Who We Were

by B M Carroll

  She’s fed and settled in front of the TV when Henry calls.

  ‘How was your day?’ he asks politely.

  ‘Don’t ask ... You?’

  ‘Christopher missed his bus so I had to do an emergency trip to school. The traffic was horrendous.’

  Henry’s children live with him most days of the week. The initial arrangement was meant to be Sunday to Tuesday but Henry’s house is closer to their schools than their mother’s. Melissa tries to put it down to less commuting time. Tries not to think of herself as a factor and the fact that the more they’re in his house, the less she is.

  ‘Am I going to see you tomorrow?’ she asks carefully.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll drop in after I’ve taken Tessa to dance.’

  That means they’ll have an hour at most. Henry will want sex. He can think again.

  ‘Will I make dinner?’ she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

  ‘No need. I’ll eat early with the kids.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She knows this will annoy him – it’s the favoured retort of his children – but says it anyway.

  ‘Now you sound like a fifteen-year-old.’

  ‘"Whatever” is a good word for all age groups,’ she argues, picking a piece of fluff from her pyjama pants. ‘It’s the perfect balance between indifference and frustration. It’s not as blunt as “Who cares” or as rude as “Fuck off".’

  ‘Do you want to tell me “fuck off"?’

  ‘What I want is more than a stolen hour between dance drop-off and pick-up.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He sighs. ‘I’ll make it up to you on the weekend.’

  She says nothing. There is no making up the missed time together. There’s too much of it. It’s lost for ever.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ he asks in a softer tone.

  ‘Just watching TV. One of those hospital emergency shows. After this I’m going to rouse myself to answer the questions for the new yearbook.’

  ‘Okay. You do that ... Goodnight, then. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ she says automatically.

  The truth is, she is not entirely sure.

  She did love him. Couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have met him, how well matched they were. She was still deliriously happy on their wedding day, a year later, even though his children were digging in their heels and they both decided that it would be best if she held off moving in for a few months. Now here they are. Three years later. Still living apart. And she is not deliriously happy. Not remotely.

  Melissa reaches for her iPad and opens Katy’s email. Good on Katy for organising this. Tracking down eighty or so ex-students is no mean feat and should not be taken for granted. They should all chip in and present her with a bouquet and their thanks on the night of the reunion.

  What are you doing now?

  Where do you live?

  Do you have a partner/family?

  What has been your greatest achievement since leaving school?

  Straightforward questions, really. Melissa can’t fathom why it has taken her this long – over a fortnight – to answer.

  Melissa is sales director for a multinational pharmaceuticals company. She lives in a modern apartment that has corridor views of Bondi Beach. The apartment cost a small fortune but is well within her means because her on-target salary would make some of her old classmates’ jaws drop. Henry is her husband. She doesn’t have children of her own, and can’t count Christopher and Tessa because they’ve refused to accept her. It seemed easier at the time not to force the issue, not to foist herself upon them. Now she realises it was a big mistake. She and Henry have grown distant. They have become set in their ways. They have not learned how to be with each other for long periods of time. And the children are no more welcoming now than they were three years ago.

  Melissa turns off the television. She is finding it hard to think. What is her greatest achievement since leaving school?

  Her career? Is that a little too predictable? Too boring?

  Melissa imagines that she’ll be one of the few who followed the career path she set out to follow.

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

  She’s proud of her success. Proud of the fact that she helps other women climb the ladder too. Her work life has been anything but predictable or boring.

  It’s her marriage that’s the sticking point. She is not proud of it, not at all, and has just realised that’s what caused her to stall, to procrastinate rather than type an immediate response to Katy, which would be her usual style. Melissa’s marriage is tripping her up. It feels fake. Like it doesn’t deserve mention in her updated status.

  Living in separate houses to keep the peace; well, that was even dumber than eating the poisoned apple, Snow White.

