Cutting Ties to Tara: Chapter One

When enduring something terrible, the drive for escape is strong. When escape is not an option, this feeling of inner turmoil, of pent up, adrenalin fuelled, impotent action must be the best our bodies can do.

‘So, yeah, I haven’t had it diagnosed or anything, but you just know your own body don’t you. Since cutting out gluten I have literally, never felt better.’

If the next bus that comes along isn’t mine, I’m stepping out in front of it. ‘That’s great Georgia.’ If she circles back to her bowel movements, I will have no choice but to throw her in front of one. When did this become okay? When did society give the big tick to discuss our innermost workings in public places with near strangers? It’s gotta be social media's fault somehow.

‘My flatmate’s Vegan, I’ve been thinking about-.’

Oh, hell no. ‘Go to go, this is my bus. See you Monday.’ I launch myself toward the door of the still moving vehicle. I escape into the sweaty stranger packed, fart box that will be my freedom.

I stumble down the aisle as the bus swings back into traffic. I spot an empty seat, middle of the bus, this must be my penance for the twenty minutes with Georgia. I slide in, tuck my bag on the seat beside me and relax, my personal space respected. Only two stops later though my brief triumph is over.

Three people have just climbed on, the only empty seat on the bus is the one beside me. I lift my bag into my lap and shimmy toward the window, then I watch the three as they move through the bus, making my personal, hopeful selection, crossing my fingers it will be anyone but the homeless guy who joins me. No surprises though, I’m shoulder to shoulder with an unwashed man a few moments later. I slide a little further over, I’m hard up against the window, but the man beside me takes this as an opportunity to stretch out a little more. I’ve made zero ground. I’ve been breathing through my mouth since he sat down as I’m often forced to do on my commute, but I risk a few breaths through my nose now. All I can smell is stale cigarette smoke, the persistent, remnant odour your couch gives off after a solid ten years of smoking inside. It’s comforting.

I’m being unkind to this man, assuming the worse, distancing myself from one of society's less fortunate; where the hell is my empathy. He may have a story that would shock me, that would tug at my heart strings. He must have people who love him, what if someone I love ended up in his position one day? I know I’d want people to be kind. I ease off the pressure on the window sill and force myself to relax as much as anyone can when they're trying to force it.

I’m only a few stops from home when that tiny buzz of relaxation I’ve managed to conjure flees with haste. The man next to me has begun to breathe heavily, it’s raspy and laboured and it first I’m concerned for his health. Then he wriggles beside me, plunges his hand into his pocket – elbowing me in the process – and begins fossicking around in there. The heavy breathing and the movement of the hand in his pocket makes my one-sided, digestive conversation with Georgia seem like a night out on the town; I’ve reached new heights of discomfort and I’m feeling the dizziness to prove it. The pocket motion becomes increasingly ferocious, the heavy breathing follows suit, my anxiety reaches a crescendo and I’m worried I’m going to need to leap out of my seat and scale the heads of the people in front of me at any moment. Should I just scream? Would that be an acceptable response right now? Surely it-. Ouch! I take another painful elbow to the ribs as the man retrieves his hand from his pocket. He pops a peppermint in his mouth. ‘Oh.’ He plunges the hand back in – another damn elbow – and retrieves the tube of mints. ‘You want one?’

‘No thank you.’ I squeak.

As I walk the few blocks from bus stop to home I’m thinking about work. It’s hard to leave it at the office, hard to shut it off. What I wouldn’t give for a weekend where it didn’t enter my mind. What’s it doing to me to have these sorts of things pop in and out of my mind like a grocery list? What I wouldn’t give to think about taxes or some shit. Boredom; boredom would be great, if thoughts of my work ever begin to bore me I know I’m in serious trouble. I’m thinking about this as I round the final corner and catch sight of my house. Sitting in the driveway is a white car.

I get a little closer and I can see there is someone sitting in the driver’s seat. I can’t make out any features but the shaded figure is unmistakably male. I walk around the side of the car, coming to a stop at this stranger’s door. I don’t think I know him, maybe I should be nervous, but even in this poor light, he doesn’t look threatening. Besides, I reason, if he meant me harm he’d have been far better served to wait in the bushes. He sees me approaching and swings the car door open, almost clipping my leg in the process; I jump back and out of the way, he doesn’t apologise. He climbs out of the car and shuts the door behind him and pats his pocket, checking something is there. When he’s reassured, he smiles, then steps toward me with familiarity as though we’re old friends. That’s when it hits me: we are old friends.

‘Em, it’s so good to see you.’ He takes a further step forward and I take another back, automatically maintaining the distance between us. He pauses, my discomfort seems to surprise him and I realise that he might have been intending to lean in and hug me. I’m not a huggy person, an old friend should remember these things.

