Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  When I left the courtroom Emily was standing a few metres from the front door talking to a man. His back was to me, but I’d recognise my father anywhere. As I approached, Emily gave him a hug, then told me she would meet me in the car.

  Dad had a grim expression on his face, but it softened when he looked at me. ‘Rough day, son?’

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ I replied.

  We stood in awkward silence. I wanted to take Emily home and be done with the day. I shifted restlessly and he picked up on the signal, but obviously had something to say.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this happened?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you and Mum.’

  He snorted. ‘That ship’s long sailed, Troy. Besides, don’t you think it would have been nice for us to find out from you rather than the newspapers? After all, she’s practically family.’

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Emily, son. We’ve known her for ten years, she’s like a daughter to us, and we have to find out from some reporter that she’d been attacked, almost…’ He broke off and looked away.

  My face flushed. Once again, while trying to do the right thing I’d done exactly the opposite. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t think.’

  He waved a hand. ‘You don’t want to talk to us about what’s going on with you, then fine. I’m not happy about it and it upsets your mother, but it’s your life so fine. But don’t shut us out completely. That’s unacceptable. Understand?’

  I nodded mutely.

  He glanced at my hand. ‘Emily told me what you did. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Hardly hurts any more.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m proud of you, Troy.’ He appeared embarrassed by this outpouring of affection, and before I could respond he turned and marched off.

  The one after the trial

  Moving on from the trial started with alcohol.

  I’d suggested dinner out but Emily said the only people she wanted around her were me, Cat, and gin and tonic. I didn’t think Cat would come – her family had been so protective of her at the trial – but just after 7pm there was a knock on the door. Emily was busy pouring drinks so I padded down the hallway and opened the door. Cat stood on the top step, dressed in old jeans and a zipped-up tracksuit top. Her hair hung loose and she clutched a big brown shoulder bag which clunked a little when it moved. Over her shoulder I saw her dad in the car; he waved at me and I lifted a hand in response.

  ‘At least you have clothes on today,’ she said mockingly.

  ‘I made an effort,’ I responded, pointing at the paint-stained tracksuit pants and grey, faded T-shirt with unidentifiable stains.

  ‘Me too.’ She indicated her own ensemble.

  I opened the door wider, she took a step in, half turned and waved to her dad, who waved back and drove away.

  After I shut the door behind Cat I locked it and put the security chain on, then turned around to see Cat looking at me. ‘Emily prefers it now.’

  Her shoulders relaxed a little, releasing tension I wasn’t even sure she knew was there. I led her down the hallway and into the lounge where she went straight over to the single La-Z-Boy chair and sat down, curling her feet under her, all in a single fluid movement of familiarity.

  Before I could comment Emily came in carrying two tall glasses filled to the brim with liquid and ice, topped with a slice of lemon. She handed one to Cat and sat down on the couch with the other.

  ‘It’s on the bench,’ she said in response to my expression.

  In the kitchen I approached the filled glass on the counter with caution. Emily could be a generous pourer at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. My hesitation was warranted; the first sip was pure vodka with a hint of lemon. The alcohol burnt my throat, eliciting a small coughing fit. From the other room I could hear Emily laugh. It was such a good sound to hear I forgave her for trying to poison me. I emptied half the glass and topped it up with lemonade from the fridge. The second sip was much more palatable. I carried my drink into the lounge and sat at the other end of the couch, putting my feet up onto the coffee table because I knew it annoyed Emily. She shot me a look and I put on my best blank expression.

  Disgusted, she turned her attention to Cat. ‘How you feeling, El?’

  I kept forgetting her actual name is Elissa.

  Cat shrugged and took a big drink before answering. ‘Like shit, really.’

  Emily looked at her friend with concern, then down at her own drink. ‘Yeah, me too,’ she admitted.

  I kept quiet. We sat in silence for a while, sipping our drinks, lost in our own thoughts.

  ‘Not much of a celebration, is it?’ Emily said jokingly.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anything to celebrate,’ Cat replied.