  Now that she thinks about it, marriage is a bit like sales. It’s all or nothing. There is no middle ground.

  Name: Zach Latham

  What you will be remembered for: Being the class idiot.

  Best memories of high school: The day the frogs escaped captivity and were bouncing all around the science lab. (It wasn’t an accident. Sorry, Mr Collins.)

  Worst memories of high school: Getting a three-day in-school suspension in Year 10 and having to spend those days in Miss Hicks’s office doing classwork while she kept her beady eye on me.

  What will you be doing ten years from now: Trying to stay out of trouble.

  7

  ZACH

  It all seems pointless to Zach. Both the reunion and the notion of an updated yearbook. He has neither the time nor the interest. He has more important matters to think about. Matters of life and death.

  ‘Hop up on the bed, Mrs Carey. I’ll pull the curtain and you can take your top off for me. You can use the sheet. Let me know when you’re ready.’

  Zach reads through his patient’s medical history while he waits for her to de-robe. She’s in her fifties, younger than she looks. Used to smoke, gave up a couple of years ago. Today she is complaining of a persistent cough, shortness of breath and chest pain. He has a bad feeling about this one.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ Even her one-word response is breathless.

  He starts with percussion on her back, establishing a dull area at the base of the lung, suggesting fluid. He uses the stethoscope to listen. She winces at the coldness of the metal, then laughs at herself, a raspy laugh that turns into a hacking cough.

  ‘Deep breaths through the mouth.’ He can’t hear any breathing sounds from that area. ‘Have you been experiencing any back pain?’

  She looks surprised. ‘Yes, at night.’

  That means it has probably spread to the bones. At least stage 3. What’s frustrating is that smoking is becoming popular again, despite all the health warnings. Some people just don’t value their lives until it’s too late.

  ‘Let’s listen to your front now.’ She turns, with another wince, to give him a better angle.

  He moves the stethoscope around her freckled chest, listening carefully. ‘All done.’

  Zach fills in paperwork for a chest X-ray and pleural aspiration while she buttons up her top.

  ‘Should I be worried?’ she asks tremulously.

  He pauses. He can’t lie outright. Nothing is ever gained by lying.

  ‘Try not to worry too much until we see the results. Then we’ll deal with it together.’

  His next patient is a toddler with a raging ear infection. The child screams and squirms in his mother’s arms. Zach smiles, says hello, and hands him a spare stethoscope to play with. The child is immediately transfixed.

  ‘That’s the first time he’s stopped crying today,’ the mother says.

  Zach is good with children. All the mothers say so.

  ‘That woman – Katy – sent another reminder today. You should reply to her.’

  Zach shares everything with Isabel, including a joint email address. She sees all his messages, he sees all hers, they have nothing to hi
de from each other. It’s late at night and they’ve finally sat down to relax. Carson is asleep upstairs.

  ‘Nah, Izzy. Not interested.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was a different person back then. A bit of a dickhead, if I’m honest.’

  Isabel laughs, her dark eyes crinkling at the sides. She is almost nine years older than him. ‘You were the class clown. I found that interesting.’ Seeing his confusion, she explains further. ‘Katy scanned a copy of your original entry, obviously hoping to prompt you to respond. Were you the one who let the frogs escape?’

  His smile is sheepish. ‘Yep.’

  ‘So, when did you start to become more serious about life?’

  ‘You know when.’

  He’s told her this story. His turning point, his epiphany. It happened when he was eighteen, a few months out of school, having started a degree in computer technology and discovering that he had zero interest in it. Then, one night before dinner, his father had a heart attack. He didn’t clutch at his chest, as one might have expected, or cry out in pain. He burped, as though he’d eaten too much, even though he hadn’t yet sat down to eat. Then he grabbed hold of the kitchen counter in an attempt to keep himself upright and Zach had to lunge forward to catch him before he hit the ground. His mother called an ambulance and something happened while Zach watched the paramedics in action. He wanted what they had. A job that made a difference. A job that involved saving lives or making them better. Of course, this late decision meant having to do bridging courses in chemistry, biology and maths. It meant doing a six-year degree instead of a three-year one. He initially saw himself as a paramedic, but later decided that the long-lasting doctor-patient relationships in general practice were more for him.

