Читать книгу The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018 - Vanessa Carnevale, Vanessa Carnevale - Страница 12

My phone is still flat in my bedside table drawer, and my fridge is still being stocked by my best friend when Dr Cleave finally declares I’m making progress, given the fact I can travel four tram stops, make two route changes and manage to find my way home without needing to take a taxi.

‘You should be pleased with how things are coming along,’ he tells me, as he closes the folder on his desk. ‘How have the appointments with Pete been going? I don’t seem to have a report from him yet. I’ll need to chase that up.’

‘Um, well, I haven’t had a chance to see him since that initial session we had.’

Dr Cleave arches an eyebrow. ‘I thought you said your appointments were all booked in.’

I chew my lip. ‘Well, yes, they were … but …’ I shake my head. ‘I just don’t feel like seeing him.’

Dr Cleave leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. ‘Okay, so tell me—how have you been spending your time?’

If I’m not spending the day curled up on the couch or under the bedsheets in my pyjamas, my life consists of little more than walks along the Yarra and to the nearby Botanic Gardens, mainly so I can report back to Scarlett and convince her I’m making an effort. But really, all it feels like I’m doing is waiting. Waiting for the things that have slipped away to come back to me: memories, recollections, reminders. I’m waiting for these things to pop back into my consciousness, with no guarantee they ever will.

Of course I don’t mention any of this to Dr Cleave, so I simply say, ‘I’ve been spending a lot of time outdoors. Long walks, that sort of thing.’

He nods approvingly. ‘Never underestimate the power of fresh air, sunshine and exercise. Any plans to go back to work?’

‘Not really. I think I need a bit more time. More fresh air,’ I say, fiddling with my hands. ‘My mum had a property in the country—Daylesford, actually. So, I was thinking of spending a bit of time there—I thought the country air might be good for me.’ I hold my breath, almost certain he’s going to tell me it’s not advisable, but his eyes brighten.

‘I think that’s a great idea. As long as you keep those appointments with Pete. Counselling is very important for your recovery, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.’

My thoughts wander to the listing in my pocket. ‘Yes, I think it’s a great idea, too.’

As the following days pass, I become increasingly aware that Blake can’t wait forever. The apartment is his home, also. Scarlett visits most evenings after work and finds creative ways to casually hint that I should think about writing back to Blake or at least allowing him to see me. He’s been to the apartment twice. Once to pick up his golf clubs and more clothing, and another time to collect some paperwork and other personal items. All arranged via Scarlett. Both times, he left flowers. First paperwhites and then an arrangement of lisianthus. The first note said, Hope you’re doing okay, ladybug. And the second, I miss you. I hope you won’t need much longer. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay away. Write me?

‘So, did you write him?’ asks Scarlett, folding the note. Her patience has been wearing a little thin lately. I don’t blame her.

I shake my head in response, unable to tell her what she wants to hear.

‘You really need to be a bit more proactive about all of this,’ she tells me as she folds the note. ‘If you’re going to expect Blake to give you the space you’re asking for, the least you can do is take some kind of action to at least try to get your memory back,’ she says, flicking from TV channel to TV channel. I pinch the remote from her as I drop down onto the sofa with a bag of chips.

‘What are you doing?’ she says. ‘Where did you get them from?’

‘I bought them today,’ I say, shovelling a handful into my mouth before offering her the bag.

‘Good lord,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Right, this is spiralling out of control. This is not the Gracie Ashcroft I knew and this is not the Gracie Ashcroft you are going to become!’ she says, snatching the packet from me. ‘Do you have no regard for your waistline or your health?’ She stomps to the kitchen and tosses the bag into the rubbish. ‘These are not organic, nor do they constitute any of the major food groups!’

I look down at my feet, feeling sheepish, like a toddler that’s being reprimanded by its mother.

I lick the salt off my lips. ‘Well, actually, there is one thing I think I could do to help things along.’ I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Summerhill since my encounters with Amanda and Dr Cleave, and have been waiting for the right time to bring things up with Scarlett.

She takes me by the hand and leads me towards the front door, where she grabs my coat from the stand and pulls a beanie over my head. ‘Good,’ she says, pressing her palms against my cheeks. ‘Blake’s coming by in half an hour, and we’re going to Piermont and Lincoln’s and you’re going to tell me all about it over tea.’

Scarlett and I squeeze onto a tram and find two spare seats. ‘It’s so stuffy in here, don’t you think?’ She unbuttons her coat and fans her face, her cheeks flushed.

