Rhea and I packed and moved home in the summer of '92. Including three children and a goldfish in a bowl.
My task on the morning before we departed Melbourne involved essential shopping. I rushed to help and left home, minus the list Rhea prepared. She busied herself in the kitchen, finalising packing. Rhea juggled filling boxes and minding our twins, Alicja and Alina.
I offered to take Miranda for a car ride. Our eldest daughter, aged four and turning five tomorrow! Rhea and I planned a mid-drive stop to celebrate her birthday. The town of Albury–Wodonga would be our new home.
I recalled a trip I made north years ago. In my first car, I slept at the wheel while driving.
Inexcusable! Maturity and responsibilities shaped this into a safer trip.
The town where I attended a seminar for ideas for my thesis on buildings and photography offered me the chance to run a design business.
Miranda and I arrived at our local combo store.
I said, "Daddy will get petrol, and you can help me shop."
Miranda sat patiently as I pumped gas for tomorrow's journey before relocating the car beside the store. When I pulled my wallet out for the list, I realised the list remained on the kitchen bench. I gathered Miranda's small mitt, and we went 'shopping for mummy without a list.'
"Milk," she chimed, "the twins will want milk."
"Yes, let's get milk," I concurred, swinging her hand.
The first item on the absent list. I remembered seeing it. Rhea told me what to buy.
I listened as she added, "I better write it down. There's a bit to remember."
At home, I had been distracted by Miranda's shoelaces. Her ties needed a tug to be safe.
We entered the store. I grabbed a basket and reminded Miranda to stay close. I tried to remember what else we needed after the milk. Then I procrastinated: was it two or three litres of milk? We headed for the cool storage cabinets at the store's rear.
I caught my reflection on a mirrored surface. I confronted scruffy home wear—my quick sum-up, tidy. A dark navy T-shirt and jeans hide stains. I glanced around and calmed; the store was lacklustre and bland. No one dressed in their 'Sunday best' at the combo!
I told myself, chill!
"Miranda, do you want an ice cream?"
She tugged my hand excitedly. Her wide blue eyes looked up, so like Rhea.
"Yes, please, can I have a strawberry?"
My rushed agitation of the day made her reply slow. She checked, unsure of my yes.
"On the way out, okay."
I gave her small hand a reassuring squeeze, releasing her bubbly prolonged "thank you" as her lips puckered almond oval.
Miranda's happy nature rubbed off, and I settled into a less hurried and worrying pace.
My calm evaporated in front of the milk cabinets at the back of the store.
I faced a confusing array of milk varieties and containers: two and three-litre plastic bottles and full cream and low fat. I camped undecided.
"It's that one, daddy; mummy gets that one."
Miranda's little finger pointed up, eager to help. I ditched the shopping basket and lifted her. Her face beamed as darting eyes shot to shelf level. Putting her down, she giggled. I grabbed the milk and passed it, letting her place it in the red shopping basket.
Bread, I thought, hefting the basket.
"Daddy, you need another one; mummy gets two."
She tugged my pants gently, and I halted, then squatted.
I pinched her cheek, "Well done!"
She skipped, her pixie-like face cheerful. I settled and laid the second milk container in the grocery basket.
"Thanks, sweetie," I complimented, "I'm sure your ice cream will be a double scoop today."
Her cheeks dimpled as she tagged along as I scoped for the bread aisle.
What type of bread? White, wholemeal, or bread rolls for the drive?
I saw Ruby!
My perception crowded, picturing French breadsticks as my heart and mind separated into polar opposites.
I felt my eyes tighten, and my mouth instantly dried—the wish to be elsewhere dominated.
Yet my skin tingled, and my heart thumped with a beat of Ruby present.
A strange yen to be only here.
Miranda and I ranged at one end of the aisle. Ruby and a boy steadily progressed from the aisle's farther end, abreast and self-engrossed. We were indeed bound to meet mid-aisle.
Ruby wore a summer shift dress, floppy, hiding her shape. In summary, suburban mum, nondescript. The dress, a faded blue, floated below her knees.
Not jeans!
I picture Ruby, first, in jeans.
The dress lacked sleeves, revealing toned arms.
I believed spotting her first, I could compose a conversation on my tongue. A sweat trickle under my arm belied me.
Say what!
I tensed, recalling the years since we last met. In the interval, running separate lives, fastened by partners and children. I had archived our teenage years and Paris — with no desire to recall the aftermath!
