Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘An offer I couldn’t refuse,’ she said.

  Speechless, I watched her get into the car and drive away. In the kitchen I carefully opened the package, fumbling over the wrapping before pulling it free. I placed it flat on the kitchen table, the image materialised and once more I looked into Cat’s eyes. I felt overwhelming sorrow, and helplessness, and anger at the stupidity of wasting my life over a mistake. I went to put the image back into the box, determined to move on, but couldn’t. There was something mesmerising in those eyes; I couldn’t look away. Lost hope stared unblinkingly back at me, and my eyes filled with spilled emotion. I shook my head and blinked…

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’

  I opened my eyes, and found I was sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of me. Tears wet my cheek and Cat was looking at me through the screen. It seemed like a lifetime since I’d seen her face, not just a photo. I reached out and touched the screen, my heart thudding through my chest.

  She asked again.

  ‘Um, sure.’

  ‘You spaced out for a second.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.’

  ‘Not too hard, I hope. If you’re not used to it new things can hurt.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I quipped, ‘I’m not planning on making a habit of it.’

  ‘Are you crying?’

  I touched my face. ‘Nah, must be the connection.’

  She didn’t seem convinced. ‘I hope you understand. I’m almost ready to come home, I’m just not quite there yet.’

  I smiled. ‘You take all the time you need.’

  The one with the parents

  A little while later I received a summons from my parents. Originally worded as a casual text invitation to dinner, when I went back and said I was too busy, the direct response was, find time.

  So the following Sunday I dutifully showed up, with Emily in reluctant support. It’s not that she doesn’t love my parents, and they certainly love her. But when I’d shown her the text from Mum she came to the same conclusion as me: something was up. It had taken some fast talking – and major concessions on TV viewing – before she agreed to come.

  When we arrived Mum was in the kitchen, arms covered in flour, a scene that tugged at my memory and heart. Delicious smells wafted from the oven, and piles of peeled potatoes sat in a saucepan, waiting for their turn. Emily and I dutifully kissed Mum on opposite cheeks, then she sent me out to help Dad in the garage. Emily threw me a good-luck look, then turned to help Mum.

  Dad was stacking boxes. We hadn’t talked much since the scene outside the courthouse. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him work. He wore an old shirt, the colour washed away by years and detergent. The shirt’s original buttons had long been replaced, and there were stitched holes in both arms and the back. Mum wouldn’t let him wear it out of the house. It was his favourite shirt, and one of my constant memories from the moment I could form them. I asked him once why he didn’t throw it out, and he told me it was the first shirt Mum ever bought him, so sentimental value outweighed aesthetics. I’d seen the shirt in countless Possibilities, seen him buried in it, and wear it to Mum’s funeral. It was like a second skin on him. Sometimes I joked that he loved the shirt more than he loved me, and he laughed, and I laughed, and for an instant we shared the sort of father/son moment everyone should have.

  He finished stacking the boxes before spotting me. ‘You couldn’t have helped,’ he said, gesturing to the pile.

  ‘You looked like you had it under control.’

  He screwed up his face in mock anger, then waved me over. ‘Well, don’t think you’re completely out of it. I was making space.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked apprehensively.

  He grinned at me. ‘For this,’ he replied with a dramatic wave of the hand.

  All I saw was an empty wall, with a pile of stuff to one side, including two paint roller and a drop cloth, and dammit he wanted me to paint the wall. Resigned I took off my jersey and threw it through the internal door. Dad opened the paint, a light green – Mum’s choice, he replied to my raised eyebrow – and stirred it with a piece of kindling wood from the stack next to the internal door. Heat pumps were for younger people, he always said, coming from a generation that firmly believed in burning trees to keep warm.

  We picked our rollers, like selecting duelling weapons, backed away from each other, then in unison touched the wall with paint-laden sweeps.

  Never one for subtlety, Dad got straight to it. ‘You’re hurting your mother.’

  I swallowed the guilt and stabbed at the wall with my roller, then realised he was waiting for an answer. ‘I don’t mean to,’ I replied lamely.

  ‘Maybe if we knew what was wrong we could help,’ he offered.

  ‘Who said anything was wrong?’ I asked, deflecting the question.

  I could see him out of the corner of my eye, looking at me thoughtfully, roller paused against the wall. He sighed. ‘I figured this wasn’t going to be easy,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then let’s not do it,’ I suggested.

  ‘I know some things about hurting your mother,’ he said softly. ‘I had an affair.’

  It took several moments to realise I was staring at him open-mouthed.

  He offered me an apologetic look and resumed working. ‘It was a long time ago, a one-off, stupid act. You were eleven at the time, I think. Anyway I’m not going into the details. Suffice to say your mum found out and it hurt her a lot. We nearly split up.’ A pause while he reloaded his roller. ‘We probably should have, but your mum was good enough to give me a second chance.’ He said it matter-of-factly, as if Mum had offered to iron his shirts.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  He glanced across, then turned his attention back to the wall, his face bright red. ‘My point is, I made a choice and it hurt your mother and she found a way to forgive me. So whatever the problem is, your mother can handle it.’

