Wildflowers (4 page)

I LEAVE
a note thanking Simon for the bed. The whole bed-for-a-night idea seems to have been one of my worst, though.

The morning is chilly, and I wrap my coat around Sam’s shoulders as I half carry him to the car. Once inside, he curls on his side away from me, listless and distant.

Am I still dreaming?
I wonder as we drive down the deserted streets.

Up ahead on a billboard is a picture full of blues and greens—a picture of a field. I slow down as we pass it. The field in the photo is perfect. It’s the field I’ve been looking for. Wildflowers blurred against the drop of the sea, that endless aching blue that merges with the sky. I’d perhaps call it Elysium or heaven, if I believed in anything at all. I choke back my laughter at the absurdity. But I know I have to find that place. Somehow I know it’s somewhere along the collapsed road to the sea.

ALEX HAD
said the sea was twenty minutes away, but I drive slowly now that we have a destination. Sam doesn’t ask where we’re going—he’s like a ghost beside me. He hasn’t talked to me since yesterday. Maybe he never will again.

This is it
, I think.
This. Is. It.

It’s taken three weeks for it to happen, for the bullet that was fired when he told me he was dying to finally hit me. All at once I understand exactly what it means. What Sam’s absence is going to mean to me.

I let go of the wheel and the car swerves crazily across the road.

Blood roars through my head, obliterating every thought in its path.

Three weeks, one hellish night, and I am…

I am
annihilated
.

Somehow I manage to pull over onto a verge and stumble out of the car, retching over and over on the spongy grass until there’s nothing left inside me.

I’m in such a mess, pretending everything is all right when really it has been sliding into the shit since the beginning of this hopeless journey. I yank open Sam’s door and he almost collapses beside me on the grass.

I hold him up by the shoulders, but he can barely keep his head straight.

“Tell me what’s wrong with you,” I beg him. “
Please
. There must be something we can do.”

He’s too far-gone. It’s too late.

Lay me down
, he signs stiffly.

No
,
no
,
not here
, I think desperately.
Not by the side of a road.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what to do.

This is about Sam and this is what he wants
, I tell myself.

I pull him toward a gap in the hedge and into the field behind. It’s not the right field—it’ll never be the right field—but it’s full of flowers.

I’m sobbing against his chest. “Not now, please not now.”

Someone help me
, I think. But that’s what Sam didn’t want. No hospital, no doctors, no drugs, no help.

But I need help.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, my cheek against his, and I feel him curl his hand in mine.

I promised myself I wouldn’t break down. I didn’t promise Sam.

Even his breath is faint against my ear. Fading. I lift my head and hold his gaze. I watch a solitary tear spill from his right eye into his hair.

Did he think this would be romantic?

I cannot be holding this boy’s body in a field, the wind whipping around me, the sky unfallen. I can’t.

I won’t.

I can feel myself getting angry.

Use it
, a little voice inside me whispers.

And I do, I let it build—anything is better than this fathomless sorrow.

He’s letting himself go, and I’m angry with him, so fucking angry, for making this choice, for wanting to leave me behind. Perhaps this is payback for how I left him, but I don’t want to be left behind. Not again. Not after Joe. I want to show Sam there is so much to live for, so much promise. I want him to try. For himself. For me. And if I don’t try for him, I know I will never forgive myself.

I should have tried back then at the commune. I should have tried so much fucking harder.

I can’t let him go without a fight, without at least knowing why.

“I can’t do it, Sam,” I say, feeling my blood whir through my veins like the wind. “I can’t fucking do it.”

I can’t watch you give up and die.
Anything but that.

And he has given up—I can see it in the blank reflective sheen on his eyes.

Was that my fault? My rejection, my betrayal last night?

Don’t wallow
, the little voice hisses.

My tears drip onto his top, leaving large dark splotches. Angrily I swipe my hand across my eyes.

