.
I took her hand and squeezed it, then I shook my head.
No, Mum. I don’t want you here.
She nodded briskly, then bent down, kissed my forehead and left.
Leo stayed home all that week. He brought me my breakfast every morning. Tea and toast, though now with jam on his bread instead of honey. We sat and ate together, then he read
me the Carol Ann Duffy poems again.
Sometimes he translated them into Spanish or French as he read. I liked that, listening to the rhythm of the sounds, soothed by his voice. Sometimes he talked about them afterwards, saying what
he thought they were about. Sometimes he’d finish a poem and read it again straight away, as if he was trying to make sense of it.
Often he’d pick up the book and choose a poem at random. Except, after a while, I realised it wasn’t random at all. He was choosing the ones that made me cry . . . the ones that made
me think of Flynn.
One in particular he read over and over again.
I don’t know how he knew that ‘Row’, with its raw, painful images, would help. I still hadn’t cried properly over Flynn but when I heard that poem, so full of love and
loss, my tears leaked out, easing the unbearable pressure of my feelings.
When Leo finished reading Carol Ann Duffy he brought in his MP3 player and played me music I’d never heard of – random stuff from ages ago, a total mix of sounds and styles.
‘Do you want to hear the guy my mum named me after?’ he asked one afternoon. ‘He’s called Leonard Cohen. Have you heard of him?’
I shook my head. Leo’s full name was
Leonard?
‘Listen to this.’
Leo played track after track and I would shake or nod, to indicate if I liked it enough to hear it again.
Somehow, though he never wrote any of my choices down, he didn’t forget what I liked.
Of course, I did know some of the music. Some of it I’d listened to with Flynn. I’d hear it again now, with Leo, and I would curl over, hiding my face, weeping again.
He let me cry. He never tried to make me talk. He never tried to hold me. He just sat with me, letting me feel.
Bringing me back.
A week passed.
I slept very badly on the Saturday night, tossing and turning all night. I’d started worrying about Flynn again. About where he was and how he was.
And who he was with.
The thought of him with other girls consumed me with jealousy Great, fierce waves of it that hurt so much I had to hold my breath against the pain, just waiting for it to pass. But the worst
thing was the emptiness, that sense I had of being lost. An abandoned child, wailing into the darkness.
On Sunday I woke as the door opened, and turned eagerly, expecting it to be Leo. It was Dad.
I was shocked by how thin and grey he looked, his face drawn and old. He set down my breakfast tray and stroked the hair off my face. He didn’t speak for a few minutes then, at last, he
said: ‘You know, you’re going to have to face the world sometime, sweetheart.’
I could hardly bear the sadness in his voice and his eyes. I wanted to speak to him, to say I was sorry that I’d put him through so much pain. But I was so buried now under my layers of
silence that I didn’t know how.
‘Leo would’ve brought up your tray,’ Dad said, ‘but his father’s taken him out. They’ll be home later and I expect he’ll come up and see you then. You
know he’s going back to school tomorrow. That’s going to be a big thing for him. I think he feels self-conscious about how he looks with that bruise on his face.’
I nodded, feeling guilty again. All this week Leo had spent time with me.
For
me. Listening to music and reading poems – even eating honey sandwiches. And, okay, he’d told
me a bit more about his mum – how she’d been ill for several months before she died. How close they’d been. But everything he’d done had been about me. About helping me.
I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how he might be feeling about . . . about anything.
I felt a stab of self-loathing.
I waited eagerly for him to come home. But it was dark before I heard the car pull up outside. I checked the time. It was after nine. I hoped Leo wouldn’t think that was too late for him
to come up.
I waited for what seemed like ages.
At last there was a soft rap on the door and Leo stuck his head round. He smiled, his eyes a sparkling blue, then came over and sat down beside me on the bed. He said nothing.
I picked up the book of Carol Ann Duffy poems and handed it to him.
He shook his head and put it down. I frowned. Didn’t he want to read?
Then Leo cleared his throat. ‘I had a good day with Dad today,’ he said. ‘The best we’ve had for . . . for ages.’ He paused. ‘And I was thinking about school.
We’re starting on
Jane Eyre
soon, remember?’
I nodded.
‘I was thinking maybe I could read that to you, seeing as we’ve read all the Duffy poems about ten times each.’
A broad grin spread across my face. I nodded eagerly.
‘Okay. But there’s one condition.’
I raised my eyes.
‘You have to ask me to do it.’
His words hung in the air between us. I stared at him. He was expecting me to speak?
Leo stood up and took a step away from the bed. ‘You
can
speak, River, so I think you should. I mean, at first I understood, you were in shock or whatever. You needed to protect
yourself. But now, you have to move on.’
