Who We Were

by B M Carroll

  What made Tony change his mind? About the lessons. About his son’s sexuality. Because it’s very evident – from this morning’s events, from how accepting he has been of Aaron – that something fundamental has changed. Has it been a gradual shift in attitude over the years, so slight that Luke failed to notice on his previous trips home? Or was it Maxine and her partner moving in next door, proving beyond doubt that non-heterosexual people are perfectly nice and normal, and in fact make excellent neighbours and friends.

  Maxine and Jed continue on their way, Jed veering all over the footpath and Maxine jogging to keep up with him. His father bends down to get the post and the newspaper from the mailbox. They walk side by side up the driveway, their feet crunching on the gravel. Tony parks on the street because he’s afraid the pebbles will damage the car’s paintwork; he’s pedantic about things like that.

  ‘When did you find out they were a same-sex couple?’ Luke asks quietly.

  A pause. Laden with everything that has remained unspoken, unresolved, unforgiven between them.

  Then Tony answers: ‘I met Maxine and Jed first because they’re home during the day. Jed took a liking to me and the three of us became friends. It was a few weeks before I realised that Jed had two mums.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  Tony shrugs. ‘I felt okay about it ... I’ve come a long way, son.’

  Luke swallows a lump in his throat. Jesus, why is he feeling so fucking emotional all of a sudden?

  ‘I never asked what you voted.’ Then he expands, even though his father knows exactly what he’s referring to, ‘In the same-sex marriage survey.’

  Tony’s stare is unflinching. ‘I voted yes.’

  Luke has to blink away tears. His throat feels like there’s a golf ball wedged in it. He voted yes. He actually voted yes. The King of Grumps. Despiser of Faggots. Wait till Aaron hears about this turn of events! Luke wants to retort with something sarcastic but the words can’t get past the damned golf ball. His father is staring. Tony seems sad, oddly vulnerable, his hair grey and thin, his face lined and full of regret.

  Then the moment is over. Tony strides towards the door, sticks the key in. The kitchen, with its seventies fittings, is bright, almost cheerful.

  Tony deposits the newspaper on to the table, and flicks through the post.

  ‘There’s something here for you,’ he says, then looks confused. ‘Must have been hand delivered.’

  The envelope has Luke’s name but no address or stamp. He opens it warily.

  It should have been you they were fucking mocking, with your girlie clothes and prancing. Faggot.

  Jesus. That word again. That hateful, belittling, hurtful fucking word. Far too early in the day to numb its effect with alcohol. Unfortunately.

  ‘Are you making a cuppa, Dad?’

  Tony refills the kettle as Luke sits at the kitchen table, re-examining his memories of Robbie McGrath and what he might have done to elicit such hatred. Robbie’s locker had been situated directly below his and there was one occasion when Luke dropped a heavy textbook on his head. A genuine accident, followed by a laughing apology, because it was kind of funny. Another memory from cross country, the year when it rained heavily and the course was like a mud bath. Luke lurched over the finish line, lost his footing, and accidentally took down another competitor with him. He and Robbie ended up caked from head to toe. Another laughing – hysterical, actually – apology.

  Neither incident warranted more than a fleeting grudge, if even that. Surely, Robbie would have seen the funny side? Maybe he didn’t. Or couldn’t. It can be hard to shake off the mantle of persecution in order to view someone or something through a softer lens. Luke knows this because he’s been having the same trouble.

  Tony sets down a steaming mug in front of him. ‘Here you are, son.’

  48

  MELISSA

  Melissa is sitting at the kitchen table with the original yearbook and a pen and paper. PJ is asleep at her feet. Henry and Christopher are at cricket practice and Tessa is somewhere in the house. The children are adjusting to the fact that she has been living here. PJ has helped enormously.

  ‘You like it here, don’t you?’ Melissa murmurs, leaning down to give him a pat. ‘It’s much more exciting than my boring apartment.’