‘Scarlett?’

‘Mmm,’ she replies.

‘Tell me about Summerhill?’

She raises her eyebrows in excitement. ‘You grew up there. You moved to Melbourne when Blake graduated—’

I raise a hand. ‘Don’t tell me. Not about him—not yet. Just about the farm.’ The way I see it, I’ll have a chance to get to know Blake again, eventually, but I’ll never have a chance to know my mother again, and perhaps starting at the place I do have a memory of, might lead me to others.

‘You put it on the market after your mum passed away. You said it was too painful to hold onto those memories.’ Scarlett becomes silent as the tram doors open and a woman slides into the seat beside her.

I stare into my lap, my stomach twisting at the bitterness of it all. ‘And now they’re completely gone,’ I whisper.

Scarlett orders a pot of oolong to share between us. I think she’s overlooked the fact that I’d prefer a strong coffee, but I don’t say anything. I watch her pour the steaming liquid into two lemon-coloured teacups rimmed with gold trim, painted with apple blossoms. I gulp mine down quickly, figuring it might not be so bad if I drain my cup in one go.

‘I probably should have ordered the peppermint. I don’t know why they call it morning sickness when it has the capacity to debilitate you at any given moment of the day,’ says Scarlett. She blows a wisp of hair out of her eye and fans her face with her hands.

My back straightens as I register her words. My eyes travel to her belly, which I completely failed to notice before now. A bump. A baby.

‘How far along are you?’ I ask, thinking that she’s doing an incredible job of hiding a baby. Maybe it’s the oversized winter clothing, or the fact that I have nothing to compare her figure to from before.

She smiles. ‘Twenty-four weeks. I’ve had to go up two bra sizes, you know. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted—to be a mum,’ she says dreamily.

I return Scarlett’s smile. She’s positively radiant.

‘I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you. I mean, you knew before. You were the first to know after Noah. There’s a role for godmother up for grabs. Yours if you want it.’ She takes a sip of tea, a hint of a smile playing over the rim of her cup.

‘Of course,’ I reply softly.

Twenty-four weeks? How could I not have noticed?

‘That’s what you said last time.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The only difference was that you almost tackled me to the ground and squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe.’ She giggles.

‘I’m happy for you. You’ve got so much to look forward to.’

‘And then you said you couldn’t wait until it was going to be your turn.’

I pour myself more tea and bring the cup to my mouth, closing my eyes as the tannin-filled liquid travels down my throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Was I ready to have a baby? Had Blake and I planned things? Spoken about it?

Scarlett squashes a sandwich into her mouth and pats away the crumbs on her chin with a napkin. She groans. ‘I’m starving all the time,’ she says, her mouth still full. She selects a few triangles and heaps them on my plate. ‘These are your favourites.’ She pulls her hand back and cringes. ‘Sorry!’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I mutter, pushing away the plate. I’ve lost my appetite, anyway.

‘Tell me about what you mentioned before. The thing you think could help improve things,’ she says.

My body tenses. Taking charge of my own life—it all feels impossible. Scarlett’s having a baby and I’m still trying to piece my life together. My fiancé is at home, the place that once was our home, taking care of loose ends; picking up more clothes and things; his things, our things, things from our life together.

‘I don’t think I can marry him,’ I blurt out.

She swallows a mouthful of food and sits there frozen, staring into her teacup as she processes what I’ve said. Finally, she draws a deep breath and speaks on the exhale. ‘I think you’re making a mistake. Think about what you’re doing. You can’t just end it. You need to give him a chance. The wedding isn’t for another nine weeks. Surely by then—’

‘I don’t think you understand.’

Scarlett’s cheeks flush and her jaw tightens. Her voice rises, and the group of women sitting at the table adjacent to us turn their heads in our direction. ‘Believe me, Gracie, I’m trying to understand. I’m the one in the middle here. Do you think it’s easy for Blake to stay away from you like this? For me to have to reassure him every single day that he needs to give you the time and space you’re asking for in order to get your head around all this? It’s not exactly the way most people would go about things.’ Her words tumble out furiously, like they’ve been hiding inside her, wrestling to leap out. She purses her lips and takes a deep breath, regaining her composure. She rubs her temples. ‘But then again, that’s what we’d expect from you …’

I ignore her last comment and try to explain. I’m tired of having to explain. ‘He’s a stranger to me. For you, he’s my fiancé, but for me … he’s …’ I don’t want to say it. It feels heartless to say it. Nobody.

