Six Minutes

By Kathy Roberts

Three very different people.
One horrific event.
Three lives collide, intertwine, come apart in the lingering shadow of that moment.
A haunting, absorbing tale of entangled lives and the struggle to find peace and meaning in a frightening, unpredictable world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Jul 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781772570113

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A small boy jumps into the air. A snapshot of him frozen at the top of his jump would be a perfect picture: A five-by-seven colour print in a simple, old-fashioned wooden frame. The image would capture the wispy clouds contrasting against the blue sky, the impressive size of the old oak tree behind the boy, and the sunlight reflecting on the pool’s surface—the water that the boy is about to enter with a huge splash. The picture would forever freeze the energy and enthusiasm pumping through every ounce of the boy’s body. Fists clenched, legs kicking, arms reaching, and muscles taut. The picture would catch the huge grin—a smile so pure, real, and innocent. A smile that lights up the boy’s face and shines in deep brown eyes. A smile that is full of excitement, pride, and joy.

The picture would also be perfect because of what it would not capture. It would not capture all of the other events that had happened—that were happening—that would happen. All of the decisions, lies, mistakes, thoughts, and emotions that one cannot see. All of the interactions that made that moment—that jump—not really at all what it appears to be.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2009

Morning

Abbey

Abbey woke early with the same sad feeling she experienced most mornings. Maybe from a bad dream? Why could she never remember her dreams? Sitting up and swinging sleepy legs off of the bed, she shut her eyes, took one slow, deep breath, and told herself, Have a good day. Don’t let things bug you. Every morning started the same way. But why did she bother? The pep talk never lasted. She soon forgot the words of encouragement until the next morning when she repeated them again. Every day was the same—she got caught up in the details of getting through the day, her energy fading with each task, her tolerance dwindling with each incident, her patience weakening with each interaction. And then she came home at the end of the day battered and beaten.

The phone rang. A lackluster look at the call display: Unavailable Name 416–847–1418. Her mom’s phone number. Her shoulders slumped, she massaged a pulsating temple. She had to answer. Mom rarely called, and when she did it was for a specific reason. If Abbey did not answer, Mom would call her at home again, then try her cell, then email, then text, then call her at home until she answered. The inevitable conversation would start off with accusations and excuses.

Hi, Mom. I’m in a hurry. I need to get to work early today. She started to pace.

Abbey’s mom coughed nervously. Oh, hi, Abigail. Well, I’m just calling to remind you that it’s Colin’s birthday tomorrow. Remember? We’d talked about lunch? Um, well, we’re hoping that it still works ... and that you ... that you can still come? An angry male voice came from the background. A crackling sounded, a hand covering the phone, and then a timid, muted voice pleaded, I’m on the phone.

Abbey stopped pacing, flung herself onto her bed, and groaned inside. The last thing in the world she wanted to do tomorrow was to go to her stepfather’s birthday lunch. It was as though he had stepped into her mom’s life from a time machine traveling from the 1940s. He was nice to the point of being weak, frumpy to the point of being sloppy, and shy to the point of being secretive. Feminine, old-fashioned, and un-engaging, he actually reminded Abbey of her childhood doll. She had wanted the other doll—the one that she did not get, that all of the other girls had—the doll that was fresh and real, not chubby and dull. What about her doll reminded her of Colin? The feeling as though they had been spray-painted with a coat of drab. Abbey had eventually loved her sad, cheap doll, out of some kind of faded hope and pity, and she assumed that her mom was doing the same with Colin.

Rolling onto her stomach, she racked her brain for an excuse. But the only ones that came to mind were not believable or had already been used—a flood at the office, a bridal shower, an infected toenail. And she realized, with a sinking heart, that if she did not see her mom on these scarce special occasions, her mom would start wanting to see her even more. Abbey preferred the status quo of limited contact.

Yes, Mom, I remember. I’ll be there, Abbey said in the most neutral tone possible. She chewed her fingernails as her mom ended the call with some details about the lunch.

Rustling sounds came from her roommate Katie’s bedroom. Abbey tried to hurry and finish getting dressed. She really liked Katie, but still did not want to see her. Katie was always so much effort. She was sort of like a puppy—chummy and loyal, but always underfoot with her relentless enthusiasm.

