She sighs discreetly and I retreat to the living room, feeling her eyes on me. I’m sure she’s wearing the same worried expression that painted her face in the hospital when she registered the news that I didn’t know who she was.
Irritation creeps over me as I notice the way the plush throw is draped over the sofa in the living room and the way the remotes are lined up perfectly, one beside the other. I notice the way light pours into the room. It bounces through the antique white plantation shutters onto the decorative mirrors. None of it moves me.
To the right of the living area, there’s a closed bedroom door facing me. Scarlett wipes her wet hands on her jeans and patters behind me as I gingerly push it open. ‘Gracie, hold on. Maybe you should wait before you …’ Her voice trails off. My pulse hammers through my ears. My free hand rises to my temple. There are bridal magazines stacked in a pile beside the bed. Hanging from the curtain rail is an ivory-coloured dress bag. I inch forward to it slowly, nausea washing over me in waves. Pulling down the zipper, I catch a glimpse of the delicate fabric hiding beneath it. What should feel personal and poignant, leaves me cold. What should be known, is not.
I don’t remember buying this dress.
I don’t remember any of this.
I’m living a life that isn’t my own.
Scarlett’s eyes, filled with pity, meet mine. Tears brimming, I head for the door, past Scarlett, and retreat to the master bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I drop the paper bag onto the floor and collapse onto the bed. Which side of the bed is mine?
I lay there, on the left side, ignoring Scarlett’s knocking, a sound that becomes muted as my attention travels to the book sprawled out on the other side of the bed.
‘I need … some time,’ I call, my voice cracking. Even I know that time holds no guarantee that any of this will come back to me, though. What if it doesn’t?
The knocking ceases. ‘I’ll be out here if you need me.’
With my face still resting on the pillow, I reach out with my free hand and close the book, revealing the title: Every Room Tells a Story: A Practical Guide to Home Styling.
I make a mental note of the things I know, the tiny details that form part of the enormous puzzle that has become my life since the accident.
I’m organised.
I have a flair for interior design.
I’m supposed to be marrying a man named Blake, a man I know absolutely nothing about.
Weighted minutes circle around the clock, and eventually the bruised sky fades to slate, bringing with it a light shower.
‘How are you doing in there?’ calls Scarlett through the bedroom door.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘Just tired,’ I add, wiping my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. I chew the inside of my lip, and my eyes start to sting again. I want to be fine. I so desperately want to be fine.
‘I’m going to make some lunch soon,’ she says, before becoming quiet. There’s an ache in her voice that I can’t help feeling responsible for. Ten days ago she lost me. Ten days ago I lost everything and everyone.
I run my fingers over the bump on my head and cringe as I apply light pressure to it. I still don’t recall the accident, or being in the car. I don’t remember where we were heading, or what song was playing on the radio, or whether we travelled in silence. My life is now a case of before and after, and I’m wedged in the middle, not knowing the before, incapable of imagining what’s supposed to come after.
No matter how hard I try to drift off to sleep, my mind refuses to cooperate, and unable to rest, circles back to the one question that’s been weighing on my mind since Dr Cleave delivered his news to me.
Who am I?
From my bedroom window, I watch a postman on his motorbike cross the street. He stops outside my apartment complex. Scarlett’s footsteps echo through the narrow hallway just before the front door opens, and a minute later she slips an envelope under my bedroom door. It rests there on the floorboards, untouched, until the aroma of vegetable soup wafts throughout the apartment and Scarlett makes another attempt at knocking on my door.
This time, she pokes her head into the room and takes a step inside, treading on the letter in the process. She bends down and picks it up.
‘I think you should read it,’ she says, before setting it on my bedside table. ‘He called earlier, you know. To see whether you’d changed your mind about seeing him.’
I fold my hands into my lap, and twirl the ring around my finger. It comes full circle, stares back at me and it’s enough to make my lip start trembling. I bite down to stop it. I don’t want Scarlett to see me cry. Has she seen me cry before? We’ve known each other for years. Of course she has.
