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Something about this answer doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sound … I don’t know … specific? I’d imagine that’s the sort of description you’d get about any mother. And I want to know about my mother—something unique, something to give me a connection to her. ‘Um, what did I love most about her?’
Scarlett frowns. ‘I just told you.’
I swallow. How do I explain it to Scarlett? ‘I … I want to know exactly why she was special to me.’
‘She was your mother. That’s why she was special to you,’ says Scarlett quietly.
I rub my head, which has started to ache. I must look unhappy because Scarlett goes on.
‘Well, I know you loved spending time outdoors with her. You also liked baking. Every Christmas Eve you’d bake together.’
‘What did we bake?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Um, shortbread cookies, I think.’
I rub at my head again. She doesn’t sound very sure and it isn’t the sort of detail I was hoping for.
‘It was Christmas,’ she adds, looking as though she wants to say more. But right now, all I want is to close my eyes.
‘Um, I’m really tired. I think I need to sleep now,’ I say, avoiding her gaze as I burrow under the blanket. My eyes drift shut and I let the world fade away, hoping that by the time I open them life might feel a little more familiar.
When I wake up, Scarlett is sitting in the same position she was before. She notices me looking at her and sets down the book she’s been reading.
‘Are you thirsty?’ Before I can nod, her hands are already on the jug of water. She hands me a glass and guides the straw to my mouth.
‘Good news. Blake has parked the car and should be up here soon.’
I stop sipping my water and splutter. My body tenses up.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘I don’t feel good about this.’
She shakes her head in confusion.
‘About seeing him. I don’t remember him. I don’t know anything about him—or how we were—what sort of relationship we had.’ I desperately want her to understand.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to know and we’ll start there?’
‘Um, I think I’d rather have the chance to—’
Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘I bet that’s him. Come in,’ she says. ‘See, now Blake can tell you everything himself.’
My chest tightens. ‘No.’
Scarlett fires me a look of confusion. ‘No, what?’
‘I don’t want any visitors,’ I whisper. A surge of adrenaline floods through me. I want to be left alone.
‘But it’s Blake.’
‘No,’ I repeat, close to tears.
‘Why not, Gracie?’
‘Please, I don’t know who he is. I don’t know how I’m meant to act around him or what I’m supposed to even say.’ My eyes plead with her. ‘Scarlett, I can’t face him right now.’
‘But …’ Scarlett is unable to hide her shock. ‘He’s your fiancé.’
The door creaks open.
‘Gracie?’ says a voice. A voice that is completely foreign to me.
‘I mean it. I don’t want to see anyone right now.’ I draw my knees up to my chest, squeezing my eyes closed, wanting to block everything out.
‘Blake, hold on,’ says Scarlett, approaching the door. She presses a hand against it.
On the next inhale, my future outside the hospital flashes in front of me—the countless questions, the endless stories, the photographs. The people who have become strangers to me will be desperate to help me fill the gaps, become the person they knew me to be. Blake is going to tell me I loved him and he loved me and I will have no choice but to believe him. And when I leave this hospital I’m going to have to consciously try to fall in love with him.
At this realisation, the world constricts around me and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. I press my palm against my chest, which seems to be hammering much faster than it should be. I can’t seem to stop the rush of thoughts spiralling around in my head. If Blake walks into this room, I will have to look into the eyes of the man I am supposed to marry and tell him I feel nothing for him.
‘Gracie,’ calls Blake through the doorway.
I shoot a look at Scarlett, pleading with her. ‘I don’t want to see him. Please just tell him I need some time.’ I pin my lip between my teeth and scrunch my eyes closed again.
‘Okay, okay,’ says Scarlett.
I roll onto my side so that I’m not facing the door, and curl into a ball, bringing the covers up to my chin. I can’t seem to get a handle on this feeling of being completely and utterly out of control. Despite my requests, the door opens.
‘Gracie? What’s going on?’ says a male voice from behind me. I close my eyes tighter. I can’t answer him. And I still can’t seem to control my breathing.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Maybe I should page the nurses,’ says Scarlett.
