On The Simplicity Of Words

-: -- :-

"Come on, Rose. Your teacher is waiting for you."

I hung my head, clung to her hand.

"Rose," mummy sighed in exasperation. She knelt down on the dirty bricks and crouched forward so that she could stare into my eyes. "We talked about this, Rose. I know you miss your old school, but this is a nice new school okay? Look at all the happy little boys and girls. Come on, love, it will be great."

I buried my face against her, shaking my head.

"First day?" I heard another woman ask mummy.

"First day here, yes," my mummy answered with a sigh.

"What class is she in?"

"Year one with... Mrs Jackson?"

"Oh, my Lea is with her too. Lea? Can you take..."

"Rose," my mummy said.

"Lea, will you take Rose with you to class? This is her first day and she's a bit shy."

"Yes, mummy," said a lovely little voice.

I snuck a shy, uncertain glance at the thin blonde girl who took my hand. She smiled toothily at me. "Come with me, Rosie," she announced. "I'm Lea. I'll show you where the pony drawing book is!"

Tears and shyness forgotten, I followed her, not even saying bye to my mum.

And that was how I met Lea.

Time...

... passed.

Lea's mum would joke that she might as well set up a room for me at their house. My mum would laugh and say that she might as well do the same. Our mothers became close as sisters, Lea's mother, or Mummy Sarah as I'd call her, introduced my Mum (or Mummy Jane as Lea called her) to tennis and hiking, while my mum introduced Mummy Sarah to her book club and the finer points of Pimm's and horticulture. Our dads joined the same cricket club, then same hockey club, and soon enough were going away for boys weekends to watch football with their mates.

And so began the wonderful golden years of my childhood.

Life was idyllic. School was even at its very worst completely wonderful, and I sailed through the eleven plus with the other half of me by my side.

There was never any question of us not going to the same secondary school. I don't think it even occurred to our parents.

It certainly never entered into our thoughts.

Time...

... passed.

Lea's dad got promoted; they moved to a different part of town. The trip to see her now needed to be planned in advance and coordinated around Mum's ability to come and fetch me or Mummy Sarah's ability to drop me off afterwards. It could no longer be every night, but at least three times a week one of us was with our second family and would sleep over there.

My parents loved Lea. And I worshipped the ground her parents walked on.

We'd joke we were the luckiest girls to ever live, to have not one but two families so devoted to us.

At fourteen I could flick a hockey ball into the corner of the net from fifteen metres out, and had developed a natural athleticism I'd inherited from my mum's dad. I could carry on going well past the point at which many others would drop in their tracks. When I was playing matches I would always hear her mad high pitched squeals and screams when I was running for the goal, her unfiltered ecstasy when I scored.

Lea played the Clarinet like she'd been born to it, and ran cross-country well enough to regularly place in the top three at school. When I could beg, borrow or steal a lift I'd be at her events, standing on the sidelines, screaming for her. She always had a smile for me, no matter how brutal the course or how hard she had to push to finish it.

And I'd wait for her at the finish line; I'd be the one carrying her windbreaker, the one who'd put an arm around her to support her her as her body gave out from the effort she'd put in.

And I was the one who caught her on that hateful Autumn afternoon when her eyes rolled back into her head and she had her first seizure.

Time...

...passed.

I was fifteen. I was much thinner now; a broken little remnant of a girl, watching as the slow torture of radioisotope therapy ate the other half of us away.

They'd shaved her beautiful hair to spare her some of the horror; the treatment had taken her eyebrows too. She was skeletal, exhausted, quiet as the grave. I'd sit, holding her wasted hand, neglecting schoolwork, hour after hour, day after day. Whatever she needed I would bring. Whatever she wanted, I did. I spent hours reading to her, and when she was at her lowest I would crawl into bed beside her and hold her, my cheeks wet with our bitter tears.

I loved her; loved her with every pathetic atom of my being.

And I wished beyond wishing that I could be the sick one so that she would be spared.

She never once complained. She just took it. Brave and indomitable as ever. But, then, that was Lea.