‘That’s what I thought. He said to tell you that …’
I raise my hand for her to stop, but she doesn’t.
‘… he loves you and to take all the time you need.’
Nothing I say can make this situation any easier for either of them, so I nod, confirming I understand, when really I don’t understand any of this.
Scarlett waits for me to add something to the conversation and when I don’t, she summons a smile and says, ‘Come and eat when you’re ready,’ before closing the door behind her.
There’s no return address on the back of the envelope, just a name. Hands trembling, I study Blake’s handwriting, its moderately neat font—for a guy, at least—sprawled over the page but contained within the margins.
Dear Gracie,
I know it must be a shock to have almost everything you’ve ever known ripped away from you so suddenly. There’s nothing I want more than to see you again, or hear your voice again, or hold you in my arms again, but if what Scarlett and the doctors are saying is true—that you need space to gather your thoughts and find your bearings—then I’m going to have to miss you for a little while longer.
The doctors told me there’s every chance your memory will come back to you, but I figured you might need some help along the way. Maybe you could tell me what you remember, and I’ll tell you what I remember, and maybe somewhere, our memories will meet in the middle.
I remember the first time I met you. We were twelve years old. You had on a white cotton dress covered with lemons and you were wearing a daisy chain on your head. You were covered in smudges of dirt, yet I remember thinking you were the most beautiful girl in the world. You’d been trying to capture ladybugs because pests were attacking the roses. You had ten ladybugs in a mason jar and when I asked about them you unscrewed the lid, took one out and opened your palm for me to take it. You flashed me a smile, the kind of smile that told me you and I would be friends for life, and then you said, ‘They bring good luck.’
Sometimes, when you’re falling asleep, I whisper the word ‘ ladybug’ to you and you smile. It makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.
Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about you. Somehow, when you remember, it’ll all be okay.
Love,
Blake
I tuck the letter back in its envelope and sink further into the pillow, my eyelids heavy with tears, aching to evoke a part of my life that doesn’t feel like my own, and wonder: If I fell in love with him once, would I fall in love with him again?
THREE
In the unfamiliar bed that’s mine, I wake up in a mess of tangled sheets, my arm embracing a pillow in the place where Blake should be. There’s a fleeting moment of comfort in knowing that my body might remember what it felt like to feel close to him while my mind plays catch-up.
I kick off the quilt and try to orient myself as my eyes fixate on the view outside of the terraced homes that throng the street lined with plane trees still persisting to hold onto what remains of their yellowed maple-shaped leaves, even though we’re midway through winter. A lone leaf drifts to the footpath and scuttles across the street, where intermittent passers-by head to the nearest tram stop.
Sliding my feet into a pair of slippers, I shuffle to the kitchen, where there’s a note from Scarlett letting me kno
w she’s headed out to run a few errands and will be back soon to check on me. I open the pantry and start lining up my breakfast options beside each other—a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, a box of cereal. Nothing seems to appeal until I eye the canister of ground coffee beans. I switch on the machine and stare blankly at it before filling one of the empty compartments with coffee. I push one of the buttons, and wait for the liquid to drip into the glass jug. All that ensues is a grinding noise. I grip my empty mug tighter and try again, pressing the same button, over and over, to no avail. I pour a glass of water into the machine and try again. The digital screen flashes an error message. ‘No, no, no,’ I say, my voice rising with each push of the button. I press down one last time and finally, defeated, I rip the cord from the power point, disturbing the box of filters tucked away behind the machine. I pull them out from the box, one after the other, until the bench space is covered in them. With the sweep of one arm, I send them to the floor, along with the open coffee canister and my mug, which shatters into countless pieces, pieces that can’t be—won’t be—glued back together. My body slides to the kitchen floor, and now I am knee deep in coffee grounds, picking up the fragmented pieces of my mug, trying to fit them back together like a jigsaw, even though I know they’ll never fit back in the same way they did before. They form the broken words: Don’t forget to live. I tip my head to the ceiling, close my eyes, and feel my body convulsing into a series of silent sobs as my fists hit the cupboard behind me.
