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English Extension 2 Timothy G. Moore Priorities and Other Unimportances

Priorities and Other Unimportances 1

Marcus Chambers examined his newspaper. This was something he rarely did, though on

Sunday afternoons he routinely purchased the Sunday Telegraph out of tradition, rather than

interest. Today, however, his interests were sparked, by the headline: 'DEAD RECEPTION,' with a

subheading that read 'overuse of cellular devices linked to cancer.' His solicitor's mind instantly saw

a potential law suit against the phone companies2, if he ever happened to have a client he believed

inflicted. There was little in the way of describing the legal ramifications of this in the article,

though, and he decided he would have to do more research when he returned to the office on

Monday.

After a fifteen-minute drive, Marcus returned home with a bag of groceries and a box of

takeaway for dinner. He reached into his pocket, searching for his keys. On the other side of this

thick, wooden door, Lucy could hear the jangling of metal on metal while Marcus searched his

loaded keychain to find the right one, and rushed to open the door before he could.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on him, wrapping her short, pale arms around his

knees.

"Let go please honey, I have to get inside,"

"Did you bring home any dinner?" she inquired, ignoring her father's request. He gazed

down into her deep blue eyes as she craned back her neck to look into his.

"None for you unless you let go and let me bring it inside," he said, smiling down at her as

she detached herself, "Is Mummy around?"

"Of course, silly! She couldn't leave me alone while you were out!"

1 This paradoxical title emphasises the message, forcing the audience to consider a possible meaning behind it, but I’m not totally sure that it makes sense.2 This is a part of appealing to target audience; the middle class’ longing for the downfall of major corporations. I may play on this more in later drafts.

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Pushing past his daughter, Marcus peered around the corner of the entryway to see his

beloved wife standing in the kitchen.

"Mummy! Daddy brought dinner! I told you he would!" the excitement in Lucy's voice was

mirrored by her energetic gait, skipping to her mother's side.

"Did he really? Even though he knew I was making a stir fry?" Mrs. Emily Chambers

replied, with the kind of derisive tone that goes unnoticed by children, but was scathing to Marcus,

at whom this passive-aggression3 was so often directed.

"You didn't tell me that. Why didn't you say something before I went out?" He protested,

searching his brain for a memory of something she may have said that day.

"I'd been preparing for it all day, and I texted you to remind you. And don't tell me you

didn't see it; you're always on that thing."

Marcus didn't reply. He knew he would never win. He just put the takeaway in the fridge,

kissed his wife on the forehead, and sat down at the table, waiting for the stir-fry that was

undoubtedly only minutes away. He switched the television on that hung directly across from his

spot at the table, with family portraits that they had been accumulating since Lucy's first birthday

hanging around it. He always watched the six o'clock news on Sundays, before dinner was ready. It

was his tradition.

"Good morning, Marcus,"

"Morning, Susan. Have I ever told you that you have such beautiful blue eyes?"

3 I don’t think that passive-aggression is the right term. Does it make sense? of 23


"Every morning, Mr. Chambers," as she, also, mentioned every morning. Marcus worked in

a small office, and in fact ran his own company in partnership with a young man called Leon

Greene, less than one year out of university. Like Marcus, Leon finished at the top of his class, and

at the young age of 24 had already drawn so much attention to himself that he attracted job offers

from legal associations nationwide. Leon never aspired to much, nor did he ever want to work hard,

so he turned down all of these offers.

By chance, Marcus stumbled upon him at a pub4 and offered him a partnership in an

independent compensation firm. They hit it off quickly, and after a night of heavy drinking, Leon

agreed. Marcus had been looking for a way out of his firm for a while. Working for 'the man' was

never something that appealed to him2. He would much prefer to be self-employed. Working in a

partnership, Marcus figured, would be the next best option.

There was the ring of the bell that signaled the motion sensor in the door was tripped.

Marcus looked at the clock. "Late again," he muttered under his breath. He listened for the high

pitched laugh of his receptionist, Susan, as Leon inevitably told a terrible joke he heard on the

television over the weekend. It was the only consistent thing about him. That, and his drinking.

