By The gavel emphatically struck the sound block, and with a finality I didn’t feel. The subdued but authoritative hardwood-on-hardwood sound swept through the hushed courtroom. Unlike any number of popular courtroom TV and movie dramas released over the last few decades, this hush endured. There were no crazed cheers of celebration, no screams of denial at the delivered verdict and no shouted threats of violence in response to a perceived injustice.
A young girl had been killed, a child, and no judgement in court would bring her back. Cheers, screams or shouts wouldn’t change that either.
The verdict, issued immediately before the rap of the gavel, had taken longer to be processed by my distraught mind. Had I heard the judge correctly?
Not guilty.
He had made a terrible mistake.
Extenuating circumstances.
Of course I was guilty. How could I not be? I had been driving. I had struck the girl. Liliana was her name.
An unavoidable accident.
I had killed her as surely as the heavy rain and lightning had streaked across the sky that wretched day.
I glanced across at the little girl’s family. A few glanced towards me. Liliana’s father had bloodshot eyes that refused to spill their swelling tears. His lips trembled as he tried to contain his grief.
An older brother, I believe, stared at me with a barely contained fury. Rage radiated from him and charged the air nearby with an almost visible shimmer.
The others; a mother, a sister, perhaps a family friend, grandparents, slowly stood and embraced momentarily. I had forever tarnished and twisted their fragile, familial love.
I sat and waited for the room to empty, in much the same pose I had held throughout the proceedings. My hands were pressed together, fingers pointing floorward, with elbows propped on knees that had quavered throughout the 15-minute judgement hearing. I looked past my trembling hands to the droplets of tears that had splattered to the floor. Chaotic patterns formed like droplets of blood from cruel injuries.
A guard quietly approached and gently, but forcefully, aided me to my feet and guided me from the room. As I stepped beyond the threshold and into a faded wood-panelled hallway, I wavered slightly on leaden feet and braced myself against the doorframe. The guard released me and, after his rough hands had withdrawn their momentary support, he whispered in my ear, “murderer”.
*
The psychiatrist’s room was clean and professional as you might expect, but it lacked emotional warmth. I was invited in but had been strongly directed here by the court. The only place I felt welcome these days was within my own fractured mind, but I didn’t want to be there either.
This was a place of analysis, investigation and diagnosis, but I was as unwelcome in this world as I am now anywhere else. I was a broken equation to be solved, nothing more.
Today, for our third appointment, the psychiatrist wore a beige jacket over a light green knee-length dress with flat shoes whose colour was somewhere in between. This seemed to be her chosen uniform, with only the colour of each piece of clothing changing. The cut and style remained consistent week-to-week as did her subdued demeanour.
Dr. Tononi had again affected her mid-length brunette hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Thin, black-rimmed glasses were regularly pushed back against her face. I had never seen her speak to me over them, like some might to show distain for an ill-conceived idea or comment, but I suspected she could manage it quite well.
“Tell me about the new job.”
Straight to it. It had been Dr. Tononi’s suggestion to find a job where I could help children in some manner; a way of confronting the guilt while taking practical steps to build up positive outcomes over and above the tragedy I had caused. To try and balance some sort of cosmic scale; to tip fate back in my favour.
Fate is merely the pointless creation of a desperate and fearful mind. This revelation came to me during one of many sleepless nights. I might have heard it somewhere, but it feels like it belongs to me now. I had killed a child and no amount of good deeds can be balanced against that. What heinous crime had little Liliana committed such that fate decided to place me in her path?
Our conversation ebbs and flows and I find my focus drifting. Questions likely from the manuals on Dr. Tononi’s bookcase are answered by what I think she wants to hear. Beside me, on a small clear side-table, condensation drips from a glass of cold water. A pool forms, like life retreating from a mangled body.
“Are you taking your medication?”
She asks me this towards the end of each session. Its both a signal and a threat.
“Yes, most days,” I answer. A variation on the same answer I have provided in previous weeks. It is truth, however. A pill to help me sleep, another to soften the guilt, one more that does something I no longer care to remember. I seem to have skipped straight from mid-thirties to elderly. Popping pills is now as much a part of life as eating and sleeping, when I can manage either. I have been ripped away from young, independent adulthood, with no hope for a return.
“See you next week, Byron.”
*
Water ripples and clashes in the university’s 25-metre pool, driven by student and instructor-created turbulence. Undulations sweep across the surface to crash against the edges of the pool before turning back. A better metaphor for my life would be hard to find.
Across the pool, the other instructors are guiding their charges through their 30-minute lessons. Each class is in a precisely demarcated section with lane markers and submerged platforms for the kids. I have my space and everyone else has theirs.
Physical barriers separate us as surely as my melancholy does.
At the end of the day’s lessons, I leave the pool and offer brief good-byes to students and parents in passing. Dr. Tononi was right to direct me towards a job like this. I am gaining from these experiences; dealing with the grief and reconnecting the shredded parts of my spirit. The progress is glacial and no amount of teaching and medication will fully bring me back.
Other instructors move past me with quiet murmurs of “good-bye” and “excuse me” but warmth and care are missing. They gather in groups at the end of the pool or walk together towards the change rooms. Some are planning an evening out together and others are merely chatting and building friendships. None truly speak with me.
Drips of chlorinated water slide from my fingertips and clothes. The translucent drops momentarily flash into opaque blood red as they hit the floor. A ghostly voice whispers “murderer”, but I am alone.
I look into the water and see a twisted caricature of a man peering back at me. The water is still for once.
