Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. She was talking. Then she let out a cry and slumped over. Oh, God, I don’t think she’s breathing!’ the mum cried.

  Instinct kicked in, forgotten knowledge tumbling forward and clicking into place. I snatched Debbie from her mother’s arms, swept the picnic table with my arm, scattering food and plates, and dropped her onto the cleared surface. Her breathing came in ragged bursts, her limbs limp, head drooping to one side.

  ‘Debbie!’ I called. No response. ‘Is she allergic to anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ her mum replied.

  I peeled her eyelid back and the pupil contracted; a good sign. I prised her mouth open but it was empty. My eyes scanned her arms – nothing. Her legs – nothing. Wait, there was something on her left leg below the knee. I looked closer; it was a raised bump surrounded by red skin. ‘Has she ever been stung before?’

  ‘Stung? You mean by a bee?’ her dad asked in confusion.

  Not bothering to respond, I peered closer and saw the ragged edge of a stinger protruding from the bump. Using the edge of my fingernail, I scraped the stinger out and wiped it on the side of the table.

  ‘What’s going on?’ her mum asked fearfully.

  ‘Call an ambulance. When they answer tell them exactly what I say.’ In my peripheral I saw her dad fumble a phone from his pocket and push buttons. Meanwhile I bent Debbie’s legs to aid her blood pressure, then felt for her pulse. I didn’t need to count to know it was way too fast. She needed a shot of adrenalin, which I didn’t have, and a way to keep her airway open, which I was lacking.

  ‘What do I say?’ Her dad cut into my thoughts.

  ‘Tell them there’s a nine-year-old Caucasian female who has been stung by a bee and is presenting with the symptoms of anaphylactic shock.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ her mum cried. Her dad stared at me.

  ‘Tell them, goddamn it!’

  He relayed the information.

  I looked around. ‘Give me your jersey,’ I ordered Debbie’s mum. She stripped it off and I snatched it from her, wrapping it over and around Debbie as well as I could.

  ‘They said an ambulance is on its way but it’ll be at least fifteen minutes,’ her dad told me.

  Shit. If she didn’t get proper treatment in the next thirty minutes she could be dead. It was going to be tight. ‘Where are they coming from?’

  ‘I…I don’t know. I think they said Paraparaumu.’

  My mind raced with options, thoughts coming as quickly as the beats of her overworked heart. ‘Call them back. Tell them we’ll meet them halfway.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait?’

  ‘She doesn’t have time.’

  ‘How do you know? Are you a doctor? Maybe you’re wrong,’ her dad argued.

  ‘You look too young to be a doctor,’ her mum interjected.

  ‘I used to be older,’ I snapped back. Just then the pulse under my fingertips stuttered and stopped. Out of time. Shit. I glanced at my watch, then put my hand on her chest and started compressions.

  ‘What are you doing?’ came her mother’s voice.

  ‘Her heart has stopped,’ I replied without looking up. ‘Now shut up, I’m counting.’ And focusing. CPR on a child is mostly the same as for an adult, but you need to be careful not to apply too much pressure or you’ll snap their ribs. When I got to a hundred I tilted her head back, pinched her nose shut and breathed into her mouth. Her chest barely rose, which meant her throat was constricting. Fuck, where the hell was the ambulance? Start again. Hand on chest, one, two, three. Work up to thirty. Breath. Repeat. Again. Again.

  Somewhere outside the scope of my immediate world came the sounds of a vehicle pulling up, and suddenly two people were next to me.

  ‘What have we got?’ A firm, professional voice.

  ‘She went into cardiac arrest – ’ I looked at my watch with my free hand ‘ – ten minutes ago. Her airway is restricted. She needs a shot of adrenalin and the AED.’

  ‘Okay, buddy, we’ve got it.’ Someone pushed me to the side and took over, while a second paramedic put an oxygen mask over her face. As they worked on her I took a step back, suddenly aware of the sweat dripping down my back, arms aching, my own breath coming in short gasps.

