Free Wildflowers by Fleet Suki Page B

bench, our backs warmed by the summer sun, our hands gripped together too tightly as we watch the clock on my phone tick away the minutes like it’s the countdown to a bomb exploding. No one else is outside in the garden.
    At twenty-five past two, Sam lets go of my hand and stands up.
    He brushes away a swooping lock of black hair that has fallen in front of his eyes, then signs, You sure you want to come? What if they tell me I have a month to live or something?
    Sometimes Sam seems made of opposing forces—one part of him scared to die, another scared to live. But then, aren’t we all sometimes?
    “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together, okay?” I hold out my hand for him to pull me up. “Come on, let’s go.”
     
     
    AN HOUR later we’re packing his meagre belongings into a holdall I bought from a nearby charity shop, and waiting for the papers to release him—along with a prescription for the drugs he may have to take for the rest of his life.
    My relief at him being allowed to leave the hospital eclipses everything. I hope Sam feels it too.
    The consultant didn’t talk about timescales, only that Sam is on a waiting list for a transplant and he needs to come to the hospital for dialysis three times a week. She asked where Sam would be living, and I told her he would be coming home with me, to my parents’. Just for a while. Just until I find somewhere for us to call our home. Before we left she filled out some papers to transfer his care to a nearer hospital, and that was it.
    I sit down on the bed, watching as Sam struggles to pull a skinny jumper on over his T-shirt.
    “I’m going to buy you a field by the sea,” I say.
    Sam tugs the jumper over his head and turns to look at me, startled. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but now I understand that anything really is possible; you’ve got to push past your belief, reach beyond it into the scary unknown, and see what’s really there.
    Perhaps he can see how much I’ve changed.
    The commune was by the sea , he signs eventually.
    He sits down on the bed beside me and stares at his hands. There are times when I think he’s going to tell me more of what happened, more about his mother, more about Iran and the soldiers, but I also realize it’s something he finds hard to talk about. And if he never tells me anything more, it doesn’t change anything. Some stories are never meant to be retold.
    “Would you want to go back there, to the commune?” I ask. Because we could, I think. Perhaps Sam could visit the place his mother was buried. We could go there and both lay some painful ghosts to rest. I’m not afraid anymore. I would go anywhere with him.
    Sam shakes his head. No , he signs with a small smile. A field is just a field. The sea is just the sea.
    Unsure what he means, I pull his hand into my lap and squeeze it. “Want to say good-bye to the hospital garden?” I ask, more than ready to get out of this room, to move on, to keep telling our story with Sam’s hand in mine.
    He nods. “I’m ready to go,” he mouths.

Chapter Seventeen
     
     
    THERE IS a path that leads down toward the sea through a field of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The sun is shining, and the sky is the deep turquoise of the water.
    I find the perfect spot on the ridge of the hill to sit and try to read the little book I carry everywhere—its cover ripped and torn, the gold writing faded. I need a piece of Sam with me even when he’s not, imagining his smile when I get a word right he’s taught me, or his good-natured quiet laugh when I get it horribly wrong.
    I work part-time at a bookstore in the town where I grew up, and spend the rest of my time volunteering at a nearby animal sanctuary with Sam. Working with him—watching him care for sick and injured creatures, and seeing him gain confidence and shine when he helps the other volunteers makes me so incredibly grateful to have him in my life. He’s the kindest person