‘Gracie, it’s me,’ he says softly, resting a hand on my arm. He runs his fingers through my hair, moving the loose strands away from my face and then he kisses my cheek, the stubble from his face grazing my skin. The fragrance of his aftershave wafts through the air, and along with that comes a shattering confirmation that I don’t recognise it. This aftershave could belong to any man. A series of unintentional moans escape me.
I hear Scarlett whisper to Blake, ‘Maybe you should wait outside. Give her a few minutes and I’ll explain everything.’
There are footsteps and a moment later the door clicks shut. When Scarlett re-enters the room a minute or so later, she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Breathe, Gracie. Deep breaths,’ she commands, rubbing my back. I can’t seem to stop shaking. She presses the buzzer for the nurses. ‘Open your eyes, I want you to look at me.’
I flick my eyes open. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ My face contorts into a grimace. ‘I’m scared,’ I croak. ‘I’m really, really scared.’
Bea enters the room. ‘Gracie? What’s going on, love? Is everything okay?’
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me … but I can’t … I don’t want to see him … I don’t want to see anyone.’
‘I think she’s having a panic attack,’ says Scarlett.
Bea nods and tells me to breathe, but no matter how hard I try, it still feels like there isn’t enough air.
The door clicks open again. ‘Gracie!’ calls Blake. ‘It’s just me, I promise you, everything will be okay if you let me in.’
‘No,’ I say, my eyes pleading with Bea.
‘It’s okay, honey,’ she says, pressing a hand on my shoulder.
She leaves the room and a few seconds later Blake’s voice reverberates through the hospital.
‘You need to let me see her!’ he yells.
‘That’s not what she wants, she’s distressed enough as it is, and we need to respect her wishes,’ she says.
‘This is ridiculous, I’m her fiancé.’
‘She’s having an anxiety attack,’ Bea says firmly. ‘This is not the right time.’
‘Let me talk to her, I’ll help calm her down.’
‘I’m sorry, but she’s not in the frame of mind to see you right now. This is all a huge shock for her. It’s a lot to take in. She needs time to adjust, to get her head around what’s happened. She’s frightened and very fragile, not to mention exhausted, and I think it’s best to let her accept this first and then—’
‘Please let me see her. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.’
I cup my hands over my ears. Scarlett rubs my back more furiously. ‘Someone needs to tell him I don’t remember him,’ I say, but it comes out like a drawn-out moan.
‘It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,’ says Scarlett, exhaling a long breath.
No matter how convincing she sounds, I don’t believe her.
The following days pass like a blur. Scans, sleep, neuropsych assessments filled with questions I can’t answer. The constant thrum of monitors and footsteps of nurses coming in and out to check on me. Scarlett humming away from the armchair in the corner of the room, turning the pages of a book, repeatedly telling me that everything is going to be fine when nobody really knows for sure whether it will be.
After he’d run a series of tests, Dr Cleave told me (rather unconvincingly) that there was every possibility my memory loss could be temporary. ‘Retrograde amnesia,’ he said, confirming the diagnosis. ‘You need to be really patient. Life is going to look a little different for you when you go back home. There’s a chance your procedural memory has been affected, and we won’t know the extent of that immediately. You might find that certain everyday functions are challenging at first. You’ll need support, and I encourage you to take things slowly. Lean on those who love you to help get you through this. I know that’s going to be hard for someone like you, but it’s important you don’t try to go through this alone.’
I knew what he meant by that—both he and Scarlett have made it clear they think that me refusing to see Blake or anyone else is a bad idea.While keeping family and friends away isn’t an issue, keeping Blake away is turning out to be a bigger kind of problem.
‘He’s beside himself,’ says Scarlett. ‘Seeing him might help you remember. He can answer any questions you have, run you through the kinds of things you used to do together—’
‘That’s not what I want,’ I reply, my voice flat. I dig my spoon into a tub of jelly without enthusiasm. I can’t seem to stomach anything on my plate let alone the snacks Scarlett has brought me: kale chips, goji berries, a zip-lock bag filled with some kind of assortment of seeds.
