Chapter 26
Henry
Nothing bad has ever happened to me before. I’ve grown up in countries where I don’t speak the language and which are dangerous enough that travel warnings advise against going there. I’ve lived in areas where there are tropical diseases and other health risks.
I’ve never worried about it. After all, things have always turned out fine.
I never had a pet that died. My grandparents are all still alive.
I’ve only experienced grief and shock in books and films. I was affected by them.
Sometimes they made me cry if they were superemotional, but I never really related to them.
I turned the TV off, shut the book, and forgot what they felt like.
There was no room for them in my life. Everything was lightheartedness.
Naivety.
Peace of mind.
This isn’t a film. It’s real life, and I’m getting off the plane beside Theo.
Nine hours in cramped seats with this oppressive fear in my guts.
Nine hours with no internet, nine hours in which I imagined Mum calling and saying, “False alarm.” That it wasn’t Maeve.
Or that she woke up, that she’s tired and confused but she’s going to get better.
That she got lucky. That we all got lucky.
Nine hours when I wanted to cry but couldn’t.
I’m dizzy. I haven’t been able to eat. I’d like to go to sleep and kid myself that this isn’t really happening.
Nairobi is busy, loud and hot, even now, in the middle of the night.
I can’t breathe, it’s all too much, but Theo is calm and composed, so I am too.
I have to be like him, and it isn’t even all that hard.
I don’t cry until Mum and Dad walk toward us down the hospital corridor.
Tears of exhaustion and helplessness. Hot tears into Mum’s top—they’re both wearing regular clothes: She’s no longer a pediatric surgeon, he’s no longer an anesthetist, they’re a mother and father, and their daughter is brain-dead.
None of it makes any sense. Not when they silently shake their heads and Theo starts asking questions.
Loud, furious questions—How is it possible when she was taking antimalarials?
Why did nobody notice? Didn’t the headache and cramps give them a hint?
Wasn’t there anything that would have shown she was infected?
I want to put my hands over my ears. I want him to stop because I want quiet.
I want Maeve to join us and laugh because nothing’s as bad as all that, but it is bad.
It could have happened at any time, and it’s happened.
The thing Mum and Dad discussed with us from the start so that even as little kids, we understood why we had to use slimy insect repellent and sleep under mosquito nets.
Why we shouldn’t go near standing water at dusk, why we should always have long trousers and sleeves, even in the heat.
Maeve knew all that. She learned it at an early age, and it was still no use.
I cry, I can’t stop, even when we’re eventually allowed to go to her.
She doesn’t look like she’s only sleeping—there’s too much equipment in this room for that, ventilators, syringe pumps, and so on—but on the other hand, she doesn’t look like she’ll never wake up either.
I can’t take it in. Her skin is warm. None of it makes any sense.
It feels like we’re only allowed to stay with her a few minutes, but the sun’s come up outside when we leave the hospital. They’ve switched off the machines. I can’t feel a thing.
The streets are teeming. There’s noise and people everywhere.
And Maeve is dead.
She’s dead.
My sister . . .
And I don’t understand.
I just don’t understand.
Emma
I feel like the main character in a film, where everyone except me has read the script. Everything just happens, and as I try to pull myself together, I just let it. Let’s be honest, what else could I do?
Henry’s come back to England with his family, and right now, they’re with his grandparents in Cheshire, where the funeral’s going to be. We’ve spoken on the phone. I asked him if I should come, but he said no and I accept that, even though I’m worried about him. He needs to be with his family.
Henry misses the last two and a half weeks of school before half-term.
It’s all so trivial in the grand scheme of things, but Tori, Sinclair, Olive, Grace, and I divide up Henry’s lessons and take notes for him.
Omar and Gideon help too, so we can cover everything.
I guess schoolwork is the last thing on his mind, but it’s all we can do.
Mrs. Sinclair called us into her office the day after Henry left and asked us to do it.
By that first evening, everyone had heard the terrible news.
My throat clenched even more the next morning when everything went silent as we walked into the dining room.
I dread to think what it’ll be like when Henry’s back.
But it’s clear to me now that pupils at Dunbridge Academy are more than just names on a list. Ms. Barnett was stunned, and so was Mrs. Sinclair.
Mr. Cormack, Mr. Ringling. Everyone seems upset.
Even Mr. Ward bites his tongue as he hands me a list of the course material for the next little while so that I can structure my notes for Henry.
The lower- and upper-sixth-formers, who remember Maeve, seem to freeze on the Monday of the funeral, when Mrs. Sinclair talks about what happened.
Tori stands silently beside me when the head teacher calls for a minute’s silence and grips Sinclair’s hand; he wipes his eyes with the other.
Even Valentine Ward is unusually quiet. And all I can think of is Henry.
I fly home for half-term. Mum’s waiting for me at the airport and hugs me as I cry.
I write to Henry every day but try not to intrude.
I’m aiming to be sympathetic and supportive, nothing more, because Henry’s still in total shock.
When he wants to, we talk on the phone. He doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t say much either.
He doesn’t have the words, because he’s numb and overwhelmed.