Going into autopilot, Abbey did her routine exactly as she did it each and every other morning. Step One was to make the bed, fold her pajamas, and then place folded pajamas on top of one of her pillows. She had three pairs of the same pajamas. Short, black, cotton-slip nighties that she had worn for years. She had three pillows. Each pillow had its own reserved spot, and the folded pajamas always went on top of the same pillow. She folded down one corner of her duvet—the corner closest to the pillow with the pajamas on top. Step Two was teeth and face. Once she got the perfect amount of toothpaste on her toothbrush, she brushed her teeth. She took the time to get the water to the perfect temperature and then washed her face—starting at her chin and rubbing the soap in small counter-clockwise motions. Step Three was getting showered and dressed. Tight, dark clothes slid onto her athletic, curvy build. Step Four, hair and makeup, never took long. Shiny, black hair was quickly brushed straight. Her eyelashes were too dark and thick for mascara, and her cheekbones too high for blush. The only makeup she wore was lipstick, and she always wore lipstick—covering up the big, full lips that otherwise looked mannish and exactly like her dad’s. The final step was to tidy up everything from the morning and get everything ready for when she returned. The routine always had to be in that order. She never considered washing her face in the shower or making her bed after getting dressed. She never considered rubbing the soap in clockwise motions.

She burst through the revolving door of her apartment building and rushed toward the subway. Dodging around a large man trudging heavily like a troll, she just missed a train. She waited six minutes for the next one. She stood at the spot on the platform that usually got her right in front of the door, but this time when the subway car stopped she was between two doors. The crowd pushed in front of her and a petite, middle-aged man took the last seat. Abbey was left standing by the door in a space big enough for two people, but stuffed with five. She was squished between a man breathing too loudly through his nose and another holding onto the high handle so that her face was far too close to his armpit. Staring at her feet and grinding her teeth, she heard her name.

Ahh-bee?

She had to turn closer toward the armpit to see who was mispronouncing her name.

Ruth Sinclair, a junior graphic designer from her office waved frantically. Ahh-bee? Over here. It’s me. Short, jagged, orange hair framed a shiny face, and she had on the same outfit that she wore every day in a different colour—boyish cotton pants and a collared button-down shirt. Today the pants and shirt were both royal blue.

Oh, hi, Ruth, Abbey said, flashing her best fake smile. She hoped that would be enough, but of course it was not.

Ruth aggressively plowed through the crowd toward Abbey and ducked under the armpit. Did you hear what happened yesterday? You are not going to believe it.

Why did people have to hold conversations on crowded subways? Could they not see the other passengers? Did they not realize that everyone would listen to the conversation? Abbey sighed and pretended to be interested.

"So, you know how the copy was supposed to go to Lana for final review? Well, guess what? It never got sent to her. They said they forgot to send it to her, but I think—no, I know that they did it on purpose to make the deadline. So, of course there was a mistake. A big mistake. Like they actually misspelt the name of the product mistake. So, of course the client is furious and guess who gets blamed? Guess?"

Abbey shrugged.

Ruth continued, undeterred by Abbey’s blank stare. I’ll tell you. You’re not going to believe it. Lana. Lana gets blamed. So now the client is furious at Lana and she didn’t even do anything. Absolutely nothing. Now there’s no way it’ll launch on time. And now, for the worst part, I’ll probably have to work again this weekend. Ugggh. Like that’s fair. Like this is somehow my fault. My boyfriend is going to absolutely kill me if I work the weekend again. He says I don’t get paid enough to work these hours. He knows a guy who—

The subway stopped at Abbey’s and Ruth’s station, and Abbey quickly dashed ahead. She ruthlessly cut people off and weaved in and out of the crowd as she rushed out of the subway station and away from Ruth.

She walked south toward her office, thinking of all of the tasks that she had to do that day. As an account executive at a large advertising agency, she had a long list of daily tasks. The youngest female executive at her firm, she loved her job, mainly because she loved doing well at anything and everything. And she did do well—very well. People who knew the business appreciated her, and people who did not know thought she was a goddess.

Abbey walked quickly and precisely along the sidewalk, like a hunted animal ready to fight to the death. Alert and stiff, she viewed the pedestrians as an individual and collective threat. She detested crowds, and especially the morning rush-hour crowd. The crushing wave of people all looked the same. Lots of dark suits. Men with hands in pockets, or arms hanging straight and serious at their sides gripping briefcases. Women walking too slowly in heels too high, one hand on purse strap, elbow clenching purse strategically against body, and the other arm holding briefcase or shopping bag. Every morning was the same. Someone always walked too slowly, or wheeled a small suitcase, slowing the flow. Several people sprinted dramatically past with faces contorted into masks of panic as though the world would end if they slowed to a brisk walk. A tourist took ten identical pictures of something insignificant and caused a serious traffic jam on the sidewalk. And predictably, men noticed Abbey and cocked their necks or shifted their eyes or turned completely around to admire, flirt, devour, approve, judge, or debase—she ignored them all.

