Finding Grace

by Alyssa Brugman

  He's got really square shoulders. They don't slope down at all. They're very nice shoulders.

  I'm not going to be able to do any revision tonight. I'm leaving the university now with my jumper still over my head and not looking at anyone who walks past me. It takes a while for one of these really intense blushes to subside.

  My mother phones me as soon as I walk in the door.

  “How was it? How did it go?”

  “Oh, you know. It was OK.”

  “Stop being so teenage,” she replies.

  “OK then, it was pretty good. I sat down. A man talked. I came home.”

  “And did you make any friends?” she asks.

  “Yeah, there was a guy. He borrowed my notes.”

  “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

  “It'll be fine.”

  I tell Mum about Hiro and the blush. She thinks it's funny. I can imagine her standing in the kitchen with her hand on her belly while she throws back her head laughing.

  Next to the phone there is an address book. Flicking through the pages, I see the number for the Yvonne person. I punch in the numbers and listen to the dial tone.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Yvonne?” I ask.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “You don't know me. My name is Rachel. I'm Grace's carer. You rang for her yesterday. The reason she hasn't called you back is that she's brain-damaged.”

  There is a pause on the line.

  “Are you still there?” I ask.

  The voice that answers me is choked.

  “Oh God, I can't believe it.”

  “Yes. Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know,” I say.

  “Thank you,” says the voice, and then the line goes dead.

  I took Grace for a walk this morning. She moves slowly and she's easily distracted. I think it's good for her to get some exercise.

  I thought I'd take her to the beach, but I was worried she'd tire and I wouldn't be able to get her home. I can't take her long distances in the car because I've only got one snorkel.

  Anyway, I smothered her in sunscreen and we walked through the park. It was a really lovely sunny day, not too hot.

  We walked through the tidy park with its rotunda and play equipment painted in primary colors. The roses were in bloom, so when Grace got tired we sat under a big fig tree and I tucked some tiny yellow rosebuds in her hair.

  She had her mouth closed and except for the dullness of her eyes, she almost looked pretty.

  In the tidy park there is a little coffee shop, except it's not called a coffee shop, it's called a teahouse. Coffee shops are only called coffee shops, or cafés, if they are in the street. If they are in the park or anywhere else where there's a view, they're called a teahouse.

  I saw Mr. Preston sitting at one of the outside tables with another man. Mr. Preston was sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, slouched back with his hands laced behind his head. The other man was dressed the same, in a dark suit and sunglasses. He was quite a bit slimmer than Mr. Preston.

  Mr. Preston stood up and waved us over.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said, looking intense.

  “Good morning, Mr. Preston.” It came out in the singsong way we used to welcome our principal in primary school. I couldn't help it! It was ingrained. Mr. Preston smiled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and I realized that he might have thought that I was making fun of him.

  “Rachel, this is my brother, Anthony.”

  Anthony Preston stood up and took my hand in both of his. He didn't shake it; instead he held it for a moment. His palms were soft and dry. I couldn't see his eyes because of his sunglasses, but he had perfectly straight white teeth.

  His lips turned up at the edges when he smiled. Some people's lips, when they smile, just pull back from their teeth sideways. Anthony Preston's lips definitely turned upward.

  He was very good-looking. He was smiling at me in that amused way of someone who knows you're thinking they're good-looking.

  He looked the same as Mr. Preston, but about five years younger and twenty kilos lighter.

  “Anthony, this is Rachel, our wonderful carer, and of course you know Grace.”

  Anthony turned his head in Grace's direction. Then he lifted his glasses up to the top of his head and smiled at me again. His eyes were almost unnaturally blue. He held eye contact with me for just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable. The weight of his eyes felt like a physical touch. I shivered.

  I've always felt uncomfortable around really good-looking people. It's as if they remind me how awkward I am. I never know what to say or how to behave.

  We all stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. Finally, Anthony said, “Won't you join us, Rachel?” He pulled out a chair next to his and sat down, patting the seat. He had a sort of hungry look in his eye that made me very self-conscious.

  Mr. Preston was frowning, still standing looking at his brother. I watched as he transformed into the large and growly bear. “You rude, arrogant bastard,” he snarled.

  Anthony Preston, still smiling, turned to look at Mr. Preston, who was standing with his hands on his hips, frowning.

  I didn't know what to do, so I just stood still.

  Anthony Preston threw back his head and laughed through his white teeth. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Won't you join us, Rachel and Grace.”

  He patted the seat next to him and then in an exaggerated movement leaned across to the next seat and patted that one as well. Then he sat back and raised both his hands up to his shoulders, palms outward.

  I looked at Mr. Preston and his brother, involved in some kind of masculine power struggle.

  “Umm, no. Thank you. Grace and I are walking. I, that is we, hope you have a pleasant afternoon.”

  Then I took Grace by the elbow, steering her away toward home.

  I have made a discovery. I was in Grace's study and I found something. I'd just put her to bed. The last few days I've been reading before she goes to sleep, or before I do. I put her to bed, and then I sit on the bed next to her and read to her until she goes to sleep.

