Angst

In July 2016, Rhea and I attended a civic education presentation.

My old college library hosted the event, refurbished as a community hall.

It was strange being in a space where my memory connected with shelves of books and study tables—now replaced by a stage, rows of temporary fold-out seating and a tea and coffee social area.

We attended because Phoebe received an award for French essay composition. She studied to become a teacher. Rhea and I eased into the guest seating. Phoebe joined friends and peers in the front row as a prize recipient.

I glanced through the provided program to ascertain when our daughter would be on the stage — a pre-formalities duet recital played The Trout. The music made me recall Jenny, then Josh.

When the performance concluded, an announcer came on stage and apologised, stating the advertised presenter was indisposed at short notice. The awards would now be presented by— Ruby!

It emerged as a new experience to hear the minx, the brunette, the pixie: Rubes, introduced by her formal titles.

She entered the stage and was presented as a Doctor of Philosophy, wearing her academic gown and cap. I remember she studied French at Sorbonne.

Her Parisian derriere flashed.

Squirming in my seat, I berated myself; Ruby equalled more than sex.

Yet so, help me; sex and Ruby —sync.

I scrutinised her presentation on stage as the evening formalities progressed. She spoke eloquently at the rostrum, advocating for language study before presenting the awards.

She had no ponytail or pixie cut. Her chocolate hair was styled straight at shoulder length. Her hair appeared darker, too. Perhaps she had dyed it, or the hall lighting cast a shadow?

Ruby presented Phoebe with her certificate and voucher prize. As Phoebe's name was called and she stepped onto the stage, Ruby glanced towards the guest seating.

We acknowledged each other briefly with matching eyes, though Ruby professionally remained focused on the procedure of the event.

Rhea sidled to the aisle and photographed Phoebe receiving her award and a handshake of congratulation.

We clapped politely through the rest of the presentations.

After the formal part of the evening, Phoebe requested time amongst her uni friends.

Rhea and I were happy to mingle and drink coffee and sample cake. A couple of friendly, gossipy mothers waylaid my partner. I sidled, sourcing an extra coffee and a different piece of cake.

At the instant hot water dispenser, Ruby filled a foam cup. I waited as she added milk. I thought she liked her coffee black. We exchanged social smiles. Breaking the ice between us proved easy, courtesy of my youngest daughter. Phoebe gave us a starting point.

Then, surprisingly, it was the cake.

I selected a slice of chocolate cake. Ruby picked the same, and we munched.

My tongue caught a flavour snatch I couldn't place. 

Ruby flashed her teeth.

I acknowledged, "An ingredient eludes me."

"Yes, it's a spiced chocolate cake," Ruby's voice teased as she did as a teenager.

"Cinnamon, brandy and something else is in it. A spice — escapes me," I said, puzzled.

"Nutmeg," Ruby perked, bobbing her head, "Nutmeg, one of my mum's favourite spices," she repeated to help me remember.

I remembered except it was nutmeg and broccoli.

"I'm glad you're here," Ruby said, "Can we talk?"

I expected her to walk away, the social conversation complete.

Her words startled me.

Ruby was seeking me!

Her forehead creased, fine wrinkles joined and latticed at her eyes and mouth. A tremble rolled through her fingers; her coffee sloshed. The small splash dropped and disappeared into the dark carpet.

She lifted her black slip-on shoe to rub in the spill.

Gulping a quick mouthful of coffee, she pointed to an alcove.

She emptied her hands, slapdash, dumping the coffee and cake on a side table.

In the corner of our former college library, Ruby launched full sail.

"You recall the mass shooting at Pulse nightclub in Florida in June? Well, Michael was there!"

I plunked my coffee cup and abandoned my cake on the table; it steadied me as I gripped its edge.

"Michael!"

My mind whirred fraught images and sounds — jumbled from television, radio and online. Yet another shooting extinguishing individual unfinished lives.

I rattled words at her, "Hell, Michael! I didn't hear his name linked to the tragedy!"

"No, he wasn't hurt bad," she continued, "He copped fragments in his butt. Yeah, his butt! He suffered enough pain to be under local anaesthetic and discharged with painkillers."

"How is he? How is he coping?" I asked wide-eyed.

I wondered how Michael coped in the aftermath and endured the excruciating crime. 

Those who survive live with the emotional aftermath —they live with the dead.

"Oh, he's doing okay," Ruby assured me, "His partner Phillip escaped unhurt. Philip and Michael supported each other through the aftermath."

I concurred, "Yes, having support after something like…."

The right words at the moment evaded me.

My instincts told me to squeeze her shoulder, but I couldn't.

I locked my fingers instead.

The folds in Ruby's gown hid her hands.

"As the boys travelled on holiday, they didn't know anyone murdered. This provided some relief to their angst. However, not mine!"

"Your torment!" I asked, my forehead furrowed.

I couldn't understand Ruby implying the events at the nightclub impacted her — deeper!

