I was still shaking my head and my knees felt weak. I plonked down before they gave away. Slowly the wind in my head died and thoughts settled. Lacking a mirror, I looked down at my hands – young, firm, left hand slightly malformed and healing. Some rustling drew my attention to the edge of the clearing.
Emily appeared from behind a tree, buttoning up her shorts. As she approached she pulled a handy wipe from her pocket and cleaned her hands. ‘What are you doing down there?’
‘Got tired waiting for you,’ I shot back, feeling better.
‘You know, you need some guy friends so you don’t feel the need to drag me into the wilderness.’
Everything clicked into place. It was October 2016, and this morning I had convinced Emily to come on a hike with me. I pointed. ‘The carpark is a five-minute walk, Ems – we’re hardly in the wilderness.’
She stuck a finger in my face. ‘All I know is I just squatted behind a tree. That’s not something you do in civilisation.’
I grinned. ‘Thanks for taking one for the team.’
She gave me a disgusted look. ‘I’m thinking of changing teams.’
‘You’d make a lot of men very unhappy,’ I quipped.
‘And a lot of women ecstatic,’ she retorted with a flick of her hair.
We broke out laughing.
‘Seriously, Troy, what the hell are we doing up here?’
‘Hey, you didn’t need to come. All I said this morning was that I planned on walking up the hill – you’re the one who said you wanted to come.’
‘I was bored. Now I’m bored and sweaty. Why didn’t you insist on going alone?’
I laughed again, and promptly swallowed a bug.
Emily watched with amusement as I coughed it back up. ‘See, even nature doesn’t want you here.’
‘This way. It’s not far, I promise.’
‘Okay, but remember you taught me how to fight so if you’re lying to me I’ll kick your ass.’
I didn’t reply, and was glad when Emily put earphones in and switched on her iPod. We made our way across the clearing and onto a path littered with tree roots. Out of the sun the temperature cooled to pleasant though some rays pierced the foliage, casting shafts of light and shadows. Birds rustled in the trees, occasionally darting across our path, or exploding from tree branches at a perceived threat.
What scared me most was the thought always bubbling under the surface when I return from a Possibility. Am I crazy? Is everything in my mind? Sometimes I cling onto that thought, because being crazy is easier to deal with. Crazy can be cured, or at the very least medicated. The alternative – that this thing is real, that I really am living all these Possible lives – there’s no obvious way out of that. Even now my legs were wobbly, like they remembered they weren’t supposed to work. I glanced at my hands, expecting to see calluses from using the chair.
But what disturbed me more than anything was meeting Cat again. Okay, this time it was an actual cat, but the symbolism seemed pretty clear.
She kept popping up, which was weird. Sure, I’d met the same people in different lives – I live in a city with 400,000 people, so the laws of probability virtually guarantee I’m going to run into the same people. But this felt different. In each of the lives she was central, an important character in the story. That had never happened before, ever. I didn’t know what to make of it. I didn’t know if there was anything to make of it. Maybe it was simply a huge coincidence. What made it worse was I found myself liking her. That couldn’t happen. That way lay heartbreak. Liking someone, falling in love with someone, never ended well, and it always ended.
We broke out of the trees onto a road, and followed it a short way up to the lookout. We were the only ones there. To the south we could see the ocean, sun glittering off the still water like diamonds. North we could see the harbour, small white sails lazily gliding along on the light breeze. Even Emily seemed impressed, at least enough to take her earphones out. It felt strange to walk onto a platform that minutes before I’d been wheeled onto.
‘Shit, I’ve lived in this city for twenty-five years. Why have I never come up here?’
‘You hate exercise,’ I reminded her.
She looked down. ‘Does this look like the body of someone who hates exercise? I love exercise – I hate walking.’
‘You know I’m not going to comment on your body.’ I grinned.
‘Wise man.’ She pulled her camera out and spent a few minutes taking pictures – checking, deleting and repositioning until she had the results she wanted. Satisfied, she leaned on the guard rail and drank in the view. ‘Is this why you climb hills?’
‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’
She turned to look at me. ‘Huh?’
‘Because it wanted to see what was on the other side.’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘So you’re the chicken.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘But why?’ she persisted. ‘What’s so important about the other side of the hill?’
I paused before replying, wondering how much to say. She deserved something, but not the truth. ‘I’m not happy, Ems.’
‘No shit,’ she snorted. ‘Sorry,’ she added when seeing my expression.
‘I know I’m not always the easiest to live with.’
‘No, you’re not, but you saved me from a vicious attack so I think we’re even.’
Not even close, I thought.
‘So why aren’t you happy?’
We were on dangerous ground. ‘I’m struggling to find where I fit in the world. I guess I’m hoping there’s something better on the other side of the hill, something that makes more sense.’
‘Is this to do with your depression?’ she asked in a voice filled with forced calmness.
