— J —
‘I see the camera still hasn’t moved.’

I didn’t bother looking away from the window as Mrs Pritchard entered the room. The social worker had stuck to the same old performance every morning since the day we’d met, and I knew she wasn’t about to change it now. She set her handbag on the floor and lowered herself into the single seat beside the bed, no doubt wearing the navy pencil-skirt and matching blazer that seemed to make up the entirety of her wardrobe. Her make-up would be done entirely in nude colours, and her jewellery would be simple: diamond earrings to match her diamond wedding ring. The woman was nothing if not consistent.

A single glance over my shoulder told me that I was correct on all counts, but my eyes weren’t searching for the woman—they looked instead towards the camera on the plastic cabinet beside the bed.

The Canon AE-1 stared back at me.

It looked the same as it always had: pristine despite its age, much like the social worker sat beside it. The body didn’t have a single mark on it, the lens remained scratch free, and the mirror—fragile as it was supposed to be—was somehow still in one piece. Returning it to me had been meant as a peace offering, I was certain, but I wasn’t sure it was one I liked.

Half a roll of film still sat inside, begging to be exposed, and a week ago I would gladly have obliged. The hospital was filled with all sorts of things I would usually have been drawn to: unusual textures and strange looking objects, patients with stories in their eyes and doctors who looked like they had seen far too much. But my motivation to shoot was gone, lying somewhere on the side of the road with my family car’s windscreen, and I didn’t have the energy to retrieve it. And so the film remained unexposed.

The camera was the only thing that had managed to escape the crash unscathed, and that was a fact that did not sit well with me.

‘Miss Carter?’

I tore my gaze from the camera and let it settle on the social worker who was now in charge of my entire life.

Mrs Pritchard was smiling. She was always smiling, and that alone was enough to make me hate her. For each of the days we had met she had been the bearer of bad news, but she had delivered each blow with at least a shadow of a smile on her heavily made-up face: BOOM—my family’s car had been hit head-on by some drugged up teenagers; BOOM—my brother hadn’t survived the initial crash; BOOM—my mother and my sister had succumbed to their injuries; BOOM—social services were having trouble tracking down my long-absent father.

I wasn’t sure how much more I could take—of the news, or of Mrs Pritchard’s smiling.

‘You used to take photos every day, didn’t you? Maybe you could bring it to the ceremony to—’

‘Could you just say whatever you came to say and get out? I’d really rather be alone.’

The ceremony…

The social worker pursed her smiling lips.

I had been telling people for days that I just wanted to be left alone—to be allowed to go home—but both Dr Holland and Mrs Pritchard were adamant: I would not be leaving the hospital without a legal guardian to care for me. Until then, there was no chance of me scoring even an hour to myself. I even had nurses checking on me constantly throughout the night—something that made no sense, given that my injuries were no worse than some scrapes, bruises and a concussion.

They said it was in case of delayed symptoms, but I knew better; to me, it was abundantly clear that they were expecting me to do something stupid.

It didn’t matter how many times I said it—they wouldn’t believe for a moment that I was fine. I understood their position, understood why they didn’t believe me, but it made the situation no less annoying. If anything, it only made me wonder if there was something wrong with me.

My family were dead and I was fine? I wouldn’t have believed me either.

‘I did come bearing good news.’ Mrs Pritchard leant forward, a best friend about to share a secret. Her smile grew wider. ‘We’ve found somebody for you to go home with!’

My heart skipped a beat, and my thoughts flew to my father—the one social services had been searching for the past week. I’d thought about him more since the accident than I had in the previous ten years, and was still trying to warm to the idea of having him back in my life. But with my grandparents long dead, my only chances of getting out of my hospital prison were either him or a foster family, and with the stories I had heard about the latter… My father was the only option I would consider. It would have to be him; I would accept no less.

But the man who stepped into the doorway was not my father.

I had a moment of panic as I considered how the next two years of my life might go in foster care, but then I realised that this man was somebody I recognised.

He too wore a smile, but there was a sadness behind it as he said, ‘Hey, June. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

Up until that moment, Uncle Brian had been nothing but a distant memory to me—one of a tall, imposing man who had come to visit when I was maybe four-years-old, making my mother sweet and my father sour for the duration of his month-long stay. Back then he had been dark-haired and ever-smiling, with a million jokes on hand and a guitar always at the ready for every request. I remembered his rendition of Stairway to Heaven and the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, and how happy he looked when he spoke of his two sons back home. But mostly I remembered how sad I’d been when he had to leave on that chilly August morning, and how his leaving couldn’t come fast enough for my father.

