I spend a good fifteen minutes lost in Em’s world, reading reviews of her programmes, reading interviews with people who’ve appeared in them, reading a scant biography that is filled with her professional achievements and says very little about her life outside them. I have no idea where she is from, if she is married or has children, if she’s a cat person or a dog person, if she’s a vegan or a Libra or a fan of musicals.
I go back to the latest email she’s sent me, realising that although I haven’t replied to any of them, I have read them all, and her tone has become familiar.
Hi Elena
It’s your friendly neighbourhood almost-stalker again!
I know you haven’t replied, but I hope you’re reading this one.
The documentary means more to me than I’ve ever told you. I’d like to explain why, so I hope that you’ll agree to meet with me face to face, so I can tell you my story.
I’m sending you some of the material I’ve shot so far (there’s a video attached) – it’s a rough cut, but it should give you a sense of how I’m doing this. It’s not going to be sensationalised – I want this to be truthful, honest, and solely in the words of the survivors of that terrible night.
I hope you’ll let me show you more, and we can meet up. No pressure, but this won’t work without you!
Em
No kisses after her name, which I kind of like. I always feel vaguely uncomfortable when people I don’t know put kisses on messages.
I touch the mouse pad on my laptop with a reluctant fingertip, letting the cursor hover over the file she’s sent. It’s calledAfter the Tremor – first cut.
I bite my lip, still not sure. And then I click.
I lean back in my chair, barely breathing, ready to slam my laptop shut if I need to.
But within seconds, the screen is filled with a grid full of faces. Some instantly familiar, some less so. And immediately, I know I’m going to watch every single second. I owe it to them.
I scan the pictures, my eyes flying over the screen, searching for one face in particular. When I don’t see it, I’m not sure if I am relieved or disappointed. Whether seeing Alex again would be too much of a risk to the safe cocoon of my current life.
I recognise plenty of others though, enough to be hit with a taser blast of emotion that reminds me why I have repeatedly said no to every other journo request in the past. I said no because it hurts to remember. Because that wound is still open, and possibly always will be. I have just learned to live my life around it, the way you do with long-term pain.
I never even knew the names of some of the faces on the screen, but I still remember. And even worse, I still remember the faces of those I will never see again: the ones who didn’t make it.
Before me, still silent, I see a reduced version of Sofia, the tour guide from the trip, and I click on her little picture.
She fills the screen then, her image enlarging as all the others disappear. I stare, drinking up every detail of her features, as though I was dying of thirst and never even realised it.
She is obviously older now, her face more lined, a few streaks of silver in her long dark hair. She sits on a wooden chair, her arms neatly folded on her lap, sunlight falling through a nearby window to cast her in partial shadow.
A voice – the mild Scottish accent I recognise as Em’s from clips I’ve seen of her other programmes – floats in off-camera.
‘So where were you when the first tremor shook the village? How did you feel?’
Sofia leans her head to one side, and smiles sadly.
‘I had just been to the ladies’ room, which is not exactly a glamorous answer, is it?’ she replies. ‘But I was lucky, as it turns out. It’s the reason I’m alive today. I should have been with Jorge, the coach driver. We were planning to have dinner together, as we usually did. I was walking back to the bar when we felt the first tremor. We weren’t too worried then; it happens, you know? Usually we all laugh about it and carry on with whatever we’re doing. That’s what we did that night as well. Everyone laughed. Everyone was relieved.’
She pauses and looks down at her fingers, and I realise that she is remembering what happened next. Remembering the second tremor, the tremor that turned into an earthquake. It is impossible to forget, and she is brave to even be discussing it like this.
The clip ends there, taking me back to the main screen. I know that Em will have asked more questions, that she’s just sharing snapshots with me for now.
I look at the faces on the screen again. I recognise one of the local women who was preparing our meal that night. One of the men who was running the bar outside his home. The woman who was always fighting with her husband on our coach trip; others I don’t remember. I click, and I watch.
I pause to google a phrase I hear repeated over and over again in the clips: ‘Que alivio.’What a relief.I felt the same. I remember clutching Alex’s hands as he reassured me that it was quite normal, that we were okay. That we were fine.
We were not fine, of course.
I shake my head to clear the memory and go back to the grid screen. I find the family who was on the coach with us and in the plaza that night; the Frazers, I later learned. Half of them, at least. The mum and her teenaged son, who I last saw as a little boy. The ginger-haired daughter isn’t there, and I am momentarily disappointed. I still remember her so clearly – her frustration at being forced onto a holiday that clearly suited neither her temperament nor her skin tone.