  I took another step back as they continued to work. A voice came out of the throng proclaiming the resumption of a pulse. Without a word I turned and left the rest stop.

  Two hours later I stepped into a takeaway shop in a small town. I ordered two cheese burgers, fries, and the biggest milkshake within a hundred kilometres – at least according to the sign above the door. After the first couple of sips I found out why they didn’t brag about the quality of the shake. It was so bad I couldn’t even think of the words to describe its terribleness. Luckily the burgers redeemed the place. They were huge, packed full of meat, avocado, lettuce, beetroot, onions and cheese. I ate them outside the shop sitting at a rickety metal table with one leg slightly shorter than the others – which was okay because the metal chairs, which seemed solely designed to become unbearably uncomfortable after ten minutes, were also on a lean, so the whole thing worked out.

  As I ate, I replayed the rest-stop incident, looking for things I’d done wrong, scratching through Possibility memories to see if there was anything more I could have done. I was pretty sure Debbie was going to be fine. She’d have to take an epinephrine pen everywhere with her for the rest of her life, but that was better than dead. I’m not a doctor, had never been one, but in one of the Possibilities I’d been a paramedic. Sometimes this thing I have pays off, but not often enough to make up for the shitty reality of it.

  I ate my unbelievably good burgers and drank my undeniably bad shake and watched life settle for the night. Traffic dwindled as people went home to their families; the only cars belonged to those driving through on their way to somewhere more important. The town they left in their rear-vision mirror had seen better days – the shop fronts were clean but worn, with window frames cracked and faded. The main road stretched fifty metres in each direction, shops bleeding seamlessly into houses with wooden fences in need of painting and short grass. It was early springtime, the evening still and warm. The place felt peaceful, like big cities didn’t exist. Like I could spend the rest of my life here, maybe open a small bakery, marry a local girl and raise a family. And then a car whipped past, way too fast, heading south. I glimpsed the licence plate. It was the same one that had given Cat and Trace a lift earlier. I couldn’t tell if they were in the car or not. Frowning, I tried to get back the peaceful feeling but it had vanished. With a sigh, I got to my feet, waved to the woman behind the counter, and continued on my way. North.

  I walked until it was too dark to keep going, then jumped the fence into a field and made a bed under a clump of trees, out of sight of the road. The only sound was the occasional car. The cloudless sky pricked with pinhole lights and the moon was a slivered hint of its full potential. It wasn’t true I didn’t care about anything. There was a short list of things that mattered to me. Despite being physically exhausted sleep refused to come. My brain, long considered by my parents to be underutilised, and unreliable at the best of times, flicked through random images like a silent movie. It took me a while to understand they were fragments of Possibilities. The weight of all those deaths, my deaths, pressed down on me like wet mud. The air thickened into treacle and I gasped for breath. My face became wet with tears. A guttural sound escaped from my mouth. In the dark a cow responded and the absurdity of it all saw my tears give way to laughter, and somewhere mid-laugh I drifted to sleep.

  I woke up at six, hungry and sore and with a dog licking my face. Accompanying the border collie was a farmer, who politely and with the minimal amount of swearing, suggested I move on. I took a moment to pat the dog, stretch out the kinks in my neck and back, then climbed back over the fence onto the side of the road, with a decision to make. Keep going north, or turn around and head back home? Sometime in the nigh
t Emily had sent a text message telling me to call her. I’d do it later. I decided to keep going.

  The sun bled around the edges of high clouds and the air was crisp without being cold. Despite the early hour a steady stream of traffic flowed in both directions, evenly spaced like a beating heart. After a while it became hypnotic, step, car, step, car. My brain switched off.

  Around two hours later I came to a small town; if there’s one thing that’s not in short supply in New Zealand it’s small towns. Like all towns it had a couple of cafés on the main road. Since I was tired and hungry I picked one at random and went inside. The blackboard menu was surprisingly sophisticated, although experience taught me that food doesn’t always match up to the description. I figured it was safe to order eggs on toast, poached, brown bread, with a side of bacon. And coffee. The biggest cup they had. Not fancy stuff – nothing with a picture of a fern lovingly carved into the surface, or with the words flat or long in the title – just coffee, black and hot.

