Jarrah’s plastered leg lies outside the blanket, neat and straight and clean, all the pieces put back together again. He looks asleep, still deathly pale, the fine skin around his eyes still dark.
You take up your position by the bed, but don’t reach for his hand. Until today, you’ve not examined Jarrah closely for a long time. He’s had the teenage way of sliding out of your gaze, hiding himself. He must have hidden so much from you. Is it only since Toby died? Or for longer?
He’s been shaving. His skin is still fine, but the wisps of hair appearing on his chin have been razored. He has a few pimples, little ones, but not many. His hair is longer than you realised – you haven’t been paying attention to things like haircuts. His left arm, flung outside the sheet, is showing muscles you haven’t seen before. He’s turning from a boy into a young man, a metamorphosis that’s sudden and shocking and beautiful. You’ve been oblivious to it.
He stirs slightly and you move back so that when he opens his eyes you’re not looming in his face.
‘Mum.’ His voice a croak.
‘Darling, I’m here.’
He tries to move and winces. ‘Is it bad?’
Patching his smashed leg took three hours and he must still be awash with drugs. You try to smile. ‘You won’t be jogging for a while. Your leg is broken. Apart from that you’re fine. You were lucky, Jarrah. We were lucky. Thank God.’
He’s silent for a few minutes, downcast. Then, in a half-whisper: ‘Does everyone know?’
You wait until he glances up and shake your head. ‘Only Dad, me and Tom. We told the hospital you and Tom were both mucking around in the tree and the weight broke the branch.’
He looks afraid. ‘Why? What’ll happen to me?’
Why did you even agree to this? Is Finn being paranoid? It’s too late now, you’re in and you’ll have to stick with it.
‘Nothing. It’s just better to keep it simple. You might be asked a few questions. You can say you don’t remember. And then we’ll take you home and look after you, Jarr. I won’t leave you alone, I promise.’
He seems slightly reassured by that. Turns to look out the window.
‘Would you like me to tell Laura?’
He closes his eyes wearily. ‘No.’
‘Sure. Nothing you’re not ready for.’
He seems to be drifting and you resist the urge to keep talking. If you’re never going to leave him alone, you’ll have to be OK with silence.
When you’re sure he’s asleep you step outside again, back to that little room off the corridor, and dial.
‘Chen.’
‘What is it?’
You’d forgotten how well he can read you, even with just a word. ‘Jarrah’s in hospital with a broken leg.’
‘Oh, Bridget. Hell. I’ll come over.’
‘Don’t. I’m going on leave. Can you tell Rob I won’t be in? I’ll call him in a day or so.’
His worried voice: ‘What can I do?’
You’re so raw you’ve forgotten how to phrase things. ‘Just stay away. I can’t deal with it, I can’t—’
‘I only want to help.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘I’m your friend,’ he says. As if it hasn’t all been about something else.
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t cut me off,’ he says.
It would be better to refuse, to make the break clean. It’ll just make it harder, having the door still open. But you’re not quite ready to close it yet. ‘I’ll be in touch. Don’t call me.’
You pocket the phone and walk back towards Jarrah’s ward. You’re in a state of hyper-awareness that started when you saw him lying on the ground in the torchlight and hasn’t stopped. If anything, as the sleepless hours have passed, it’s intensified.
This could tear what remains of you into pieces that can never be put together again – or be what pulls you through. Jarrah’s given you purpose with this. He’s given you a reason to get up and try to assemble yourself into something like a person each day. A real job.