Sometimes I tell him stuff, sometimes we just sit in silence together until Henry falls asleep and I hang up.
It doesn’t feel like three weeks have passed since Henry drove to the airport with his brother.
My time in Frankfurt is surreal. I feel kind of uprooted, because I’m missing Henry and boarding school, and Isi doesn’t get in touch, and neither do any of my other old friends here, even though they’ve seen my Insta story and know I’m back.
To be fair, I have to admit that I haven’t contacted any of them either.
All my thoughts are with Henry, so much so that I even forget to ask Mum for more details about Mr. Ward and my dad.
Mum drops me back at the airport at the end of the holiday, so I’m on time.
My lips are numb, my fingertips cold as I walk through the hallways until I reach the point between two moving walkways where I ran into Henry.
I stop for a moment, then go on to the gate.
Maybe I’m subconsciously spending the whole forty-five minutes till boarding starts waiting for Henry to turn up, out of breath, his hair all over the place.
But he doesn’t, obviously. He’s not here, he’s in Cheshire.
Or maybe that’s not true—he ought to be on the way to Dunbridge Academy now, because he’ll be back in lessons tomorrow.
We’ll see each other again, and I don’t know why that scares me.
Maybe because I get the feeling I’ll be facing a completely different Henry from the one of a few weeks ago.
Although we’ve been in touch, I haven’t the least idea of how he’s really doing.
I remember the way he said Welcome home, Emma from Germany, that time as we sat in the bus from the airport to the school, and it’s kind of true.
This journey still feels like an adventure but also like coming home.
Familiar faces on the coach, although not so many today, because the only flight got in so late that I won’t get back until after wing time.
When I get back, our corridor is quiet, but there’s a light on in Ms. Barnett’s room.
I knock on her door, as agreed, to let her know that I’m in, and to my surprise, she gives me a big hug before sending me off to my room.
I put down my suitcase without opening it, grab my phone, and start to message Sinclair.
E: Are you with him?
He answers in a matter of seconds.
S: I was. He’s asleep now.
Sinclair’s still typing, so I wait.
S: Mr. Acevedo’s light’s off so the coast is clear.
It takes me a moment to understand that Sinclair’s long been aware of what I’m really thinking.
I send him a quick thanks, then stand up.
Of course I know the boys’ wing is strictly out of bounds at this time of night, but I don’t care.
I can’t believe Mr. Acevedo would be totally unsympathetic if he caught me with Henry tonight.
All the same, my heart’s beating faster as I walk down the dark corridors. I know the way to Henry’s room like the back of my hand now. Every corner, every step, I could find him with my eyes shut.
The lower-sixth corridor is completely silent.
Mr. Acevedo’s room is indeed dark. But I still try to keep quiet as I walk to the end.
I reach Henry’s room, and the door’s open a tiny crack.
I silently thank Sinclair, because he must have been the last person there with him and deliberately didn’t quite shut it.
It’s dark in there, but the moonlight outside is enough for me to make out Henry’s silhouette.
He’s curled up on his side in bed, and his head jerks up as I shut the door behind me.
I put my finger to my lips as I come closer.
Suddenly, I remember the way he came into my room like this at the start of term. That all seems so far away now.
Henry doesn’t put the light on, just sinks back onto the mattress.
I slip off my shoes and nudge up next to him.
His body is warm, but I can feel a suppressed trembling as I pull the duvet over us.
We don’t speak, don’t say a word. I just put my arms around him and press my face gently into his shoulder blade.
I don’t know exactly when Henry starts crying. I only know that once I’ve noticed it, it makes it hard to breathe. He’s crying almost without a sound. His shoulders are shaking, and his pain becomes mine, because, eventually, he bursts into hoarse sobbing.
He’s never cried in front of me. And I’ve never felt anything like this before.
I never knew that anything could hurt as much as someone else’s pain when all you wish for in the whole world is for them not to have to experience anything like it.
And I can’t make it better. I can only lie next to Henry and hold him tightly, stroke his face, and keep whispering to him that I’m here.
He may not even be able to hear me, but I can’t help thinking about the time he lay next to me like this and him just being there was enough to make everything a tiny bit more bearable.
But I also know that the reason I was crying then isn’t remotely comparable to why he is now.
I don’t know how long it takes Henry to calm himself.
Thirty minutes, an hour, three? I only know that my heart is still hurting as his hoarse sobs dry and he is lying in silence beside me.
My shoulder aches, and I’d like to roll over, but I can’t.
Instead, I go on stroking Henry’s arm, his wrist. When I push my fingers between his, and he doesn’t respond, I know he’s asleep.
I shut my eyes, listening in the darkness.
My heart is heavy with an overloaded feeling and pain.
But I’m here with him, and I hope he knows he doesn’t have to cope with all this alone.
I press my nose gently into his shoulder blade.
His scent hasn’t changed. Perhaps that’s the only thing that’s remained the same.
I don’t let him go. Not even when I feel he’s deeply asleep. Crying the way Henry cried is tiring. It’s late, I can feel his exhaustion, and I want to stay awake, to keep watch in case he has a bad dream, so that I can wake him in time, but I can’t. I fall asleep. I’m scared.