by Sabina Green
The woman quickly picked up her handbag from the empty seat. “Are you sitting next to us?”
I looked at the ticket clutched in my hand. Even though the seat numbers matched, I told her: “Sorry, I’ve made a mistake.”
I’ve done enough damage already.
I gave them an apologetic smile and went to the far end of the plane, taking a window seat in the last row where the seats around me were empty.
Mark
I would have been happy to postpone my quest until tomorrow if it meant spending time with Connie, but since she’d turned me down, there was no point in changing my plans. It wasn’t a big event, with only a select number of people were involved. I had to go see them. I was pushed by something so intense that I had no hopes of resisting.
Revenge.
How many times in my life had I wished people would put aside their feelings of personal injustice and hate and choose forgiveness and move on from the suffering that someone else inflicted upon them? But no matter how much I understood the logic of striving for peace, somewhere deep in my heart, I understood these people’s motivation only too well. They wanted the people who made them suffer to get a taste of their own medicine.
I wondered if there ever was a person on this planet who could resist this powerful urge to take revenge for one’s hardships. I’d tried to tell myself that I wouldn’t give in to hating my parents for allowing my innocence to be ripped away so that they could get more drugs. I’d spent such a long time lying to myself, but in the end, the hate that exploded within me was all-consuming.
My mother and father were to be my first port of call. After running away from home age twelve, I tried to forget all about them, but as soon as I’d joined the Association and The Collective and new possibilities opened up to me, something made me keep track of where they lived. Have I subconsciously been planning this all these years? That as soon as I’m infected, I’ll come knocking at their door? Probably, I admitted to myself now.
By some miracle, neither of them ended up in prison or rehab. Given that they’d only moved into this broken-down shack about a month ago, the owner probably hasn’t had time to realise to have made a mistake. There was reasonable hope that they’d still be there.
The unwritten rule of my childhood was that if there is someone knocking or ringing the main door bell, do not answer. It was most likely either a postman, an annoying neighbour, or a landlord seeking unpaid rent. We had never ruled out the police or social services either.
Dealers, fellow junkies and clients always used the back door.
That’s where I headed too. I knocked, using the code I remembered from before, the four-note melody burnt into my memory forever. For my parents it meant relief, and for me…
The door opened almost instantly. I thought that the code would have changed, but old habits die hard.
A skeletal woman appeared at the door, her hair oily and her eyes set deep within her skull. She was missing quite a few teeth, and she had acquired a large number of scars and sores on her arms and legs. My mother looked like a walking corpse.
She looked at me quizzically. I probably seemed too put-together to be one of her mates. “What?”
“It’s me…” I managed to say, and wanted to add Mum, but that word has never been easy to voice. It was too cuddly, full of family affection which I never experienced.
She frowned and pursed her lips which made the skin around them wrinkle. “Who’s me?”
“For God’s sake, mother. Mark!” I uttered through clenched teeth. The last time you saw me I was twelve, it has been a while, but my basic features are the same, dammit! “Mark, your son!”
“You’re not my son,” she laughed it off as a joke and waved her hand. She turned around and plodded through the hallway into the house.
She left the door open which I took as an invitation. My curiosity was bordering on morbid. What did she mean that I’m not her son?
“Marky boy is playing in his room,” she said in the kind of voice mothers usually use with their children. Loving.
I stood frozen in my tracks in their stuffy living room. Two dirty mattresses with torn blankets were scattered on the floor, there was no other furniture there. A man was lying on one of the mattresses and was as haggard as my mother. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek while absentmindedly scratching the sores on his forearm.
My father clearly didn’t recognize me either. Mother was lost in the past, perhaps back in the days when her drug addiction wasn’t so completely and utterly out of control. Before she opened a door to one of the bedrooms, she’d clearly forgotten what she was doing.
They both seemed completely ruined. I couldn’t find it in me to feel compassion, but the familiar voice of reason was arguing with me again: drug addiction is an illness, a chronic illness of the central nervous system.
I wailed, because I didn’t want to hear this only feasible defence in my mind. They are sick, but how much suffering has their sickness caused others? I started coughing violently and they both flinched.
What kind of existence was this?
What am I even doing here? I thought, unnerved. When I had been on my way here, ready to take away their life just like they took mine, it hadn’t seemed totally right, but it was justifiable. But how will I hurt them by being the person who infects them? They would have died either way. I’m only tormenting myself here!
It seemed like death would bring them relief. And me too.
I couldn’t stay there any longer. I ran outside, hoping I could run away from everything I’d seen. Sitting in my car parked a block away, it took some time to recover from the experience.
I felt like going home and locking the door. To hell with the rest of it. But I had one more place to go. If seeing my parents again was painful and shocking, then what’s coming will be much worse. But I couldn’t leave him out. For her.
I set off to the second location. It took almost half an hour to get there, therefore I had some time to pull myself together. By the time I was stepping onto a porch of the white house with blue window frames, I appeared totally calm.