  Izzy tilts her head to one side as she regards him. She wears her hair long, over one shoulder. Its natural colour is brown-black. These days she dyes it to disguise the grey. ‘Don’t you want to tell this Katy what you’re doing with your life? Are you not proud of who you are, who we are?’

  Zach feels that a few trite sentences can’t possibly summarise all the wondrous and tragic things he has experienced, or the wisdom he has accumulated about humanity and what is truly important in life.

  ‘You know I’m proud,’ he says, reaching for her hand. ‘Our son is being made school captain tomorrow, a day I thought I’d never see. I’ll be the proudest man in that school hall.’

  ‘Well, answer her then. Tell her about me and Carson and your job. Shout it out to the world.’

  As is often the case, Isabel has helped him see things differently. He leans closer to give her a kiss of gratitude.

  The school hall is half full. It’s a small school, only sixty-odd students in total. Zach and Isabel have reserved seats in the front row. Carson is up on the stage, kicking his legs as he waits, a shoelace undone. He jumps up when he sees them. A teacher fondly returns him to his seat.

  ‘Morning.’ Barry, Zach’s father, sits down next to them, looking the picture of health. Having the heart attack all those years ago changed his life, too.

  ‘I thought I was gone,’ he said when he was well enough to reflect on what had happened. ‘And all I could think was, give me another chance. Please, God, give me one more chance and I promise I won’t blow it.’

  Barry hasn’t blown it. He exercises, eats and drinks in moderation, and goes for regular check-ups. Sadly, Zach’s mother passed away a few years ago and Barry is now on his own. Isabel’s parents are more elderly and live in Buenos Aires. They visit Sydney once a year, staying for a couple of months at a time. They help with Carson. All the grandparents adore Carson.

  The headmaster clears his throat and waits a few beats for silence to descend.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. A very big welcome to St Kevin’s School for Special Education.’

  They knew beforehand, at the twelve-week scan. The baby had a tell-tale amount of fluid at the back of its neck. Both Zach and Isabel, who is also a doctor, saw the increased nuchal translucency on the screen. They both understood the ramifications.

  ‘The baby might have Down’s syndrome,’ Isabel murmured when the sonographer left the room to fetch her supervisor.

  They were offered further – more intrusive – tests, which they declined. They both agreed: the tests wouldn’t change the outcome, there would be no termination. Of course, the increased fluid didn’t automatically mean Down’s syndrome but Isabel’s age – thirty-five – was another damning factor. They knew. Deep down they both knew, and further tests, with their associated risks of miscarriage, seemed pointless.

  Izzy grieved. It took time to adjust her expectations of the baby that would be born, to realign her hopes and dreams for the child and their family life. Then, with acceptance, came ferocity. ‘Regardless of what happens, this baby has been given to us for a reason ... He has been sent on earth to teach us to be worthy of him.’

  Zach was just as resolute. He was disappointed and sad but he wasn’t frightened of having a disabled child. He’d seen enough to know there is no such thing as perfect, and indeed no guarantees at any stage of parenthood. Robust babies can be struck down with leukaemia or other serious illnesses. Happy-go-lucky children can become mentally unstable during their teens. If you approached parenthood expecting no major challenges, then you were in for a shock.

  The headmaster announces the new captains and Carson and his female counterpart stand up to boisterous applause. Their badges are pinned to their polo shirts and then there’s a short speech from each.

  Carson stands too close to the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mumma, Dadda, Pops,’ he booms. A teacher moves him back. ‘Thanks, Mr Summers and Mrs McKay.’ Now he is barely audible. The teacher tries again to put him in the right position. ‘Thanks, friends, for voting me. You’re best friends ever.’