"G'day, Marcus,"

"Leon," he replied dismissively, not looking up from his laptop.

"Sorry I'm late, I got a phone call from a client on my way here, and I had to pull over.

Safety first, you know," explained Leon, before adding, "and anyway, if I were caught, do you

know what that kind of thing would do for a lawyer's reputation? Not to mention that the coppers

don't show a lot of respect for people of our profession, even despite the fact you're only in civil

law."

4 Why would Marcus be at a pub? I could put him there having dinner with his family, and he ignores them to go after Leon, adding to the idea that he neglects his family in a later draft, or just change their place and reason for meeting.

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Marcus didn't know why Leon felt it necessary to make excuses for himself. He wasn't his

boss; they were a partnership. He supposed it was partly for his age. He'd spent his whole life

answering to an authority of some kind, and he hadn't yet adjusted to working for nobody but

himself. After all, it had only been a two-month long partnership thus far. He just projected these

things on Marcus.5

Leon moved across the hall to his own office, and just as he sat down, the bell at the door

rang again. Marcus listened to the soft chatting of two women, one of them Susan. He looked out

the office window to get a glimpse of the unknown, to see if he recognised them as a client. Being

only a small office, there was really nowhere you could be without having the capability of seeing

the entirety of the building. Except, of course, in the bathroom.6

Not recognising the woman, Marcus returned to his work. He was researching the article he

read in the paper the day before. He struggled to find anything in the way of evidence, apart from a

couple more news articles, though mostly it was just a lot of people stressing out. Before he could

dig any further through the mountain of the Internet, Susan came in with the day's mail.

"Hey Marcus, were you expecting this letter from Mr. Humphries? He rang the other day to

see if it had arrived yet, so presumably it's important,"7

"Thanks, Susan. Hey," he called, preventing her from returning to her desk, "who was that

that came in before?"

"Oh, it was a, uh... Oh, what was her name..."

5 I think this paragraph needs revising; it’s Marcus’ thought process, but I don’t think it is clear. It seems at times to be the narrator’s voice.6 This paragraph seems to me to go against the concept of Chekov’s Shotgun, in that it seems that this woman will return later in the story, when in fact she does not. The same goes for the statement about the bathroom. It seems its ‘hidden away’ nature will be important later, when it isn’t. The mystery woman’s existence was supposed to be a subtle way of bringing up Trish’s existence, in order to create the funeral, in order to create a meeting point for Marcus and his family. I think I will have to create a new means for this though, and perhaps just omit the statement about the bathroom entirely. Do you agree?7 Her question seems to imply that the letter was unexpected, and the says that the sender rang to inform them. It was supposed to demonstrate Susan’s tendency to be unprofessional/daft, but I don’t know that it achieves this more than it seems like a poor authorial choice.

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"Never mind, just tell me what she wanted."

"Oh, it'll come to me... Anyway, yes, what she wanted... She said she rang us about a month

ago and had been speaking to Trish about an issue she was having at work with her boss. I don't

know what it was, she seemed very uptight about the whole thing."

"What did you say to her? Was she a client or not?"

"Not yet, I think she was just talking to Trish about her eligibility. I just told her the truth."

Susan was confused by Marcus's express interest. A lot about Marcus just seemed odd to her. But

then, many people had said the same of her. But the thing with Marcus was he was so consistent.

While she herself was known to do the occasional strange thing, one always knew exactly what and

when Marcus would engage in one of his weird, almost ritualistic, activities.

"Very well." said Marcus, waving her away with his hand. He was reminded now to send

Trish an email of condolences, setting up a notice on the calendar app of his smart phone.

Trish worked as the office accountant. She also worked the phones on Susan's days off,

which were Mondays and Wednesdays. Sadly, Trish's father died a fortnight ago8, and so Marcus

and Leon decided to give her a few of weeks off and have Susan work the extra two days. They

were to attend the funeral that Friday. To Marcus, that just meant that Trish would be back next

week, and Susan could go back to her regular schedule. He never really knew whether Susan's days

off benefited her or himself more.