He had gone with promises of seeing us again, and thereafter had fallen almost into legend. He was just a story my mother told when she missed him, the prequel to my parents splitting up.

His hair had grown lighter and he looked strange in his dark slacks and dress shirt, but he was still very much the uncle that I remembered, and his heavy American accent was a candle in my darkness.

In three long strides he was standing beside Mrs Pritchard, the look on his face identical to the one my mother always got when she was nervous. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He looked exhausted, unsure of himself, and it was those things that made me the most glad to see him. I was tired of confident professionals telling me that they understood what I was going through—here was a man who looked like he truly did.

‘Uncle Brian.’ I hadn’t said his name in so long that it felt foreign on my tongue. ‘What are you doing here?’

He glanced at Mrs Pritchard, clearly expecting her to get up and leave us alone to talk, but when she didn’t move he went on as if she wasn’t there at all.

‘I came down for the funerals,’ he said, and the exhaustion from his face managed to creep into his tone. ‘I got a call a few days ago about the… About what happened. I got in late last night.’

The funerals. There they were—the words I had been trying to avoid. My breath hitched at the thought of them, now only a few hours away. I’d spent all of my time in the hospital trying not to think about them, so it hadn’t even occurred to me that my mother’s brother might be making his way down from California to attend. It seemed stupid in hindsight. Of course he would come.

‘Mrs Pritchard has been keeping me up to date on things, too,’ he went on, ‘so I know they’ve been having some troubles tracking down your old man.’

‘“Some troubles?” Try no luck at all.’

My uncle’s expression said this didn’t surprise him in the slightest.

‘What your uncle is trying to say,’ Mrs Pritchard cut in, no doubt disapproving of my comment, ‘is that because we’ve been unable to locate your father, caring for you has defaulted to the next closest living relative—and that’s him!’

She made it sound like a cause for celebration—like it was great that my mother was dead and I got to live with my uncle instead!

‘Mrs Pritchard.’ Uncle Brian gave the woman a tight-lipped smile. ‘Could you give me and my niece a few moments alone, please?’

Much to my surprise, Mrs Pritchard didn’t argue with his request. Still smiling, she picked up her bag, said something about finalising paperwork with the nurses, and swept from the room without delay. Uncle Brian took the seat that she had vacated.

With the social worker gone from the room, my mood instantly shifted. I didn’t feel the need to be playing defence anymore, and that left room for other feelings to creep in: exhaustion, surprise.

Panic.

If Uncle Brian was here, that meant that everything Dr Holland and Mrs Pritchard said had happened was undoubtedly real. My mother was dead. My siblings, too. I couldn’t remember the accident myself, but I’d been shown photographs of the scene and had my own injuries to serve as proof. Having my uncle show up should have been the final piece of the story, the absolute proof that my family were really dead. I waited for that realisation to come crashing down on me.

But it didn’t.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.’ Uncle Brian looked me over, his gaze lingering on my arms. ‘Are you all right?’

It felt like a million people had asked me the same questions since the accident, but Uncle Brian was the first one who sounded like he genuinely cared. Most people asked it as a general question, because wasn’t that what you were supposed to ask people after they experienced a death in the family? I had fast grown tired of it.

I slipped my arms back beneath the bed sheets, suddenly self-conscious of the discolouration there. ‘I’m fine. Just some scrapes and bruises.’

‘Good. That’s good. When I saw the photos…’

He didn’t need to finish. Several of the nurses had said that my surviving the crash had been nothing short of a miracle, and after having seen the photos of the wreckage myself, I hadn’t been able to disagree. It wasn’t a stretch for my uncle to have been expecting the worst.

‘I hope you’re okay with this, by the way. Coming to live with me, I mean. In California.’

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘In California? They’re actually going to let you take me out of the country?’

‘I didn’t give them much choice.’ Uncle Brian grimaced. ‘They wanted to put you into foster care until they could find your father. I told them over my dead body.’

That brought a small smile to my face. Uncle Brian smiled too, and some of the tension went out of his features.

Mrs Pritchard chose that moment to re-enter the room, her own smile blinding.