I glanced sharply at her. We’d never broached the subject before; fear kept us dancing around the issue – her afraid of the answer, me afraid of what the answer will do. I’m not sure I’ve ever been depressed, not in a medical way. Or maybe I have, maybe this life is one big depressive denial. ‘See, this is why I don’t say anything,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because it gets you all worried.’
‘I’m already worried, Troy. I remember you in school – you were fun, you had friends and you were optimistic about the future. You had a spark. Now you don’t. I get what happened with you and Heather, but it was a long time ago. So of course I’m worried.’ It came out in a rush. She looked away in frustration.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want you to worry about me.’ I wanted to give her a hug, tell her everything was going to be fine, but I stayed still, hands gripping the lookout railing.
‘That’s what best friends do,’ she snapped. ‘Who sat by me all those nights I had nightmares?’
‘Gin and sleeping pills?’
‘Don’t be a fucking arsehole.’
‘Can’t help it,’ I grinned.
She punched me in the arm, hard. Maybe teaching her to fight wasn’t the best idea after all. ‘Don’t you worry about me?’ she demanded.
‘Not as much as I used to,’ I admitted.
‘I still get nightmares,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘But I’m going to be okay.’
‘Because you’re strong,’ I told her.
‘You’re only as strong as the people around you.’
I turned away in embarrassment.
‘Do you seriously think you’re the only one who’s struggling to find their place in the world? Everyone at some time or another has struggled to figure out their way forward. You’re not special, Troy.’
‘Gee, thanks, Ems.’
‘Do you know the difference between those who succeed in life and those who don’t?’
A sarcastic response lived and died on my lips. I shook my head.
‘The people around them.’
I nodded slowly. She meant well, but it was different for me. I was different.
‘Elissa isn’t d
oing great.’
‘She has her family and friends for support. She’ll be okay,’ I said.
‘Yes, she does,’ Emily replied as she prowled restlessly across the concrete, ‘but she doesn’t have you.’
‘She doesn’t need me,’ I protested.
Emily stopped and jabbed me with her finger. ‘I don’t know if she does or doesn’t. But she needs something, and you can help.’
‘I barely know her!’
Emily locked eyes with me, her gaze boring inside my brain, instantly turning protests to vapour. ‘You can help,’ she said, emphasising every word.
I wanted the conversation to end.
Her gaze dropped, with a sigh she said. ‘I love you, Troy.’
‘I love you too, Ems.’
She leaned in for a hug. ‘Sometimes I think life would be easier if I was in love with you.’
‘I’ve thought about it,’ I admitted as we turned back to the view.
‘And?’ she asked.
‘I think it would be bad for you.’
She looked away and used a tissue to wipe a tear from her cheek. ‘It’d never work anyway.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I like to lie on beaches, you like to climb hills. Polar opposites,’ she pointed out.
‘You like gin, I like vodka.’
‘You watch those awful horror movies, I prefer romantic comedies.’
‘I like pizza, you like oysters,’ I said.
‘Why are we friends again?’ she asked with a laugh. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
I didn’t want to lie, but I needed to say something. ‘Sure, Ems. I’ll be fine.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
I put my arm around her shoulder. ‘Just keep being annoying.’
‘Good, because I’m really not looking for any extra work.’
‘Bitch,’ I told her.
We were stopped from further banter by the arrival of a busload of tourists. We graciously took a few group photos for them, then made our escape.
‘Troy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘There was a road up here? And you made me walk through the woods? I hate you.’
A couple of days later I went to see Kelvin. He was finishing his Wednesday morning guilt session, otherwise known as prayer service. Kelvin had been the priest at the church for thirty-five years. He knew all his parishioners by name, he’d done the wedding services for most of them, baptised others, and in some cases done both. I hadn’t seen him for a while, mainly because he knew my parents, so it was like an extension of guilt every time I talked to him. He never failed to ask why I didn’t talk to my mother. But I confided in Kelvin, partly because I liked him, and partly because he is a priest and I figured anyone who believes in an invisible omnipotent being should be sympathetic to my situation. Having said that I don’t want him to think I’m bat-shit crazy so he only gets the highlights.
He was in his early seventies, a big man with bushy white eyebrows, an out-of-control beard that had streaks of dark amongst the grey, and little other hair. Large, thick-lensed glasses constantly slipped down his nose. He had baptised me, something he liked to remind me of every time we met. My parents loved him. He’d been around the house for dinner a lot while I was growing up, and he was pretty cool for a priest. He rarely talked about God outside of church, unless he felt like someone was straying too far from the strictures of the Bible. Then he pulled out a quote or two, a gentle reminder that they were wrong and God was right.
‘Troy,’ he boomed in a voice as wild as his beard. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been busy.’
‘You didn’t let me finish. It’s been a while since you called your mother.’
I cringed and he laughed at my reaction.
‘She asks me to pray for you every Sunday.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Troy. I’d pray for you anyway.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘People worry about you, I worry about you, so I ask God to keep an eye on you.’
‘God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms,’ I replied.
He gestured around the quiet church. ‘And yet here you are.’