Using all my strength, I gather Sam in my arms and carry him to the car. He’s quite a bit shorter than me and isn’t heavy, but I’m weak in the face of this. Somehow I pull open the car door and carefully lay him down on the backseat.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, and I lean down and press my lips against his.

How much have I lied to myself?
I wonder.
How much pain has it caused?
Tenderly, I stroke his cheek and think I must be imagining him moving into my touch.

Don’t fucking die, Sam.

I didn’t steal this car for speed, I stole it for comfort, and until now I haven’t regretted my choice. With its wide leather seats and faultless suspension, it drifts like a dream, but however much I growl and I shout, the fucking thing doesn’t eat the miles fast enough. When I finally see the town appear on the crest of the hill, I am exhausted.

I don’t look round at Sam. I tell myself he’s still with me.

I tell myself I would know if he was not.

“STOP! YOU’RE
going to break the glass,” Alex says, hurriedly unlocking the café door. He reaches for my still-raised hand—his touch bringing me back to myself. “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking concerned and as though he cares, despite my failure last night.

It was a lie when I said he was nothing like Joe: a lie to protect myself. Same honey-gold hair, same wary regard, same challenge. But the thought of Joe just sits on the surface, insignificant and almost, awfully, obsolete.

“Your aunt, the nurse, I need her.
Now
!” I’m unable to control the desperation in my tone. I gesture at the car parked in the street behind me, at Sam just visible on the backseat.

Simon comes to the door. “I’ll call her.” He rushes back into the café.

I turn back to the car, place my hands on the roof, and stare at Sam’s unmoving form. I’ve never felt so helpless. Less than a minute later, Simon returns. “She says she’s on her way.”

I shake my head
no
, too long. “Take me to her.”

Simon gingerly climbs in the passenger seat, looking anywhere but at Sam. “Is he going to…?”

“No!” I growl warningly. “Which way?”

It takes us a minute, just a couple of streets. As we turn the corner, Simon and Alex’s aunt is exiting the door of her terraced house, a sturdy black bag in her hand. She has windswept red hair and a concerned frown on her face. I trust her immediately.

She opens the car door and bends down next to Sam before firing off questions. “What’s his name? Has he taken anything? When did he last eat or drink? Is he diabetic? Does he have any other illness?”

I tell her all I can.

“Sam,” she says loudly, “I’m Judy. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Then she turns to me. “Ambulance will take too long. We’ll drive him straight to the hospital. Simon?” She smiles reassuringly and gestures for Simon to go inside her house.

Simon looks like he’s about to pass out.

Then she turns to me, her expression grim. “His pulse is very faint. I’m a midwife now but I did a stint on Resus. I’m going to sit in the back with him. You drive. I’ll direct you. How long has he been unconscious?”

“About fifteen minutes,” I say, hoping that’s true.

She squeezes my arm and nods.

JUDY PHONES
ahead.

A team of nurses and doctors are waiting on our arrival. Sam is quickly loaded onto a gurney and rushed away. It all happens so fast. I’m left standing on the tarmac, the car door the only thing left holding me up.

“XAVI?”

I’m sitting inside the car now, marveling at how quiet everything is.

“Xavi?” Judy taps on the window. The movement makes me flinch. She gestures for me to wind the window down. “You’ve got to move the car,” she says gently. “It’s blocking the ambulance bay.”

I nod, but she could have just told me the whole world was on fire for all I hear.

“Xavi.” This time her voice is firm and she squeezes my arm.

The sound of the world around us rushes back to me. The people, the shouts, the cars. It’s the middle of the day and I’m at the hospital.

I blink and swallow. “Where to?”

“Just down the ramp.” She points to the side of the building. “Stick it in one of the empty bays at the bottom and put this on the dashboard.” She passes me a piece of paper with her name and ID number written on it. Her hand is still on my arm. “He’s in crash. They’re doing everything they can.”

I’ve watched enough crappy hospital dramas to know that’s not good.