8 This is at the start of the week, meaning that the funeral is held three weeks after the death; this timeframe is not commonplace, but can it occur? I may just have the change the time span.

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When he got back to his home in Berowra9, Marcus took a minute to take it in, checking his

phone for any missed calls. This was something he did often. He found he had to steel himself

before going inside to face whatever problem Emily was sure to bring to his attention.

The exterior was nothing too impressive. It was rendered black brick, with a grey front door

and a similarly grey banister on the second floor balcony. It looked small from the front, but inside

one could see the length of it. It had little in the way of a backyard, but what was there was covered

over by painted grey timber decking. Marcus liked this contrast, the progression. The black exterior

a different extreme to the all-white of the interior; furniture, walls and bench top. But between

inside and outside was the grey; a mixture of the two shades. Marcus thought it was very… neat.

Marcus liked the aspects of life that just made sense.

'Where the hell is he?' pondered Emily. He was always late. She knew he finished at five,

and she knew he left then, too. It's not just extra work, like he says. Maybe it's just traffic, she

thought. She made that excuse in her head too often, and she knew it. Lately, though, she'd been

wondering if she could ever expect better. Marcus hadn't changed, he was still the same man she

married, and back then there was a genuine love; there still was, to an extent. After all, you don't get

married unless you're in love.

But maybe that was the problem; all her friends had changed. John and Frances had moved

to Auckland, Jamie and Karl had quit their jobs, and hell, even Gordon had switched from heroine

to cocaine. But Marcus? He still lives in Berowra. He's still a lawyer. He speaks with the same

monotonous voice. He even sits at the same place at the dinner table.

9 This location may not be the environment I want for Marcus, but if I decide to change it, it should be a simple matter. of 23

Bellman, 06/13/16,

Timothy Moore, 06/14/16,


Emily remembered one instance, about a year after their wedding, where she had moved the

coffee table so that you could reach it from the sofa. When Marcus came home, he tripped over it

and scolded her, demanding it be put back.

She considered moving it again at this very moment, even if it was just to see if he would

respond with, "We talked about this," expecting her to recall their conversations from six years ago.

Even when Lucy was born, Marcus never made a single compromise. He never went to his daughter

when she stirred in the night, he never changed her, he never fed her… In fact, Emily could not

remember the last time he had even said the words 'I love you,'; not to his own wife, and not even to

his daughter.

She knew what she had to do.

"Are you ready to go, Lucy?"

"Is Daddy coming?

"No, sweet heart. I've left him a note." Emily signed the bottom of the page as though it

were a legal document or a business transaction. She set the pen down with great reluctance, and

packed the last of hers and Lucy's bags in the boot of the car.

As she sat in the driver's seat, she tried her best not to cry; for Lucy's sake. But she could not

hold it back, and her head rest on the steering wheel. Lucy didn't even know why, but she, too,

began to cry. After all, sadness is contagious. And that is why Emily couldn't stay. Lucy still had a

hope of happiness, and Emily couldn't let Marcus drag them down any further, as he was the

saddest person she knew10. The worst part was that he didn't acknowledge his sadness. It doesn't

make it any less real.

10 This sets up Marcus’ issue as being self-perceived, unintentional and unnecessary; he is merely sad, not resentful. At the same time, this statement represents Marcus as unhappy with his situation, rather than its intention of representing him as unhappy with himself. Later drafts will attempt to clarify this.

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Emily composed herself, pressed the remote that opened the garage, and turned the ignition.

As the door folded open, she saw the light of the world outside, and drove towards it.

"What the..." Marcus followed the car with his eyes as he parked his own vehicle across the

road. He tried to remember if Emily had mentioned going anywhere that afternoon. He saw Lucy

sitting in the back seat, and thought perhaps there was some school orientation. He checked his

phone.

Ignoring it, he now drove into the empty single garage, pulled his keys from the ignition,

and walked into his home. He looked at the clock: 6:36. He threw his keys into the bowl on the

coffee table, paused, stretched, and breathed in deeply through his nose. He stopped, confused. He

breathed in several times more, sharply this time, sniffing the air.