  I still hesitated.

  ‘She thinks she’s done something wrong.’

  ‘She hasn’t,’ I insisted.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  The garage suddenly seemed smaller, and warmer. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I fully expected to turn around and see one-way glass and an interrogation table. The internal door was a long way away, and I didn’t think I would reach it alive. I resisted a sudden urge to click the main garage door up, roll under it and sprint off down the road.

  ‘Well?’ he insisted.

  ‘I love Mum,’ I finally said.

  ‘She doesn’t think so.’

  My hand clenched tight on the roller handle at his stinging words. ‘I guess I’m scared, Dad. Scared it will hurt too much when she dies.’

  He dropped the pretence of painting and turned to face me. ‘Unless you know something I don’t, then you’re talking about something that’s years away. So what’s this really about?’

  I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

  ‘Troy!’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ I snapped. ‘I’ve seen her die, more than once.’ It rushed out, like the cork had popped and years of pressure erupted. ‘I’ve been to her funeral, I’ve carried her fucking coffin, I’ve watched you struggle through the same eulogy so many times I could tell you what you’re going to say. I’ve lost my mother over and over again, and then I come around here and there she is, in the fucking kitchen baking cookies, and it tears me apart every single time. So I’m sorry that I’m hurting Mum, but it’s nothing compared to what I feel.’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ Dad responded.

  I laughed bitterly. ‘Is that it?’

  He jerked his arms in frustration. ‘What do you want me to say, Troy? You’re not saying anything, just spouting meaningless crazy words.’

  My stomach twisted. This was the reaction I’d expected, and suddenly I wanted to rewind, hoping this was a Possibility and it would be erased from his memory.

  ‘What does it even mean?
You’ve seen your mother die?’ His face a mask of confusion.

  More silence while I figured out how much to say, how far down the rabbit hole to actually go.

  ‘Wait, this isn’t that thing when you were fifteen, is it?’ His face cleared, leaving disappointment behind. ‘Troy, I thought you were over that. We sent you to those doctors, you had all the medication…’

  ‘I’m not crazy,’ but my reply lacked conviction.

  ‘Of course not, son.’ I could hear the pity in his voice. ‘But you are confused. Remember how you thought you were married to that girl – what was her name? Heather? And you thought you had a daughter.’

  ‘It’s real,’ I insisted.

  ‘But it’s not, is it? Are you married? Do you have any children? I thought we were past all this.’

  Stung by his words, I instinctively lashed back. ‘The first time you met Mum she was at a bake sale at the church standing behind a plate of her chocolate chip cookies, and you’ve never been sure whether it was the way her hair fell over her face, or the smell of her cookies that attracted you first. Do you know how I know that? Because you tell the same story every time you give her eulogy.’

  ‘You could have heard that story any time,’ he scoffed.

  ‘But I didn’t, I heard it from you – at Mum’s funeral.’

  ‘Stop it!’ he cried. ‘Stop this nonsense, Troy. It’s one thing to spout this crap when you’re a teenager, but you’re a grown man. We raised you better than that.’

  It’s one of the few times I’ve ever heard him swear.

  He drew a deep breath, and continued in a calmer voice. ‘If you truly believe what you’re saying then you need to seek medical help. But I think it’s an excuse, just like it was when you were fifteen. You’re hiding from the world, behind these fantasies of yours. You need to take responsibility for your actions Troy.’

  ‘I am…I do. I’m trying to tell you what’s happening with me.’

  He slammed his roller onto the wall, sending drops of green flying across the room. One hit my cheek and began its long, slow slide down.

  ‘This is why I’ve never told you,’ I said bitterly. ‘You’d rather think I’m crazy than actually listen to me.’

  He dropped his roller and faced me, arms tight across his chest. ‘Fine, I’m listening. Tell me all about it.’ His voice was flat, face expressionless.

  ‘Have you ever wished you could go back and do it over again? Not have the affair?’

  He watched me through narrowed eyes, then gave a single jerk of his head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Only if you go back it might never have happened anyway, because everything else could have changed.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded impatiently.

  I struggled for the right words. ‘You made a decision to have an affair, but the other woman made the decision too, so even if you went back and changed your mind she might have already changed her mind so there was never going to be the opportunity in the first place.’

  He stared blankly and I knew I was losing him. ‘Look, was this your first and only colour choice?’ I waved a hand at the wall.

  He seemed startled at the sudden change in direction. For a moment I wondered if he was going to dismiss the conversation entirely. Then he answered, ‘No, it was between this one and blue.’

  ‘And you chose this one. And if you went back to that moment, to when you made the decision, you might choose the blue one instead.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I get to go back and make different choices, but because everyone else has made different choices as well, nothing is ever the same.’

  ‘What does that have to do with paint?’

  ‘It was just an example, Dad.’

  He threw his hands up in disgust. ‘You know what? If you’re not prepared to talk sensibly then I’d rather we not talk at all.’

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped. ‘I’ll get Emily and we’ll go.’

  He grabbed my shoulder. ‘No, you won’t. Your mother is expecting you to stay for dinner and that’s what you’re going to do.’ I tried to pull away, but he held on tight.