Scarlett gives me a look of total disappointment. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone, only I can’t seem to find a way to make any of this better.

‘If you’d reconsider, agree to see him once … get to know him, talk some things over—even if you don’t remember him, at the very least, you might find that you like him,’ she says.

‘But what if I don’t?’

‘That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?’

I chew the inside of my lip and nod.

‘This situation is so unfair, not to mention completely absurd. I’ll tell you, I think he expects that you’ll agree to see him any day now. Don’t be surprised if he turns up one day to see you. It’s been nearly two weeks since you were discharged and—’

‘I’m leaving Melbourne.’

‘What?! When?! Oh my God, Gracie, what are you thinking?’

‘This is how I’m going to improve things. I’ll go to Summerhill and—’

‘Your mother’s place? But that’s two hours away. Everything’s boxed up. It’s not even ready for you to … Besides, it’s listed for sale.’

‘Well, it’s off the market now.’

‘Of course it is,’ says Scarlett, the exasperation in her voice apparent. ‘You’re going to have to see him sometime, you know. You can’t simply pretend he doesn’t exist. He should be with you, not in my spare room.’

Especially now she’s having a baby.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ I whisper, fiddling with the sandwich on my plate. I can feel the women beside us staring.

Scarlett fires a look at one of them, who squirms uncomfortably before looking away.

‘When do you plan on seeing him? Or at least talking to him? Can’t you at least start with a phone call?’

I straighten up, take in a deep breath and release it slowly. ‘I’ll write to him.’

‘Write to him? As in a letter? That’s it?’ Scarlett stares at me wide-eyed and I know she’s trying hard to retain her patience. ‘I can’t even remember the last time I bought a postage stamp.’

‘Neither can I,’ I reply. Scarlett misses my joke completely. ‘But, yes. I’ll write to him. And then … if by the end of spring I don’t remember him, I’ll agree to see him.’

‘But you can’t go, you still have hospital appointments, and what if you need help? There are still things you can’t do on your own. What if you get lost or—’

‘Dr Cleave is only a phone call away. And I’ll call you if I need your help.’

Scarlett shakes her head. ‘This is absurd. There’s no way Blake will agree to this.’

‘He has to. If he wants to give this a chance, this is how it’s got to be. All I’m asking for is time. Time to find myself. And if I don’t remember you, or Blake, or anyone else or any other part of my life, then I’ll come back and see him and work out where to go from there.’

‘I have a feeling nothing I say is going to make you change your mind.’

‘Well, then … looks like you do know me.’

‘When do you plan on leaving?’

There’s a stirring in my belly, nervous tension mixed with a hint of excitement. ‘Saturday. Eight am,’ I say, a smile playing on my lips. Before now, the whole idea of going to Summerhill had been just that—an idea. Now it’s become something more—an adventure, a promise of hope. ‘I’ve got it all sorted: a train, a bus, and the phone number for a taxi if I get completely lost.’ I raise my eyebrows enthusiastically.

Scarlett shakes her head in defeat. ‘You’ve always been so hard to keep up with, you know.’

‘I don’t know. But that’s okay. I’m getting to know.’

By the time Saturday morning comes, the listing of Summerhill is worn around the edges, a tattered piece of paper that resembles one lonely shred of a memory. Before leaving, I drag an empty cardboard box from one of the cupboards to the spare room. Giving the bridal magazines no more than a cursory glance, I pack them away with the two-page ‘to-do list’ that’s sitting on the chest of drawers. I remove my wedding dress from the bag it’s hanging in, admire the detail, the lace, the beading, the weight of it. Turning towards the mirror as I hold it against my body, I stand there, imagining what it might be like to wear it, to say ‘I do’ and fill in the dots later. For a slip of time, I set aside the fear and allow myself to imagine what it might be like to stay. To answer the door and let Blake smile into my eyes—blank eyes, eyes that don’t smile back the way they might have before. I picture what it might be like to fold in his embrace as he kisses me on the top of my head and tells me that everything is going to be okay, even though we both know it might not be. What it might be like to lie down in bed with a stranger and squirm under his touch.

My heart begins to race and I struggle to breathe.

I can’t do it to him, to me, to us.

Maybe if it’s meant to be, some day I’ll remember.

