It arrives in a handwritten registered envelope marked “Private.” I take it into the kitchen and open it as the kettle boils. Inside is a photo, dark and grainy, with a yellow Post-it attached and a message scrawled across it: I’m sorry. I made the wrong choice.
The words hit deep before I’ve even deciphered them, and I snatch the paper from the surface of the photo. Underneath, it’s exactly as I see it in my mind’s eye every time I think of that night. Shauna’s tear-stained cheek flat against the wall, eyes shut tight as his body presses into her. I look at his face, eyes flared red with the flash of the camera, and it doesn’t seem like a distant memory. It feels like part of me.
I grab the envelope, just to be sure, and there it is, stamped across the queen’s head: Islington Mail Centre. The girl who was the guardian of Shauna’s confidence for all these years has handed over the privilege to me. And I realize it’s not too late for her, for us. There’s still a way for her to make the right choice.
As the kettle roars to a climax, I hold tight to the photo—my lifeline, my proof. It might not have made a difference back then, but it changes everything now.
THE DAY HAS RETREATED ALREADY, but a warm glow spills from every window of Shauna’s house. Ronan opens the front door with a phone to his ear and I give him a wave as Alex and I pass by. The living room has been transformed, with mid-century furniture and colorful artwork filling in the blank spaces and Melissa in the middle of it all, directing a camera crew and lighting technicians. Even in a muted blue shift dress, her star power is clear as she guides her team with confidence and control. As soon as she sees us, she comes over and kisses Alex on the cheek before taking my hands in hers.
“She’s upstairs,” she says. “She wants to see you before we start.”
“Thank you,” I say as I take in the sights and sounds of the operation unfolding around us.
Joe has kept his promise and used his contacts to set Melissa up with a segment on RTÉ’s Prime Time. I don’t remember the last time there’s been this much buzz around a TV broadcast.
“No, thank you,” she says, and squeezes my hands.
“You go on up,” says Alex. “I’ll wait here.”
I push open the bedroom door and Shauna smiles and beckons me in. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed while a young woman with bronzed skin and perfect eyebrows sweeps powder across her face.
“This is Jenny,” says Shauna.
Jenny nods to me, a sort of deference that suggests I need no introduction.
“I’m finishing up here,” she says. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Shauna’s white hair is slicked back in a ponytail that adds poise and professionalism to the clean lines of her blouse and blazer. The dark shadows of her illness are tempered by Jenny’s handiwork, but I can still see the trepidation behind it, the fear of the words yet unspoken.
“You’re going to smash this,” I say as I sit down beside her.
Her face cracks and I’m worried a tear will escape and dissolve her painted veneer.
“No, no, no,” I say. “No tears allowed.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to cry,” she says. “I’m too happy. I mean, we’re finally doing this.”
“Yes, we are.”
I offer my arm and she grabs it with both hands and stands up slowly, unsteadily.
“Do you want me to get Ronan?” I ask.
“No. I want to walk in there with you.”
There’s a surreal glare to the studio lights as we enter the living room and I guide Shauna into an elegant teak chair. Melissa takes a seat opposite her and runs through the beats of the interview while the crew make their final preparations and I retreat behind the light. I wave when I see that Joe has made it, the circle now complete, and we embrace before joining Alex and Ronan on the sofa.
As the cameras roll and Melissa starts to speak, I finally understand what makes her such a great presenter. It’s not just her eloquence when she introduces Shauna, the gravity with which she conveys her story, there’s a compassion in her tone and delivery that makes it impossible not to believe in her. By the time she hands over to Shauna, I have no doubt that this will change the conversation. As Shauna finds her voice, I hold tight to Joe’s hand to my left and Alex’s to my right.
“Maurice McQueen raped me for the first time when I was only fifteen years old. But his grooming of me started long before that…”
IN THE END, WE’RE THE ones who have to live with the stories we tell ourselves. This is mine.