Her craniotomy took place when the radiation had shrunk the tumour, and the surgery was successful. Slowly she recovered, began to smile again despite her weakness. But in spite of my dogged determination to help her recover, she'd missed too much of the year to finish it with me and her mum and dad decided that she needed a change of environment; somewhere quieter, somewhere where she'd have space and silence to recuperate.

A new life where her lost year would not be brought home to her every time she saw me head to a different class than her.

And where she would have space to heal from losing me.

Lea had not said goodbye; her parents had not permitted me to see her out of fear of the distress it would cause us. Instead, her distraught and broken mother had brought my mum a letter of sorts for me - a thin folded sheet of Lea's favourite pink foolscap with one of her silly googly-eyed ponies scrawled on the front of it.

In it, the simple words: "I will

never

forget you, my Rosie."

It was spotted with her tears, and all too soon wrecked by mine.

I cried myself into black insensibility - ruining my bed with snot, tears and the clear, watery bile from my cramping, empty stomach. It was days before I could be compelled to eat, and my mother never quite lost the haunted expression with which she guarded over me from then onwards.

Futile, really.

There was nothing left of me that was worth guarding.

Time...

...passed.

Thoughts of Lea accompanied me wherever I was, and I grew to treasure them like old friends. I became the soft-spoken girl in the corner, a slightly-more-corporeal ghost. My teachers learned to let me be, to not try to cajole me to participate in 'fun' activities.

I broke more than one of them on the rack and pinion of my blank indifference to any bribe or punishment they tried to dole out to me. Nothing they could do could even register when compared to what had already been done to me.

A discrete word was had with one or two of the more persistent cases, and after that nobody else tried to perturb me. My marks were good enough that I was no risk to the school's Ofsted rating, even if my interaction with anyone else was non-existent.

So they stopped trying to fix me.

And I was quite fine with that.

Time...

... passed.

I obtained the necessary A levels to gain entry into a reasonable University. I quietly studied statistics and biochemistry, managed a 2:1, and walked out with an internship at a Biotech startup one town over from home.

After a few short months they ended my internship and made me a full staff member, mainly off the back of my quiet, single-minded focus and complete lack of any external distractions.

I took up hockey again for fitness, at first avoiding any competition, but swiftly shaking off the rust and reaching the local club's first team. Soon I was playing regularly for the County.

I earned a reputation as a terrifying and implacable foe on the field - I no longer felt any real pain or caution and would simply go on until match end, merciless as the Morrigan, sometimes with cracked fingers and, once, a brace of cracked ribs. My club loved and respected me, but I mostly kept them at a cordial, careful arms length.

From them and others I slowly formed a small cabal of closer friends, both male and female, but never any attachments. That sex that I allowed myself was a physical release only, and love held no interest for me.

There was no room in my heart for anyone any more.

Gradually I came to realise that I had never recovered from losing Lea. There were entire conversations that I needed to be able to have with her; things I needed to tell her, things I needed to hear from her. Things that we needed... settled.

The first therapist I talked to was hopeless.

The second tried but failed.

The third, a young woman with an old soul - she got me talking, and then, bless her and her gentle manner forever, somehow got me crying once more.

She said four simple words to me.

"Tell me about Lea."

Four simple words.

And they were what finally broke me down so that I could start to feel again.

.:.

I sat, staring at my mug, summoning the courage to broach the subject.

"Mum, I've got a question for you," I finally managed.

She looked up from the pastry dough, and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "What is it, Rosie?"

"Did you... did you keep in contact with Mummy Sarah? After they... left?"

She stared at me, pastry forgotten. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's a name I haven't heard you say in forever. What... what brought that back to mind?"

"Gemma was asking me about Lea."

"Who's Gemma?"

"Oh. She's my... therapist."

"You're seeing... a therapist? Of course. Of course you are. Rosie, you live in this shuttered world of darkness and shadows and never let me see into it. A therapist, for God's sake. Why didn't you say anything to me? My God, I'm your mum. You need to tell me these things, Rose."

"Mainly because I wanted to avoid this reaction," I said, softly.

Then I waited, patient as a rock, watching her.

