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“Would you change any of it, knowing how it would turn out?” I sip my coffee, relishing the bitter warmth.
“Do I wish your parents hadn’t left the house that night? Of course. But wanting to change the past is a fool’s game. It won’t lead anywhere good.” Her cup shakes slightly in her hands. She’s eighty-five now. The same age as my grandfather when he died. “You don’t think every single person in the world has something bad happen to them? We’ve suffered, but we’re not alone.”
I am. I’m alone because it’s how I’ve made myself—refusing to commit, refusing to set down roots. Seeing every damn part of my life as a temporary stage before the next move. I thought it’s what I wanted because it was safer. Easier.
But watching Hannah walk out of the hospital room was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“Here.” I pull my mother’s ring out of my pocket and set it on the table. “I’m returning this to its rightful home.”
“I don’t want it.” She stares me down, looking like she wants to dump a cup of coffee on my head. “In fact, I was thinking about getting rid of all your mother’s jewellery.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I have no use for it. It’s gathering dust and your mother always believed that diamonds were made for wearing.”
“If it’s about the money, I can—”
“Owen Graham Fletcher.” Her voice is like ice and I’m still as a statue, suddenly reverted to being a kid again. “After your parents died, I ended up with enough for several lifetimes. I had to tell you not to forfeit your own inheritance by giving it to me. It’s not about the money.”
I’d forgotten that. I’d tried to get my grandparents to take it all, but they’d put it in a trust until I was old enough to access it.
“Then why sell the jewels?”
She sighs. “Because I’m getting older and I know you won’t want to be bothered dealing with it all when I’m gone, so I figured I would take care of it now.”
I reel as if she’s slapped me in the face. “You’re talking like you’re already gone.”
“And youactlike I’m already gone.”
Her words slice through me, cutting bone and flesh. And I don’t have a single defence against it, because she’s totally right. I haven’t been there for her. At all. I’ve ignored her voice mails, messaging back only when I know she’ll be asleep so I don’t have to experience the pain of facing my own flaws.
“I understand why.” She reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. She’s cold, like always, and her knuckles are more arthritic than I remember. But her grip is strong, sure. “Owen, what you went through...it’s a hell that no child should ever have to experience. But at some point you need to understand that the past is the past. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to be scared. But you act as though you also died that day and you didn’t. You’re alive, so start living.”
She’s almost vibrating with emotion—frustration at what she sees as time I’ve wasted, and anger that I’ve treated her so poorly. Shame trickles through me, like icy drips along my spine. If only the people who think they know me could see me now. At the security company in New York I’m the one who makes everyone laugh, I ease tension when things get tough and I play pranks on my colleagues. My old academy friends came in droves to the hospital over the last few days, clapping hands on my shoulders for a job well done. Praising me.
But my grandmother sees through it all. Sheknowsme...and so does Hannah. The fact that I even told her about my past should be a sign that I trust her more than anyone.
But what if one day I’m here—like my grandmother, grieving every day.
Aren’t you already here?
“I know you boys are often raised not to show any emotion, and if I ever contributed to that I regret it,” she says. “But maybe you should talk to someone. A professional.”
I recoil at the idea. People over the years have suggested counselling and therapy and God knows what other hippy-dippy things. Tarot cards, or some shit. The idea of sitting in someone’s office being asked to talk about my feelings makes my skin crawl.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I know you don’t,” she says. “But it’s something to think about. When is your flight home?”
I swallow. “Haven’t booked it yet.”
The surgeon had suggested that I stay in Melbourne a while longer, so they could check on the wound and ensure it healed correctly. But it wasn’t exactly phrased as an order. I was lucky that everything went smoothly in the ER—the bullet didn’t ricochet and hit anything important. The surgery to retrieve it was straightforward. It could have been a lot worse.
In reality, I could go home now.
But something happened as I lay in the hospital room, the space around me filling up with cards and teddy bears and bunches of flowers. I spoke to a lot of people about how lucky I was to be alive. The surgeon, and nurses, my old colleagues and, of course, Gary Smythe. Max came to visit, too, and he showed me pictures of Rose and the baby.
And all the while I thought about Hannah.