'Strange,' he thought, 'I can't smell any dinner...'

He moved to the kitchen, bent down, and peered into the oven. There wasn't anything there, so he

looked to see if something was left on the bench.

'Nothing! That bloody woman; I work hard all day, and now I have to cook my own meal!'11

He moved to go to the fridge, but he noticed in his peripheral vision a piece of paper sitting

on the dining room table; in his spot. He thought perhaps Emily had left an explanation for her

sudden departure.

He sat at the table and read what was there:

11 This is much too harsh for what I am trying to create for Marcus’ character. It’s too angry, where it was supposed to be a combination of surprise and frustration. This is to be corrected.

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Dear Mr. Chambers,

I have never done anything so difficult in my life. I know that Lucy will probably

miss you, and me just as much. It's just that I think we will be better off…

It's not just you in this world, Marcus.

I'll be to the point; I'm in a hurry. I hoped to speak to you in person, but you're

running late... Again.

I'm leaving you, Marcus. Lucy is going with me. I'm truly sorry... I hope you will

be, too, but I know it's a long shot.12

Goodbye,

EDChambers

P.S. Your takeout from last night is in the fridge.

Marcus didn't know what to do. The first action that came to mind was to update his social

media profiles. He sat and thought for a while, but nothing else came to mind, so he got on his

phone, and changed his status to 'abandoned'13. He didn't post it, though. It was best to conserve his

image until he could sort it all out.

12 Does this last sentence make sense/is it appropriate?13 This reaction is rather ridiculous; I was trying to set up his overuse of cellular phones, but I think this is too much. Will re-evaluate.

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Susan knew there was something terribly wrong with Marcus: he was late. For the first time

in six years, from the firm to the partnership, he was late.

Five minutes went by, then ten, then Leon walked in.

"G'day Susie." Leon got no reply. She just furrowed her brow and picked up the phone,

holding the receiver against her ear with her shoulder, her hands occupied as she reached for her

address book and began punching in the number for Marcus' cell.

"That's not a great greeting, but hey, it's better than what the bouncer gave me last night!"

Leon paused for laughter, but there was none.

"Is everything okay?" Leon straightened his stance.

"I don't think so…" Susan listened for the duration of two rings before a different tone

sounded. It was the door, and Marcus walked into the office.

Susan slammed the receiver back onto the hook, "Morning, Marcus."

"Hey Susan…" he didn’t look up from his phone to reply. He was researching the article

again14. He didn't intend to look into it much further before the previous evening's event, but as he

was trying to get to sleep, he thought about it in detail, trying to keep his mind away from his

newfound solitude15. Because of this, the article was now always at the forefront of his mind, but he

couldn't not dwell on his family.

His train of thought was interrupted, "What do you think of my eyes today?" It was Susan.

"Oh, uh… Very beautiful, they're just… Beautiful."

Susan and Leon, perplexed by his odd behaviour, watched as Marcus moved to his desk.

14 Irony of researching the danger of using mobile phones on a mobile phone intended to communicate that this is a man who isn’t thinking clearly, but I don’t know if this is clear or apparent.15 The word ‘solitude,’ for me, carries positive connotations, when it obviously is not supposed to. Am I being pedantic, or are there any suggestions?

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"That's it," said Leon, "I'm taking him drinking."

"I don't know that that's a good idea…" Susan's concern grew to a level greater than it was

previous.

"Should I ask him why he was late, then?"

"I don't think so... Something's obviously happened. He probably doesn't want to talk about

it. He's always accepted your late excuses; it would probably break his ego if that same person he

has continually forgiven were the one to make that sort of accusation."

"You do it then."

"Me? I… No, I… I think I’d best not."

"Whatever, I'll take him drinking tomorrow night, and he can wash away his problems."

"No, I don't think that's healthy."

"Look, love," Leon turned and quickly glanced at Marcus, who was furiously scrolling his

mouse, "Either we talk it out or drink it out, and I know which I'd prefer."

