Forgetting Sylva

Flutter

"You have to learn more," I tell her, latching on to any idea in my mind, anything at all that I can find. "See, there are some things that grownups don't know. Only kids can learn them. And you're not ready to go yet, because you haven't learned enough."

Her face clears. "Oh," she says, simply. As if that makes sense. As if I didn't make that up to soothe her mind, to make her find some reason to want to live. My own reason tightens his hold on me, though not by too much, and presses his face into the curve of my shoulder. My other reasons walk through the corridors of their high school, and stride through their home, and whirl through my mind in snatches of phrases and places I have not been; a small, complete list in Tom's pocket. I am not ready to go. I am not ready. Not even a little.

I watch Tatiana settle back on the bed, her unicorn held tightly in her grasp. "Will you help me learn, Sylva? So I'm ready next time?"

"Of course," I tell her, my voice a whisper. And she smiles as if my promise means anything, as if it is the best thing in the world, and begins to chatter at me about her friends from down the hall. Meaningless chatter. And I look at her and think of all the reasons I have to live.

When Tiana is asleep, Lance helps me out of the chair. He has been motionless and soundless, so far, so his sudden movement and the low, rough timbre of his voice startle me. "Come on," he says, simply. And he takes my hand and walks with me, even though I am infuriatingly slow, even though every step is a painful triumph.

When the door closes behind us, we keep walking down the corridor. I am tired, but his hand is in mine, and he is so patient, and I can go on; I will.

Lance is quiet. I don't think he will be the one to speak first. So I do, because if there is one thing I can do without tiring myself too much, it is talk, and words are the least I can give him. "I'm sorry," I say.

He looks at me through hooded eyes, head tilted to the side, in a way that would have covered his eye with hair had he enough to do so anymore. My fingers itch to reach up; to trace the birthmark beneath. But I focus on walking. On moving my legs and my feet.

Walking is such a complex thing, when you think about it. Your brain tells your muscles that you want to walk, and it sends an electrical impulse, which has to turn into a chemical message along the way, and then back to electrical and chemical and electrical all over again to bridge gaps you didn't even know were there. And thousands of cells are firing with these messages and when they reach their targets, you move, and it is such an amazing thing; neurons firing and muscles stretching and tugging and you would never think that something like walking was amazing, but when you treasure the days you can stand on your own, you learn to appreciate the miracle of the human body.

Lance moves his hand to my waist, resting his fingers there, his arm around my back as he takes back my hand with his free one, so that we are strangely wound together as we walk. He is supporting me so that I don't have to worry about falling or tripping or holding myself up, and he does it without even asking or making a deal of it, not even wanting to be acknowledged. So I don't say anything about it, but I look at him so that he knows I have seen what he has done, what he is doing. He blinks, and then looks away.

"For what?" he asks.

It takes me a moment to recall my own words. "For saying that to Tiana," I tell him. He knows what I mean; that I said I would help her prepare to die. What a horrible thing to promise a child. What a terrible person I am.

His fingers tighten, and then smooth out against my side. "You know, for the past couple of weeks she's been saying that she's ready to die. And I want to know how she can know that. How a kid can know when she is ready to die, but I hardly know how I want to live. How can she be ready for that? How can she be ready to go? To leave everything behind?"

He looks at me beseechingly, but I cannot answer his question, because I am focusing on walking, on the miracle of movement, and my legs hurt and I am so, so tired, and my breath is laboured, sawing in and out of me. Without a word, he stops and lifts me into his arms. I sigh and settle against his chest, and he carries me easily down the hallway. "I don't think she is ready, Lance," I tell him quietly, after I have my breath back. "I think she just dreams about another place, another world. And she thinks that she'll get there, soon." I pause, take in a breath as he carries me down the stairs. "I guess she's just hoping for something more."

He laughs hollowly, and nudges the door open with his elbow, taking us into the car park. The cars glint with the sunlight, reflecting between mirrors and doors and shining bumper bars. It is a surprisingly beautiful sight. "Why the hell does hope have to exist, anyway? It isn't as if it's done any good."

He carries me to his car, and sets me on my feet. I splay my fingers against the window, and examine the way the light spills around them, leaving a hand-shaped shadow on the seat. The doors unlock with a click, and he opens mine for me. "Hope is all we have," I tell him.

He looks down at me for a moment, so close that I catch my breath, his lips pressed into a thin line. And then he lets out a heavy breath and helps me into the car, does up my belt, and runs back inside to get my chair. When he gets back, he drives me home, though I didn't ask him to. The sky is brightening slightly, the way it does when the sun is about to start its journey down, and the horizon is startlingly brilliant. I fold down the visor to shield my eyes from the glaring sun, though it does not help very much, as I am too short for it to be effective. It is silent in the car, but it is an easy silence, one I can bear.

"Have you decided, Syl?" he asks, his voice soft.

I don't move. Continue to stare out the window, at the slowly darkening sky; I must have been asleep for a long time, considering I got to the hospital in the early afternoon. "I thought I had, but I'm not sure anymore," I tell him. I look at him. He swallows, and his fingers tighten on the gear shift, but he nods. Accepts it. And I can tell that his patience, in this, is not coming easily. But then, neither is mine. I am just as frustrated with my inability to choose.

When we get home, he leaves me with my parents. He brings my chair inside, and he stands in the doorway for a moment, hesitant. Then he steps forwards and leans down, pressing a kiss to my cheek before turning and walking back out the door. And I lean against dad and taste chlorine in the air before the wind takes it, and all I have left is the memory.

"Lance looks good," mum says, after a moment. I nod and watch him get into his car, folding his long body into the drivers' seat.

Dad puts his arm around me, holding me up, relieving a little of my weight, and I hold back a sigh. "He looks sad," dad says, surprising me. I stay quiet. He looks down at me, but I watch Lance; he meets my eyes with his own, startlingly amber through the windscreen of his car, even at this distance. "What are you doing, Syl?" dad asks.

Lance stares at me for a long moment before looking away; the car starts with a soft roar, and he backs out of the driveway and turns, raising his hand in a small wave before moving away, down the street. I close my eyes and stare into the black behind my eyelids, but all I see is him: driving away, and coming back. Always coming back.

My voice, when I speak, is a whisper. "I don't know."

We all stand outside for a while longer. And then I start to shiver, and dad wordlessly picks me up and carries me inside. Mum closes the door behind us.