*
Home is a sparse studio apartment in the rundown southern parts of the city. There are two locks on the door but only the lower one works. One is probably enough anyway; I don’t have much to steal.
Inside, I keep my meagre positions tidy and the space clean, but an uncleanable dull grey covers the ceiling and walls. The carpet is faded and worn in patches. Dirty light enters through small windows that can’t be scrubbed clear. I both loathe and deserve this place.
The kitchen is like the rest of the apartment: clean with possessions placed where they should be. The atmosphere is depressed by the faded grey walls and dull brown benchtops. I used to enjoy cooking on bright Sundays. The cleaned dishes and cutlery, from breakfast, sit in a cracked drying rack, waiting to be put away once they’ve dried.
A rickety sliding glass door leads onto a small balcony. Another space of contradictions. Peace and safety exist alongside loneliness and separation from the world. Seven stories above street-level provides a conflicted view of nearby smoke stacks and high-rises with parkland nearby and distant green-grey mountains peeking through gaps in the cityscape.
Recent rain has left streaks of dirt across the floor and lower parts of the walls. Dirty water is pooled in a depression in the balcony’s uneven concrete. I swipe at the water with my foot and see Liliana’s blood diluted by rainwater.
*
I haven’t driven since the death of the little girl. In fact, I haven’t been in any road vehicle since: not even buses, taxis or a car driven by someone else. Not that anyone remains in my life to drive me anywhere.
My guilt has kept trains disassociated from the tragedy so, other than walking, I ride the train from home to see Dr. Tononi or to work. There isn’t anywhere else to go. Sometimes I ride the train with no destination at all. I find a window seat and travel through and around the city. The world outside, separated from me by glass and steel, flashes past when the train is at speed, or meanders when the train approaches a curve or station.
Today, I strike out and intentionally walk an unfamiliar path through the busiest part of the city. I remain alone in the crowd and gently sway with the muscle memory of turbulent water.
A frenzied cry from a mother calling to her child cuts through the cacophony of urbanity and the invisible barrier around me. A cold tremor runs down my spine. It is a cry of desperation and hopelessness, as if the deepest fear that keeps parents awake at night was now here in the waking.
I see a little girl run between parked cars with dense traffic bearing down on her. Without thinking, I slice past the people crowded around me and then I have her in my arms. I turn her away from the traffic, looking for the fastest path off the street. A car flashes past and clips me, sending me staggering in the right direction. Searing pain slashes a burning horizontal gash across my back.
We stop on the sidewalk, among shocked onlookers, and gasp for breath. The little girl looks up at me, too stunned for words. Her innocence quickly drains away, to be replaced with a harder edge that seeps into her deep brown eyes. She instinctively knows that her life was but a breath from ending, even if she doesn’t truly understand her mortality.
The little girl’s mother bursts through the bystanders and sweeps the child into an embrace of relief, fear, love and distress. It is a maelstrom of emotions that penetrates my empty spirit and begins to fill it.
A gentle squeeze of my shoulder and a desperately heartfelt thank you and they disappear into the crowd. Perhaps there is a path forward for me after all.
Soon, I am alone; the crowd evaporated once the drama concluded. I am left with the lingering touch, the beautiful words and some optimism.
An onlooker dropped a bottle of juice in the commotion. A puddle of thin, orange fluid spreads slowly across the pavement. The puddle is shaped like the sun, radiating flecks of golden light.
*
Another work day in the pool, yet I am pleased and energised to be here. The water is also calmer today, as if the usual turbulence was connected to my previous inner suffering.
I have never believed in fate and inevitability; the unseeable workings of a cold universe do not control me. However, perhaps our attitude and free will does impact the world around us. Our state of mind and intent might radiate outwards and influence events in somewhat predictable ways.
The pain of being responsible for the death of a child is still part of me; always will be. However, I see that I can help as well. I am not a lost monster, but someone who can do good.
I smile for real, and it’s not the mask I typically wear for the children during swimming lessons. My connection with the children is stronger today; I guide and they follow. Their laughter and determination warms my heart, where nothing previously could.
Lunchtime arrives, signalling the end of the morning’s lessons. As the last family exits the centre, I make my way, alone, to the cafeteria. A sandwich and coffee by myself under a tree in the university’s garden now seems like peaceful solitude rather than enforced exclusion.
These plans are forestalled by the approach of some fellow instructors. They ask if I want to join them today. I am momentarily stunned and fumble for an embarrassing reply of “yes”.
*
The psychiatrist’s room seems different somehow as we begin another session. Looking past Dr. Tononi’s shoulder, I see a small plant in a pale brown pot, sitting on an oak chest of drawers. The arrangement is delicate. Bright green leaves, and three or four straight stalks tipped with white teardrop-shaped flowers, reach for the nearby window.
Oblivious to the doctor’s current line of discussion, I ask her when she got the new plant. Dr. Tononi turns and follows my line of sight, before returning to look at me with a slightly puzzled expression.
“The Peace Lily? It has always been there. Have you not noticed it before today?”
A Peace Lily? Of course it is.
We talk about work, lunch with colleagues, walking through the city and the child in the street. Throughout, I am looking at Dr. Tononi but speaking to the lily. The former offers guidance and the latter comfort. I have been closed to both since the death of the child but now I am open to them.
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Yes, every day,” I answer. I don’t think I need them, but I no longer fear them. For now, they are a helping hand worth holding on to.
Dr. Tononi smiles for the first time and the room brightens.
“I don’t need to see you next week, Byron. Shall we meet again in a month?”