  Sometimes I wake up dribbling on my arm. Grace is staring at the ceiling, waiting patiently for me to get on with the story. I wonder if she's thinking, “Well, I'm all for dramatic pauses, but really!”

  Sometimes I've been reading in bed and fallen asleep and dropped the book on my face. Boy, that doesn't half give me a fright! Ahh, someone just dropped a book on my face! Oh … it was me.

  Sometimes I do that thing where my body sort of convulses and I shock myself awake with the involuntary movement. Watching people do this is my favorite method of alleviating boredom on long train trips. I purposely sit in full view of lone passengers who look really tired, so I can have a chuckle. Especially those really respectable people dressed in fancy clothes. I just love that head-lolling-about thing, it kills me!

  Anyway, I think Grace enjoys it. I mean the reading, not the convulsing or head-lolling. Her eyes rove around the room. She looks at the ceiling. After a while, she starts to blink slow, long blinks, until eventually her eyes stay closed. Then I slowly stand up and go to bed.

  Sometimes I read some more in my own bed. Grace doesn't seem to notice the missed bits. Besides, she's probably read them all before anyway.

  I'd just put her to bed and I walked into the study to pick a new book. I'd pulled out a few likely prospects— nothing heavy, murder mysteries mostly. I try to avoid anything that's likely to have a sex scene in it. It's the same with videos. I blush like crazy. You can see it coming a mile away, you're reading away and then all of a sudden someone starts to feel warm skin, or they start to notice soft curves about each other's persons or they start letting soft moans escape. I'm out of there before backs start arching. It's all too much.

  I walked through the wardrobe. Grace's study is quite small. There are bookshelves on either side, going up to the ceiling. There are dictionaries, big thick tomes in different languages and law t
exts.

  Anyway, I'd pulled out a couple of books, and then I noticed that there was something in the bookshelf, stuffed behind the books. It was an old shoe box. We'd read a few books from that shelf. How could I not have noticed it before?

  I peeked back through the wardrobe to Grace's bedroom. She was lying in bed doing the long blink thing. I turned on the desk lamp and sat down with the box on the desk in front of me.

  The box must have once been white, but now it was gray. The lid was crinkly and loose and the sides were bowed, as if it had been squashed.

  I looked furtively through the wardrobe door again. Grace's eyes were closed and her mouth had fallen open.

  This was a spooky box for sure. “Spooky box,” that's a Kateism.

  I went to see my friend Kate in her flat one day. She doesn't have a couch. You're supposed to sit around on big velvet cushions. Kate looks like a little elf or a fairy, sitting on a big velvet cushion with her skinny legs folded up underneath her. I just look uncomfortable and get pins and needles.

  She was depressed about splitting up with Maxwell (again). Kate and Maxwell have been together since forever, but they break up for about twenty-four hours every couple of months. She laughs about it when it's not happening. But this particular time she was in the depths of despair. This time was forever.

  Yeah, sure.

  She said she'd been going through the Maxwell parts of her spooky box.

  “What's a spooky box?”

  “You know, the box from which you conjure your ghosts.”

  “I haven't got a spooky box.”

  “Yes you have, everyone's got a spooky box. Some people have a spooky drawer, some people have a spooky cupboard, or a spooky room. My grandma has a spooky house.”

  I looked into Kate's spooky box. “A train ticket,” I say. “There's nothing spooky about that.”

  “Not for you, maybe. When I bought that ticket, Maxwell and I had been fighting all day.”

  Kate and Maxwell always fight all day—not that you can tell. Maxwell always stands around looking bored and surly, so it's difficult to tell if he's being grumpy or just cool.

  I have always thought that Maxwell behaves like someone waiting impatiently to go somewhere else. I've had a drink with them a few times after work. Kate goes to a particular pub that is decorated with old-fashioned colonial-looking things like horse harnesses and crates and rusty farming equipment, liberally draped across every flat surface.

  In complete contrast with the “homestead” theme, this particular pub plays ska to the exclusion of almost all other musical styles (except, of course, for reggae, which grinds alarmingly against rustic charm).

  So, we went to this pub, and everyone's supercool, sort of wriggling to the music because they're too cool to dance with any vigor. Maxwell wouldn't sit down. He would stand a few meters away with his back to us, one hand in his pocket, waiting, even if it was for hours.

  I found it really irritating because whenever Kate wanted to talk to him he couldn't hear her, and she'd have to say everything two or three times.

  In every conversation I have ever had with him I have had the overwhelming impression that he's trying to wind up the conversation so he can leave. How are you, Maxwell? Fine, fine (quick look at his watch). No wonder they fight all the time. He would drive me insane.

  Anyway, Kate is sitting on her velvet cushion with the contents of her spooky box in little piles on the floor in front of her. She clutches the train ticket to her bosom. “We got on that train so exhausted from yelling at each other …”

  Maxwell yells?

  “… that we fell asleep. When we woke up, we had slept through our stop and two hours of stops after that. We ended up in this tiny little town. It was freezing cold and windy and it was six hours before the next train would come through to take us back.”

  Kate sighs. Her lower lip is quivering.

  She's such a drama queen.

