A Quiet Kind of Thunder(78)

This is a nice thing to say, so I don’t contradict her. I try to think of something else to say, because it’s kind of nice having a conversation instead of sitting in awkward silence, but I can’t think of anything.

‘Is there anyone you should call?’ Connie asks.

‘Call?’ I echo, instantly anxious again. The word alone is Pavlovian to me. I hear that one syllable and start sweating.

‘Your boyfriend’s parents?’ she prompts. ‘So they can come and get you both?’

Nausea rises, hot and thick in my throat. I will have to call people. I will have to call Rhys’s parents and explain that we took off without telling anyone and now Rhys has broken at least one bone on the top of a mountain in Scotland. They are going to yell at me.

Oh shit.

I suddenly want, more than anything else, to be back on top of that stupid mountain. Preferably by myself.

‘Do you have a phone?’ Connie asks when I don’t say anything.

I nod wordlessly. I have a sudden, insane urge to ask her to make the calls for me. But how crazy would that look?

‘We’re just a few minutes away from the hospital, so you should wait until you’ve spoken to a doctor,’ Connie says. ‘You have some time.’ She gives me another smile, like she knows. Like she understands.

The hospital is loud, chaotic and full of people. Three things I hate. Connie waits until Rhys and I have spoken to the woman on reception before she says her goodbyes. I’d hoped she would stay, but I know there’s no reason for her to do that.

‘We don’t have anyone who speaks sign language here.’ The receptionist has come over to where we’ve sat down to tell me this. ‘So you’ll need to make sure you’re always around to translate for your friend, OK?’

I nod, because what else can I do, and sign a quick explanation to Rhys, who gives us both a tired thumbs-up.

‘It may be a while,’ the woman adds, standing up. ‘We’ve had a few messy ones today.’

I don’t ask what she means by this, even though I really want to know. When she leaves, Rhys fumbles with his pocket, trying to pull out his phone.

No phones, I sign, pointing at the written sign on the wall.

He shakes me off, letting out an irritated huff.

No phones, I sign again, reaching over and taking it from him.

‘Hey,’ Rhys barks, so loudly people turn to stare at us.

‘Hey yourself,’ I hiss back, flushing. Then add, for good measure, Shhh.

Rhys raises both eyebrows and makes a face at me, which I’m pretty sure is his equivalent of a sarcastic comment about Silent Steffi telling someone else to shhh, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and let it go.

The frustration is coming off him in waves and I both love and hate him for it. This isn’t easy for me either, I want to tell him. You think I’m enjoying this?

We sit in silence for the next half an hour, which is how long it takes for Rhys’s name to be called. He’s given a wheelchair so he doesn’t have to hobble, but he doesn’t seem very grateful.

The doctor directs all his questions at me and barely looks at Rhys, right down to ‘How much pain is he in?’ and ‘Did he hit his head?’. I have flashes of my mute childhood when people would talk about me instead of to me, using my name but never looking at me. I hated it just as much then as I do now.

I want to share this feeling of annoyed understanding with Rhys, but he’s unusually crotchety, so I can’t. He keeps turning his head so I’m barely in his peripheral vision, let alone visible enough for him to read, and I know he’s doing it on purpose. His whole energy bristles.

In between the X-rays and the results, when the two of us are left alone for a while behind a hastily pulled paper curtain, we still don’t talk. I recognize there’s something ironic about either of us giving anyone the silent treatment, but that is undoubtedly what is happening right now. I wonder if he blames me for what happened, but that doesn’t feel like it. He’s been given plenty of painkillers, so the creases have gone from his forehead and the crinkles from around his eyes. But still he scowls.

My sweet, warm boyfriend has somehow been replaced by this sullen grump of a teenage boy. I don’t like this version so much.

How old do you think that doctor is? I ask.

Shrug.

He seems young, right?

Shrug.

Have you ever broken any bones before?

Yes.

Which one?

He points to his collarbone.

When? How?

A shake of the head.

Talk to me.

Rhys looks directly at me, his eyes meeting mine. He looks about ready to boil over. How? he mouths deliberately. The sign for How requires both his hands, and with one be-slinged he can’t say it. But his eyes are saying, Stop trying.

So I do.

We’re at the hospital for several hours while Rhys gets fixed up, and it’s all just about as fun as it sounds. I get sick of playing interpreter but I do it anyway, of course. They realign Rhys’s elbow and set it, telling him – through me – about recovery times and early motion exercises. His ankle is sprained rather than broken, which is something at least. The only time I leave him is for the few minutes it takes for me to call Aled, and even then it’s only after I’ve put it off for as long as I can.

It takes me seven minutes to work up the courage to press call on the phone I have borrowed from Rhys. I do it sitting on a garden wall opposite the hospital, biting my thumbnail until it splits and bleeds.