Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  It was time for the second part of my plan. Emily had already cleared it, so the next Saturday morning I sat waiting in the room. It was different from the inside, colder, and more barren. The wall felt hard against my back as I sank to the floor. The floor felt hard too, come to think of it.

  The door opened and Emily carried in a small brown dog. It quivered, pressing against her, eyes wide and darting. She stopped in front of me. ‘This is Tigger,’ she said quietly. She took him over to the opposite wall and tucked the dog into the bundle of blankets that were already there, carefully arranging them so he could see out, but could also hide within their safety.

  Then Emily straightened up and walked to the door. In a soothing voice she warned me, ‘Don’t fuck this up,’ then left the room, closing the door with a quiet click.

  I sat for a few minutes. Now the moment had arrived I felt a bit stupid, unsure. What if this was a waste of time? What if this is my real life, and not another Possibility. What if Cat really was dead? Then I realised that instead of thinking it I should have been signing it. The bundle of blankets barely moved, but deep in the recesses I could make out an eye watching me. Carefully I raised my hands, flexed the fingers and blinked…

  And stood on my front doorstep. Emily was beside me, and we were watching Cat get into her dad’s car.

  ‘Hey!’ I called out to her.

  She paused, half in the car, and looked up at me.

  I struggled to fit thoughts together, shuffling through memories. Don’t do anything stupid, I signed to her. Her eyes widened. Please, I added.

  She stood motionless for a moment, then gave a slight nod, disappeared into the car and her dad drove off.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Emily asked as we went back inside.

  ‘Nothing, I just told her to hang in there,’ I replied.

  ‘Since when do you know sign language?’

  I shrugged. ‘I picked a bit up here and there.’

  ‘No, Troy, you pick up a bit of Maori here and there, or Spanish. You don’t pick up sign language like that,’ she insisted.

  ‘I learnt it a few years ago, okay? It’s no big deal. I thought it would be fun. When I saw Cat at the SPCA the other day it brought some of it back to me.’

  She looked at me suspiciously, then decided to let it go. We said our goodnights and went into our respective bedrooms. I fell asleep straight away and didn’t wake until the alarm went off.

  The one that got away

  The next morning when the old lady stopped me I picked the wrought iron gate option, much to her disgust. I figured the old man deserved to have a win every now and then.

  I didn’t hear from Cat the next day, but I also didn’t hear from Emily, at least until she texted in the afternoon asking me to buy milk. The tricky thing about Possibilities is even if I change my decisions other people might have different ideas. Taking her own life might have been a fleeting thought that Cat acted on, or a fifty-fifty call that fell on the side of death. If the latter was the case, then I hoped my message was enough to push her in the other direction. If suicide was something she’d been thinking about for a while, festering inside her like a dark virus, then she might still be on that path. So part of me was afraid to ask for her number in case doing so set off a chain of events that ended the same way as before. I spent the day waiting, jumping every time the phone rang. When the working day was over I went to the gym and distracted myself with a spin class for an hour, stopped at the supermarket, and got off the bus two stops early, before eventually arriving home. Emily was in the kitchen, her work clothes protected by an apron, shoes carelessly discarded by the door.

  ‘Hey,’ she said as I entered.

  ‘Hey, yourself. Good day at work?’

  It hadn’t been, by the following ten-minute rant about dealing with imbeciles. I sympathised but also took it as a good sign. If anything had happened to Cat she wouldn’t be telling me about idiots who couldn’t format a spreadsheet to save their lives.

  When Emily ran out of steam I casually asked if she’d heard from Cat.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘Have you?’

  ‘I don’t have her number.’

  ‘Why don’t you text her now?’ She indicated her phone on the corner of the bench. I picked it up, waited for Emily to unlock it, and pulled up her messages. There was a conversation thread with Cat I desperately wanted to read, but out of respect for both of them, and lack of time, I opened a new message, typed a few words – just general stuff: hey, how’s it going? – and pressed send.

  Emily and I chatted over dinner, a typical night in our flat, only I kept stealing glances at her phone. Not very well as it turned out.

  ‘If you’re that worried why don’t you call her?’ Emily finally said.

  ‘Why don’t you call her?’ I shot back.

  She rolled her eyes and dialled the number. At first it seemed like Cat wasn’t going to pick up, the phone rang and rang. Then I heard a click, then some background noise.

  ‘Where are you?’ Emily asked.

  I couldn’t hear everything being said, but heard enough to know by the time Emily hung up something had happened, or was happening. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked.

  She looked thoughtfully at her phone. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine,’ she finally said. ‘Elissa is going to Australia for a while, to stay with friends.’

  For some reason I was devastated by the news. ‘When is she leaving?’

  Emily looked at me with a hint of sympathy. ‘Now. She’s just landed in Sydney.’

  ‘Wow. That was quick.’

  Emily frowned and got up from the table. She carried her plate over to the bench, scraped it under the sink tap, and loaded it into the dishwasher. It was only then I noticed she was crying.