Susan just waved him away, pulled back her long, blonde hair with both hands, and hung

her head in defeat. Leon walked away, grinning devilishly. When he reached Marcus, he placed

both palms on the desk, and bent down so their faces were level, about thirty centimeters apart.

Marcus didn't look away from the computer.

"So," began Leon, "I've had this wild idea that you might want to go clubbing with me

tomorrow night. I'd take you tonight, but I've made plans with the boys. Besides, tomorrow's got

hump day specials, and you don't want to miss those if you can help it. How's that sound?"16

16 I’ve tried to paint Leon as some kind of legal prodigy, and yet his actions do not really reflect this lifestyle/tone of speech. At the same time, I need Leon to be informal in order to typify attitudes that people of my target audience may have towards younger persons who are newly graduated from university. That said, I need a reason for Marcus to seek this partnership. I don’t know which to compromise on, but I think these two images conflict.

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"Fine, Leon… Just fine…"

"I mean, unless you and the family have plans…"

Marcus didn't reply.

"All right, see you then."

Marcus spent that night on the phone, which wasn't totally unusual; it was what he was

doing with it that made the situation peculiar. Of course, he tried ringing Emily first, several times,

but when she didn’t answer, he tried elsewhere. He called up his in-laws, his friends, his used-to-be

friends, his wife's friends, his daughter's friends— anyone he could think of. He was searching for

his family. But with each and every call, if he wasn't immediately hung up on, he was met with a

denial of knowledge, not only to their whereabouts, but also to the situation. Marcus didn't explain

it to them. It was best to conserve his image until he could sort it all out.

Marcus woke up the next morning with his cell phone laying on his chest. He was still

wearing his clothes from the day before. He picked it up to check the time, but as he craned his neck

to have a look, a sharp, tingling and intense pain ran from the tip of his spine up through his neck17.

His arm shot up, his hand clasping the spot where the spasm occurred.

17 This circumstance is a part of Marcus becoming fearful of the situation discussed in ‘the article,’ though it does seem as though there is legitimately something wrong, when really there is not. Similar to footnote 6.

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He looked back at his mobile, wincing at the motion, his muscles stiff. His mind flicked to

the article he had been researching. He wondered if he had been using his cell to the point of excess;

the kind the article spoke of. Emily had always said he was on it too much...

That thought made his dreary eyes open fully. He got to his feet, took a suit from his

wardrobe, and began preparing for the day's work. He left his phone on the bed.

When Marcus got to work that morning, he had snapped back into his routine. This didn't

help Susan— it only perplexed her even more. And as he gave his customary comment on her

'beautiful eyes,' right on 9 o'clock, she wondered if she should ask about the previous day's events.

She decided against it.

Marcus sat at his desk, switched on his computer, and returned to his research of the article,

though he was driven with a new, much more personal and imminent purpose. Now he was trying

to disprove the article, for his own peace of mind, whereas before he had been searching for signs of

its credibility, for the sake of his business.

The door chimed, and Marcus listened for Susan's laughter as a signal for Leon's arrival.

When he didn't hear anything, he looked up to see who had arrived. It seemed too early to be a

client. Indeed, it was Leon, though he and Susan were speaking unusually quiet. Marcus had more

important things to worry about, though, so he returned his eyes to the laptop.

“G’day, Marcus, me mate,” Leon had, apparently, concluded his conversation with Susan,

“You all set for tonight?”

“Tonight?” Marcus changed his computer window abruptly.

“Remember? You agreed to go drinking with me. It’ll be just like old times.” of 23


“You drink too much, Leon.”

“You’ll be there to supervise me. You agreed to go yesterday, so I’m guessing the change of

heart means the missus has pulled the plug on you, then?”

A small shiver went up Marcus’ spine, “No, no— I can go.”

“Great,” Leon slapped Marcus on the shoulder as he walked away, “I’ll see you at nine

thirty, mate. I’ll pick you up.”