  She has been back to the apartment only once, to collect more clothes. The police phoned the morning after the break-in: they’d found some slight damage to the front-door lock, dents on the pins consistent with the use of a ‘bump’ key. Melissa – after a quick, extremely alarming google on the mechanics of bump keys – immediately organised for a locksmith to install a more sophisticated high-security lock. The security footage hasn’t yielded anything definitive from the traffic in and out of the building. Each resident has to be identified before being eliminated: not a quick process.

  Henry accompanied Melissa when she went back to get her clothes but she still felt on edge. Would the sense of violation ever go away?

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe in here again,’ she said sadly.

  Henry gave her a hug and then went to examine the shiny new lock while she gathered her things.

  ‘Can you get that box down for me?’ she asked, pointing to the top shelf of the linen cupboard.

  Henry needed a chair to reach it. It came down in a billow of dust that made him sneeze.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Some mementos from school.’

  Melissa wasn’t after the old school photographs or award certificates. The yearbook was what she wanted.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

  Now, the yearbook is open next to her on the table. She’s concentrating on the teachers, many of whom are profiled towards the rear of the book. Mr Collins, from the science faculty, who was mocked mercilessly because of his nervous tics. Mrs Romford, with her masculine voice and physique, who – quite incongruously – taught drama and dance. Miss Hicks, Year Adviser with a hatred of chewing gum and a single-minded mission to eradicate it from the schoolyard. At the top of the pecking order was Mr Rowland, the rigid humourless school principal. Did any of the teachers have a grudge, an axe to grind? Where are they today? Retired? Travelling? Perhaps still doing some casual teaching or tutoring?

  ‘What’s that?’ It’s Tessa. She has come looking for PJ and found him curled up at Melissa’s feet.

  ‘It’s my yearbook. All the way back in 2000. Ancient history.’

  ‘Can I see your page?’

  ‘Sure.’

  It’s not only the kids who’ve made adjustments. Melissa has learned to pause what she’s doing when they appear, to give them her time – it’s never for very long – and attention. If they don’t converse with her of their own accord, she lures them with an offering of food, or funny stories about PJ. Now she flicks to her page in the yearbook and Tessa leans over her shoulder. Her eyes with their spiky mascara scan the photograph and then the accompanying text.

  ‘You’ll be remembered for being smart and a bit too serious? And your best memory of high school was awards night? Really?’

  Melissa laughs. ‘I was a bit full of myself, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ she agrees drily. Then her eyes turn back to the photograph. ‘You were pretty.’

  Melissa tries not to be offended by her use of the past tense. She shows her Annabel’s page. ‘She was the prettiest. She was school captain, too.’

  Tessa picks up PJ and hugs him close, like a baby. She seems in no rush to leave.

  ‘Who was the best-looking boy?’

  Melissa laughs again and turns the pages until she gets to Jarrod. ‘I dated him for a few months. But he married Annabel and now they have three children.’

  She doesn’t tell Tessa that Jarrod is in hospital, or that his assault may be connected with the reunion. Tessa is aware there was a break-in at the apartment, but that’s the extent of what she knows.

  ‘Show me your friends,’ she asks, curiosity piqued.
‘Who you hung out with.’

  Melissa complies. ‘That’s Zach Latham. Thought he was hilarious and God’s gift to women. Happily married now, though. This is Grace, who was a close friend until I dated Jarrod, at which point I became enemy number one.’ She gives Tessa a stare. ‘Please don’t fall out with your friends over boys. They aren’t worth it. Not ever. Girls need to stick together.’

  Tessa rolls her eyes. PJ has woken up and scrambles to get down. Tessa lets him go and begins to turn the pages herself, asking about anyone who catches her eye.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Robbie McGrath. Bit of a sad story. We were awful to him. I wish I had stood up for him at the time.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘David Hooper. Pretty introverted, kept largely to himself. As far as I know, Katy hasn’t been able to track him down. Disappeared into thin air ...’

  Tessa seems shocked by this. ‘No one knows where he is?’

  ‘No one.’

  Melissa thoughtfully makes a note in her pad: David Hooper. Does it mean something that Katy has found no trace of him at all? Who were David’s friends at school? Are his memories of the good or bad variety?

  PJ has made his way to the door; he wants to go out. Tessa notices at the same time as Melissa and goes to open it. Then she follows him outside, squealing with laughter as he zooms around the garden at full speed.