  Carson’s speech is thick-tongued due to his low muscle tone. He makes up for it with authenticity, enthusiasm and an enormous grin. Izzy takes a thousand photos. Zach blinks away tears of pride.

  Afterwards, there is tea and cake and even more photos. Barry says goodbye, and Isabel and Zach stroll back to the car hand in hand. A teen – ripped jeans, tattooed arms, a cloud of cigarette smoke in front of his face – eyes Isabel up and down. She is one of those classically beautiful women who appeal to men of all ages.

  Zach stops dead. Stares at the cigarette between the teen’s fingers.

  ‘Yesterday I had a woman in my surgery who has lung cancer. She’ll be lucky to last six weeks.’

  ‘That’s your fucking business.’

  Izzy takes a turn. ‘The people who love you – your mum and dad and maybe your girlfriend – won’t want you to die young.’

  After a few long moments, the boy grinds the cigarette against the wall behind him. It was only a matter of time before he capitulated. Izzy has this effect on people. Bringing out the best in them. Including Zach.

  She gives the boy a dazzling smile. ‘Well done, you.’

  The truth is, Zach doesn’t deserve Isabel. She is beautiful, inside and out. He is not.

  8

  ROBBIE

  Robbie knocks on the door aggressively. Bang, bang, bang. Open up. I’m back. He hears voices, then light, quick footsteps. The door opens cautiously. Tangled dark hair, pink cheeks; she’s the picture of her mother.

  ‘Hello,’ she states.

  ‘Hello,’ he responds, adopting her serious tone.

  ‘Are you looking for my mum?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Robbie.’

  She tilts her head to one side. ‘I have an uncle called Robbie. He lives in another city.’

  ‘That’s me. I’m your uncle.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Really? Are you really?’

  ‘Really.’

  The little girl calls over her shoulder. Her voice is loud and strong, at odds with her size. ‘Mum, Mum, it’s Uncle Robbie, it’s Uncle Robbie!’

  There’s a cry from th
e back of the house. Then Celia is barging towards him, her hair coming loose from its bun, a look of utter incredulity on her face.

  ‘Robbie? Robbie?’

  She stops up close to double-check. Then squeals, ‘It’s you! It’s you,’ and flings her arms around him. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s really you. Oh, my God.’

  Her arms are warm and strong. Her scent gets caught in the back of his throat. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to someone. He likes it and hates it in equal measure.

  ‘Sienna, this is your Uncle Robbie. Where’s Charlie? Charlie, get down here!’

  Charlie is already halfway down the stairs. He’s older than his sister. Nine? Ten? Robbie should know his age. Celia is always talking about the two of them in her emails.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ his sister urges. ‘Is that your bag?’

  His ‘bag’ is a battered rucksack. She probably doesn’t remember that it’s the same one he left with all those years ago. She takes it, deposits it into one of the rooms off the hall. Then she ushers him into the kitchen-dining area. His first impressions are bright, homely, nothing flash. There’s the smell of dinner in the air. His stomach twinges. He hasn’t eaten since he got on the bus in Newcastle.

  ‘I have a pasta bake in the oven. Are you hungry?’

  He nods in a casual manner that he hopes doesn’t betray how ravenous he is.

  ‘I must ring Mum and Dad. Sit down. I won’t be long, I promise. Sienna, get your uncle a glass of water. Charlie, put out some cheese and crackers.’

  Celia disappears into the hallway with her phone. He is left alone with the children, his niece and nephew. He should have bought them presents. Children of their age would expect something from visiting relatives.

  Sienna and Charlie deliver the water and food, clearing some school books from the table to make room. They sit down across from him.

  ‘Where have you been?’ his niece asks.

  ‘Travelling.’

  Charlie looks excited at this. ‘Have you been to Paris?’

  Robbie shakes his head. ‘Nope.’