Marcus sat in his armchair, wearing a fun, lime-green tie, and his most casual, grey suit. He

looked at his watch: 10 o’clock exactly. He was staring at the coffee table. He realised that its

position was quite impractical, so he got up and moved it closer to the lounges, so that it could be

reached from a seated position.

The doorbell rang.

Marcus stood, moved to the door, opened it, and saw Leon’s grinning face. “You’re quite

late.”

Leon chuckled, “Get in the car, let’s go!”

The two gentlemen were seated at a round table, on steel framed chairs with peeling, white

paint and faded, torn, red upholstery on thin cushions. Marcus was not at all comfortable. Each had

a schooner, Leon’s significantly closer to being finished than Marcus’.

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“You’ve been… off lately, Marcus,” Leon began, “Is something wrong, or am I just being

sensitive?”

Marcus took a large draught from his schooner, “I’m…” Marcus considered telling him, but

he still hoped to have the situation resolved soon, and until then, he thought it best to conserve his

image, “I’m fine.”

Unbeknownst to Marcus, Leon had planned for them a kind of ‘pub crawl’; they would have

one drink at each bar, nightclub or pub they visited, and then catch a taxi to the next one on Leon’s

list, each location navigating further and further away from Marcus’ comfort zone. Marcus didn’t

know how many they went to in total that night, but it was at about the ninth club, half way through

their ninth drink, that Leon re-posed his question, “Is everything okay at home, mate?”

Marcus, numbed intellectually by the alcohol, no longer cared about his reputation. He let

go, held nothing back, and, at times through tears, explained the whole situation to Leon.

He told of the family situation, he told of his xenophobia, he told of the letter, he told of the

article, he told of the cancer, he told of his phone, he told of just about everything— and Leon

didn’t know how to react, except to say: “Sounds like you need another drink… Or two.”

Marcus had spent that Thursday at home, hungover and deep in contemplation. When he

woke up, he looked down at his tie, or what was left of it. There was a large tear, and it was missing

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about a third of its length. He turned to his left, and observed once again the void in his bed where

his wife used to lay.

He stood, shots of pain pulsating in and through his head, and dragged his feet, still wearing

his shoes from the night before, to the telephone. He did not wish to use it, for fear of his health, but

he would have to let Susan know he was ‘ill’; he was thankful, though, to see the flashing red LED

that signaled a message was waiting, and upon pressing the appropriate button, heard that Susan

was aware. He was also met with a barrage of sympathy and apologetic statements, though he did

not pay attention to any of either. Of course, he had expected Leon would share everything with her.

Marcus all of a sudden felt led18. He moved to his daughter’s bedroom. He turned the golden

doorknob, and cautiously pushed open the door, as though he were afraid he might trip some kind

of motion sensor. As he made his way into the small, dark room, he could just make out through his

newly sober eyes the frilled, pink bedsheets and the white pillowcases that were emblazoned with

emblems of unicorns.

He struggled to see much else, given what little light was breaking through the single,

curtained window in the room. He didn’t want to open it, nor would he switch on the light, for fear

of migraines. He just sat on the end of the bed, and stared into the distance. He stood and moved to

the louvered doors of his daughter’s closet.

He remembered the days when he used to watch Lucy and Emily select a dress each day

from this very wardrobe. Marcus used to buy a new one for her every month, and no matter what,

Lucy always loved his selections. He smiled at the memory, and then began to cry, for that was all it

was; a memory.

18 I don’t know if this statement makes sense. It is supposed to show that Marcus did this without knowing why. Is that clear here?

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His hands trembled (whether this was from the alcohol, the emotion, or a combination of the

two, Marcus did not know)19 as he moved to open the doors. He longed to see it filled with frocks,

praying, against all odds, that he would open it and find his daughter sitting and hiding there.

He pulled the doors open abruptly, and when he beheld but a few empty, bent, wire coat

hangers, he himself sat and hid in the wardrobe, a single tear dripping down his cheek.

The intensity of his sobs grew, and he sat there for the next five minutes, crying like he had

never cried before, not even as a child, more than even Lucy used to in her infancy.

