I bumped into her a few times at the hospital, but the memories are blurred now – those weeks after the earthquake buried deep in my mind. Sometimes I’m not sure what is real and what is a mishmash of memory and dream sequence.
Mainly, of course, the dad is missing. The dad who died trying to protect them; the image of his limp body and open, unseeing eyes one that has haunted me ever since.
The mum and her son are sitting in a kitchen, a glimpse of a garden behind them, a pine table in front. I click on the image.
‘We were at the little café in the square when the first tremor was felt,’ she says after Em asks her question. ‘I just remember this huge sense of relief, you know? When the tremor started, we were all sort of frozen in place. It only lasted a few seconds really – not long enough for anyone to panic. And when it stopped, there was this wave of laughter that rolled around the square. I remember it so clearly. It brought everyone together; it was something we’d all experienced together, those few moments of fear.’
The clip ends and I quickly click onto the next. Now I’ve started, I don’t seem to be able to stop. I listen to all their stories, all their memories of that brief moment before the unthinkable happened. Before everything changed forever. Before our relief turned to horror.
When I’ve finished, I close down the file, and wish I could close down my own brain just as easily. I feel twitchy, my mind and my body in spasm, my fingertips drumming on the desk surface and my teeth mangling my lips.
Even after those few clips, I find that I want to know more. I want to know what they have all done with their lives, what has changed for them, how they feel. I want to hear their stories. I even want to share ours. I want to find out where Alex is, and if he is happy. I want to reach out to people who experienced that night, and stop feeling so isolated.
Here, in the safety of my little office, it feels possible. It feels like I could open up, like I could talk to these people. These fellow survivors. It would be fascinating, and maybe freeing, to hear what became of them all in more detail.
I wouldn’t have too much to tell them, personally. My life is far from interesting, which I don’t mind that much really. I have already been cursed to live through interesting times, and it was awful.
I never did go back into teaching – Harry’s needs had to come first to start with, and I was a full-time carer. Later, I could have done, I’m sure – but I changed as well. The world outside seemed a more threatening place and although I still wanted to help people, I also needed to do it on my own terms.
I didn’t want to commute, or engage with workplace politics, or leave the safety of my home. During the years straight after the earthquake, life revolved around hospitals and rehabs and medical facilities. I got used to that – maybe became institutionalised by proxy. Once that phase of our lives was reduced, I found that I couldn’t quite face the big bad world.
So now, I work from home, editing and creating online learning resources for children with special needs. I miss the kids, but I am good at my job, and it matters. It might not be world travelling, but it is satisfying, and comfortable.
Harry, though … well, he’s a different story. He runs a social enterprise that champions the rights of disabled people, advocating on their behalf and lobbying for wider change. He helps them find work and training, access medical care, and find innovative new treatments and equipment. He is altering the way people view those with disabilities – starting with himself. He might still use a wheelchair, but in all honesty he is one of the ablest people I know, and I can’t help but feel proud of him and all he has achieved despite what happened to him. Because of it, in some ways.
I forward the email from Em to Harry, asking him to let me know what he thinks. I am confused, and it would be good to have someone to help me find my way through this maze of emotions that the videos have created.
I am unsure of what to do with myself next. I am restless, and disturbed, and akin to a hibernating animal that has been prematurely woken, finding itself in a strange land rubbing sleep from its eyes.
This tiny room is cluttered to the point of hoarding, the shelves stuffed with travel guides to places I’ve never visited, fossils from beach walks along the coastline, a selection of strange gifts from my sister Olivia.
The rest of the house is sleek and functional, nothing to confuse the eye or trip the foot. It is way too perfect.
Here, I have a collection of random Christmas toys gifted to me over the years. I stand up and switch them all on – a cacophony of dancing penguins and tinny-voiced versions of ‘Jingle Bells’.
I sit, spin in my chair for a few moments, legs held in tight so I don’t breach the confines of the small room and bang my shins against the walls.
I let the noise and the colour and the silliness wash over me, and spin around and around in my chair until I am dizzy. Until the physical sensations – the wobbling head, the unfocused eyes, the assaulted ears – overwhelm the emotional ones.
When Olivia walks into the room, I am holding my face in my hands, wondering if I might throw up. She pauses in the doorway, takes in the wriggling toys and the colour of my skin, and pulls a ‘WTF’ face.
‘Olivia,’ I say. ‘You’re here. I’d forgotten.’
‘You’d forgotten that I live here?’
‘You’ve only lived here for a week. Give me a break.’
She nods, and starts switching off the Christmas toys. The silence is mouth-wateringly good.
Olivia drops her backpack on the floor and sits on the beanbag, looking up at me. We have different fathers, and that slight tweak in genetics has resulted in us looking really very different. She has long dark hair that seems to have been stolen from a Russian princess, and deep brown eyes, and pale skin. She looks a bit like Snow White, if Snow White had a kick-ass collection of Converse trainers.
Our mum and her dad are away on a cruise for a month, and she’s staying here with us. She’s seventeen, and doesn’t think she needs a babysitter. But she’s seventeen, and Mum thinks she might set the house on fire if left unsupervised for an extended period of time. The truth is probably somewhere in between.
‘So,’ I ask, placing my hands on my knees in an attempt to calm myself. ‘How was your day? How was college?’
‘It was all right,’ she replies, shrugging non-commitally. ‘I did a career test. That was interesting.’
‘Oh, right – what did it say then? The career test?’
