Who We Were

by B M Carroll

  ‘I’m so sorry to have alarmed you. I feel like such an idiot.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. No harm done. Let’s not forget that there’s still someone who’s having a laugh at your expense. You said Annabel got one, too?’

  ‘Yes ... I found it creepy rather than something to laugh about ... But creeping someone out isn’t exactly a crime, is it?’

  True. But Katy feels uneasy about the whole thing. ‘Is having a new yearbook a bad idea, Grace? Should I scrap it? I must say, the responses so far have been underwhelming.’

  ‘No, no, I love the idea. I can’t wait to see how people have changed, how their lives have turned out. I’m really enjoying reading back over the original yearbook.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘We were so, so young.’

  ‘Yes, we were.’

  Katy hangs up shortly afterwards. That’s the longest conversation she’s had with Grace McCrae in her life.

  Dinner is poached salmon and greens. Katy tries to be as good with her diet as her exercise regime. Afterwards, she sits in her study nook – a small alcove in the living area with just enough room for a desk and some shelving – and starts work on what she calls ‘Project Reunion’. She works on it most nights of the week: it’s startling how much time it sucks up.

  Tonight, she has two new messages, the first on Facebook.

  Thank you for your message to my wife’s Facebook account. Unfortunately, Brigette recently passed away after a long illness. She always had happy memories of school. I hope you enjoy your night. Mike

  Oh, how terribly sad. Katy barely remembers Brigette, and this makes her feel guilty and even more sad. She hits reply.

  Dear Mike, I am so sorry for your loss. With your consent, I would still like to include Brigette in the new yearbook, with some photos and details of her life. Please let me know what you think. Deepest condolences, Katy Buckley

  The second message is an email from someone called Samantha Rankin. Katy has no recollection of any Samantha in the year.

  From: samantharankin@pharmacorp.com.au

  Subject: RSVP

  Dear Katy, please be advised that Melissa Andrews will be attending the reunion. Melissa will be accompanied by her partner, Henry Kent. Both Melissa and Henry have special dietary requirements. Details will be sent at a later date. Information for the updated yearbook will also follow. Samantha Rankin on behalf of Melissa Andrews.

  Ah, Samantha works for Melissa. Katy remembers Melissa for her perfectionism: perfect hair, perfect marks, perfect focus. Does she still maintain such impossibly high standards? Is she demanding of Samantha and other staff? Katy chides herself. It’s been twenty years: of course Melissa will have changed. She tries to imagine an older, less-perfect version of Melissa.

  Next, she types an email to the Class of 2000, a mailing list compiled from the RSVPs received to date.

  From: admin@yearbook.com.au

  Subject: Fake yearbook entries

  Someone naughty has been sending joke yearbook entries. Please stop. You’ve creeped out Annabel and Grace. If you have time on your hands, you can help me with the real thing. Thanks, Katy.

  There. Short and to the point. Katy has learned, through her teaching career, to be direct.

  She spends the next hour or so trying to find two students – David Hooper and Robbie McGrath – who nobody seems to have seen or heard of since graduation. She tries Facebook, Google and online phone directories, to no avail. Maybe they went overseas.

  She types another email to the Class of 2000.

  From: admin@yearbook.com.au

  Subject: Missing classmates

  Continuing to have trouble finding David Hooper and Robbie McGrath. Did either have brothers or sisters? Maybe we could track them down through their families. Anyone know their old addresses? Parents or family might still live there. Thanks, K

  That’s enough for tonight. Katy stands up from the desk, stretches. Her eye catches the original yearbook sitting towards the back of the desk, looking rather yellowed and older than it actually is. She is incredibly tired, the run starting to take its toll. She should go to bed immediately and yet she can’t resist. She sits back down, pulls the book closer, 2000 emblazoned across the front. The millennium. The Harbour Bridge exploding with New Year fireworks. Surviving the Y2K bug and warnings that the world was about to end. The excitement of the Sydney Olympics.