It was then that another electric-like shock shot through his neck, identical to the experience

that occurred two days previous17. As his head jolted with the spasm, his hand reaching to clutch the

inflicted area, he saw, resting on one of the unicorn adorned pillows just as she used to, a sheet of

paper.

He stood, his hand leaving its position on his neck, wiping his eyes with a thumb and

forefinger, and moved to pick up the paper. It was a note from his little girl. He struggled to read it,

some letters printed backwards, most of the words spelled completely wrong, and written in a faint,

pink pencil, but he read it this way20:

Daddy,

Mummy said she was leaving you a note.

Me too!

Love you. See you.

Lucy.

19 Are the parentheses necessary/appropriate?20 Is this how a child would leave a note?

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Marcus began to laugh, the kind of laughter one does when he is overcome with so much

sadness that he has forgotten what tears are for. The note fell from his grasp, landed next to the bed,

and then, as he bent to pick it up, he saw a single shoe. It was made from white canvas, and had

blue flowers on the toe. He searched for its pair, but he found none.

He sat and considered the way that shoes were designed to be opposites; one for the left, one

for the right, an exact mirror of the other. And yet, it occurred to him that one was useless without

its pair. Lucy wouldn’t be able to walk properly with just the one21.

Marcus knew what he had to do. He took Lucy’s note, and began to write one of his own.

His only hope now was that Emily would be at the funeral tomorrow.

Marcus stepped out of his car. He looked around the car park of the funeral centre, searching

for the car he had seen leaving his home just four days ago. He saw Leon’s car, he saw Susan’s car

and he saw Trish’s car. But he couldn’t see Emily’s car. He hoped he was just early.

When he walked into the auditorium, people were still milling around, looking for a seat.

There weren’t many people there yet, though, which gave Marcus hope. He found Trish and

embraced her, kissing her on the cheek. And as he gave her his condolences, he was taken aback

when she requited them, “Marcus, I heard about what happened with Emily. I rang her last night to

see if she was still coming today, and she said she was.”

“Don’t concern yourself with this Trish, not today. Emily and I will work things out yet.

Today’s not about us. I’m here to support you, and your family needs you to be there for them.”

21 The shoes are supposed to be a metaphor for parenting. I don’t know whether to add to it with things like the necessity of shoelaces, or the ‘sole/soul’ homophone. Opinions?

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Trish maintained her solemn face, trying her very best not to cry before the event begun.

Marcus, on the other hand, maintained his solemn face, but tried his very best not to smile at the

knowledge that his wife would be present. He touched his jacket pocket where he had put the note

he had written the night before. The note that Lucy had written.

He found himself a seat and looked around for his wife, but he did not see her come in

through the masses of black-clad attendees. Eventually, the proceedings began, and then they

concluded. Marcus was sorrowful for the death, but most of his focus was devoted to searching for

his spouse among those gathered. He could not find her, but he did not stop scanning he faces; he

needed to give her the note, and if she wasn’t at the funeral, he didn’t know if he would ever get an

opportunity for it.

The event came to a close some time later, and Marcus moved through the crowds of

mourning friends and family. He himself was on the verge of crying22, partly because of the funeral,

but also because he had begun to lose hope of ever finding Emily. Just as he was about to give up,

he went to say goodbye to Trish. But as he moved towards her, he saw his wife standing there also.

He began to walk faster.

Trish saw Marcus making his way towards them, and so she excused herself from the

conversation, embracing Emily just long enough for Marcus to reach them before she could evade

his approach. She let go, and left the two together, praying silently that this day of saying farewell

to her own father might also be a day where Lucy could see hers return.

Marcus did not say anything. He opened his mouth so that he could, but instead, he just

reached inside his jacket, and handed Emily his note.

22 I think Marcus has cried too often. It’s important that I make sure the audience understands the overwhelming nature of his emotions at these points, but at the same time, I am trying to show that even the most robotic of people can have an intense love for family; a grown man who cries all the time is not the most robotic of people. I may have o find a different way to communicate his sadness, or at the very least be more clear as to how little emotional expression Marcus exhibited prior to these events.