  I got up from the table and went over. ‘What’s wrong, Ems?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  I waited. This is how it goes with her. You wait until she wants to talk. The more you push, the more she resists.

  ‘She’s running away,’ Emily said angrily.

  I understood my reaction, but couldn’t figure out why Emily was mad. ‘She’s obviously doing what she thinks is right.’

  Emily rounded on me. ‘She’s not going to get better by running.’

  ‘Who said she was running? Maybe she needs to get away from the reminders for a while.’

  That upset her more. ‘You mean me,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘And me,’ I reminded her. ‘And the city, and her family…’

  ‘We could have helped her. I got better here, so could she.’ She stopped, too frustrated to speak.

  ‘Are you?’ I asked hesitantly.

  She looked at me in confusion.

  ‘Better,’ I clarified.

  She didn’t answer for the longest time, instead focused on wiping the bench clean, scrubbing at invisible spots.

  ‘Ems…?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, working at the surface fastidiously. ‘I thought I was getting to a point where it wasn’t consuming my every waking thought. Where in the future a man could touch me again without me bursting into tears. Then the trial brought it all back. Seeing those … Fuck.’ She dropped the cloth and began wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Seeing them again, all I could think of was that night. His hands on me, the way he smelt, the way he hurt me. So maybe I’m not as all right as I thought. And the only one I can talk to about it, really talk to, is Elissa. And she’s gone. And I don’t know what to do.’ She was crying again.

  So was I. Her pain was open and raw and I didn’t know what to do. I desperately wanted to hug her, but wasn’t sure how she would react and didn’t want to make things worse. Then she solved the dilemma by coming around the bench and opening her arms for a hug. I guess in this situation I don’t count as a man. I held her while she cried, we stood for a long time, then she pulled away, grabbing a tissue from the box on the edge of the bench, and blew her nose.

  ‘Well, this is a fun
dinner,’ she said in an attempt at humour.

  ‘You know you can talk to me, Ems, about anything.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with a wan smile.

  ‘Except makeup,’ I added.

  This time she laughed.

  ‘Or that stupid reality show you watch.’

  ‘It is not stupid. It’s high-quality rubbish. And it’s on in ten minutes so you can do the dishes.’ She was halfway out the door when I called after her.

  ‘You should talk to a professional Ems. Someone to help you through this.’

  ‘That’s what you’re for,’ she shot back.

  I shook my head. ‘Anyway, she’ll be back, Ems. She’ll visit friends, get away from it all for a while, and then she’ll come back.’

  Only she didn’t. A couple of weeks went past without us hearing anything. Emily sent her a text but didn’t get one back.

  Then by chance I ran into Steven’s Jessica at the supermarket. At first I couldn’t place her when she smiled at me – I thought she was just being friendly – but then she said hi and it came back to me. I said hi back and, social graces satisfied, we were about to go our separate ways – her to the next aisle, me to choose from the multitude of cheeses on offer – when she turned back.

  ‘Shame about Elissa, eh?’

  My heart froze. ‘What about her?’ I replied in a forced calm voice.

  ‘You know – that she’s staying in Oz.’

  I released my breath. ‘Oh? I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess she doesn’t want to come back to Welly. Too many bad memories and stuff. It’s a shame – I liked her.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Say hi to Steven for me,’ I replied, but she was already gone, gossip successfully disseminated.

  I had wondered if this was going to happen, so wasn’t as devastated as I might have been. Anyway, this might not be real – it might be a Possibility so no sense getting upset about it. Telling Emily would be a difficult conversation, though. As I wandered the rest of the supermarket I briefly considered flying to Sydney to see Cat, but that was borderline stalker. I needed to trust this wasn’t real, that I would blink it away soon.

  Only I didn’t. Not for ten long years. By that time I was living alone. Five years after the attack Emily fell in love and got married. He was a good guy – a little suspicious of the single man she’d flatted with, but we got on okay. She moved to Auckland and had two kids, Chris and Rose; I suggested the girl’s name. I was godfather for both of them, which meant flying to Auckland and putting on nice clothes to stand in a church and make promises.

  Emily and I talked a couple of times a week, and each time she asked me when I was going to get a grown-up relationship. I didn’t tell her I was biding my time, waiting to blink and leave this Possibility. I also didn’t tell her that the more time went past the less sure I was this was a Possibility. That I was just wasting my real life.

  I still lived in our old flat. I never got a new flatmate – I earned enough at the bank to make it unnecessary, and I liked living alone. At least that’s what I told Emily. The truth was we had flatted together for so long I couldn’t be bothered breaking in a new flatmate.

  I did briefly talk to Cat. Well, the 21st century version of talking. A few weeks after I found out she was staying in Australia a message popped up on Facebook. An apology, and an explanation. The apology was for leaving. The explanation was a little more complicated.

