A Quiet Kind of Thunder(50)

He smiles and touches my face. You’re not.

But I think, to my parents – all four of them – I still am, and that’s why they act like the great university decision is theirs, not mine. The difficulty is mine; the dream is mine; the medication is mine; the therapist is mine. But the decision? All theirs.

But now I have Rhys. My very own spanner in the works. No one saw someone like Rhys coming – especially not me.

Reasons I want to go to university

To learn stuff.

To challenge myself.

Everyone thinks I can’t.

Tem’s not going to university, and at least one of us should go so the other can visit.

The university has a Dog-walking Society. Really.

Student discounts.

I don’t want to be stuck selectively mute in Bedfordshire forever.

Clark never got to finish university, and when I graduate I can tell myself it’s for both of us.





Three weeks after Rhys and I become a couple, I turn seventeen. It’s a Thursday, the same day as the American Thanksgiving, and so my dad and I host Bronsgiving in my honour. I invite Tem and Rhys, because they’re the only guests I need, and Mum comes along too, leaving Keir at home to look after Bell. Lucy goes all out, making traditional American dishes like pumpkin pie and green-bean casserole as well as the giant turkey and trimmings.

We sit in the dining room together with the lights dimmed low and candles lit all around the room. We drink champagne and I feel cosy and happy and special. Instead of the American tradition of everyone saying something they’re thankful for, everyone toasts me, one by one. If I were anywhere else, it would be awful, but I’m here at home with my best people, so I blush with happiness instead of shame.

It’s all pretty perfect, is what I’m saying.

Tem has bought me a panda charm for my bracelet, plus seventeen individually wrapped Lindor truffles. Her card features a black Labrador puppy and a white cat cuddling on a cushion. Inside she’s written,

They’re almost as cute as us!

Happy birthday, bestie.

Love, The Tempest xxx



‘The Tem-best,’ I say, because some things never change, and hug her.

My first ever present from my boyfriend – from a boyfriend generally, in fact – is a couple of Pop! figures: one Wall-E, one Eve. They are adorable and perfect. I thought about getting you Toy Story ones, Rhys says. But it’s not a love story.

I reach over and hug him. When we break apart, I see every single person in the room beaming at me.

If this whole thing were a film, this is where it would end. Me, bubbly happy, surrounded by people I love and who love me. Secure in myself and my place at the table. Talking freely. This would be the final shot: me sitting back after hugging Rhys, taking in the smiles of my family, smiling back as Rhys’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes.

But this isn’t a film. He lets go of my hand, we eat cake and then he leaves, followed half an hour later by Tem and my mother. There are dishes to wash and leftovers to wrap in foil and cling-film. Lucy drinks a glass of wine and sits on the sofa, her fingers on her forehead, eyes closed. I take Rita for a late-night walk, and it rains.

When I get home, I shower and go straight to bed, still feeling the warmth of the day, and I snuggle under my covers, replaying the moments in my head. How good it all felt. How lucky I am.

And then it happens. The panic. It’s slow at first, creeping through the cracks in my thoughts until everything starts to feel heavy. It builds; it becomes something physical that clutches at my insides and squeezes out the air and the blood.

Who am I to be this lucky?

It won’t last.

It won’t last.

Rhys will get bored of me.

Tem will find better friends.

I make Lucy miserable because I remind her that her son’s dead and all she’s got is me.

Of course you’re happy with people who love you. What about everyone that doesn’t? They’re all still around.

I can’t breathe.

You don’t even have any real problems and look at you.

I sit up in bed and rake my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Imagine if you had real problems.

This is pathetic.

You’re pathetic.

My breath is wheezy. A tiny whimper escapes.

You thought getting a boyfriend would solve everything?

Rita has jumped on to my bed. She’s nuzzling my face with her wet nose. I try to inhale through my nose, smelling her fur.

You’re taking medication and it’s still not enough.

Nothing will ever be enough.

There’s just you. Never enough.

Not even close.

It takes me a long time to calm down and when I do I realize I’m crying, clutching the ruff of Rita’s neck. I’ve drowned out my own cruel thoughts by reciting the lyrics to ‘American Pie’ – my dad’s favourite song – half in my head, half in a whisper.

I breathe in a deep, shuddering breath and let go of Rita. She lets out a whiny huff, then licks my face.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper, touching my cheek to hers. ‘I’m sorry.’

I wait until my hands have stopped shaking, then lean over to my bedside cabinet to pick up the notepad my therapist gave me when I first started taking medication. I glance at the clock and write 2.11 a.m. Panic attack. I hesitate, the words blurring through a film of tears, and add, Help.