“I’ll meet you in reception. You’ll need to give his details.”

I watch her walk back into the hospital, aware of a strange sensation, like laughter bubbling behind my ribs, verging on hysteria. His details? His date of birth, place of birth, age, home address, next of kin? Oh yeah, the stuff we never discussed. I don’t know
any
details. It’s like a bad joke.

He doesn’t talk much
, I could say, and I can just imagine the look on their faces.

I make my way down the ramp and again regret my choice of car. It’s too fucking big for any of the spaces. I feel it scrape down the side of a new Ford Focus, but I’m past caring. I leave it blocking the exit of a Land Rover and walk dazedly back to the reception.

Do I know his details?
they ask.

Of course
, I say. I make him six years younger than me, his date of birth the same day and month as mine, his home address my parent’s house, and his next of kin? Well, you can guess. It’s really no surprise he doesn’t come up on their system.

Judy leads me through to one of those quiet rooms reserved for people about to have their hearts ripped open by bad news.

All nurses have compassionate faces. They must do—it’s a job and they’re playing a role, while we, the unsuspecting members of the cast, flail around ungracefully on an ever-moving stage.

Judy smiles at me gently.

Don’t tell me he’s dead; don’t tell me he’s dead.

“It’s touch and go,” she says. “I won’t lie to you, Xavi. It doesn’t look good. They think it may be some sort of organ failure. Do you know if he was suffering from any blood disorder?”

I think about what he said about his mum, how she died like this too, but I don’t know enough details. I shake my head.

“Can I see him? I promised I’d stay with him,” I whisper.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I look away. “Can I see him?” I say again.

“They’re doing everything they can,” she says.

“He didn’t want to die alone.”

Her hands guide me to a chair. “Is there anyone you can call to stay with you?” She has a kind face.

Over the past year, after Joe’s death, I’ve let myself drift away from those friends who made me whole again. I wanted a fresh start. I wanted the memories to fade. So, who can I call? I was afraid to care for someone again, and so now there is no one to care for me.

Don’t wallow.
I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. “My parents,” I say eventually.

Judy hands me a phone. “I’ll be back in a little while,” she says and leaves me alone in the room.

I stare at the handset. I send letters every month but I never call. I don’t even own a phone. How long has it been since I’ve seen them? Before the commune?

Every letter they send me ends with “I hope we’ll see you again soon.” They’ve never pressured me, never pushed me, and I’ve always known how much they care for me, how much they love me.

I dial the number before my throat closes up.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice hasn’t changed a bit.

“Mum?” I say and have to bite back a sob.

“Xavi?”

I can hardly speak. I’m surprised the handset doesn’t crack in half from how hard I’m gripping it.

At first my mother panics and thinks it’s me ill in the hospital, but even when she realizes it’s not, she tells me she’s on her way, that she’ll pick up my father from his work and they’ll be there.

Just like that. They drop everything.

A little voice says,
Isn’t that what you did three weeks ago?
But I ignore it and pull my sleeve across my eyes.

Judy brings me just about the sweetest cup of tea I’ve ever tasted, but it helps me to feel a little less empty.

“My parents are on their way,” I say. “Although it’s a two-hour drive at least.”

“I’ll stay with you until they get here.”

Tears fill my eyes again as she says this. She doesn’t even know me.

“Come here,” she says, and pulls me into a hug.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut tight.

Joe and I had only been living together a few months before we ran out of money and went to the commune. We were both older students and left university together. I’d been lonely since moving away from home and wasn’t enjoying my course, and I quickly became so wrapped up in Joe that I didn’t bother looking for another one. I desperately wanted to be in love with someone. I told myself Joe was perfect for me. I told myself I could live with the fact that he’d sometimes fall into bed smelling of other men and women, because I was the one whose arms he needed around him in the middle of the night, I was the one he loved. He said it all the time, and those words were like a magic spell.