Abbey blurred out the people and they became objects to manoeuvre around. She somehow slipped through the crowd without tripping or bumping into anything while lost inside her own head as she organized her day. She stepped around discarded flyers and walked carefully through a new construction site. While she planned how she would get through her to-do list, she efficiently dodged around a mailbox and walked with one foot on the curb and one on the road. She veered right and hugged an office building to avoid a large oncoming crowd as she simultaneously pushed the work stuff aside and moved on to planning her evening. Some of her girlfriends from university were going out, and she had agreed to join them weeks ago. The evening would be fine, but she would rather work or go home. The girls were fine, too, and they were great about keeping in touch and including her, but she would not miss any of them if they stopped inviting her. She just usually felt that they were all better friends with each other than with her.

A large, white limo drove by. Standing up straighter, she slowed and swung her curvy hips. She didn’t care who the passengers were or what they were doing; she wanted them to swivel heads and notice her. With lips parted and pouted, she gave the passengers a look that was both cool and seductive. Wanting them to wonder who she was, where she was going.

She sidestepped at the last second to avoid a sleeping homeless person’s leg while she organized her gym schedule for the week. She would not have time to go to the gym today, so would have to be somewhat moderate tonight so that she could drag herself to the gym tomorrow and sweat out all the toxins. Last week, she drank five glasses of white wine and then really struggled at the gym the next day. Tonight she would try drinking four glasses faster.

Tires squealed. She raised her head. Someone screamed—a loud, piercing cry of terror. A car heaved onto the sidewalk, the driver hunched forward, mouth open in ... pain?

The car crossed about ten feet in front of Abbey, and ran right into a pretty girl wearing a suit. The girl did not have time to do anything more than turn her head. Her face did not even change expression.

The car crashed into the girl. Abbey remembered nothing about the impact. Did she not actually see it? Had she shut her eyes or turned away? Or had she buried images too horrible, too unnatural, to replay?

A loud boom burst from the car. Abbey covered her ears. Her body curled, fists clenched, mouth opened. A bomb! She closed her eyes and prepared to die. Images of her life flashed—her office, her mom, her perfectly made bed waiting for her at home. More screams—animal-like screams. Scorching heat shot from the flames. The acrid smell of burning chemicals filled the air. She was still alive. The heat intensified, but her limbs froze with fear. She stood motionless, unable to move, but able to see and hear. A woman with hands in the air cried hysterically and ran in circles. She collided with Abbey, an elbow right to the face. Abbey shook her head and started to run. Mouth still open, fists still clenched, she ran as fast and as far as she could and then she fell to the ground shaking and gasping.

Morning

Brad

Brad was late. Being just a little late would not have been a bother. Getting to work on time was not a goal that he strived for. Punctuality was for suckers. Being on time made people look eager, which led to extra work. Timeliness also made go-getters do well at their jobs and get promoted, which also led to extra work. Brad’s morning goal was to sneak in after the achievers and ass-kissers had already arrived, the workload already delegated.

This Friday morning, though, Brad worried that he might be very late. Excessive tardiness could lead to no job.

Brad did not want to lose this job. Working as a computer programmer was easy and paid well, and he often worried that he could not actually do any other job. Could he even do this one? Would the day come when somebody realized that he was not up to par with the other real computer programmers? Maybe he was not even as good as the wannabe computer programmers. Resumes from qualified job applicants piled in every week. Sometimes Brad read the resumes with sheer amazement. Were these people for real? Could a world-travelled, piano-playing, scholastic-award-winning, varsity-golfer, computer genius really want his job?

In school, his grades were an embarrassment, though despite academic struggles, Brad somehow managed to do very well at three things—computers, sports, and girls. His brain was programmed to think about and understand these three things only. He really thought about little else. In fact, most of his attention focused on impressing the ladies.

This morning, he was behind schedule even to arrive at work just a bit late. Normally, his alarm blared rock music at 7:30 a.m., but today no alarm sounded. When he peered cautiously at his watch through half-opened eyes, it read 8:01. No time to shower or eat breakfast, but he might still be okay if he hurried.