  ‘We won, Elissa. They’re going to prison, hopefully for a very long time.’

  She shook her head. ‘I know, but…’ She seemed to sink further into the chair.

  ‘Troy, give us a minute,’ Emily ordered.

  ‘Troy, stay,’ Cat countered and I paused halfway out of my seat. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Ems. I want to forget it all.’

  With no further instructions from Emily I sat back down.

  ‘I’ll get the chips then,’ Emily stated and we both watched her leave the room. I looked at Cat and she looked back at me.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ she said.

  ‘It didn’t happen to me,’ I said.

  ‘But you were involved.’

  I glanced down at my hand; it ached sometimes. ‘It’s not the same. I was the aggressor, not the victim.’

  She pulled her feet out from under her and leaned forward. ‘But you were affected,’ she insisted. Reluctantly I nodded and she appeared satisfied, then asked, ‘So how did you get over it?’

  ‘It’s not the same, Cat. Why aren’t you asking Emily?’

  She leaned back in her chair and studied me thoughtfully. ‘Why do you call me Cat?’

  Because the first time we met you refused to tell me your name, is what I wanted to say. Only it hadn’t happened to her. Which makes conversations really awkward.

  ‘You remind me of someone I once met and it’s kind of stuck in my brain now. Does it bother you?’

  She thought about it. ‘Does it bother me you would rather use the name of another woman instead of my own? Yeah, kind of.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll call you Elissa from now on.’

  ‘Is there going to be a from now on?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s always a from now on,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘Is there?’ she replied quietly. I didn’t pick up on it, not until later.

  Just then Emily came back in, juggling chips and dip and a bottle tucked under one arm. She placed the food on the table with a determined thump and pulled out the bottle, revealing it to be schnapps.

  ‘If we’re not going to celebrate then we’re going to commiserate.’ She pulled three shot glasses from her pocket and laid them out in a row on the table. She filled each one and handed them around. ‘To surviving,’ she toasted. Cat and I raised our glasses as well, although I noticed she was a little slow to bring hers up, and we all drained our glasses.

  Emily refilled them. ‘To Troy breaking his hand.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘If you hadn’t…’ She faltered over the words.

  ‘To Troy breaking his hand,’ Cat said.

  We drank. Weirdest toast I’d ever done.

  Emily filled the glasses again. ‘To those motherfuckers rotting in prison.’

  We drank.

  ‘To being messed up,’ Cat said.

  We drank.

  ‘To surviving being messed up,’ Emily toasted.

  I hesitated on that one but drank anyway. My insides were beginning to feel nice and warm, and my head felt lighter on my shoulders.

  They were both looking at me expectantly and I realised they were waiting for me to toast.

  ‘To fluffy slippers,’ I said.

&nbs
p; They were confused.

  ‘Never underestimate the importance of fluffy slippers,’ I added.

  ‘To fluffy slippers,’ they both said.

  We drank.

  ‘I need to stop,’ Cat said in a slightly slurred voice.

  ‘I need to throw up,’ Emily informed us.

  She left in an unsteady hurry and I heard the bathroom door slam shut.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Cat asked.

  ‘Sure. She’ll make some space, drink some water and be back ready for the next round.’

  ‘It’s funny, I’ve known Emily for two years and this is the first time I’ve seen her drunk.’

  I’d seen her drunk plenty of times. Emily prefers to get drunk at home, rather than lose control in public and rely on others to send her to the right home with the right person.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Cat started. She was hesitant, unsure now. ‘Can I…can I hug you?’

  I wasn’t expecting that and she read the surprise on my face. ‘It’s just … since the attack I haven’t been able to relax near a guy. My dad goes to hug me and all I can think of is that man on top of me, tearing at my bikini, and I freeze up. I know it hurts Dad because he doesn’t understand, and I’m tired of feeling bad, and guilty, and I was hoping you would let me hug you because I really want to feel normal again, and this is safe, you’re safe, and I really want to hug you.’ She trailed off. There were tears on her cheeks and her hands shook.