  Melissa smiles and returns her attention to the teachers. She gets her laptop and opens up Google and Facebook. It’s not long before she finds a picture of Mr Collins and his grandchildren, and asks herself if a kindly grandfather would do something like this? Then she sees a grey-haired Mrs Romford photographed on the Inca Trail. Is it possible for someone who’s adventurous and well travelled to be hung up on some grievance in the far-distant past? On Melissa goes, methodically working her way through each name, and by the time she’s done, she’s satisfied in her own mind that it’s not one of the teaching staff.

  Without knowing why, she flicks back to Robbie’s page. Looking at the photo, you would never guess. He’s smiling, albeit shyly, because that’s what people do when they’re photographed. Slight curl in his hair, gentle eyes, he’s nice enough looking, although she never noticed it at the time. It doesn’t matter how hard she scrutinises it, the photograph offers no clue about the misery Robbie endured at their hands. Her eyes veer to the text.

  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.

  Poor Robbie: his memories of high school contained nothing positive whatsoever. He wanted to get away, and who could blame him? Just forget me. Melissa could never forget him, and she’s sure the same is true for the others. She’ll never be able to eradicate the image of him shuddering on the ground, foaming at the mouth, or the horror and helplessness as she looked on. It’s a confronting thing to see at any age, but especially so for teens, who’re so vulnerable beneath those faux-tough exteriors. Just forget me. Robbie was her first exposure to epilepsy, to malfunction in the human body, to the notion that invincibility was not a guarantee for any of them.

  A repressed memory is swimming to the surface. Robbie sitting down next to her in class one day, Melissa promptly standing up and moving to another seat. It wasn’t because of him, but he wasn’t to know that. Annabel was sitting directly behind, and Melissa could not endure a full hour of hatred boring through her shoulder blades. She imagines how Robbie might have perceived the incident. If only she’d taken the trouble to explain to him afterwards.

  Another memory. Annabel holding her stomach, gagging.

  ‘He’s disgusting. I’m going to be sick.’

  The smell was unpleasant, but that was no justification for such callousness or theatrics. Melissa will never forget the misery in Robbie’s face as he scrambled to his feet. A few weeks later an explanation materialised for Annabel’s overreaction: she was queasy and highly strung because she was pregnant. Robbie would never have thought to connect the dots, and Annabel would never have thought to apologise.

  It’s funny how Zach keeps coming back to Robbie and now Melissa is too. If there is one thing she has learned from all her years in the corporate world, it’s that the answer is often the most obvious one.

  Robbie McGrath is the only person between these pages who had a genuine grievance. A reason for hating them all. For wanting revenge.

  49

  ANNABEL

  A harsh and repetitive noise pierces Annabel’s consciousness; it sounds like something one might hear at an airport, going through security. She is sluggish to wake up and then confused about where she is. She is not at the airport, she is at the hospital. But who is she with? Jarrod or Daniel? Jarrod, of course; Daniel was discharged earlier in the day. Annabel sits up in the pull-out bed. How could she forget where she is? She’s been in this same room, sleeping on this same thin mattress, for two long weeks. What’s different is that she has never found it so difficult to wake up. The beeping is coming from Jarrod’s monitors, red lights flashing to the same insistent beat. She rushes to him, the floor cool beneath her bare feet. His hand twitches when she takes it in hers.

  ‘You’re coming back to us,’ she whispers, her other hand reaching to stroke his face.

  The door flies open and two nurses rush in. Annabel steps back to allow them access.

  ‘I think he’s waking up,’ she murmurs.

  One of them lifts Jarrod’s hand to take his pulse, the other rolls back his eyelids and shines her torch into his pupils. Neither of them acknowledges that Annabel has spoken. She realises that they didn’t even hear her. They press buttons on the monitors, their movements quick, their voices urgent as they relay various readings. Annabel feels the beginnings of fear.

  ‘Paging Dr Chan. Paging Dr Chan.’