I lay the dress on the bed and do my best to fold it as neatly as possible, as if handling it with care and respect might somehow make what I’m doing any less painful. Placing it into the box, I cringe at the sound of the packing tape screeching as I close it up. Then I take the guest list and scan it in the hope that a name, maybe just one name, might trigger a memory of a face, or give me some reason to believe that my memory loss might not be permanent. But as I check the list twice for good measure, I realise that every single person here has become an overnight stranger to me.

Aside from Scarlett’s and Noah’s, not one name ignites even the slightest recollection of an annoying aunt, or loyal friend or awkward family feud. I brush the hair away from my face, let out a heavy breath, take the stack of blank thankyou cards, and try to find the words to explain to these people why my wedding to Blake won’t be going ahead.

I regret to inform you that Blake and I won’t be getting married as planned. I’ve lost something precious to me, and without it, I can’t walk down the aisle.

Thank you for your understanding.

Gracie

It takes me over an hour to write the notes, and each one feels more painful than the last. It’s a big ask, to expect thirty guests to understand something I can’t yet fully comprehend, but I address each one and when I’m finally done, I carry the box to the front door, where I drop down beside it in an exhausted heap. My head rests against its rigid edges, and I know how pathetic this must look—I’m wrapped around a cardboard box, mourning its contents, blinking away tears, contemplating whether to pick up the phone so I can hear Blake’s voice and ask him about who I am and who we were, and how we met, and whether we fought sometimes or not at all, but that’s not how I want things to be.

I take the folded listing for Summerhill from my pocket, to reassure myself one more time.

Once a thriving flower farm, this five-acre plot with two-bedroom cottage and ample-sized barn is the perfect country escape. Nestled amongst the verdant backdrop of the Macedon Ranges, with Lake Daylesford and Hepburn’s coveted mineral springs only a short drive away, this property would make a perfect country home for the right buyer.

The listing goes on to describe the home and its features, but I lose my concentration, circling back to the words: ‘Once a thriving flower farm’, while the elusive memories of peonies and lavender and cupped roses drift towards me, hovering some distance away, unable to venture as close to me as I would like them to. Summerhill might be the closest I ever get to finding out whether I’ll ever regain these memories. In a situation where nothing is easy, this seems at least easier.

There’s not much I want to take with me aside from clothes and bare essentials, but before I click the suitcase shut, a grey cotton t-shirt that’s been lying over the armchair in the corner of the bedroom catches my attention. It’s drenched in the reassuring masculine smell that I now know belongs to Blake. A fresh, woody, marine kind of scent.

It takes another hour to write Blake a letter. My pen scratches the surface of the paper, trying to form sentences that seem coherent in my mind but jumbled by the time I try to get them into written form. With my stomach in knots, and the reality of what it’s really like to be dealing with a traumatic brain injury at the age of twenty-six hitting me, I almost give up.

Dear Blake,

I wish I could tell you that I think things will be okay, but I’d be lying if I told you that. I don’t even know if your toothbrush is the yellow one or the blue one, but one thing I know for sure right now is this: I can’t marry you.

I don’t remember much to be able to meet you in the middle. I have no way of knowing whether everything in my life is all I ever wanted. If I fell in love with you once, would I fall in love with you again? Neither of us can possibly know the answer to that question, and I need some time to get to know myself again before I’m ready to find out. Before I can let you in, I need to work out who I really am.

I don’t remember much about my mother, but she left me a property in the Macedon Ranges. Apparently I grew up there, but I’m guessing you already know that.

Please don’t come to Summerhill for me. Not now. Not yet. I need some time alone to figure this out, to try to remember my life on my terms so I can truly know who I was and what I wanted from life before it was ripped away from me.

When I remember, if I remember, I’ll come back to you.

Gracie

P.S. I took a punt and chose the yellow toothbrush.

P.P.S. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

I fold my note, with my handwriting that resembles that of a nine-year-old, and run my tongue against the bitter film of glue on the back of the envelope, trying to hold back the tears that are aching to emerge, like a swelling river about to burst at the slightest hint of rain.

For Scarlett, I leave a note beside a box of herbal tea.

Thank you for being the best kind of friend. I’ll call you when I’m settled. But in the meantime, please trust me so I can learn to trust myself.

Love, Gracie

My engagement ring stays behind, right beside the letter I leave for Blake. With its countless unread messages, I replace my phone with a new SIM. This is the phone whose battery died weeks ago and I can’t help thinking something else died along with it.

I take Blake’s grey t-shirt with me.