Minutes pass before I finally pull myself off the floor and tidy up the mess with a dustpan and brush. I make a second attempt at making a coffee, this time opting for an instant. Next, I scour the kitchen cupboards for a frying pan and mixing bowl. I find what I’m looking for, close all the cupboards, brush the hair away from my eyes and take the eggs out of the carton. My body stiffens. I know what I want to do, but I don’t know how to do it. I stare at the eggs, mouth agape. How can this be possible? I stand there, unconsciously holding my breath, as I admit to myself that I have no idea how to prepare an omelette. Anger bubbles up inside of me. I can’t accept this—won’t accept this. I slide my hand across the bench and snatch the recipe book from the wrought-iron stand it’s propped on. I furiously search the index. Why can’t my attention focus on these words?
Concentrate, Gracie.
I scan the page slowly this time, purposefully. O for omelette. Right there. Flipping to page twenty-six, I read over the instructions out loud—twice for good measure— and somehow, between flicking my attention from the recipe book to the mixing bowl to the frying pan, I manage not to burn breakfast.
I’m serving up two cheese-and-herb soufflé omelettes with a side of spinach and two glasses of orange juice when Scarlett stumbles through the front door. She wipes her boots on the inside doormat.
‘Gosh, it’s pouring out there,’ she says, lifting the beanie off her head with one hand. She shakes her hair free, allowing her mass of curls to bounce around her shoulders. She enters the kitchen, her left arm full of shopping bags. She wears barely any makeup, her velvety skin, with a hint of colour where it counts, making her lucky enough not to need it. Her jaw drops when she sees me. I swallow a mouthful of omelette and question her with my eyes.
‘What’s that?’ she asks, staring at the plates, her bow-shaped mouth still slightly ajar.
‘An omelette,’ I reply, uncertain of what I’ve done wrong.
She sets the bags on the counter and straightens her posture. She rests her hands on her curvy waist. ‘But you don’t eat eggs.’
‘I don’t?’ I say, glancing at my half-empty plate. ‘They’re so good though. You should try some,’ I add, handing her a fork. ‘I made some for you, too.’
She looks at me wide-eyed, her doll eyes blinking.
‘What?’ I ask, noticing something’s off. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. It’s odd, that’s all. Unexpected.’
‘So why did you buy eggs if you know I don’t like them?’
‘I didn’t. They were already here.’ She throws me a look that is enough to remind me.
Of course. Blake.
‘Oh,’ I reply, exhaling a deep breath. Scarlett heads towards the fridge and starts unpacking the groceries to supplement the ones she’d already shopped for before I came home. ‘You were always nagging him to eat healthy. I think he used to bring home junk food just to rile you up.’ She holds up a tub of coconut yoghurt. ‘I bought you your favourite,’ she says, poking out her head from behind the fridge door. ‘From the organic grocery store down the road. They asked why you hadn’t been in.’
The yoghurt doesn’t look familiar. In fact, I couldn’t care less about the yoghurt. I’m still thinking about the eggs. And Blake. And how many other things Blake and I might not have in common. I give her a smile of appreciation and inhale sharply.
‘You go in every Tuesday for your grocery shop, but you stop by for a chai every morning because you don’t drink …’ Scarlett closes the fridge and stares at my steaming cup.
‘Coffee?’ I raise my eyebrows and take a sip. Her eyes are still trained on me when I put it down. I roll my eyes. ‘I know, it’s instant. I had a little trouble with the machine.’
A gentle shake of her head tells me she’s chosen to ignore the topic at hand. ‘I left a list of things for you to get to on the kitchen bench. Once you’re ready, that is.’