Conveniently, I put a hand over my mouth and sneezed just before knocking on the door.
It was answered by a stocky guy with a pleasant expression. There was no shine in his eyes even though it was already late in the afternoon. Strange, I thought to myself sarcastically.
“Raymond Davis?”
“Hm.” He nodded half-heartedly and looked me up and down. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Mark.” I extended my hand. He shook it after a short pause and scratched his chin right after. There we go, I thought and imagined all those germs spreading across his face. “I won’t keep you long and don’t worry, I’m not selling anything.”
He laughed. “Are you moving in next door?” He pointed to a house on his right and I only just noticed a large “For Sale” sign in the middle of the lawn.
I could have used that pretence of being a new neighbour. But I didn’t want that. My plan was somewhat different.
“No, I’m here for something else… There was an accident on the corner of Stone Road and Main Street, I’m looking for witnesses.” The intersection I mentioned was just two streets down from Raymond’s house. “It happened in the evening. A pedestrian was walking across the street, some driver hit them and then drove away…”
“That’s awful,” he said, taken aback. “When did it happen? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Sixteenth of March.”
“Well, that’s quite a few weeks ago…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure you’ll get anywhere. You should have asked around straight away.”
I kept my eyes fixed on him, and after a moment of silence, added: “The year was 2004.”
His whole body went rigid and fear crept into his eyes. His hand, still resting on the door handle, balled up i
nto a fist. Was he thinking of slamming the door to my face?
There was no doubt that he’d figured out who I was talking about.
“I… I…” he stammered.
“The lady you hit was my Grandma,” I said sharply. I coughed again, not even bothering to cover my mouth. “The only person who ever loved me, who looked after me and made me feel safe. And you took her away from me.”
He swallowed and his forehead covered with sweat. “Please…”
“You left her lying there like an old rag. You could have driven her to a hospital, they might have saved her life. But you drove away.”
He was completely still, except for his ragged breathing. He just stared.
“You cared more about saving yourself from any consequences than saving someone’s life!”
He shook his head so wildly it made his balding hair flap around.
“Were you drinking that evening, before you sat behind the wheel?”
He swallowed again and looked at me, pleading. He looked down to see my boot, stuck firmly in the door frame. He was very aware of the fact that he couldn’t close the door anymore. He couldn’t put up even this last possible barrier between us.
“Were you drinking?” I screamed at him. The rage I’d suppressed for nearly twenty years rose to the surface. A few drops of my saliva flew from my mouth and landed on his face.
“Nobody will believe you,” he said dubiously. “Not after all this time.”
I laughed ironically. “I don’t care if anyone believes me. Who would I tell, anyway? I’m not going to the police, no punishment is adequate to what you’ve done. What you took from me.”
He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice shook: “So what are you doing here?”
“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you’re sorry. That you wish you’d acted differently.”
Just then a car drove into his wide driveway, and parked next to mine.
“Please,” he wheezed again. “My daughter can’t know about this. She’d be devastated!”
She’d be devastated if someone took away her illusions about her perfect father, while someone took away my loved one?
I didn’t move an inch and waited. I took care to lean against the door to make my position absolutely clear.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out and out of the corner of his eye watched the young girl behind a wheel turn off the engine and look at us quizzically. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even remember anything until I woke up the next day… and it was too late to help her!”
I knew about his alcohol addiction, just like his wife and children. What they didn’t know was what he was capable of. He didn’t beat them as some alcoholics do, and probably considered him a harmless drunk.
“Please,” he whispered intensely. His daughter had got out of the car and was fishing for her handbag on the back seat.
“I wish someone had heard my begging, back then…” I uttered. How different would my life be now, if Grandma was still here!
What did Raymond think was going to happen? Was he expecting me to jump at him and settle it all with a fight? He had no idea that the damage was already done, and that his bad conscience definitely wasn’t what I was after.
I turned and walked away from him without a word, but I politely said hello to his daughter as she walked past me as if nothing was wrong.
I sat down in my car, put the window down and started the engine. While I was backing away from the driveway, I overheard their short conversation.
“Who was that?”
“Jehovah’s Witness.”
They say that revenge is sweet. But all I felt was anger, then sadness, and in the end, emptiness. Not even a hint of satisfaction.
Connie
Putting aside my health, which was getting slightly worse every day, our New Zealand holiday was truly amazing. I would have even ranked it among my top ten best moments, right after Ruby’s birth and the day she first told me she loved me. A strong and frequent dosage of aspirin was keeping my headaches at bay, and various menthol sprays and drops were helping with my cold and cough, more or less.
