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‘What’s that?’
‘Was I really as happy as you seem to think I was?’
She looks me square in the eyes. ‘Yes, you were happy. In fact, when it comes to Blake, you were lit up from the inside, radiant on the outside, life has never been a better kind of happy.’
I sigh, wishing I had a past to hold onto. Without any semblance of a past there is almost nothing. Aside from Scarlett, all I have is one vague memory of a field full of flowers and a brand-new wedding dress I don’t remember buying.
FIVE (#u1b3bc9f1-ba9c-5102-8cf2-ec6105b42cfb)
Aside from one small detail about loving egg-free coconut-cream cake, days pass with no memories of Blake, or any other significant aspect of my past surfacing. After several failed batches (despite following the recipe and using kitchen scales), I’ve managed to bake my favourite cake with success. Even though Dr Cleave told me that simple tasks could be challenging, I’m still finding it hard to accept. Hence, my six attempts at making coconut-cream cake until I got it right.
On this particular morning, I’m trying to master the fine art of tying shoelaces, with the aim of taking a walk around the Royal Botanic Gardens before lunchtime, when the landline rings. I wait before answering. What if it’s Blake calling? I’ve had my mobile phone, with its countless unread messages from him, switched off and tucked away in a drawer since I returned home from hospital. When I can no longer ignore it, I take a deep breath and answer on the fifth ring.
‘Hello, this is Gracie.’
‘Oh, Gracie, it’s Amanda Chadwick of Chadwick and Nelson Real Estate. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. Your mobile keeps going to voicemail. Anyway, I was wondering if you could come in for a chat. There are a few things we should talk about regarding your mother’s property. I’ve got a busy week in front of me, but does this morning happen to suit? I could fit you in around ten.’
‘Uh, yeah, sure … this morning’s fine. What’s the address?’
She titters. ‘Still the same.’
‘Right. Okay, well, I’ll see you then.’ I hesitate. ‘Um, what’s the street name again?’
After a slight pause, she reels off the address, which I silently repeat in my head several times over. I hang up the phone and contemplate how I’m going to make this appointment. Deciding that I’m going to need to embrace autonomy sooner or later, I look up the address and manage to work out that Amanda’s office is only a few tram stops away. As soon as I reach the end of the street, the thought of throwing myself onto a congested tram with other commuters is too overwhelming, so I make the trip by foot, instead. After stopping several times to ask for directions, I eventually make it to Amanda’s office, its large frontage visible at the end of a tree-lined street. The trees look unhappy here surrounded by concrete, their naked boughs almost completely free of the weight of their leaves. I reach for a leaf from the nearly bare canopy of an elm, and trace the veins with my thumb. The veins don’t meet in the middle.
A receptionist greets me once I step through the door, and a couple of minutes later, Amanda emerges from her office sporting a crisply ironed red shirt, a grey pencil skirt and black patent leather shoes. She flashes me a smile, revealing a mouth of perfectly white teeth. Striding towards me, I’m confronted with the scent of her perfume, a blend of floral tones with a hint of spice. She extends a manicured hand, before gesturing to her office.
‘Come right in.’ She motions to one of the leather seats in front of her mahogany desk as she reaches into a drawer with her other hand. She pulls out a manila folder, before pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She opens it, revealing a full-page colour advertisement for a property located in the Macedon Ranges. A perfect family home just a kilometre from the heart of Daylesford. I twist my head, trying to make out the finer details of the property, a restored 1870s miner’s cottage—a white weatherboard, fringed with delicate latticework, with a wraparound porch and grey Colorbond roof on a plot of land surrounded by flowers. Lots of them. I can’t take my eyes off them.
Amanda pulls in her chair and starts flicking through the papers in her file. She lifts out a sheet and scans it. ‘It’s been a while since we last spoke. Now … where to start?’ she says, looking up at me. ‘So, I finally got a call last week from my colleagues in the country—’
I lean forward. ‘When was the last time?’ I ask, interrupting her.
She shakes her head with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘A few months ago.’
‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘Uh, go on.’
She looks strangely at me and then continues. ‘Given the location, the current market and the potential for—’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
She slides her glasses down her nose and peers closely at me. ‘I found a buyer for Summerhill, Gracie. They’ve made an offer that’s more than generous seeing as it’s ridiculously overpriced in the first place. A young family looking to move from the city.’