  Dr Chan is the neurosurgeon who inserted the tube into Jarrod’s ventricle, to drain fluid and relieve the pressure. Has something gone wrong with the tube? Is more surgery required? She needs to sit down; she can no longer trust her legs to bear her weight. She half falls on to the pull-out bed, the bedclothes thrown back from when she scrambled out only moments before.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she rasps. ‘Can someone please tell me what’s happening?’

  Finally, they hear her. They glance at each other – wordlessly deciding who will answer – before the older one approaches, crouching down so she’s at Annabel’s level. She’s about Annabel’s age, hair scraped into a bun, her face compassionate.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Harris. We think he’s having another bleed. Help is on the way.’

  Before she has finished speaking, the door bursts open again. Two more staff in green scrubs, doctors of some description. Terse questions and replies. More fiddling with the monitors. Now they’re doing something to the bed.

  ‘We’re just taking him down for an MRI so we can see what’s happening,’ the nurse explains breathlessly. She has left Annabel on her own again and now she is unplugging equipment from the sockets behind the bed. ‘Dr Chan is on his way.’

  The wobble in her voice gives her away; she is scared that Dr Chan will not get here in time.

  ‘One, two, three.’

  On ‘three’ the bed and associated equipment are mobilised and manoeuvred out of the room. Annabel goes to follow them. Then realises she has no shoes on her feet. Echoes of the day when Jarrod was admitted, and she was about to hop into the police car barefoot. Have they come full circle? Is this the end of what started that day two weeks ago?

  She searches the floor for the sandals she was wearing before going to bed. Slips them on her feet and – quite bizarrely – decides to straighten the bedclothes and plump the pillow. She stifles a sob. The rattle in the nurse’s voice, the haste at which Jarrod was wheeled from the room, the fact that Dr Chan would only have stumbled out of
bed minutes ago and would be in transit, at best – all of these things, as well as her own gut instinct, are telling her this may be her last time sleeping on this pull-out bed, in this room.

  The MRI is undertaken in the medical imaging department on the ground floor, and the emergency surgery that follows happens in one of the theatres on the fifth floor. Between Jarrod and Daniel, she is an expert on all the different floors and facilities at the hospital. Annabel sits rigidly in her seat while she waits for news. She doesn’t look at her phone or the pile of dated magazines that are within reach on the coffee table. The only thing she checks is the time. 2.17 a.m.: she imagines Jemma, Daniel and Mia sleeping in their beds at home, blissfully oblivious to what’s unfolding. 2.34 a.m.: she’s reliving those early, heady days with Jarrod. Feeling the heat of his eyes as they rest on her during class. Standing close together at the lockers, breath mingling, fireworks going off in her chest. 2.51 a.m.: she is back in the ICU room, visualising an entirely different scenario, one where Jarrod wakes up and gazes lovingly into her eyes. 3.02 a.m.: over an hour has passed since the monitors went crazy, indicating an increase in intracranial pressure and possibly another bleed. 3.17 a.m.: someone familiar is coming towards her. He’s wearing scrubs and his sallow skin is pale and etched with exhaustion: Dr Chan.

  He sits down next to her and takes both her hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Harris. I’m so very sorry.’

  50

  KATY

  Katy hears the news at lunchtime, when she checks her phone.

  So sad to let you all know that Jarrod passed away in the early hours of the morning. He had a massive brain haemorrhage. Unfortunately, nothing could be done to save his life. I’ll send funeral details as soon as I know.

  Xx Grace

  Jarrod is dead? Tears of shock prick her eyes and the screen blurs. She rushes from the staffroom, down the long corridor to the closest exit. Outside, students swill around her as she gulps warm air: it’s well over thirty degrees today.

  Jarrod is dead. She never imagined this outcome, never imagined a scenario where he wouldn’t wake up and be perfectly fine, because isn’t that what generally happens with people like him? The attractive and popular people, who invariably bounce back from whatever misfortune befalls them, luck and fate unreservedly on their side. Oh God, is she somehow responsible for this? Did it happen because of her stupid notions about having a reunion and an updated yearbook? Did she unwittingly spark something in someone, a vicious desire for revenge? Would Jarrod still be alive if she hadn’t been so fixated on having this reunion and proving to everyone just how much she’s changed?