Despite my illness, I tried to stick to a normal daily routine and followed our list of planned trips. Back in Auckland, we went to Mount Eden and attended a lecture on Maori history. We visited Cape Reinga and admired a beautiful view of two oceans meeting. In order to somehow balance the grown up trips, I took Ruby bobsledding on sand dunes, so that Dad could go snorkelling with orcas and dolphins by the Tutukaka coast. In all honesty, I would have loved to try that too, but my lungs weren’t up to it anymore. We admired the beautiful Cathedral Cove on the Coromandel peninsula, named after its limestone rock arch; Hobbiton, where we could re-live scenes from our favourite Lord of the Rings, and Waitomo Cave, where Ruby excitedly whispered made up stories about cursed bats.
A trip to Taupo was a hit with all of us, Dad and I mainly appreciated the roaring Huka falls, Ruby loved swimming in the actual lake. Its cold water was interspersed with underground thermal springs and she could bask in the warm spots. I was doing the same, I’d been feeling cold all the time and the hot springs by the shore were doing wonders for my body.
After that we travelled all around the northern part of the island, the diversity of its nature took my breath away and I couldn’t stop staring in fascination. All I was used to from Perth was brown vegetation, dry from the heat and sun, but here everything was so lush and green. Full of life. Every day as we drove to our next destination we saw countless vineyards, apple and avocado orchards, vast farms with deer and sheep. I understood what Mark meant about life-giving nature. New Zealand really seemed like the perfect place for the survivors to meet.
The reunion with Ruby and Dad had calmed me down a bit, and soothed the panic I felt in Australia, but here in New Zealand, I’d found a whole new type of anxiety. I had no idea which day was going to be my last, but whichever one it was, I was slowly but steadily getting closer to it. I could feel the effects of the virus on me, my strength was diminishing by the day and I often had to force myself into the activities we’d planned, however fun or tempting. In the evenings I went to bed with Ruby, or even sooner, which was saying something.
“I don’t like this cold of yours. Or the cough,” frowned Dad when we got back to our B&B at the end of the first week. “How about you go see a doctor?”
“And what would he tell me?” I protested meekly. “To rest and stay hydrated? I can prescribe that myself.”
“You have been doing well on the hydrating front, sure enough. But resting? Come on, you’re out doing all sorts with us every day!”
“I don’t mind, actually I’m glad we’re doing so much…” I had to spend every waking moment with them, there was no other alternative.
He let it go, but it was clear that my “cold” was still on his mind. Every once in a while I caught him looking at me, worried. I couldn’t blame him, I would have been doing the same. Parents never stop worrying about their children, even when they grow up.
That evening I suggested we change our sleeping arrangements. So far he had a bedroom to himself while I was sharing the second one with Ruby. I mentioned it might be better if I was the one sleeping alone from now on, so that I don’t infect them. It was obviously out of the question, but I didn’t want to keep waking my daughter up with my coughing. Dad agreed and admitted that if I hadn’t suggested it, he would have. What would become of our holiday if the child was sick?
Even though he didn’t realise it, his remark sent my mind down a totally different route. Shivering all over, I once again started questioning the effectiveness of the vaccine.
Were there any grounds for doubt at this point? Given the information I had about the plague, if the vaccine didn’t work, the two of them would have been suffering at least some of the early s
ymptoms by now. Every evening, before falling into unconsciousness, I breathed a sigh of relief that they were both alright.
The same couldn’t be said about others. There were people sneezing and blowing their noses all around us. At the B&B reception, in the rooms next to us, in restaurants and on buses, other trip goers had red eyes and chafed noses.
When would someone finally be struck by such a high number of illnesses? When would someone realise that it wasn’t an average cold or flu?
At the end of our second week in New Zealand, we finally arrived in Rotorua, where, according to our official plans, we were going to stay for eight days. Back in Perth I’d persuaded Dad to use this place as our base, that instead of travelling from one B&B to another, we could always just come back here. Luckily, this city had plenty of Maori culture and geothermal water, so there was always something to explore and experience.
Frank
This must be the first real holiday I’ve had since emigrating to Australia over thirty years ago. Any trips outside the country were always reserved for visiting Czechia to see my family so I could partially chase away the guilt I felt for abandoning them, or for the sort of holiday that would satisfy a small child or young lady overflowing with energy. Sure, I used to go on weekend fishing trips with Wyatt, or to the Australian bush or a beach house with Connie. But now, after all this time, I felt like this New Zealand trip was made to suit me. Once again I wished I had kept all those alluring leaflets about this country I’d been getting in the mailbox this last year.
If I had any reason to think that Constance or Ruby were bored and the trips and walks weren’t their kind of thing, I would have conformed and come up with a different programme. But everybody was happy. I only wished I had at least five more pairs of eyes to look at everything fully and enjoy it, and several times I’d even caught myself whistling in the shower. My daughter often looked deep in thought, and she didn’t mention work once, which I took for a good sign. And Ruby often exclaimed: “Mummy! Grampa!” as she was excitedly pointing at Kea parrots, purple kekeru pigeons or blue ducks. Everything was interesting in her eyes. I was glad that, like Connie, she loved nature and preferred to spend her time out in the world, rather than at home with toys or the TV.