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Emily sat in her car and watched Marcus depart in her rear view mirror. When she could no

longer see him, she took the note he had handed her out of her hand bag, and read what was there:

Dear Mrs. Chambers,

I have never done anything so difficult in my life.

I married you, and I said, “‘til death do us part,” and I meant it, and you

did just as much, I’m sure. This is not an accusation; this is an apology, for I

have broken this oath. It took your leaving to realise this, for which I thank you.

This past few days, I realised that the parting of married couples can occur in

more ways than is literal. I left you a long time ago, by which I mean I stopped

treating you like my wife. I didn’t respect you. I didn’t thank you. I never said I

love you. But know this: I always did, I just forgot it. Forgive me.

I’ll be to the point; I want you and Lucy back. The facts are that I can’t

imagine a life without my two favourite people in the world by my side, and

that despite this all I could do was drive you out of it. I hope you will give me,

and if not, I hope I can forgive myself, though on both counts, I know it’s a long

shot.

From a man who made himself the only one in this world and got what

he wished for, I love you both ‘til the day I die,

Marcus

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P.S. Thank Lucy for her note, and tell her that I have her other shoe, and

that I hope the two will be reunited sometime soon.

Marcus didn’t sleep that night. He just prayed that Emily would return, and bring his

daughter back. He found himself still seated on the armchair he had sat down on when he returned

from the previous day’s funeral, even fourteen hours later. The television was on, but he could not

pay it any attention; his mind was elsewhere. He looked at the clock

Emily didn’t sleep that night. She was busy hurriedly packing hers and Lucy’s things back

into the large suitcases. When she had finished, she looked at the clock.

Lucy picked up a white, canvas shoe with blue flowers on the toe. Mummy had told her that

she had left it back home, and that Daddy had it and was going to give it to her when they got back.

She had enjoyed the holiday at the hotel, but she had missed Daddy.

“What time is it, Mummy?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

It was 5:13 am.

Marcus sat in his armchair. He had managed to summon enough coordination and energy to

make himself a bowl of cereal. It was 11 o’clock in the morning, and he was still waiting and

wishing for his family to drive into the garage, visualising the scene of their reunion in his mind. He

had parked his car on the street the day before for that reason; it gave him hope.

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Emily sat in the driver’s seat, laughing through her tears. Lucy didn’t know why, but she

began to laugh, too. After all, laughter is contagious. And that is why they had to go back. Marcus

had a sadness inside of him that he couldn’t fight alone. It didn’t have to be just him in the world.

He had taken that first step, and she had to guide and encourage him to take many more.

When she drove towards the house that she had driven away from five days ago, she saw the

black exterior of the building. But the garage door was open, and from it she could see light

escaping into the outside world.

Lucy began to cheer as they went up the driveway, and Emily, holding back tears, began to

smile, hopeful for their future.

Marcus was watching the whole scene from his chair through the front window, but he was

so overwhelmed with emotion that he could not rush to greet them as he had hoped he would. He

just sat and looked towards the door that connected the house to the garage, waiting for somebody

to go through it.

Lucy burst through in a fit of excitement, “Daddy! We’re back! Where is my shoe?”

Marcus laughed at the question before answering, “I left it on your bed.” He watched as his

daughter raced to her bedroom to get it, perplexed by her footwear-induced vigour.

Emily came through the door much more slowly than Lucy. She saw Marcus in his chair and

wondered for a moment if he really had changed or if she had been fooled, but then, when he

looked towards her, and she saw tears in his eyes, she ran to him. She tripped on the coffee table

that Marcus had moved, and fell into Marcus’ lap.

The two looked into each other’s eyes, and laughed hysterically.

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Lucy came running back into the room. She was wearing a pair of white canvas shoes, with

blue flowers on the toes, and sprinted towards her parents, throwing herself at them. She landed,

and the family had become but a pile of bodies, though each individual filled with a new hope for

their own and each other’s future; as a family.

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