NARROW ESCAPE

She wears block colours because she read that’s how rich people dress. She listens to the same song over and over to delay what comes next. She eats salt and vinegar chips because it reminds her of a feeling she’s trying to recreateShe likes car rides between moments that become the moment. 

He taught her to drive when she was 12 years old because he wanted her to feel she was in control of where she was going;showed her how to walk into any room like she belonged. They saw a movie together on every birthday, sitting in silence as new worlds unfold before them. He laughed at the thought of ever leaving her behind like Kevin in Home Alone. When Mufasa died in The Lion King, she linked her arm with his as they sat side by side. His own father showed him how to get the five-finger discount. Gave him a pack of cigarettes on his tenth birthday.

She reaches for his hand now to check his warmth while the nurse adjusts a tube, and checks his pupils with a little torch. She winced as the stainless steel object was held closely to her father’s eyes, the white light designed to provoke. The machine beepsed reassuringly, with a rhythm like a song on repeat.

*

At 10 in the morning, the cinema is empty except for a group of parents with babies. After the hospital, she needed to be outside of herself. She sits alone near the front exit, reassured by the thought of a quick exit if there is a phone call. 

Babies don’t know that when the lights go down, you’re meant to be quiet. The movie is punctured by shrieks and desperate sounds for love or food or something that can’t be easily translated. Even if the parents tried to comfort and soothe, the sounds won’tstop. The noise is everywhere, inside and outside of her.

She notices a man stand and rock his child in his arms. The child’s head is resting securely in the cradle of his elbow. The father slowly paces in the empty carpeted space beneath the screen. No sound comes from his mouth, but his presence is his child’s comfort. He sways from side to side, moves the child’s position so that the child rests upright with their chin on his left shoulder. He turns and changes his direction towards the exit, sees her watching him and smiles. 

In her pocket, her phone buzzes.

They say time blindness is real. She just thought it was a character flaw that she was constantly trying to amend. When they agreed to meet under the clocks at two o’clock, she saw it as a chance to try again.

She was late, had run most of the way to the station and only just made the train as it was pulling up to the platform. She usually avoided the train because it was too loud, with too many people, too unpredictable. This one  smelled of hot chips—the sweaty stench of another person’s food too pungent for the space. She checked her backpack and realised she left her phone at home. There it was, in her mind, sitting on her bedside table, mocking her.

Every day was like this. Even though she wanted to be on time, she could not bear the feeling of being early. The waiting, the anticipation of something about to happen. The churn of her stomach, the throat closing up. She went through each day motivated by adrenaline and the race against the clock. She thought she could get ready in ten, 15, 20 minutes, when reality told her she needed an hour at least.

He chose the meeting place. Under the clocks seemed old fashioned. Did it mean something to meet there? As she tried to slow her breathing, she wondered which clocks he meant. 

Without a phone she felt lost. She couldn’t search for answers or message him to clarify. She had no concept of the time. Thought about asking the person near her, but they had headphones in and she didn’t want to be that kind of person.

How long would he wait if she was late?

It had been so long since she last caught a train, she had forgotten the stops along the train line and needed to wait  for the speakers and the digital screen to announce the next station. She could not slow her breathing, or her heartrate. 

She hadn’t wanted the last time to be the last time together but she had needed to find out who she was without him. Right person, bad timing, she told him. That was a year ago. Since then she’d learned that time does not wait for anyone.

She stood and braced herself for the pull of gravity as the train pulled up to Flinders Street. The doors opened as another passenger pushed the green button. At the base of the escalator, she tucked her thumbs in the straps of her backpack and looked up. 

As she imagined him leaving, exasperated that she had kept him waiting, she missed a step. Falling upwards, her hands weren’t quick enough to brace her awkwardness. She saw the world in slow motion as her cheek met the metal edge of the escalator step. Even as she lay across the moving metal steps, she was aware of concerned voices around her. Each movement of the escalator beneath her body told her time was running out.

She pulled herself upright as the metal steps reached the top. She stepped onto solid ground, touched her face with her fingers, felt the sting and throb where the metal had scraped skin.

Two women asked if she was OK, but she waved their concerns off.

She straightened her skirt, tightened the straps on her backpack and walked towards the clocks, every click of her heel striking the ground, keeping time like a metronome.