Chapter 61

It feels wrong to be sharing my life story, without acknowledging the life story of Kayla Halfpenny.

I saw Kayla in the departure lounge in Hobart. She was the one who reminded me of my tearful piano teacher. The one who knocked over her drink and then her phone.

I have learned a lot about her. It’s all still there, online, if anyone cares to look.

Kayla Halfpenny lived in Lauderdale, a town on the outskirts of Hobart, with her parents and her two younger sisters. She was studying for a Diploma of Beauty Therapy. She was a “Swiftie” (a passionate fan of the extraordinary performer Taylor Swift, whose music I also find extremely catchy). Kayla was terrified of flying, but that weekend she was bravely flying alone to Sydney for a friend’s party. She had a good time at the party. She told everyone about the very tall boy she’d met at the baggage carousel.

Her younger sisters worshipped her. Her parents adored her. They had surprised her with a puppy for her eighteenth birthday. Kayla was so pleased and surprised she cried hysterically. I have seen the footage of this. It’s touching. She called the puppy “Ruby Tuesday.” I don’t know why. “Ruby Tuesday” is a Rolling Stones song that came out in 1967. I don’t know if Kayla loved the song, but I love that song. Ruby Tuesday grieved so badly for Kayla the vet put her on antidepressants. Kayla’s sister posted this online. She’s doing better now. Ruby Tuesday, that is. Not the sister. I know I’m rambling. I’m upset.

Kayla died in a car accident on a Thursday afternoon at an intersection in Primrose Sands, Hobart. It was not rush hour. It was a clear, cold July day. Visibility was good. She was not speeding. We know exactly what happened because her friend, who survived, although she was seriously injured, livestreamed the accident on social media. If, like me, you are over the age of fifty—or even if you’re over the age of thirty?—you will not understand why she would be “livestreaming” a conversation in a car, its only significance to share with “friends” that Kayla was driving slowly because of a psychic prediction.

The accident was not Kayla’s fault. She obeyed every road rule. She should have been able to trust the green light.

It was not technically my fault, either, although it has occurred to me that if Kayla had been driving faster that day, not so cautiously, she might have been at a different intersection at the moment a forty-year-old man, more than three times over the legal alcohol limit at ten in the morning, with two previous drunk-driving convictions, drove straight through a red light at over one hundred kilometers an hour.

I wish this thought had not occurred to me and I hope it has not occurred to her parents.