  I stood up and walked slowly over to her chair. Her eyes followed me apprehensively. I reached out a hand and cautiously she took it. I didn’t pull her up, letting her rise at her own pace. We stood still, my hand in hers, a few inches between us. She took a tiny step forward and stopped. Then another. We were virtually touching but I didn’t move. Hesitantly she leaned forward and rested her head on my chest. Carefully I put my free hand around her and rested it lightly on her back. She froze, time froze. The only sound was my breathing, slow and steady, her breathing, short and ragged, and the tick of the clock above the TV.

  Suddenly the spell was broken. She grabbed me with both arms and clung tight, as if wanting to melt into me. After a moment I rubbed her back, a small gesture of comfort. She went rigid, then tore herself lose. She looked at me wildly and I put up my hands in a placating manner. Another wrong move. She stumbled backwards, caught her knee on the corner of the chair and tumbled to the ground. Tears filled her eyes as she hyperventilated.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ came Emily’s voice from behind me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I assured her. ‘She fell over.’

  Emily stepped around the table and helped Cat to her feet. ‘I can see that, idiot. Why did she fall over?’

  ‘It was my fault,’ Cat told her, wiping the tears off her face. ‘I got up too fast and went a bit dizzy. So actually, Emily, it’s your fault for giving me all that alcohol to drink.’

  ‘Well, if it makes you feel any better I’ve already been punished. Whose idea was it to mix gin and schnapps?’

  ‘Yours,’ I reminded her.

  ‘In that case it was a wonderful idea but poorly executed.’

  Cat plonked back down into her chair and Emily and I resumed our positions on the couch. The rest of the evening was spent mostly in silence, watching a terrible movie on television and alternating large sips of water with small sips of alcohol.

  I offered to take Cat home, but she said her dad would come, and he showed up suspiciously quickly once she called. We said our goodbyes at the front door, Emily and Cat with a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, Cat and I with an awkward half-wave and a mumbling see ya later. We watched her climb into the car and let it pull away from the kerb before closing and locking the door.

  ‘What happened between you two?’ Emily asked casually.

  Cat obviously didn’t want Emily to know, otherwise she would have told her, so it wasn’t my place to say anything, but I also didn’t want to lie outright to my friend. I settled for something in the middle.

  ‘She wanted to hug me, to say thanks for saving her. But like she said, when she got up all the blood rushed away from her head and she fell over. No big thing, Ems.’

  She looked at me shrewdly, or maybe drunkenly; it was difficult to tell. Then she staggered off to bed.

  Lying on my bed later, I struggled to find sleep. I wasn’t sure how to help Cat. I could teach her to fight, like Emily, and that thought triggered a wave of guilt. I had helped Emily, but ignored Cat. By trying to protect myself from getting too close I hadn’t done what I should have for someone else. Been a friend.

  Frustrated, I pulled the pillows out of the way, exposing a hole in the protective shell of cotton and wool, opened the bedroom door, padded down the darkened hallway and clicked on the light in the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I studied my face. Every angle, every line, hair, the dark pupils – it all screamed normal, average, nothing to see here. Only that’s not what I saw. I saw pieces, tiny fragments making up a collage of every Possibility I’d been through. A sand sculpture at the mercy of the tide.

  I thought about when I was young, before this thing started, when I was normal. I struggled to remember what I was like. All these Possibilities I’ve lived, collectively they’ve moulded me into someone different, each one chipping away at my personality, replacing it with something else, something fractured. It sounds clichéd but I don’t even know who I am any more. There’ve been so many versions the core of me is warped, and unrecognisable.

  I searched the mess of memories, filtering out ones I knew to be from other lives. A picture began to emerge of a teenage me – kind, helpful, generous. Someone who wanted to be accepted by his friends, who wanted to grow up to play basketball for New Zealand, marry a supermodel and live in a ridiculously big house. Someone who would have helped Cat from the beginning. It would have been nice if that person still existed.