  The first page Katy looks at is Brigette’s. Her face – freckled, smiling – is vaguely familiar. Best remembered for being in the unbeatable girls’ netball team. Hoping to be a sports instructor when she left school. Did Brigette achieve her dreams? What was the illness she suffered from? Did she leave children behind?

  Next Katy turns to her own page. There she is, so young, so vulnerable, so dreadfully plain. Who would have thought that a change in hair colour would make such a drastic difference? Plus all the exercise, of course, and not to underestimate the difference that self-confidence makes. Katy is as different as can be to that girl in the photo.

  President of The Wilderness Society. She laughs out loud. Where on earth did that come from? Yes, she liked animals, but she was hardly a warrior for animal welfare. Was she afraid to say that what she really wanted was a science degree? That Annabel Moore and her gang would mock her for being such a try-hard? Katy can’t fathom why she used to care so much about Annabel Moore.

  Last of all, Katy turns to his page. Her heart lurches the way it used to lurch when she was seventeen. It’s almost painful to look at him. To relive that intense feeling, that vulnerability, that heartbreak. A part of her will always love him. A big part of her, if she’s honest. This is one of the things she won’t tell her graduating students. The ones who’ve been in love or had their hearts broken. The ones whose feelings have been blithely dismissed as crushes or puppy love or something temporary and inconsequential.

  The truth is they may never again love as intensely as they do now.

  Katy hasn’t.

  Name: Robbie McGrath

  What you will be remembered for: Just forget me.

  Best memories of high school: None.

  Worst memories of high school: Everything.

  What will you be doing ten years from now: Living far away from here.

  5

  ROBBIE

  It’s been three or four weeks since Robbie checked his email. His phone got stolen a while back, swiped from his pocket while he was sleeping rough. The one before that got smashed when he fell over. Another one got water damaged. Every now and then he’s offered a new phone – second-hand, of course – which he accepts and tries to keep from harm. In between, he can use the computer facilities at drop-in centres like this. He doesn’t really mind: half the time he isn’t in the right headspace to check his messages anyway.

  ‘Hey, Robbie. How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.’

  The fact that they like to remember his name is intensely annoying. There’s an unofficial dress code: jeans and check shirts, male and female volunteers wearing more or less the same clothes. Most of them are Christians, their gormless smiles designed to reel you in, to save your soul. No fucking chance of that.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ he eventually answers. Better be civil because he needs stuff done. For a start, there’s his laundry: it’s been building up and now everything’s rank. He also needs a good feed: he’s been living off noodles and tinned soup since he was last here. He has the mindset to check his emails today, so he needs one of their computers too. ‘Bit hungry, though.’

  The volunteer is excited to hear this. That’s exactly why he’s here. To feed and nourish the less fortunate, the strugglers, the down and out. To slap some food on a plate and think he’s exonerated from all other responsibility.

  ‘Is that all your laundry?’ Another volunteer, a girl, twenties, too old to carry off the pigtails resting on her shoulders. And another gormless smile as she relieves him of the refuse bag packed with dirty clothes. Good luck to her. She’ll gag on opening
it.

  Robbie lines up at the canteen. There’s a sour smell coming off the old man in front of him. A woman of indeterminate age – mottled, bloated face – slides in behind him and she doesn’t smell great either. The truth is, it’s impossible not to smell. You can wash your face and hands at public toilets as much as you like, and occasionally scrounge a cold shower, but nothing can substitute for a long hot shower, morning and night.

  The meal on offer today is beef casserole and rice. Robbie is disgruntled. He was hoping for roast chicken and mash, the last meal he had at this facility, the reason why he returned today. He had an appetite – he doesn’t always have an appetite – and couldn’t get the thought of the roast chicken out of his head.

  The laundry will take a couple of hours to run through the washing machine and dryer. In the meantime, Robbie can avail himself of the facilities: hot shower, fresh razor for a shave, a rummage through the clothes bin, and internet access – the biggest draw card because most of the patrons, like him, have trouble hanging on to phones.

  He has eight new emails. Six are junk. Two are from his sister.