  “We went to this little pub. We drank black beer. We played pool with the locals and we listened to this wizened old man. He had a face like a walnut. He must have been about a hundred. He read poetry and played the clarinet. He was one of the best performers I have ever heard in my whole life. That was one of the funnest afternoons I have ever had, even if we did get fined for fare evasion.”

  Then Kate started to cry. So I struggled out of my velvet cushion and left.

  Grace was lying on her side, snoring softly now, so I wiped the dust from the top of the spooky box, took off the lid and laid it upside down on the desk.

  The box was stuffed full of pieces of paper, some yellowing and wrinkly on the edges, photos in plastic sleeves, birthday cards, letters, just the sorts of things I had expected.

  I felt a little bit guilty, but I picked up the first piece of paper, propped up my feet on the computer tower and read.

  Dear Shouter and Screamer,

  I have lived next door to you for six months now. Thank you for the time you brought in my washing when it rained. However, I have some minor objections.

  One: Shouter, I object to the way you beat your dog after you have a fight with Screamer. Yes, I will admit that he is revolting and has no manners, but you have no one to blame but yourself for his odious lack of social skills and all-round offensiveness.

  Two: Screamer, I'm all for equality and I am the first to stand up for women's rights, but for a woman whose parents (I assume they are your parents, they have the same dulcet and soothing tones) clean your entire house twice a week, wash your car, do your shopping and clean your clothes, is it really necessary to protest so vocally every night about having to do the dishes?

  Three: Further on the dog issue. Maybe the reason he eats your flowers, your outdoor furniture, your shoes (and mine) is that he has learned that he will only ever receive attention after he behaves badly. I know this because I have only seen him happy once in your presence. He was galloping gleefully around the Hills Hoist with a now not-so-white sandshoe firmly in his teeth. You were spluttering and roaring as you ducked and weaved around on socked feet. I was amused.

  My advice to you, Shouter, is to leave her, she is a witch, you will be much better off.

  Screamer, just do the dishes, OK?

  I feel fondness only for the dog. You don't deserve him.

  I confess in advance to egging your house as I leave for work in the early hours of tomorrow morning.

  Grace

  The telephone rang. I figured I'd let the answering machine get it. It's me! No, actually it's Mum. We have the same voice. I need to answer that. She'll worry if I'm not here.

  I could hear my own voice, but not, coming down the hall, “Are you there, Rachel darling?”

  I put the lid back on the box and pushed it back in its place behind the books and shuffle down the hallway to pick up the phone. I think about telling her about the spooky box but decide not to.

  I talk to Brody for a little while. That is, I talk. He grunts and then eventually he says, “You know, Rach, there's no pause on this game I'm playing… ”

  I say, “This is relevant to me because …”

  I love saying that. I use it at every available opportunity.

  He says, “Well, it's a hired game and I only have it overnight….”

  I get the hint and hang up.

  Brody used to be a nerd too. I remember one morning there was a loud bang from his room. Mum and I rushed in and found him lying on the floor unconscious.

  When he came around he told us that he was lying in bed half asleep when the wall started to shimmer. He said he lay there for a while looking at it. Eventually, he decided it must be a vortex into another dimension.

  Of course! That sort of thing happens all the time.

  So, naturally, he tried to jump through it. It turned out not to be a vortex into another dimension at all, but merely the sun shining through the trees and in through the window and creating a shimmering effect on the wall.

  I thought Mum might ban science fiction for a litt
le while, but she didn't. Mum said, “The boy is not silly enough to throw himself headfirst at his bedroom wall twice, surely?” She was right.

  Brody discovered coolness in his early teens. He found coolness and lost the power to string a series of words into a sentence. That's what being cool is, apparently, saying as little as possible. It gives one an air of mystique.

  After I hang up the phone I start doing the washing-up and it occurs to me that I don't know anything about this woman who sleeps in the room next to mine.

  Until now it has been as if she were blank, with no personality, except those clues given by her beautiful house.

  Until this moment I haven't really thought about it as Grace's house. I know that it belongs to her, but I haven't really thought about the Grace who owns this house and the Grace I'm with every day as the same person. It has not occurred to me until this moment to wonder what she was like.

  I put the dishes away and walk around the house looking for clues that would tell me more about her personality.

  Who is this woman?

  I look for clues that I might have missed. I know she had expensive taste. She has beautiful things. She used to wear beautiful clothes. Her wardrobe is full of dark suits and silk blouses, but they are all new-looking, like clothes on a rack in a shop and not at all like the clothes I have been dressing her in.

  When I arrived she was dressed in a tracksuit and I have been dressing her in tracksuits ever since. There is a drawer in her wardrobe full of the things. But they are not at all like the suits. Firstly, they are cheap brands. Now I'm thinking that they must have been purchased postinjury for convenience. I don't think Grace picked them out for herself.

  I open the drawers in the wardrobe, looking for something old and comfortable. Didn't she have a favorite jumper or cardigan? Everybody has a favorite cardigan that they wear around the house, don't they? It might be ancient and stained and threadbare, but it's comfy. There's a clue to her personality—Grace must have thrown things out when they became old and worn. I wonder if she did that with people?