‘Yep. Cool,’ he says. Ursula nods and slips out the room.
Leon is tall, around six foot, with short dark hair and a streak of acne scarring across both cheeks. The slight pudge he carried in his late teens has disappeared and his chest has broadened.
‘Leon,’ Ursula says as he sits, ‘this is Scott. It was his wife and daughter who were in the other car that day.’
The young man’s face crumples instantly, his elbows drop to his knees and his long body folds in two. The fake bravado he exuded in the pub before Scott's accident was fuelled by vodka and has now completely evaporated. It has been replaced by a visible shuddering in his torso.
‘So, Scott. Do you want to tell us about that night. What happened from your perspective?’
Scott talks through his recollections from that evening as though he is narrating a movie script. He describes the phonecall he received at work; his half-crazed drive through the night to the crash site; his relief at seeing eleven-year-old Brianna, still in her tutu and unhurt save for a small cut on her forehead; and his utter, utter horror at the sight of Lucy, crumpled like a rag doll and being worked on by paramedics. When he arrives at the description of Lucy’s eyes landing on his, about the promise he made to her and the slow, gradual lowering of her lids, his voice is trembling. ‘She was my life. My entire life. And I lost her that night.’
Scott glances down at his hands. His knuckles are white, his sinews prominent, his veins bulging.
Leon looks up from the carpet, a trail of snot dribbling from his nose, the capillaries in his eyeballs visible. He respects the rules of the mediation and maintains his silence, but if ever a look conveyed a thousand words, it is this one. Something shifts in Scott and a tiny glimmer of compassion fires in his gut. This young man, a kid at the time, made a terrible, terrible decision which wrecked numerous lives. To say his expression is haunted is a gross understatement. The guy looks tortured.
Scott leans forward in his chair, grabs a wodge of tissues and blows his nose noisily. The sound echoes around the room.
Ursula shifts ever so slightly in her chair.
‘So Scott. You’ve told us, from your perspective how things played out that night. What about afterwards, how did that night affect you?’
Scott’s voice lowers in tone; he bundles the tissues into his fist and looks up to meet Leon’s eyes.
‘I lost my soul mate, my home, my sister-in-law, my friends. I struggled at work, regardless of how much support they gave me. And my daughter lost her youth.’
Ursula nods.
‘And what about your feelings, Scott? How were they affected?’
Scott fills his lungs, feels his chest expand. He forces himself to sit more upright. He’s done the work, he knows there’s no shame in this next admission.
‘My mental health collapsed, I found it impossible to trust again, I was unable to hold down a relationship of any nature until …. well until very recently.’
‘And now, Scott. How are you coping?’
Scott scrunches his eyes closed. Is it treachery to admit that he’s now learnt to live with the pain? That it’s always there, never gone, but that other parts of life have expanded into the void.
‘I’m slowly learning to love again,’ he says.
‘So, Leon, you’ve heard what Scott’s got to say. Now it’s your turn to respond.’
Scott looks up from the wodge of tissues crammed into the ball of his hand and tries to focus on the young man’s face. It is, however, blurred by his own tears.
‘I … I …I …’ the lad stutters.
Scott blinks in an attempt to clear his vision.
‘Do you need a moment, Leon?’ Ursula asks, her tone level, calm, reassuring.
Scott can’t be sure, but he thinks Leon must nod, because the next voice is Ursula’s once again.
‘Let’s have a quick recess, then. Can we get you anything, Scott?’
Scott attempts to shake his head, but even the slightest movement causes more snot to flood from his nostrils. Who would know that a body could produce so much mucus?
There’s a pssh sound as air moves into the cushioned padding on the two seats opposite him, and a gentle clunk as the door closes behind Leon and Ursula. Several minutes later, another person enters. Scott is in so much pain that he doesn’t registerwho it is until a hand grips his arm. It's Lorraine, who he has already identified as a potential supporter.
‘I’ve brought us some water,’ she says. She must reckon he’s lost a gallon of fluid through crying. It certainly feels like it. ‘With your permission, I’d like to be in this next bit. If you think it will help?’