  It turns out when we hugged she felt for a moment like everything was going to be okay. Then I rubbed her back and all the fears flooded back, and in that instant she decided she was going to kill herself. It was something she had considered several times since the attack, but that moment was enough to send her over the edge. Basically she lost hope things would ever be okay again. Then I signed to her, told her not to do anything stupid, and it helped her climb back over the edge, or at the very least cling on by her fingertips. But she couldn’t stay; she needed to get away from the constant reminders – her family who meant well but tiptoed around her, and her friends who’d decided pretending nothing happened was the way to go.

  So she left, and once she was over there she felt better, less afraid. And I got that, I really did. I was bitterly disappointed, having pinned something – hope maybe – on having Cat in my life, but not if it meant she was a shadow of herself. That wasn’t the person who first sparked my interest.

  I responded to her message, told her I understood, and said if she ever wanted to talk then she knew where I was. I never heard back from her.

  Then in 2027 some maniac walked into a branch of KiwiBank and blew it up. Apparently the bank had forced the sale of his house after he lost his job and couldn’t make the mortgage payments. Instead of bitching and moaning about it, then moving on, he wired himself with homemade explosives and killed thirty-five people.

  The prime minister called it the greatest act of domestic terrorism in New Zealand history. The cynical wondered why it had taken so long – every other country had experienced similar attacks so why should we be any different? The political opposition blamed it on the government, the government blamed it on the banks, and the banks blamed it on one sick individual who, according to them, they had tried to help in every way possible. None of which was particularly comforting for the families of the dead. And none of which brought back the man standing right behind the bomber – Cat’s dad.

  Emily was the one who told me. I hadn’t clicked on the name – afterwards I wasn’t even sure I’d known his name. I hadn’t thought about Cat for a while, and hearing the news brought it all back. Okay, that’s a lie, I still thought about Cat all the time.

  I went to the funeral – not to pay my respects to her father, but to see her. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person or not.

  The service was at my parents’ church, attended by a considerable number, including politicians and police. It was a little hard to distinguish those who genuinely knew the man from those who were there for public show.

  I’d picked Emily up from the airport that morning and we sat together near the back. To her credit she didn’t spend the ride to the church berating me about my lack of social life. She looked great; motherhood had changed her for the better.

  The service itself was fine, a typical sort of funeral: he was a great man, loved by all, gone too soon, the standard sort of stuff. I know that sounds callous, but I’d been to so many funerals over the Possibilities it was hard not to become desensitised to it all.

  We caught our first glimpse of Cat when she and Steven got up to say the eulogy. She wore dark glasses, and her hair was cut short, and Emily remarked she was wearing a lot of makeup. When she first spoke a little spark of electricity ran through me, the familiarity of her voice igniting memories. Steven must have been in his late twenties now, and he was a big boy – like gym-built big. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses so I could see him sneaking glances at someone in the front row, but it was impossible to see who. They both spoke well, given the situation, painting a picture of a loving, generous, and supportive father. It made me wish I’d known him.

  Kelvin looked frail, although his voice still filled the church, inspiring people with its strength and conviction. He was in his early eighties now, long past the age at which most people consider retirement. He often joked he wasn’t going to retire, he would keep working right up until he died – in fact his casket was out the back, and he had pre-recorded his own funeral service, not prepared to risk someone else failing to meet his standards.

  We’d last spoken about six months ago, catching up for coffee one morning, and I was shocked at how much he’d aged since then. At one point during the service he spotted me and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. He would be considering my coming to church a personal victory for him, regardless of the reason.

  Afterwards the attendees were invited to join the family in the church hall, a building so similar to every other church hall in the country you’d think they were mass produced. Refreshments were pr
ovided by the church social group, including my mother. She stood behind the table, directing volunteers – more jam and cream scones there, more milk for the tea here. She was in her element, and for a while I just stood and watched her. Our relationship was better than it had been ten years ago. Not as good as she would have liked, but I made more of an effort. She spotted me and for a moment looked surprised, then went back to supervising. I started across the room but Emily beat me to it. She and Mum hugged and immediately started gossiping. I think Mum was secretly disappointed when Emily got married, destroying her visions of Ems and me tying the knot and producing lots of grandkids. She never got our relationship, being from a generation where if you lived with a woman it was because you were in love with her.

  Mum became distracted by a question from one of the volunteers. Emily gave me a mocking look, then winked, before turning back to Mum, no doubt to talk about my lack of ambition, motivation, etc.

  ‘Hey, Troy.’ Steven was standing beside me.

  ‘Hey, Steven. I’m sorry about your dad.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied automatically. I imagine he’d heard that a lot over the last week.

  His eyes searched the crowded room, then his face lit up. I followed his gaze. A woman stood talking to Cat and Steven’s mother. She looked about the same age as Steven, and in her arms she held a baby. I suddenly realised it was Jessica, and glanced down at the plain gold band on his ring finger.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said.

  He turned his smile my way. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You know I owe it all to you.’