"Yes, and I can't explain tonight," she stated, "I've wanted to talk about it since the night it happened, but who would listen?"

I reckoned she would have told Coral as her bestie; then, I figured Ruby wouldn't stir memories of the Granville train crash.

"You know me," her hands spread like her mother's.

I anticipated her youthful, impish eyelash flutter. Then I berated myself; it didn't belong here.

"I never unloaded my depths when young. However, the night Michael was wounded, my behaviour mortified me!"

Her arms were tucked; her petite frame compacted to its core.

Ruby felt ashamed! Why?

I shuffled closer to her.

I deliberated, patting her arm; show you care!

Instead, I met Ruby's eyes.

Eyes clamped, lust free, as one person to another.

Our mutual empathy was wrapped in another's bind as Ruby unburdened words from her soul at semi-automatic speed.

I noticed minute grey hairs in one spot near her ear.

"I saw you here tonight, and it struck me that you would listen. Yes, you," Ruby said, her eyes penetrating me sincerely.

My head canted, seeking her elaboration.

"My mum, on several occasions growing up, had said, Talk to Luke!"

From the depths of hell, what happened to Ruby as a teenager?

Her immediate angst, however, required my empathy.

"My last long-term relationship ended," she started.

Ruby and her fiery pairings!

"In short, I lost out; the guy cheated on me with a younger woman. Hey, that's life! It hurt!"

Her face matched the slumped pixie at a Paris cafe table.

As Ruby peered behind me, her voice gathered, "You conjured luck. She has eyes only for you."

Over my shoulder, my eyes lighted as I glanced at Rhea across the packed room. Alongside Phoebe, she chatted in a social group.

Open-handed, I urged Ruby to continue.

"Anyway, I partied hard, and the night Michael clubbed, I steered two guys home."

I knew Ruby would rebound. I wondered how sex connected to her role as an anxious mother.

"Jesus! I spent the night screwing two guys whilst my son faced mortal danger!"

She balled up handfuls of her black gown into her palms and wrung it.

I realised Ruby felt shame over the timing of the encounter.

"At three in the morning, Michael phoned. I jumped out of bed naked and multitasked. As chaotic, he unloaded the details. As my heart absorbed my son's words, I skedaddled two dudes out of my bedroom in silent mode."

Her eyebrows lowered, and her lashes limped.

"When Michael ended the call, I raged in self-loathing. I indulged in indescribable pleasure whilst my boy, Phillip, and others coursed through indescribable ache and anguish."

She wrung her hands.

"I entered a church for the first time since age thirteen. I lit forty-nine candles. And as I lit each one, I laboured to grasp: How in God's name do we live in a world where these things happen?"

Her spirit bled.

Hug her; my instincts pushed.

I did not obey; I failed, thwarted by the past.

Her lips pursed together.

I recalled them sealed to mine - once.

Sealed lips were of no consequence versus unmeasurable tribulations, rippling from Pulse.

Ruby and I, two heart-beatings beings, were confronting the wretchedly incomprehensible.

I probed, "Have you seen Michael since?"

"Yes," she responded, then her lips squeezed tight.

She nearly retreated to the young Ruby, who never revealed any extra information.

I spread my hands wide, encouraging her to elaborate.

Ruby breathed deeply and continued, "I flew to the States. Michael recovered fine. Physically, he's okay. As for his mental health - he has Phillip. I couldn't tell him where and what I did when pellets splattered into his backside."

She cradled her head.

"I lied. I said he woke me. Geez, Luke, I can never change anything about it! Should I chance to tell Michael the truth? Would he respect me going forward if I unload?"

She slumped, drained.

"Hold it," I advised.

Even though I believed Michael, as a son, could forgive his mum anything.

"Don't be hard on yourself, Ruby. And drink your coffee. Cold, isn't you."

"Thanks for listening," she said; her hand started yet halted short of patting my forearm.

She pivoted and topped her coffee. I drank cold coffee. Two slices of chocolate cake lay deserted, half-eaten.

Joining Ruby, I replenished my cup.

I started, "Your mother—"

Ruby came in over me, "Oh, it's fine. She adores Michael. She coped better than me. She has faith and prayers to solve her life worries."

"No, I meant what she wrote for you inside a book cover. Are you contrite in yourself?"

"Christ, St Luke, you should have been a priest! Mmm, contrite? I'll take it; I am."

Ruby touched my arm, and I felt only empathy.

Still, I hovered and failed to lay a returning hand on her.

Ruby took quick sips of her coffee and genuinely astonished me.

She said frankly, "I'm sorry too for not leaving you more gently after returning from Paris. I thought you were aware of my dalliance in Perth, but you must agree that we would never have made it long-term!"

Ruby's eyes revitalised, and her lashes fluttered, invigorated.

As a new starting point, we swapped phone contacts before she was ushered off, socialising with professional colleagues.

My ego accepted in our old college library: my young man's yearnings for Ruby belonged in Paris.