WATTPAD FEATURED NOV 2020 AND OCT 2021 - FROM OUR STARS LIST
WATTPAD MULTICULTURAL FEATURED SEP 2022 - AUSTRALIAN WHISPERERS READING LIST
It's difficult to save someone who doesn't want saving, particularly when they're lying to you.
...
Claudia and...
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When I become fully conscious, it's to a gentle, repetitive beeping, like the ticking of a metronome.
There was no point where I'd completely passed out — my PTSD attacks never allowed that much relief — but the details of how I'd gotten from Heather's party are blurred; a disjointed mess of bright lights, oxygen masks and faces hovering over me.
Now, I'm staring at a white ceiling with crisp, stiff sheets covering my body. I turn my head and find Jake sitting on the hospital chair next to me. He looks uncomfortable, his elbows red where they're pressed against the plastic arms, his face drawn and pale.
"Hi, Jakey."
My voice triggers something, and he blinks and grabs my hand, his grip hard enough to bruise.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
I shrug, and the hospital gown brushes against my shoulders. "Fine."
Jake looks away.
"I'm so sorry, Claude."
I sit up, my vision rolling with the movement. "Why are you sorry?"
Jake barks out a laugh, one that has no humour.
"How can you ask that? I've been ignoring you all week because I can't get my shit together and then you go and... and—"
He cuts off, swallowing hard and looking away. The silence that follows is weighted, filled with whatever he's working up to say.
"That was one of the worst attacks I've seen," he says eventually, looking at our hands. "You were looking straight at me, but you couldn't see me. For a moment, I thought that you weren't going to come back."
His words should worry me, I know they should. But my head feels light, my bones liquid, and even as I realise I've been given something to calm me, I can't find the anger to care.
"Well, I'm fine," I say, managing a half smile.
He looks up at me, eyes shining.
"But what if you weren't? I've been such a dick lately."
I stay silent then. I don't want to, I want to tell him he's wrong, but Jake always knows when I'm lying.
So instead, I put my arm around him and pull him close, trying to make him realise how special he is to me, how badly I need him here, even if he's broken and hurting and unsure. Even if the fire that burns on the back of his eyelids can grow hot enough that sometimes he forgets I'm seeing it too.
"I love you," I say. "Nothing's ever going to change that."
That's when he starts crying. The painful, horrible sobs I know he holds in every second of every day. I stroke his back, watching him unravel with guilty relief.
Jake had always been what everyone expected him to be.
He'd become the star of the soccer team; he'd bantered and preached until the boys back home had idolised him; he'd pulled faces in the mirror until girls blushed when confronted with his lop-sided grin.
But most importantly, he'd learnt to hide his emotions, because that's what country men were supposed to do, and he'd done it well enough that sometimes I wasn't sure even he knew what he was thinking.
And then the fire happened.
"I miss her, you know," he mumbles.
The words are soft, hesitant, but they come as screams to my ears.
"Yeah, I do too."
Jake squeezes my hand, his head resting in my lap, and for the first time in months, the real Jake is with me. Suddenly, I want to talk to him about everything; about Emmy and Aleisha and Lewis and Muhammad; about the new, distant, humourless Jake I've been living with for the past few months. This Jake, the real Jake, would want to fix that for me.
But grief doesn't work that way. It doesn't listen to reason, or pleas, or let people be themselves, no matter how much they want to. So, instead, I just let myself enjoy this one moment where I can look at my brother and see him again. And I pray that maybe from now on, he'll appear more often.
...
The rest of the weekend passes by uneventfully. Sylvia and Peter spend their time hovering, watching me with a protectiveness that makes me feel far more loved and cherished than I deserve.
Both days, it's hot enough that movement seems somewhat pointless and Sylvia sets me up on the couch in the cramped living room, letting me lie there and listen in on her singing lessons from the other side of the wall. Most afternoons, Jake joins me, stretching his legs along the floor and resting his head on my lap.
There's something cathartic about it — the stillness amongst that rising sound, the roll of air from the fan in that stifling heat. And I feel a sense of peace I can't remember experiencing before.
On Sunday evening, I tell Jake about my fight with Sylvia and the hope in his eyes is enough to overrule my misgivings. We talk about Ravenhall, about how to could work, and then he calls Sylvia and Peter over and we tell them our plan.
"I could book a flight in the next few weeks?" Sylvia suggests. "I'll have to check with your therapists, but I'm sure they'd agree it's an important step."
We both agree, Jake more enthusiastically than me, and she grabs our hands, squeezing tight.
"We're so proud of you," she says. "You're braver than most people can ever wish to be."
Her words trigger flashes on my lids: a wall of orange and red, black smoke stealing the sun, and terror — a selfish, knee-jerk terror that leaves no room for bravery.
Jake and I glance at each other before smiling weakly at her.