"I tried," she said, eventually. "I tried to keep in touch. But... the whole situation was just so horrible. Lea was like my own daughter too. Sarah's responses always felt like... like she was being polite. Reading from a prepared script. I felt like I was intruding. I... I couldn't keep trying. So I... stopped."

"I'm sorry. You lost your friend too, then," I sighed.

"Yes," she whispered. She sniffed. "Oh, these are hard memories, Rose."

"I guess... I thought maybe you just didn't want to talk to me about them. Out of fear."

"Oh, there was plenty of fear, Rosie. More than enough of that to last me the rest of my life. But... Lea was apparently ok. She was back at school and was starting to make friends. I... I didn't want to tell you because I was scared of what it would do to you. Her grades were improving. She was ok. That was as much as I could hope for for her. So... I stopped checking in and concentrated on you."

"It's okay. I understand."

I heard the hiss of breath that she sighed out.

"I've been so scared of telling you that," she whispered.

"Why, mummy?"

"Because of how close you two were. The two of you were light and shadow. She lit the dark parts of you, and you gave her balance. I thought... I was scared that you'd be furious with me."

"You were guarding me. I could never hold that against you. Not now that I'm old enough to understand what it must have been like for you."

She slowly began kneading the pastry dough again. "That whole thing was one long horror show," she said between thumps. "There was a two week period where I literally didn't sleep, and Dad would curl up on a sleeping bag outside your door in case you had your nightmares."

"Where did they move?" I asked, watching her.

She worked quietly for a while, folding and refolding, keeping her hands busy.

"Bath," she said, eventually. "Sarah got a position there, and they thought it would be a good place for Lea to recuperate. I think Lea went to the University of Bristol. That's where this is going, isn't it? You want to find her."

"Yes."

She sighed. "Are you sure that's wise? Perhaps she's better off not being reminded of that time. Have you thought of that?"

"I have to try. I still carry her in my head. She is always with me. That's why I'm so..."

"Different."

"I was going to say broken. But... different is kinder, isn't it?"

My mum made a small noise and turned her back on me.

I stood and went to her, wrapped my arms around her and just held her.

"Don't cry, mum," I said softly. "It's not your fault."

"I'm your mum," she whispered. "Of course it's my fault."

.:.

That evening when I got back to my flat, I opened my laptop and began prowling the University of Bristol's online presence, looking for any sign of her. She'd loved English and she'd been strong at Algebra, and I hoped to find some reference to her related to either of those disciplines.

But it was on the Music department's past event pages where I finally found the first traces of her. Hints and passing mentions of her under her mother's maiden name of Fergusson. Once I knew what to search I found old lecture timetables and then, finally, the meat at the heart of it - one glowing review of her solo performance in a recent chamber music recital and a mention that she was an associate of the faculty.

I began to dig for her with an intensity driven by eight years of repressed need.

An hour later I was sitting, staring at photos of her. She was older now, obviously, and carried the haunted gaze of a survivor behind those pretty blue eyes.

But she was still my Lea, with those long blonde locks that cascaded down over her shoulders, with the slight asymmetry of her nose that she'd always hated and I'd always loved.

I missed her almost more than I could bear.

I glutted myself on her until the small hours of the morning.

As I was about to shut down and sleep, I saw a new post on her social media feed - someone had asked her if she was going to be at the party at a pub the following Saturday night. Further digging determined that the pub was called The Magpie, which I discovered was a stone's throw away from the Music department's front door.

It was the nudge I needed, the kick to my bum that set me into motion. The odds were that if ever I had a chance to find her it would be there.

And I started laying my plans. I booked a room at the Radisson Blu for Saturday night, having made sure it was within walking distance of the pub. I booked my train tickets, and made an itemised list of the things I might need to pack into my little overnight bag.

I crafted a thousand different reunions in my mind; a thousand different ways in which I begged her forgiveness for not finding her sooner. A thousand scenes where the hurts were magically healed, where she'd wrap her arms around me and hold me like she used to. Where we would just be Rosie and Lea again, two young girls, with no shadow of Death looming black and merciless between us.

I told nobody what I was doing, out of some superstitious fear that it would jinx everything.

And then I counted down the days, and then the hours.