Ruby swung the standard red shopping basket. She perused the shelves and responded to the young boy at her side. I attempted to pull in my middle-aged stomach. Lowering my eye level, I waited readily to meet hers.
Ruby's eyes lifted, her steps unfaltering forward. I attempted to read her eyes. They gazed benignly, with no flicker of rapport.
Not blank; this relieved me.
Her face spread to the faintest of recognition smiles.
My effort, in return, moulded similarly.
No rush to greet; we maintained a supermarket amble. A few steps more, and we stopped mid-aisle. Ruby held the basket low in front of herself, double-handed. She didn't swing it like she intended to move on immediately.
Ruby planted her feet slightly spread; she decided to give me time.
My stance: no idea.
We occupied the standard social distance zone. We did the mutual hellos. Then, we performed the social litany perfunctorily.
No excited to see you, after ages, tidings exchanged.
All bland.
We packed our emotions out of view.
How are you? Nice to see you. Have a good day. Catch you around. Bye.
Through this mundane chat, the little boy stood quiet. At most, I gave a fleeting glance at him.
Undeviating, I focussed on trying to read Ruby's face.
As I saw the boy, I thought of the newspaper picture of Ruby and her baby.
I processed, Michael.
As for the newspaper image, my memory gave me Ruby as a new mum. Nothing of the baby cradled in her arms.
Miranda stalled quietly beside me as Ruby and I exchanged meaningless social banter.
I couldn't read her face; I kept mulling as our chance meeting drifted to closure.
She swung the shopping basket like a cradle. I peeped into it. My eyes plunged rapidly. Ruby wore soft tan slip-on shoes. She still scuffed her footwear—one foot over the other shoe, including a spot where she rubbed the leather raw.
Her head dipped mid-conversation. Ruby shuffled side-on, her shoulders hunched. The basket swung listless wider. I became overly conscious of fidgeting with my car keys in my jeans pocket.
I can't recall a word of the most basic of conversations because whilst it unfolded politely, it remained empty words.
We paused. We spoke. We moved on.
Impossible to re-find the two who made ravioli and shared mocha?
I didn't inform Ruby regarding our moving home and city.
Did it matter? Not then. Share what? Yet we had so much we should have shared.
Neither of us asked about each other's child. Our children were well-behaved and present, yet mutually disregarded. We didn't attempt the standard compliments parents trot out for other people's youngsters. We denied pointlessly; our current life stage as parents. Our chance meeting wrapped up before it started.
I reflected and dissected it years later.
Neither of us directed the conversation a step beyond the general. We posed no questions about another self concerning them and the world.
The obvious answer; we lacked friendship.
I deliberated: Ruby didn't let me share in her mind in Paris. As youngsters, Coral bonded us, not Ruby and me. Still, even thrown together as teenagers and Paris, we owed ourselves more here in a store. Yet, we ditched each other, like putting an item in a shopping basket and then placing it back on the shelf.
Ruby moved past me, and I forged past her. I didn't consider it proper to turn back; I assume Ruby didn't either. In passing, I did sneak another peep at her shopping basket—salted peanuts.
And coaxing Miranda on, I tried to think logically. Meeting Ruby occurred as pure coincidence. Delving deeper, my ego flagged as unwise; I focussed on what grocery item to collect next.
I finished shopping, aided by a helpful Miranda. We checked out and paid for bread, milk, fruit and snacks for tomorrow's car trip.
We sat on a bench outside the store, enjoying our mini-rewards. A double strawberry cone for my daughter. Miranda savoured each lick. I watched her tongue catch a stray dribble. Her happy cheeks glowed a matching rose. For myself, I ate a small chocolate bar. I nibbled, allowing my sweet tooth to occupy my mind.
When Miranda finished, I said, "Let's go."
My daughter inquired, "Daddy, who was that?"
I glanced around; there wasn't anyone we knew nor anyone doing anything unusual.
Puzzled, "Who, point them out."
"Inside the shop?"
"Just someone I used to know," offered as empty words.
I wiped my mouth and glanced left and right. Miranda, turning five years old, accepted my answer. Her curiosity was satisfied; she sought no additional detail. We gathered the grocery bags, walked to the car and drove home.
Yet Miranda pricked my conscience.
How should I have answered her?
Did I know how to define my relationship with Ruby?
Telling Miranda Ruby was a terrifically magnetic woman — a ridiculous response to a child.
I should have told Miranda, 'Ruby.'