  From: celiamc@optusnet.com.au

  Subject: Hello

  Hi Robbie,

  Hope you will read this at some stage. Just letting you know that Dad is in hospital. Nothing too serious: just some clotting on his leg that they’re a bit concerned about. He’d love to hear from you. Even better if you came to see him and Mum. You have no idea how happy that would make them.

  I think of you every single day. Hope you think about me, too.

  Xxx Celia

  Celia sends a message every couple of weeks. She never falters in her efforts to stay in touch. The births of her children, the breakup of her marriage, various illnesses and busy periods, nothing has deterred her from thinking of him and sitting down to type a few lines. He’s grateful for the effort she puts in, for keeping him up to date with what’s happening in the family, for always letting him know that he’s loved, but he never sends a response. He has nothing to say. No words to explain his failure, his embarrassment, his self-loathing, his stubbornness, his defectivity, his utter inability to change himself.

  From: celiamc@optusnet.com.au

  Subject: Dad

  Hi Robbie,

  Dad’s out of hospital and doing well. Mum is fussing over him and they’re bickering like crazy, which is a sign that everything’s back to normal. We’ve had some contact from old school friends of yours. There’s a reunion coming up. Twenty years, imagine. The organiser, Katy Buckley, said that she’d love it if you can come. The details are below, along with some questions she wants answered for an updated yearbook. That’s a nice idea, isn’t it? Finding out what everyone is doing and where they are in life. Maybe the reunion is the incentive you need to finally come home?

  Where are you these days? I assume you’re not in Sydney. I look for you everywhere I go. Can’t stop myself. I hope you’re somewhere safe.

  We love you and miss you and hope that you come home soon.

  Celia

  Twenty years! It slams into him. Robbie stands up, sits down, stands up again. Twenty years. Twenty fucking years. It’s confronting, seeing it in type. Those years have been a haze of nothingness, a void in which he has managed to exist and little else. What’s weird is that he can still see their smug, superior faces clear as day.

  Annabel Moore: pretty, popular, poisonous.

  Grace McCrae: couldn’t go to the toilet without Annabel.

  Zach Latham: thought he was so fucking funny, the idiot.

  Melissa Andrews: stuck-up bitch.

  Luke Willis: gay as Christmas.

  Katy Buckley: always trying to be everyone’s friend.

  Jarrod Harris: Annabel’s on-and-off boyfriend till he got her up the duff and became full-time ‘on’. Jarrod is the one he despises the most. Robbie still dreams about him. Recurring nightmares of Jarrod chasing him across the uneven grass, his voice a shout from behind. Jarrod gaining ground, his yells coming fearfully closer. Jarrod tackling him to the ground, Robbie’s face crashing into the turf, the taste of dew and dirt in his mouth.

  Maybe Celia is right. Maybe it is time to finally go home. Maybe he’ll turn up at the reunion, surprise them all. He could scrub up, get a suit from the clothing bin, convince them he’s a successful businessman now. Then, when they’ve had a few drinks and their guard is down, he could settle a score or two.

  Robbie stands up again. Clenches his fists. Jabs one forward. Undercuts with the other. Long time no see, Jarrod. Take that and that and that. You fucking bastard. You ruined my life. Hey, Zach, come to say hello? How’s a nice punch between the eyes, you shitbag!

  ‘Are you all right there, chum?’ It’s yet another volunteer. The place is teeming with them. This one’s a pale nerdy-looking bloke. His job is to watch over the antiquated laptops in the ‘technology room’. As if anyone could be bothered stealing these old heaps of shit.

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’ Robbie forces himself down, grinding his backside to the seat. He tries to distract himself with football news and other headlines. He tries to quell the feelings of inadequacy, self-hatred and bitterness that go hand in hand with even the most random thoughts about his schooldays. He tries a breathing technique some doctor taught him that’s supposed to help him feel less agitated. He tries to convince himself that Jarrod, Zach and the rest of them don’t matter a fuck.

  But as with most things in life, he fails.

  Name: Melissa Andrews (aka Snow White)

  What you will be remembered for: Being smart. Maybe being a bit too serious.