  I sat down at a free table by the front window. I liked to watch the world, especially when it wasn’t watching me. Not much was happening so early in the morning. Every now and then a car would stop outside the dairy opposite and a figure would hurry inside, reappearing moments later with milk, or bread, or a newspaper. The sign above the dairy door announced it had been in business since 1957. There were few pedestrians, most lost in their own worlds, focusing on the few feet in front of them.

  When my breakfast arrived the portions were generous, but the eggs were too runny and the toast overcooked. Still, I was hungry so I ate it anyway. As the last forkful disappeared into my mouth I spotted a figure out of the corner of my eye. A boy, maybe ten or eleven, carrying a naggingly familiar backpack. The kid disappeared into the dairy. By the time he came out again I was across the road waiting for him. On closer inspection it didn’t just look like Cat’s. It was Cat’s.

  ‘Hey,’ I called out softly. His eyes met mine, with a mixture of guilt and defiance. He wore a school uniform, but the untucked shirt and scuffed shoes suggested he wasn’t happy about it.

  ‘What?’ came the cautious response.

  ‘Where’d you get the bag?’

  ‘It’s mine.’ He clutched the shoulder strap tighter.

  I shook my head. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Says you.’

  ‘You either tell me, or tell the cops.’

  His eyes shifted, weighing up the options, eyeing me to gauge his chances of running for it. Then he relaxed and shrugged, an easy comes easy goes type of thing. ‘I didn’t nick it. I found it,’ he said defiantly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a ditch outside town. I didn’t steal it. No one was around.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded vigorously, suddenly the helpful Samaritan. ‘Yeah. I thought someone lost it so picked it up.’

  ‘And you were on your way to hand it in to someone.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where outside town?’

  He told me. I held my hand out for the backpack and he reluctantly handed it over. I shouldered it, then held my hand out again. He stared blankly for a moment, then sighed and pulled a wallet out of his trouser pocket. I recognised it from the Possibility, when Cat bought me coffee.

  ‘Can I go?’ the kid asked nervously.

  I waved my hand and he took off down the street. Cat’s wallet felt warm, probably from his pocket, but it was light. I opened it. The only thing inside was a bank card, the sort that didn’t have a name on it. I was pretty sure there should have been more.

  I pulled out my phone and called the police. I should have done it because I was worried for her – something major must have happened for the backpack to be in the ditch – but the truth is I did it because my parents had ingrained in me a sense of doing the right thing, and some things don’t die.

  I didn’t give them my name, and I couldn’t give them Cat’s since I didn’t know it. Instead I said I’d seen her hitchhiking yesterday, and explained where it had been found, and on a hunch the licence plate of the white car. I laid it on a bit thick with the car. It might have nothing to do with it, but it made a good story, and got the appropriate response from the police. They promised to send a car straight away and I promised to stay where I was. So I left the backpack with the dairy owner, advising him the police were on their way, and kept going north, barely pausing when I passed the ditch.

  That night I stayed in a motel. One night under the stars was enough. When I flicked on the TV the news had just started, the lead story being about the arrest of a fifty-four-year-old male for the murder of two female hitchhikers. I should have cared, but I didn’t. So why were there tears on my face? Some days it was harder to fool myself than others. I blinked away the tears.

  And stood on the side of the road. Cars whipped past in their steady rhythm. About ten metres ahead Cat and her friend were on the side of the road playing with her backpack. As I watched, the white car pulled over in front of them. I could hear her friend urging her to hurry. I broke into a run and passed them as they got to the car’s rear bumper. Pulling the passenger door open I leaned in. The guy gave a startled cry and jerked backwards, banging his head on the window. Cat’s friend let out a frustrated yell, thinking I was stealing their ride.

  ‘I know what you are,’ I glared at the man. His angry retort stalled on his lips as he looked deep into my eyes. ‘And I know where to find you,’ I added with menace. Fear flooded his face. I straightened up and barely had time to slam the door before he stepped on the pedal and swerved back into the traffic.