I fold my arms across my chest and clear my throat. ‘It’s no longer up for sale,’ I say, trying to act as business-like as possible.
Amanda sits back, purses her lips together and slowly nods, as if she’s trying to figure out the real problem here. I pull down my blouse and readjust the woollen vest I’m wearing over the top of it. I really should buy some more comfortable clothes. Everything in my wardrobe feels so stiff and corporate.
‘I know where you’re coming from, Gracie, but hear me out. I think this is going to be as good as it gets.’
‘Tell the buyer it’s off the market,’ I say, surprised at the firmness in my voice. There’s no way I can let this sliver of a memory slip away to a buyer. I know this must be the property I remember—the place I grew up. The place that surely must hold more memories of my mother and me.
Amanda narrows her eyes. ‘You’ve been waiting nearly a year for someone to come along and make an offer on this place. You told me you hadn’t set foot there since your mother passed away. Why the sudden change of mind?’
‘Memories,’ I reply.
Amanda’s expression softens as she reaches for my hands. ‘I know this must feel like the final goodbye, but the thing is, she’s gone.’
‘I know. But I need to be close to her.’
Her eyes meet mine.
I swallow uncomfortably. I don’t want to have to find a way to explain my reasons for not wanting to sell when I don’t understand why I wanted to sell in the first place.
Finally, Amanda gives me a nod and inhales deeply. ‘Okay,’ she replies in defeat. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’
Relieved, I make my way to the door and pause before letting myself out. ‘Could I have a copy of the listing, please?’
She takes the sheet from the folder and hands it to me. ‘Gracie, I want you to go home and really think about your decision. If you don’t do something soon with it, it’ll become harder to sell in the long run. It’s only costing you money right now.’ She extends a hand and dangles the keys in front of me.
‘I promise you I’ll think about it,’ I reply, nodding as I close my hand around the keys, a hint of hope filling me.
‘I know you loved it there.’
I know. I just wish I could remember.
On leaving Amanda’s office, I head down the street in what seems to be the direction I’ve come from, but once I walk several blocks, none of the surroundings seem familiar. In fact, all these homes with their grand façades and luxury cars parked in their driveways seem so similar I can’t tell one apart from the other. I fumble through my handbag, a feeling of dread anchoring itself in my stomach. All I manage to find are three lipsticks, mascara, a miniature bottle of perfume, an empty packet of mints and a set of keys. No wallet. No driver’s licence. No phone. I close my eyes and groan. ‘Stupid,’ I mutter.
Pausing on a street corner, I ask a man for directions, but he responds with a thick accent, telling me he’s not from around here. I continue down the road, turning into street after street, hoping I can recognise my apartment complex. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve been walking for over an hour. I wait at a bus stop beside a woman with a toddler. ‘Excuse me, by any chance do you know of an apartment complex around here with a white stucco façade and a wrought-iron gate out front?’
‘Do you know the street name?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘Um, no, never mind.’
She offers a sympathetic smile and it takes everything I have to hold back the tears.
Dark clouds have gathered above, bringing with them the smell of impending rain. The trees murmur as the wind picks up, and the rain starts to tumble out from the sky with fury. I stand on the street corner on my tiptoes, trying to spot a cab in the sea of traffic, while the tyres of passing cars spray muddy water in my direction. Eventually, I manage to wave down a taxi, and soaked, I take a seat in the back.
‘Where are you off to?’ asks the driver.
I wipe the moisture off my face and fasten my seatbelt. ‘Let me explain,’ I tell him.
I tell the driver everything—about the accident, Blake, Scarlett, the apartment, the wedding, the coffee, the omelettes, my shoelaces, the toothbrushes—all of it pours out of me. Harry ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘wows’ and ‘my Gods’, intermittently handing me tissues over his shoulder. Eighteen minutes later, I blow my nose with as much elegance as a small child, and tell him, ‘I think we can go now.’
He nods sympathetically and pulls out into the traffic. We manage to find my apartment thirty-eight minutes and forty-one dollars later.
‘Hold on and I’ll go up to grab some money for you,’ I say, as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I make my way through the front gate and upstairs to the apartment, pulling a fifty-dollar note from my wallet, which is sitting happily on the hallway table. I race down the stairs, and run out to the street. Harry’s cab is nowhere to be seen.
SIX (#ulink_2e6f23c7-29b5-5cf5-815e-0d562669d235)
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 andI’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.