I stared at him, suddenly furious. How dare he make demands, like . . . like everyone else? And since when had he become so confident around me? Two weeks ago he hardly looked me in the eye.
Leo took another step away.
‘Fine. I’ll come by in a couple of days, see if you’re ready to speak then. I just want you to ask me to read. It’s only polite, really.’
My heart filled with fury.
Leo walked to the door.
I suddenly saw the next two days, stretching on like today had, only with no visit from Leo to look forward to at the end of them.
The fury transformed to fear.
Leo opened the door.
‘Leo?’ My voice came out in a croak. It felt weird, hearing myself speak out loud.
He turned round.
‘Please read to me.’ As I said the words, my voice somehow bridged the chasm between my body and my mind. I finally connected with the terrible pain, like a poison that crept through
my veins, exploding inside every cell, worse than anything I’d ever known.
‘Aaagh.’ I curled up into a ball. It was more than I could bear. It would kill me. I wailed into my pillow. Deep, dark noises poured out of me, along with tears and spit and fury. My
nose and eyes and mouth were streaming, my whole being focused in my heart which was surely breaking and dying and drowning in the unbearable knowledge that Flynn had left me. And that he
wasn’t coming back.
I don’t know how long I bawled like that but when I was too exhausted to do it any longer I looked up. Leo had gone. Dad was sitting there, his gentle eyes filled with tears. He held out
his arms and I crawled into them, still sobbing.
‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ He stroked my hair as I cried, incoherently wailing about Flynn and what had happened and how I couldn’t live without him and how I couldn’t
bear feeling like this and how I wanted to die from the pain of it.
In the end my sobs subsided to shuddering gasps and I leaned my whole weight against Dad. He held me and rocked me to and fro like a baby, and as my tears finally dried, he whispered in my
ear:
‘This too shall pass. This too shall pass.’
That night I fell asleep with Dad holding my hand. I slept better than I had all week and woke feeling hungry – and lighter somehow. Someone had been in already and left
me a cup of tea.
I felt a stab of guilt. Dad, Gemma and Leo had between them looked after me completely for the whole of the last week and I’d been too wrapped up in myself to even notice.
It was light and sunny outside, almost ten o’clock. I took a sip of my tea. It was cold. Maybe I’d go down to the kitchen and make myself another cup. I padded downstairs. I
wasn’t sure who would be around. Leo, I knew, would have gone back to school this morning. I kind of hoped I wouldn’t bump into any of the other commune residents. Ros had come up to
sit with me a few times but I hadn’t seen the others all week.
I didn’t want to face them. I didn’t want to have to talk to them. I know it sounds crazy but there were actually butterflies in my stomach as I walked along the corridor into the
kitchen. It felt weird being outside my room.
Thankfully, the kitchen was empty. I made myself a cup of tea and some toast and sat down at the table. I drank the tea and nibbled on the toast. After a few mouthfuls, I didn’t feel
hungry any more and the food tasted like cardboard. I pushed it away. Then I got up and put the leftover toast into the recycling box. Dad and Gemma were always nagging me to eat more but I seemed
to have completely lost my appetite. I didn’t want one of them coming in and pestering me to finish the food.
As I straightened up, Gemma and Ros walked in.
‘River?’ Gemma beamed at me. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Okay,’ I lied. I tried to smile at her. ‘Well . . . better.’
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Gemma said.
‘Had some.’ I indicated the empty plate in my hand.
Ros plonked her bag on the kitchen table and started rifling through it. ‘Pop the kettle on, then,’ she said. ‘I’ve got time for a cup before I go.’
Gemma rolled her eyes at me and moved towards the kettle.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said.
I made tea and the three of us sat down at the table.
‘Your dad’s working out of the commune today,’ Gemma said. ‘But he’s going to call in at lunchtime, see how you are.’ She paused. ‘He’ll be so
pleased you’re up.’
‘And talking,’ Ros added.
‘He’s been so worried about you.’
I thought about how Dad had looked last night. I looked down at the table. ‘I’m sorry.’
Gemma parted my hand. ‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up.’
‘No. You can leave that to the men in your life,’ Ros said sarcastically.
We all laughed. Then Gemma brought out some biscuits and we sat there for a bit. I didn’t eat or say much. Ros did most of the talking. She said things were going well with Leo’s
dad, then told us about various guys she’d been with previously and how they’d cheated on her or walked out when she was at her most vulnerable.
I could see Gemma glancing at me, anxiously. But I didn’t mind hearing about Ros’s bad times. In a way it was flattering. She was talking to me like a friend her own age, as if now
I’d been dumped by Flynn I was part of a club I hadn’t known about before.
I kept thinking about him though, all the while she was talking. The way Ros told it she’d never put a foot wrong. But I had. I’d kissed Flynn’s best friend.