Dysfunctional blinds illuminated the room with high-intensity light beams. Squinting, Brad slipped out of bed slowly and silently. He was not in his own apartment and did not want to wake up the person who lived in this one. Struggling to concentrate on finding his clothes, he scanned the room with little success. His head felt very large, his breath was distractingly foul, and his brain was not clear. A very ugly, and very pink, alarm clock caught his eye. It read 8:05. How could it have taken four minutes to stand up?

He looked at the bed and then quickly away. It was not a pretty sight. In the middle of the bed, a naked girl lay on her stomach, half covered by a wrinkled duvet. Strands of hair stuck to dry, parted lips. One breast was smothered and flattened. A hairy leg flopped to one side, almost as if it were no longer attached to her body. Brad looked back at her face, tilting his head to get a closer look. A fuzzy memory formed—a sharp nose, large eyes surrounded by severe black eye-liner, vibrant red, plump lips. She was definitely pretty last night.

Horny again, he tried to remember the details of last night, but his head was still foggy and being late distracted him. Focus! Focus on finding clothes and getting out of this place. Nothing was worse than awkward small chat with a girl whose name he could not remember.

Tiptoeing like a burglar, he hunted through the bedroom for his clothes. He paused to pick up a picture frame atop a dresser. The frame was homemade, purple with pink jewels, and had Mom and Dad’s Angel written on it in silver glitter. The close-up picture showed the girl now passed out on the bed sandwiched between her parents, creating a crowded image of smiles, teeth, and love. Brad struggled to reconcile the daughter in the picture with the pale, flabby object sprawled on the bed. Not seeing his clothes anywhere, he inched toward the bedroom door. Still naked, he stopped and peeked out of the door. Was anybody else in the apartment? No. He walked down the hallway toward the kitchen and family room. One of his socks sat alone and crumpled on the floor. He made an unwise decision to try putting it on while standing. Fatigue swept through his powerful leg muscles, causing them to quiver. Tiny bursts of light appeared, followed by uncontrollable blinking. He tipped to the left, banged loudly into the wall, and crashed to the floor. Lying motionless, he listened. The bedroom remained silent, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. As he continued searching the apartment, he noticed several large original paintings—a lifeless landscape, and a harsh, asymmetrical modern piece that looked like a Rubik’s Cube with breasts. Puffy, indigo, leather furniture faced a huge, new television. How could the girl afford to live here?

He spotted some clothes near the front door. The clothes had somehow impressively all landed in roughly the same spot. Brad stepped over the girl’s skinny jeans to get his beige Beatles T-shirt and found his ripped jeans and tight white underwear on either side of a hot pink, lace bra. A sweet pungent odor rose from the clothes—a blend of mushrooms, warmth, and candy. Shutting his eyes and mouth, Brad sucked in the musky smell deeply through his nose. Blood pumped forcefully through his body. His entire body tingled and he felt light-headed. He paused and smiled before opening his eyes.

He now had found everything except one sock. Good enough. He would leave that sock as a souvenir. After putting on his clothes, he slipped into the bathroom to pee, and intentionally splashed the toilet seat and lid. He brushed his teeth with his finger, drank some water out of the sink, and picked up a red lipstick and wrote You are a Rock Star xo on the mirror. Putting the lipstick in his pocket, he headed for the front door.

Hey. You don’t have to sneak off, you know. Do you want a coffee or something?

Brad turned. Wearing only a T-shirt, the girl leaned against her bedroom door frame, one hand on her shapely hip. She had looked better surrounded by her friends, but she still looked good. One perfectly freckled arm rose slowly to ruffle her messy hair, strategically lifting her T-shirt and confirming that she wore nothing else. Or you can come back to bed, she said, biting her lower lip.

I wish I could ... really ... but I’ve gotta go.

She examined him carefully for several seconds, and then declared, Liar. Removing hand from hip, she stretched lazily, and then retreated back into her bedroom.

Brad shut the door quietly behind him as he escaped. Bright light and crisp air engulfed him, and he longed for sunglasses and a Tylenol. Now, where was he? He stood on a sidewalk on a quiet residential street. The houses were new, the trees were old, the sidewalks were clean, and the cars were big. He scratched his head. He had no clue where he was. As he walked to the corner to read the street signs, he passed a tall, sleepy teenaged boy with impressive bed head, who was being dragged along by a small, spirited dog. The dog and the boy moved in every direction but forward as the dog with great purpose pursued his quest to spray and sniff as much urine as possible.

Brad opened his mouth to ask for an address,