  ‘What the hell! That was our ride,’ the friend said – I couldn’t remember her name.

  ‘You’ll get another one,’ I reassured her.

  ‘What’s your fucking problem?’

  I stayed silent.

  ‘Do you know how far we have to go? He was the first car to stop for us. Fuck.’

  ‘Relax, Trace,’ Cat said.

  ‘Relax!’ her friend spluttered.

  Cat stared at me, then she winked and smiled. ‘If you’re trying to pick us up you’re not off to a good start.’

  ‘Nope,’ I replied.

  ‘Pick us up? He’s a fucking jerk.’

  ‘Yeah, but he has a big dick.’

  Trace’s face turned purple.

  ‘Sorry, Trace. I mean, it’s not the biggest I’ve seen, but overall it’s pretty big.’

  ‘Can you stop talking about the man’s penis!’ Tracey begged.

  ‘Show her, Troy.’

  ‘Please don’t show me, Troy. Wait, you know this guy?’

  ‘If I had a dollar for every time a woman asked me not to show her my penis…’ I offered.

  ‘You’d have a dollar?’ Cat quipped.

  ‘Actually two,’ I replied.

  She smiled that smile I remembered, and I wished for the millionth time that my existence was anywhere close to normal.

  ‘Hitchhiking is dangerous. Take care, Cat.’

  ‘Cat? Who the hell is Cat?’ her friend interrupted.

  Cat held my gaze and nodded slightly. ‘Cat. I like it. See you around, Troy. Come on, Trace.’ She grabbed her friend’s arm and they moved off. Her friend almost fell over with shock when I rushed past them.

  The trouble with rest stops is they all look alike, but I was pretty sure I found the right one. Then I settled down to wait, patiently at first, then more anxiously as time crept past. I paced back and forth, glancing at the road expectantly with the sound of every car engine. Time approached, then receded into the past. No car, no Debbie with her family.

  Maybe they left home five minutes later, maybe they stopped earlier, or decided to keep going. All those decisions changed. I didn’t even know her full name – no way to track the family down and warn them of her condition. This is my reality.

  I turned and headed home. Running away wasn’t working, it never did.

  I never found out if she was okay.

  The one where I went to a
show

  A few weeks later Emily dragged me to the theatre. Not the good sort of theatre, with popcorn and ice-cream, and previews of upcoming attractions. The boring sort where you got to watch people with day jobs feed their secret desires for fame and fortune.

  Unfortunately, Emily shot down all my protests, demanded I get dressed up, and triumphantly shepherded me out the front door. I didn’t even know where we were going or what the show was until we arrived. Its name, The Hard Way, meant nothing to me, and neither did any of the names in the programme. The place was packed – mostly with friends and family, I thought vindictively, then wondered which one Emily was. I scanned the programme again, but before I could ask her the lights went down and murmured conversation gave way to expectant silence.

  It turned out the play was about some guy packing up the house of his dead father. Over the course of the morning all these people arrive who know the father better than the son did. I don’t remember much about who they were, or how the story ended, because about ten minutes in I stopped paying attention. That’s when the character of Jasmine came onto the stage. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t pick it. Before she could say her first line she turned to face the audience, and her face fell into shadow, light filtering through strands of hair. It seemed like she was looking straight at me, into me. It was Cat. I stole a sideways look at Emily, but her focus remained on the stage. Was this a set-up or a coincidence? Experience made me more inclined to believe it was the former.

  Cat was good, really good. She commanded attention.

  ‘I work in a library. There are literally thousands of books sitting on those shelves. And a huge number of them never leave. They’re forgotten stories, waiting for an audience that in some cases never comes. They sit day after day, gathering dust, and once a year I have to take those books down from the shelves and give them one more chance to live, one more chance to fulfil their purpose, to be read by someone, to be loved by someone. And if no one wants them, they get destroyed, forgotten…’ When she broke down in tears, a lump formed in my throat.