  Best memories of high school: Awards night. I like celebrating everyone’s achievements.

  Worst memories of high school: Slicing my finger instead of the celery in food tech.

  What will you be doing ten years from now: Working my way up the corporate ladder.

  6

  MELISSA

  The air-conditioning is broken and a temporary mobile unit has been placed in the corner of the boardroom. Melissa is sitting closest to the unit. It’s blowing her normally immaculate hair all over the place.

  ‘I feel like I’m in a nineteen eighties music video,’ she mutters to Cassie, the head of HR. ‘The wind machine is lifting my hair while I sing about my heart going on.’

  ‘That was the nineties,’ Cassie points out.

  ‘Whatever.’

  The finance director has to raise his voice to be heard above the motor of the unit. ‘Next year’s budget is almost final. We’re just waiting on sales forecasts ...’ He directs a meaningful look at Melissa.

  ‘By the end of the week,’ she says. ‘As you know, it’s not something that can be rushed.’

  Melissa is resolute. She will not pluck sales figures from the air; they’re too important for that. Commission is affected. Family incomes. Performance ratings. There is a protocol to go through: a review of the pipeline, a discussion about probability, an estimation process that is neither too bullish nor too cautious. This all takes time.

  He turns his attention to Cassie. ‘The headcount numbers and employee costs still need tweaking.’

  Melissa and Cassie are the only two females sitting around the oblong table. The testosterone can be overwhelming at times.

  ‘The headcount numbers are final,’ Cassie retorts. ‘You think they need tweaking only because you don’t like them.’

  Go Cassie! Melissa is well known for her activism in the industry, constantly campaigning for female advancement and representation around tables like this one. She also mentors a few young women who are starting out in their careers. She has a lot of advice to give them. Work hard. Stand up for yourself. Be confident even though you might be shaking inside. Unfortunately, she can’t offer guidance when it comes to matters such as maternity leave and work-life balance. Melissa thought she’d have children by now. She expected to be juggling work and daycare, manoeuvring sticky fingers away from her business suits and small bodies in and out of car seats. But
the prospect of children is looking increasingly unlikely. Henry – already father to two teenage children – is decidedly unenthusiastic. Melissa’s ambivalence has been another factor; she has not issued an ultimatum or put any priority on the matter. And if that weren’t enough, there’s the added, insurmountable, problem of living arrangements.

  The meeting comes to its conclusion and Melissa escapes the icy gusts of the air-conditioning unit. She detours to the bathroom on the way back to her office. As suspected, her hair is in complete disarray. She pulls a comb from her handbag and roughly runs it through. She is a striking-looking woman. Near-black hair. Flawless white skin. When she was in her final year at school, she had a holiday job as Snow White in a theme park. Some of her old school friends still call her Snow White.

  OK, Snow White. Enough prettying yourself. Back to work.

  This morning’s meeting feels like a lifetime ago. A few things have gone wrong, souring the rest of the day. A potential client changing his mind at the very last minute. Another client being put on credit hold and threatening to walk away. Sales can be hard, thankless work. It’s all or nothing; there’s no middle ground. Either you clinch the deal or you don’t.

  Now, all Melissa wants to do is go home and put her feet up. Tomorrow she’ll start again with renewed verve.

  ‘I’m calling it a day,’ she says to Samantha, her assistant. Samantha is one of the young women she mentors. Next year Melissa will promote her into a junior sales role and recruit another exceptionally bright personal assistant, who will also – if she works hard and proves herself capable – be promoted in due course.

  Melissa’s apartment is cool and welcoming, a haven after a frustrating day. In the bedroom, she swaps her business suit for pyjamas and her stilettos for a pair of fluffy slippers. If only the executive could see her now!

  Dinner is Weight Watchers’ chicken pasta. She likes the convenience and portion control, even though she’s fortunate enough not to have to watch her weight. She burns a lot of energy at work. Zooming from meeting to meeting at a hundred miles an hour. Taking the fire stairs instead of waiting for lifts.