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 beforehalf-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 thewords, 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 saidWelcome home, Emma from Germany, that time as we sat in the bus from the airport to the school, andit’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 backof my hand now. Every corner, every step, I could find him with my eyes shut.