‘To see you, not God.’
‘For all intents and purposes it’s the same thing,’ he said.
‘Got a god complex, Kelvin?’
He laughed long and hard. ‘No, of course not, but I am his representative.’
I looked around. Nothing had changed since I was little. The same hard seats, the same worn prayer books, the same stained-glass windows infusing the dust-filled air with radiant light. The same priest wearing the same robes. The same open friendly look on his face. I fought an urge to confess to eating lollies during the service when I was six.
‘So what can I do for you, Troy?’
I wasn’t sure where to start. It’s hard to know how much to tell people. ‘There’s this girl,’ I began.
He smiled, took off his glasses and rubbed them on his robes. ‘Of course there is.’
‘This girl is different.’
His smile widened. ‘Oh, so you’re in love? Well, it was going to happen eventually.’
Kelvin had married me, in this church, thirteen times – all in Possibilities he never lived.
‘Is it Emily?’
I shook my head. ‘We’re just friends.’
‘Ah, so someone new. Who is she?’
‘That’s the thing, Kelvin. I don’t love her. I don’t even really know her.’
‘But?’
I frowned. ‘I keep bumping into her.’
‘That sounds less like love and more like stalking.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I responded without humour. ‘The thing is, it’s never on purpose. It just happens, and I don’t know why.’
He studied me shrewdly. I squirmed slightly under his scrutiny. He seemed to be looking for something. I remembered why I stopped coming to church – that uncomfortable feeling as he gazed down upon the congregation, the knowing little smile, like he knew all your secrets, all your sins.
‘And you want to know whether this is part of God’s plan?’ he asked casually.
A flash of a sheepdog circling my soul, nipping at its heels to bring it back into the flock, crossed my mind. I shook the image off. Kelvin had never given me the hard sell on religion.
‘Honestly’ I said, struggling to find the right way to say it, ‘there is so much in my life that’s random and out of control. I…’
‘You want to know if this girl is part of the random, or something more.’
‘I guess so,’ I agreed.
‘Well, as a priest my answer is that there is no random – everything is part of God’s plan,’ he said smugly.
It was exactly the sort of unsatisfactory thing I expected to hear.
He saw my face and laughed, holding up his hand in a ‘wait a second’ gesture. ‘But as a man, let me ask you this. Do you like this girl?’
I looked away, not sure how to answer.
‘Okay, obviously I’m starting too big. How about this, then. Do you think you could like this girl?’
I hesitated, thinking about the times I’d run into her – in this life, in Possibilities – and then I searched in the darkest part of my heart, the bit locked away, where feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge, that I wanted to pretend didn’t exist, were kept. I cracked open the door and peered inside. There was something, a tiny glimmer of light singing in the black.
I looked at Kelvin. ‘Yes.’
‘Was that so hard?’
Harder than he could possibly imagine.
‘Then what does it matter if it’s random? Does the why matter as much as the who?’
But it did matter. I couldn’t explain why – not to him, not even to myself. Not always knowing what’s real and what isn’t, feeling like a leaf in a southerly swept along against my will, I needed to know there was something out there that was deliberate. Som
ething that meant something. That the universe wasn’t just fucking with me. And what if I just wanted to use her to fix myself?
‘Troy?’
I realised tears were in my eyes, and faked a coughing fit to wipe them clear.
‘It’s that important?’
I didn’t reply, which was answer enough.
He sighed and looked up at the wooden cross dominating the head of the church. ‘Do you know what the hardest thing is about being a priest? It’s living in this world. Seeing the daily horrors, the injustice of children dying, sickness, war – all the things people do to themselves, and to God’s world. It’s seeing all those things and still believing God has a plan. That God is great, and he will be our saviour.’
‘You’re talking about religion.’
‘I’m talking about faith.’ I must have given a look. ‘We all have faith, Troy, to some degree or another.’
‘I’m not sure I agree.’
‘Will the sun come up tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t know that for sure, though. You’re taking it on faith it will.’
‘I know it will because if it doesn’t we’re all fucked.’
‘Well, profanity aside, whether you like it or not you’re referring to faith. The only type of certainty that can come from something completely out of your control.’
My hands clenched in frustration. What he was saying sounded like a fancy way of saying nothing at all. That maybe me running into Cat over and over was dumb luck, nothing more than coincidence. So what was the point? If it all was a series of random encounters, then why bother making an effort? The universe was sitting back having a laugh at the Jackson Pollack nature of my life.
‘Faith, Troy, faith is a chance at redemption. A chance for hope, something to tuck away in your heart so things don’t seem quite so dark. Faith is…’ He paused, either for dramatic effect or because he’d run out of arguments. ‘Faith is an umbrella held above us, protecting us from the world.’
I stared at him in astonishment, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘What if the umbrella is broken?’
He smiled wryly. ‘That’s why it’s called faith, Troy. You have to believe the umbrella will do its job, broken or not.’
Troy’s Possibilities Page 10