‘Josh,’ I say with genuine disbelief as I throw open my hands – that’s as far as I’m willing to go. My gesture has a dual purpose, it encompasses my wonderment at what he could possibly be doing in my front yard and further solidifies that distance between us. I really don’t want a hug. ‘It’s been a long time.’

He laughs, ‘Yeah, it has. God, it must have been what, fifteen years?’

‘Fourteen,’ I say. I feel so old when I hear this enormous number come out of my mouth.

‘Wow,’ Josh says. He puts his hands on his hips and leans back against his car. Is he waiting for something? I know I am; I want to know what he’s doing here.

‘Oh, do you wanna come in?’ I ask, my manners recalled

‘That’d be great,’ he says, smiling, but the enthusiasm feels a little forced to me.

Once we’re inside I turn on some lights and retreat to the safety of the kitchen because I need to take a few minutes to collect myself. I shout, ‘You want a coffee?’

‘Yeah, I’d love one, thanks.’

I set to work and my mind starts theorising – I can’t help it, it’s a go to. Invitation to a school reunion? An email would suffice. Just in town and wanting to stop by for a visit? How the hell does he even know where I live? I’m hardly going to get anywhere in my own head so I shut it down; I just need to get out there and hear his explanation. I’ll use this time instead, as I wait for the water, to muster a little calm. There are long suppressed memories fighting their way into my mind right now and it’s going to be hard to carry a conversation if I don’t first get them under control.

When the coffee and my resolve is prepared, I emerge from my kitchen with both. I slide his cup onto the dining table in front of him and take the seat directly opposite, hands clutched around the warmth of the mug. I don’t take a sip, instead, I fix him with a look that reads cut to the chase because I’ve already used up my awkwardness tolerance quota sometime around lunchtime today.

‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ he tells me. ‘I really don’t think you’ve aged a day since you were eighteen.’ I smile and hold back the urge to say, neither have you because I’d be lying. Josh looks older, hardened, he looks as though he’s lived a demanding life, one that’s taken things from him. Not surprisingly though, it seems to have contributed some as well though. He has an air of success, maturity, wisdom, and though he looks equally as different as I apparently do similar, I can still see that good-looking kid who thought he could charm his way out of any kind of trouble. The kid who had plenty of opportunities to test that theory out.

‘You really do look great Em; are you happy?’

What a whopper of a question. It’s way deeper than I’d planned on going and unnaturally soon in the conversation. ‘Um.’ Is all I can squeeze out before he seems to realise these things himself.

‘Do you own this place?’ He asks, looking around. What he’s really doing is giving me an out, I appreciate it.

‘No, it’s a rental.’

‘Do you live alone?’

‘No, I have flatmates.’

‘Are they home?’

‘Ah, I don’t think so.’ His questions are beginning to worry me. Does he do a spot of murder on the side?

‘When was the last time you heard from Tara,’ he asks next and the veil is lifted; my vision is twenty-twenty now. What was I thinking? It was always going to be Tara.

‘You’re a Cop now, right? I heard that from someone, probably my dad. You work in Dunedin, or somewhere down south.’ I’m not deflecting, I have the sense it’s relevant.

‘I am. I’m a detective right here in Auckland actually, I’ve been here for five years or so.’ This last bit isn’t without apology. We’ve been living in the same city for five years and he’s only finally reaching out to me because Tara needs something.

‘Your life took a surprising turn,’ I say, smirking.

‘You didn’t expect me to wind up on this side of the law, did you?’ Josh sees the humor, how could he not? He presses his lips together, fighting his own smirk no doubt.

It’s very clear that he’s not here to reminisce though so I come back to his original question. ‘I haven’t heard from Tara in twelve years,’ I tell him, so clearly remembering the last communication we had. ‘Haven’t seen her for fourteen, you remember when I left.’

‘You were in contact after you left town then? A couple of years later?’

‘Yeah, she did call me two years later but she was wasted at the time. She didn’t make much sense and in the end, I hung up on her.’ I feel awful admitting this to him; he’s surely judging me.

‘Oh.’ He looks disappointed; I’m disappointed in myself. ‘I’d hoped you might have had contact with her recently. No calls? No missed calls from numbers you don’t recognise?’

‘Um, I don’t think so but, I don’t know. You want me to think back through all missed calls from unknown numbers? How far back? That’s… thorough. What’s going on Josh?’

‘She’s missing.’ The old friend wins out then. Josh watches me carefully for a reaction, the detective is hovering. ‘No one has seen or heard from her in almost a month. People in her life are very concerned for her safety.’