‘There’s just a few things left for you to sign, Mr Haner, and then everything is settled.’ She beamed at me. ‘Are you ready to dress for the ceremony, Miss Carter?’

The smile slipped from my face.

Uncle Brian noticed, and was quick to say, ‘I can take it from here, Mrs Pritchard. Thank you for all of your help.’

I focused intently on my hands as the two adults exchanged their goodbyes—Mrs Pritchard promising to keep Uncle Brian updated on the search for my father—and tried not to think about what was coming. All week I had wanted to go home, but these were not the circumstances that I had wanted to initiate it.

Uncle Brian’s hand landed on my shoulder, and I jumped a mile.

‘June.’ His tone was calm, but there was concern in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

What was wrong? I’d been dreading this moment ever since the word funeral had first made its way into the room. It was just a ceremony, as Mrs Pritchard had been continuously reminding me, but the thought of it now made me feel ill. What if going to the funerals—what if seeing those caskets – was what finally made it all real?

I didn’t want that.

‘I don’t want to go to the funeral.’

There. It was out. I had said it.

I didn’t want to go to the funeral. I didn’t want to sit and listen to some stranger talk about my family as if he or she had known them. I didn’t want to face my mother’s co-workers or my siblings’ school friends, or even my own classmates who might show up to pay their respects. I didn’t want anybody’s sympathy. I wanted people to let me get on with my own life.

I didn’t want to be the miracle survivor.

My uncle frowned.

‘Listen, kid. Usually I’d be against making you do something you don’t want to, but not with this. It’s non-negotiable. You have to go to the funeral.’

My heart sank. That was not the response I had been expecting.

‘But why?’

Uncle Brian considered me for several moments.

‘Your doctor told me that you haven’t cried at all since they told you your mom, brother, and sister were dead. Is that true?’

It was partially true. I’d cried once, when they had first given me the news, but I’d been scared and confused after waking up in pain and in a foreign environment. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t wanted to cry after that. I knew I was supposed to—I just hadn’t needed to. Obviously I just dealt with death differently.

‘He said you wouldn’t talk to the therapist they supplied either. And that every time somebody brings up your mother, you change the subject.’

‘So?’

‘So your doctor thinks you’re in denial, and I’m inclined to agree. That’s why you have to go to the funeral.’

‘I’m not…’

But the look on Uncle Brian’s face, while far from terrible, said he wasn’t having it.

Denial. Was that really what they thought? I wasn’t in denial; I knew that my family was dead.

‘I don’t want to go to this thing either,’ he said, his voice softer now, ‘but it’s the last chance I get to say goodbye to my sister. I know that if I don’t go, I’ll regret it. And trust me on this—you will, too.’

‘I just…’ I rubbed my tired eyes. ‘I don’t want to face all those people. I don’t want them telling me they’re sorry, or asking me if I’m okay. …I don’t want them asking about the accident.’

I could see it now—the endless stream of people spewing apologies; people who were practically strangers asking me if I was okay, telling me they were there for me if I needed to talk. And then, of course, the question I had come to dread: What do you remember?

Because I remembered nothing at all about the accident. Not the initial crash, not the few seconds of consciousness I managed when they pulled me from the wreckage. Nothing. Not a thing until I woke in the hospital.

And for that, I felt immensely guilty.

‘I can’t…do this on my own.’

‘You don’t have to, kid.’ Uncle Brian offered me his hand. ‘I’ll be right there with you. For as long as you need.’

I looked at my uncle, at the hand he was offering. But he offered more than that, didn’t he? Comfort, and understanding that no social worker could truly supply. If there was no avoiding life, I would be glad at least to have him by my side.

Reluctantly, I nodded.

Then I picked up my camera with one hand, took my uncle’s with the other, and allowed him to lead me out into my new life.

Notes

A/N: first of all, sorry you were all notified of this chapter being re-posted! I didn't intend that. But when I was deleting the second and third, I accidentally deleted this one, too. Chalk that up to me being me.

Second, sorry for giving you another backwards update! I keep changing my mind about things (as you can probably tell), but I promise it's usually for the best. At this point I have switched from first person to third and then back again, and now it should be settled. The next chapter should be something new for everybody.

I fully understand if I lose several subscribers because of this, but thank you to everybody who sticks around even through all of my obsessive re-writing! Hopefully this will be the last time. I'm hoping the story will come to me easier now.

Love you!