Howard - The Time is Now, Monica Sparrow

The Time is Now, Monica Sparrow

The Time is Now,
Monica Sparrow

Matt Howard

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA
www.transitlounge.com.au

Copyright Matt Howard

First published 2019

Transit Lounge Publishing

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

Cover image: Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images
Author image: Christian Hagward
Cover and book design: Peter Lo

Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

A cataloguing entry is available from the

National Library of Australia: trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN: 978-1-925760-25-5 (e-book)

for

Matt Wakeham
Simon Proud
Kate Farrar
Michael Conway
Kylie Anderson
Josh Acton

Monica

Her pulse raced the whole journey to this sterile community centre, to join a circle of not-entirely-random strangers. Itd been a long time coming: seventeen years, three months, two days.

The trek from the tube station saw Monica equivocate time and again, stopping mid-stride several times to attend to her non-ringing mobile, staring at the inactive screen as her mind deliberated. Last week shed naively told Diane about her intentions and, true to recent form, Diane had rallied, Be sure not to rush into anything Monica! Her sisters preferred tongue, sarcasm. Diane was fluent.

People passed Monica by, convinced she was reading a text, or more likely they gave her no mind at all. Shed noticed there was less London strutting on the pavements of late, more brisk dashing. The turn of seasons.

The impending descent into yet another winter was upon them already.

Something in Monica, something she could not yet name, pushed her on and she scuttled up the stairs and followed another malingerer into the only room with lights on.

Monica had done her best to give due attention to each recounting that preceded hers. First up was the good-looking man whod inadvertently and forever knocked out his best mate while sparring during their first and only semester at uni, then the barely adult jaywalker whod absentmindedly crossed despite the red man, only to be followed by a random toddler, briefly ignored by its parents, who never made it to the other side. Both were bested, if that could be possible, by the old lady whod seen one of the London tube bombers that very morning and had failed to say anything. The old lady was still frozen, these years later, unable to fathom how she might ever redeem herself; so many lives lost.

Given the nod, Monica had steeled herself, compelling her chin upwards. Dont blather, she reminded herself. And Monica began the story of how she had killed her adored younger brother, Caleb. He had just turned eighteen.

Caleb

The hushed circle waited on the newcomer. It had been a while since they had not known what to expect; most here were regulars retelling their stories like the ancient mariner. Monica rallied.

Caleb, my little brother, met me for our own special celebratory dinner a week after his actual eighteenth-birthday party.

Monica tried not to think as she spoke, she needed to get through this.

Once we found a table at the pubs bistro we rehashed our recollections of his party, one more time. Caleb loved my present, a peculiar-looking puppy that he decided to name Freaky. I caught our mother and father glowing with pride during Calebs speech. I reckon they viewed us three we have an older sister, Diane as having met both of their self-imposed KPIs.

Monica, aware that she was now talking to the floor, took a quick look at the faces shed been avoiding. It appeared to her that she may have lost the group with the use of that last term.

We were happy, and we were healthy.

Caleb, as was his way, entertained me throughout dinner, his exuberance aided I suspect by a discreet joint. And when he was not deflecting the gaze of most of the females in the bistro, he was making me laugh with tales like presenting Freaky to the local vet for a once over, only for the vet to initially assume the weird looking creature to be a cat.

Monica stopped at this point. She had surprised herself by going for a laugh she just wanted them to appreciate how funny Caleb was.

Those gathered, thought this was the moment shed inevitably tear up. Theyd been through this many times. Not yet, Monica determined, and continued.

Caleb polished off his standard two desserts before scooting off to his best mate Dipeshs eighteenth, which was kicking off at a pub just blocks away. Without Caleb to navigate the car trip home, I decided the easiest way to get home from Soho was to reverse the steps Caleb had earlier jotted down on a slip of paper.

Monica, again, looked up. She made eye contact with the old lady of the tube story. You know, starting at the last step, reversing the directions and ending up home. The old lady nodded uh-huh.

Some flashing lights caught me unawares the intersection traffic signals had apparently malfunctioned and Ive never been that great with the whole left and right thing. I remember slowing so I could think.

None of the dozen or so assembled seemed to Monica to be entirely immersed. Not a good sign for a prospective author. Monica often veered off course in her storytelling, yet despite being cognisant of that tendency she decided, in that moment, to jump forward a decade and reference the start of her mothers decline, and much more recently her fathers sudden departure.

Oh, no, not dead! He didnt depart depart.

They were now well confused.

He left my mother for another woman, younger, who lives just a few streets away from her. Looking across the circle, Monica took the jaywalker into her confidence with a targeted flicker of a smile, And then lumbering, my sisters exact word, our discarded family with his surplus-to-requirements stepson, a young man that Diane dismissively labelled The Waif , otherwise known as Jamie.

Shed rambled. This was meant to be about Caleb, her actual brother. Caleb, who was long gone before any of this other stuff. Caleb, who had precipitated all this other stuff.

The boxer looked at Monica as if to say, Is this it?

She knew she should hasten things. However. Just one more anecdote was determined to come out. Monica took the opportunity to explain her brothers quirky name, telling the group how her father had taken to calling his only son by his middle name, Caleb, when he was about nine. It had eventually held, leaving Caleb Sparrow with a name only he could get away with.

Monica was losing them, this captive audience. Shed wanted to include as much background as possible, if only to emphasise the gravity of it all. But it was habit, too; Monica had long spurned the less-is-more mantra. She sighed at her folly and pressed on to the essentials. These haunted folks understood gravity already.

Cut to the chase. Here goes.

A nurse was standing near the bed when I woke.

The police have gone, the nurse said. You were only point zero three.

It started to come back to me and I asked after the person or people in the car that had rammed me. I was scared they may have not been as lucky as me.

The other driver is fine, the nurse said. Nothing serious. I think we should wait for your family to return before we update you about your passenger.