.:.

I'd loitered in the Raddison's cafe until seven, wanting to give her time to reach the pub. Then I'd slowly traversed the small distance, some half a mile at most, and I'd tried very hard not to think about what was about to happen.

I had, of course, failed miserably at that.

Eight years of regrets. Eight years of time never to be recovered.

I hunched into my jacket, staring at the pub and the crowd of revellers thronging outside its door.

It looked warm, and inviting, and so wonderfully plain. The kind of place I would naturally gravitate to. A welcoming sanctuary.

I was more terrified than I could ever remember being.

I had no business being here.

I was an interloper. I did not belong in this place.

I had no idea if she was even here.

Or if she'd even want me. Or even recognise me.

I'd likely spend the entire night jammed into a corner, waiting in vain for the lightning stroke of luck, only to leave in crushing black disappointment and the familiar despair.

This was stupid. It was insane.

My heart ached, and I swallowed the sudden rush of nausea.

But the chance of seeing her again was too great to let go.

I had to try.

I owed it to her. To myself.

To us.

It was time.

I waited for a taxi to pass, then squared my shoulders and stepped resolutely out onto the crossing. The noise grew louder, the shouts and revelry more present, more oppressive.

I was mad. This was mad.

What was I doing, the sane part of me screamed at myself as I pushed open the door.

The noise doubled and redoubled again.

This was it.

I eased my way through the mass of people, with a soft-spoken "Excuse me, pardon me, sorry, pardon me." when needed.

Smiles and laughter all around me, good natured men and women making room for me, letting me by, one or two giving me inquisitive or speculative glances.

I let them slide off me. I had only one goal here. Only one thing mattered to me.

Her.

I looked around, standing up on my toes, craning my head in desperation, trying to see a flash of her gold hair, trying to hear a snatch of her liquid laughter.

But it was futile.

It was too dark, too close, too noisy. Too many tall men, too many blonde girls that were not her.

I closed my eyes, took a sobbing gasp, steeled myself against the stabbing dagger of disappointment, made ready to fight my way to a corner so that I could deal with the sadness that I knew would not be long in coming.

I was a stupid child.

What had I expected? For everything that had broken so long ago and fallen into such ruin to somehow magically be made whole?

I should have known better. Magic had died with her departure. The world was mundane now; there was no room left in it for dreams.

"Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot," I cursed myself. "Stupid, childish, infantile..."

I bit down the sob.

I took a deep, agonised breath.

I took one more slow glance around so that I would remember that I'd tried. A memory to keep for when I was old. The day I realised that she was, finally, gone.

And then, as in one of those stupid clichéd movies that I so loved to hate, the throng of people around me parted just a little bit.

Not much, but... enough.

I saw the way her eyes slid past me, the way the sudden puzzled frown replaced her smile, the way her whole body jerked as she swung to face me. The way her wineglass dropped from her nerveless hand, painting a dark liquid slash in the air as recognition blossomed between us.

"Lea," I whispered. I staggered.

Her face went from pink to white.

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the hurt in hers. I moaned for a breath, and then another, and then she collided with me, crushed me in her arms, and for a moment all I was aware of was the feeling of her against me once more.

She was already sobbing, and she grabbed my arm and pulled me blindly through the crowd, barging us out of the pub's double doors and then dragging me around the corner into a narrow alley, away from the noise and the curious eyes that followed us.

"You!" she shouted through her tears. "You! After eight years! You! You can't just come here like this! You can't just come back into my life and upend everything like this! It's not fair! Why! Why are you here! Of all the times you could have picked, why now!"

I stared up at her, unable to form the words, unable to do anything except stand, grunting in agony like a stunned, mortally wounded beast.

"Answer me! Answer me!" she shrieked hysterically, as she violently shook me from side to side. "Where were you? Where were you! I waited and waited and waited for you but you never came! I needed you and you weren't there! Where were you!"

Then she hunched forward, head resting against my shoulder, panting. Her hands clutched spasmodically at me, and she made small, jagged noises of pain.

But still I couldn't answer. Still I stood there, shuddering, trying to find the speech that just wouldn't come.