  The next morning Emily was gone by the time I got up. I made a mental note to text her later and ask for Cat’s contact details. I showered, dressed and headed for work. As I walked to the bus stop the old couple were at their letterbox again. It occurred to me this was the only place I ever saw them. They were arguing over something, and as I went past the woman grabbed my arm.

  ‘You there, which one is better? This monstrosity – ’ she held up a picture of a black wrought-iron gate, more decorative than functional ‘ – or this one.’ The second picture was a plain wooden gate.

  I pointed to the wooden one and she gave her husband a triumphant look and released me.

  I felt buoyant all the way to work, and not even a sudden urgent deadline was enough to bring me down. Around mid-morning I remembered to text Emily. Then I buried myself in the project, not realising I’d skipped lunch until my stomach protested.

  I grabbed my jacket and was about to head out the door when my cell rang. It was Emily. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ I asked. She was crying. ‘Ems, what’s wrong?’

  I ducked into an empty meeting room and closed the door. I didn’t understand her at first, but enough came through the garble to ignite a chill inside me. I told her to take a couple of deep breaths. Then she started again, but I knew what she was going to say before the words came out.

  Because instantly I recalled the night before – words said, looks made, things I’d recorded in my memory but hadn’t noticed at the time. I knew, and I felt sick, felt like being sick. I bolted to the bathroom, smashed open the door, and diverted at the last second to the sink, the toilet a step too far.

  They buried her three days later. It was held at the same church my parents go to, the service taken by Kelvin, another link between Cat and me, except now it was too late to explore the reason why. The place was packed. Cat was obviously loved, by the tears and disbelief displayed.

  Emily sat next to me quietly throughout. She hadn’t said much since the phone call. I’d catch her staring into space a lot, doing things on automatic – eat, dress, breathe, sleep – her body and mind having shut down
all but essential life-support functions.

  I didn’t speak to Cat’s family at the service, or afterwards. There were opportunities to, but I didn’t know what to say. I should have picked up on the signs; I could have stopped this from happening.

  I’d said that to Emily three days earlier and it was the only time she’d showed any energy, when she called me a dickhead and told me to stop being stupid. I told her what I’d seen but she argued back that I’d been drinking, and even if I hadn’t there was no way I could have predicted the outcome. In the end I told her she was probably right, but I didn’t believe it, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t believe it either.

  I snuck back to the cemetery later, after everyone had gone, and sat next to her grave. I thought about the Cat I’d first met, even though it was in a Possibility rather than real life – the strong, independent, slightly mad version of her. It seemed unimaginable she could go from that to this. I lifted some dirt off her grave and let it fall through my fingers. Watched it settle and become still again.

  Then suddenly I wasn’t looking at the dirt, I was studying my fingers. I’d never looked at my hands this closely, other than checking for indicators of age. Now they seemed different – not just instruments to grip or turn, but something infinitely more. I remembered Cat sitting in the room at the SPCA, talking to the dog, creating words with her hands.

  A thought flitted in on the breeze, catching the corner of my mind, nudging it insistently. It was a what-if thought. I tried to ignore it, to focus on wallowing in my self-pity, but it kept butting at me, like a puppy insisting on attention. Finally I brought the idea to the centre of my mind, studying it, turning it over, exploring its purpose. I scraped away at its edges, smoothing and refining it, until the picture was clear. And it made me realise how stupid I’ve been – not just now, but for years of Possibilities.

  When I told Emily what I was going to do she studied me for the longest while, then smiled for the first time since Cat died.

  The next day I enrolled in two sign language classes, because I didn’t know how much time I had, in case this was a Possibility and it ended too soon. I’ve never been good with my hands, which my third-form woodwork teacher had gleefully stated in my school report. But I picked up sign language quickly. There was something natural about it, something that felt comfortable, and within two weeks I could hold a basic conversation. I was driven, consumed by an insatiable hunger, practising every waking moment. After a month I could hold my own against experts – although not without the occasional mistake, like asking someone if they would like goat’s milk on their hamburger.