and chili beef, with broccoli and spring rolls. It’s beautiful.’
It does look good. I feel a quick pang of jealousy, but I can hardly even taste the satay, eating rice and broccoli would be pretty pointless for me right now.
I attack the skewered meat steadily and feel my body slowly respond to the food. The cramps ease, and my head clears, and the more I eat, the more I tear through the pile like some kind of rabid carnivore, the more human I begin to feel on the inside (although god knows what it looks like from the outside). Even the dull ache in my back is beginning to subside, and I feel stronger with every mouthful. Dad’s told me, endlessly, that I need to eat every four hours or so during the daytime now, and it’s been well over double that since I ate this morning’s mound of cold bacon under the blanket in the car.
Dad chats away as I eat, and I try to nod and smile in all the right places. All I can focus on now is the food, and the effect it’s having on me. After a while, I catch him staring at me with an eyebrow raised, and I realise he’s waiting for something from me. ‘Hmm?’ I murmur thickly through a mouthful of chicken.
‘I said, are you any feeling better now?’
I swallow and take a long drink of water. ‘Yeah,’ I sigh contentedly. ‘Loads better. Thanks.’
‘I really should have got you something to eat sooner, it’s dangerous to go that long without protein now. I’m sorry Chlo, it’s just been a hell of a day. I’ve not been at my best.’
I drop an empty skewer onto my plate, and sit back in my chair, only just starting to feel full even though I’m over three quarters of the way through the huge portion he’s given me.
‘It’s ok,’ I tell him. I didn’t realise how late it was getting, and I thought I was just tired from the unpacking. I should be taking more responsibility for myself. I need to learn the signs of this messed up body of mine better. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Well, it’s something we both need to watch out for. Especially now. I’m going to be putting in some long days at the hospital, Chlo, and I need to know you’re going to be all right here without me.’ He reaches down under the table. ‘So, I got you this.’
He passes a small, white box across to me, and I wipe my greasy hands on my already grubby jeans as I recognise it: an iPhone 6. I dig into the box with glee. A phone is a big deal for me, any kind of phone, never mind an iPhone. It’s a big deal for both us. After the accident, my old phone went the way of my old life. Dad getting me a new one now, regardless of how shiny and cool the brand is, is a real sign of trust. I don’t know what to say.
‘You still need to be careful,’ he says, presumably thinking exactly what I’m thinking. ‘You can’t ever go back, Chlo. Things can’t ever be how they were.’ He pulls another, identical box from below the table and sets it next to his plate. ‘But we need to be able to keep in touch, all the time. In case… Well, just in case. And the lad in shop said you can set alarms on these, for reminders and what have you; so, once we get yours up and running you can program one in for your meals. And then you won’t have to worry, well, I won’t have to worry about you forgetting.’
I get up and go over to give him a hug. Because it’s more than a phone. It’s him trusting me to be smart, and trying to keep me safe. And as I hug him I start to cry, because I’m not sure I deserve either.
*
While Dad gets the phones registered in some fake name, and starts them charging, I close the door to my new room with a sigh of relief. I know he only wants to help, but I really don’t want him in here with me, going through my things. Not that I have much stuff any more, but still, I need to do this by myself. Three large boxes are neatly lined up for me, and I grab the scissors and dig in.
This is my life now. Three boxes.
I start with the books. The built-in shelves in here are gorgeous, and crying out for some literary love. I couldn’t keep all of my books when we left, there were way too many; but he let me make a list of fifty, and he went through and packed them up for me. There were a couple he couldn’t find, but he did a Waterstones run to pick up the AWOL titles. He can be amazing like that. I need to remember him like that, that version of him, not the way he is in my dreams. I wonder if Mum could ever have done that, pushed that version of him aside… but… well, it doesn’t do any good to wonder.
I kind of thought it was the end of the world at the time, with the books, I mean. I’ve been collecting them since I was a kid, and I lost hundreds of them to whatever charity shop Dad thought best. Loads of them were signed, too. But now it doesn’t seem so bad. Taking the ones that made it out of the boxes and finding places for them on the shelves feels almost like kicking back with friends. And these are pretty much the only friends I’ll ever have now. At least we won’t fight.
They’re mostly all urban fantasy novels, or classics, all far removed worlds that take me well away from my reality, which is everything I need right now. When I read, I can completely forget what I am, or why I am. I didn’t get to spend any time with them at the flat, I was out cold for most of it, and working through exercises and body function tests with Dad for the rest. My head totally wasn’t in a place where I could’ve read even if I’d been given the chance. I don’t want to think about those six months ever again. I need to find a way to let them go, but I’m not there yet. Now, well, I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands; so maybe they can be my escape. Maybe they can put me back together. Because I’m not really sure Dad did it right.
Once all the books are out, there’s hardly anything left other than my sad collection of jeans and hoodies. There are a couple of photos, my ancient teddy bear, Archie, and a first generation iPod that only ever works when it feels like it. The room feels almost as empty as I do.
Back when Dad moved us into the basement flat, he hardly took anything except his notes and his computer. And as much of the vaccine as he could carry, of course. Most of the stuff back home got sent around to various charity places. Dad said it would look better that way. Like he was clearing out and moving on. Like people would expect. It’s all about keeping up appearances with him; I resented that at first. All I wanted to do was grieve, and wallow in my guilt. I didn’t care about what anyone else thought. Now though, well, let’s just say I’ve kind of finally caught up. Keeping up appearances means Dad gets to stay alive. As for me, well, I suppose it’s not really that simple.
One of the photos in the box is of me and Tom, taken just a few days before the accident. I look so young, and so happy. My eyes are shining. I don’t think I’m quite ready to have this one up on display just yet, because it pulls at what’s left of my heart when I see it. I hardly even recognise myself. I slide it under my mattress for now. The other is of me with Mum and Dad when I was thirteen. We were on holiday in Spain, and we’re all sunburned and tired and smiling. That was the last family holiday we ever had. When we got home, things really ramped up for Dad at the Agency, and he never took more than a day here and there away from the place again. That one hurts too, but it also reminds me of a better time so strongly that I force myself to stand it up on the shelf, and take a good look. I don’t know why it seems more important to face up to it than the Tom photo. Maybe because it was taken longer ago. Maybe because Dad and I are there, and we’re both still here and in this together now, regardless of what happened before. Maybe it can somehow help me to remember who I was. Who I am.
I look for safer ground, I don’t want to start crying again for fear that I won’t be able to stop. Don’t think. I sort my clothes out next. They don’t even take up a quarter of the built-in wardrobe in here. All my old clothes got boxed up and thrown in with the charity run, and Dad’s had to do all my shopping for me since. Given that today is only the second time I’ve ever left the flat, and also that he’s probably the only person you’ll find who’s less fashion conscious than me, it’s pretty much just a small pile of jeans, t-shirts, lumberjack shirts and hoodies. Comfort clothes. It’s not like I need anything else. I’ve been losing weight steadily since it happened, and most of them are pretty baggy on me now, but I kind of like them that way.