  Emily popped her head through the internal doorway. ‘Your mum says to wash your hands and come eat.’

  Dad glared at me for a long time, anger evident in his eyes. Then he released me and turned his full smile to Emily. ‘Of course, we’ll be right there.’

  Dad and I didn’t talk for a while. It should have upset me more, but I was too distracted, because a few weeks later Cat flew home. She and I had talked every night, but at her request I didn’t meet her at the airport – she wanted it to be family only. Even though I was itching to see her in the flesh I respected her decision. We arranged to meet up for brunch the following day and Emily spent most of her morning, before leaving for work, laughing at my nervousness.

  A southerly wind whipped off the harbour, rattling windows and bones. Rookies and amateurs struggled to keep umbrellas from being snatched into the air, like Mary Poppins on drugs. Wellington natives turned up the collars of their coats and slipped from shelter to shelter. Cat and I were due to meet at an underground food court; I guess she thought it would be better to meet for the first time on neutral ground. My disappointment in her choice was quickly suffocated by the excitement of seeing her again in person. Skype conversations were great, but no substitute for the real thing.

  It was the cusp of the lunchtime rush, so there were plenty of empty tables as I descended the escalator, stepped past the sushi place, and looked around for Cat. We hadn’t been specific about where we were going to meet, which suddenly seemed a mistake, given that food outlets stretched around three sides of the building, separated by shops and an elevator bank in the middle. I must have looked like a madman or a really bad spy, eyes darting in every direction, identifying and dismissing potential targets.

  One full circuit later there was still no sign of her. She was only five minutes late according to the wall clock – nothing to worry about – yet with everything that had happened to get to this point my heart was beating faster than normal. I forced myself to take a deep breath, then started another circuit, this time going slower, just a normal guy trying to decide what to eat, and trying to find a girl.

  The second circuit wasn’t any more successful. By now she was ten minutes late and nerves were bubbling to the surface. Tables were slowly filling with smartly dressed workers, and the low buzzing of conversation began to ramp up.

  I started on circuit three, walking slowly down to the first corner, the wait sapping my energy and enthusiasm.

  ‘You know, this is fun,’ came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Cat standing about a metre back. She wore a long, dark winter coat, supplemented with a black scarf, and purple woollen hat on her head.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Since about halfway through the first circuit.’

  ‘So you’ve been behind me for the last five minutes?’ I said incredulously.

  She grinned at me impishly. ‘I wanted to see how long I could follow you before you noticed. But I got hungry.’

  ‘You can go back to Australia,’ I told her.

  ‘Hey, don’t blame me – all you had to do was look behind you. You’d be terrible in a spy movie.’

  ‘So would you. How many times have you seen James Bond give himself away to the baddies because he craved sushi?’

  ‘Actually I was thinking pizza.’ She stepped closer, and I could see nervous tension on her face. Neither of us were sure how to greet the other, both of us remembering the last disastrous attempt at a hug. Finally I stuck my hand out. Laughing, she shook it, holding on long enough to convey more than the formality that such a gesture suggested.

  We chose and paid for our lunches. She went with the pizza option – a single slice with pepperoni – plus bottled water while I went with a sandwich and a Coke. I wanted Chinese food, but the thought of spilt rice and ending up with
bits of vegetables stuck between my teeth diverted me from that choice.

  We found an empty table against a wall, quiet while we arranged coats and trays, opened bottles and sampled food.

  ‘Okay,’ Cat said, ‘here’s the thing. I don’t know what this is.’

  ‘It’s lunch,’ I replied, slightly confused.

  ‘I know what this is’ – she gestured to her food – ‘but I don’t know what this is.’ She waved a hand between the two of us.

  ‘Oh,’ I replied. The truth is I’d been focused so much on her coming home I hadn’t given this much thought either. ‘It’s two people eating food and catching up.’

  ‘Which sounds a little like a date,’ she said, avoiding my gaze.

  ‘Would that be a problem?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is I’m shaking like something that shakes a lot.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘Okay, not my best work, but it should give you an idea of how nervous I am.’

  That made two of us. ‘So this isn’t a date then, it’s a pre-date.’

  ‘Pre-date?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s what you have before an actual date, to see if an actual date could occur.’

  She thought about it, rolling it around in her mind to see all the angles. Slowly she nodded. ‘What are the conventions of a pre-date?’

  ‘No hand-holding, kissing, or any other physical contact,’ I offered.

  ‘Agreed. Also no talking about likes and dislikes.’

  ‘Definitely,’ I agreed. ‘No sly looks checking the other person out.’

  ‘Absolutely. Although sometimes eyes might accidentally rest on the wrong area of the other person, so perhaps we should define what that means,’ she responded, clearly warming to the conversation.

  ‘I’d say nothing in the chest area on you,’ I offered.

  ‘And nothing in the butt area for you.’

  ‘Or you,’ I added.

  ‘Oh no. I’ve been working hard at the gym on my butt – I want you to check it out, but in a general admiration kind of way, not a sexual way.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Length and intent.’