Blake has shown up at the hospital every day to try to see me. Today is no exception. It’s six pm and on cue, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Gracie, it’s me. Can I come in? I brought your favourite magazines and some photos of our trip to Fiji,’ says Blake through the gap in the door.
My body freezes. I push away the tray. I wish everyone would understand that I don’t want to have to remember my life, or our life, through his eyes or anyone else’s eyes. I want to remember through my eyes.
‘What should I do, Gracie? I can’t keep turning him away like this,’ says Scarlett.
‘Ask him what I loved most about my mother.’
‘How is this relevant right now?’ She frowns at me.
I don’t answer her.
She goes to speak but holds back. ‘Fine,’ she mutters, shaking her head.
‘Scarlett, what’s going on?’ says Blake. ‘What’s she saying?’
Scarlett glances at me uncomfortably before leaving the room.
‘The way she always managed to find a way to smile,’ she declares upon re-entering a minute later. ‘So, can I let him in now?’
I clench my jaw and take a deep breath, lowering my head against my knees. What Scarlett remembers about my mum, isn’t what Blake remembers and isn’t necessarily what I would remember. Which means that if I let the people that know me tell me about who I was and what I liked, and who I should be, and what I should feel and how I should feel it, I’ll have no way of knowing if that’s the truth for me.
‘We can’t just leave him standing there in the hallway,’ she says.
I busy myself by tearing open a packet of chips and sniff them, inhaling their not-quite-so-appealing vegetable scent.
She sighs. ‘Fine. Let me take care of it.’ She exits the room but leaves the door slightly ajar. I can still make out her voice—only just.
‘I’m looking after her, leave it with me. If you don’t want her to continue to refuse to see you, you need to listen to what she wants. Because if you go in there right now she might completely push you away. She’s confused and she’s still in shock. She’ll come around with time.’
‘What if she doesn’t let me back in her life? I don’t want to lose her.’
‘You won’t. She loves you,’ she replies, but even I notice the waver in her voice.
I squeeze the packet of chips between my hands, crushing the crisp leaves into tiny pieces. Maybe the one thing we all know for sure, is that I’m already lost.
TWO (#u1b3bc9f1-ba9c-5102-8cf2-ec6105b42cfb)
I don’t recall buying the pastel-blue toaster and kettle in my kitchen. Or the pear-and-vanilla soy candles on the coffee table in my living room. Or the white teapot with gold polka dots and matching teacups in the wall unit. My two-bedroom apartment in Melbourne’s South Yarra, a ten-minute walk from the Royal Botanic Gardens, and three blocks from the Yarra River, should feel like a cosy home, yet I can’t help feeling like an uninvited guest.
Still clinging tightly to the paper bag from the hospital, I pause by a side table where a set of photo frames are positioned. Part of me wants to satisfy my curiosity about what Blake looks like and what our expressions held in these pictures. I pick up one of the frames and briefly register a black-and-white image of us together. I’m leaning across him, poking out my tongue at the camera. The profile of his face shows a man with smooth cheeks and short dark hair. He’s looking at me, smiling.
We look happy, but were we really happy? How do I know for sure?
One by one, I turn the other photos face down. I can’t bring myself to look at them.
Scarlett’s eyes are on me, while soapy mountain peaks form in the overflowing kitchen sink.
‘Not ready yet,’ I say, feeling the need to explain.
‘Maybe you should go sit down. I’ll bring you some tea.’ She turns off the tap and steps in my direction.
I raise a hand to stop her. My left hand, where I’d slipped on my engagement ring earlier this morning—mostly to see whether it might bring back some kind of recollection about my life with Blake. The halo of diamonds catch the light and glisten at me, begging me to remember what it felt like to lay eyes upon them for the very first time. I’ve sifted through all the possible scenarios of how this ring came to find itself on my finger, but every one feels foreign. Just like everything in this home.
There’s a vase of wilted roses on the kitchen bench. A vase I don’t remember filling. But I recognise the flowers. Windermeres. They start out as cream double-cupped buds and slowly fade to white. They bloom until late in the season and their scent is fruity—with a delicate hint of citrus.