I scan the list.
Call work to let them know your return date.
Make appointment at the hospital for your check-up.
My heart begins to thump a little harder in my chest. I’m not ready to face the world with the everyday tasks required of me.
‘Scarlett?’ I say, almost shyly. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know how to deal with this list. Work is the last thing on my mind, and the thought of going back to a job when I have no idea what I used to do or how I used to do it, causes me to break out in a sweat. Especially after the effort it’s taken me to cook an omelette.
‘Yeah?’ she replies, staring into the pantry.
‘What do I do for work, exactly?’ My face scrunches as I brace myself for her answer, the possibilities racing through my head: lawyer, waitress, physiotherapist, town planner, data-entry clerk, chef. God, please don’t let me be a chef.
Scarlett’s shoulders sag. ‘You’re a stylist. Country Dwellings magazine. You work on their photo shoots. You know, arrange the furniture, sort out the props … that kind of thing,’ she says. ‘Every now and then you do a bit of interior-design consulting on the side.’
My brows knit together as I try to get my head around what Scarlett is telling me.
‘Are you … do I like it?’ I ask, thinking that I couldn’t possibly enjoy it.
She shrugs. ‘I think so. Making things look good is what you do.’ She waves a hand around the apartment. She’s right. It’s lovely. Minimal and uncluttered. Fresh and modern yet warm and inviting. ‘And as far as work goes, you don’t mind the long hours, you love interior design and you’ve been there long enough. You’ve been working crazy hours this year, chasing a promotion. You haven’t let me hear the end of it. Anyway, I think they’re going to let you go back part-time. That’s what Ava—your boss—said to Blake last week.’
‘Right,’ I say, rubbing my forehead as if I’m trying to coax out some kind of recollection about the fact that I have a job people are expecting me to return to.
‘You don’t have to go back right away,’ says Scarlett, sensing my discomfort. ‘Maybe wait a week and then see how you feel. By then, you might be ready to see Blake and …’ She huffs out a breath. ‘Never mind. Just take your time.’
Now feeling even guiltier about the entire situation, I tip the rest of my coffee down the sink, and scrape what remains of the rubbery omelette into the bin, where it lands with a smack. I head to the bathroom while Scarlett finishes unpacking the groceries. Peering at my reflection in the mirror, I unravel the messy bun on the top of my head and let my hair drop around m
y shoulders. There are layers. And the kind of blonde highlights only a hair stylist could create. Where do I get my hair done? I run my hands over my legs. Who does my waxing?
As the running water in the shower infuses the bathroom with steam and fogs up the mirror in front of me, I ask myself the more pressing question of whether the blue or yellow toothbrush is mine and try my hardest not to cry.
By the time I’ve showered and dressed, Scarlett has managed to find the photo albums and has stacked them on the coffee table. She’s sitting on the couch, flicking through them with a pensive smile on her face, when she finally looks up and notices me.
I stand there, frozen, looking at the albums and back at Scarlett.
She fiddles with her fingers before speaking. ‘I found them in one of the cupboards. They’re in order according to year. So, I thought we could go through them and maybe they’d spark some kind of memory for you. There are the photos of the summer we spent in the country a couple of years ago for my wedding and …’
I stare blankly at her.
‘You know, the summer Blake proposed?’ she says, raising her eyebrows. She continues, and I’m almost sure it’s nerves causing her to ramble like this, but it’s too much for me to take in right now. I close my eyes, trying to drown out her words. Something about trees and lights and barns and …
‘Stop!’ I say, more forcefully than I’d intended. I take a deep breath. ‘Stop,’ I repeat, my voice lower. ‘I don’t want to know. Not right now. I don’t want to know it like this.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, her brow creasing. She’s looking down at her feet, and closes one of the albums, as if doing that can erase some of her words.
‘Me either,’ I say, dropping onto the sofa beside her.
‘Don’t you want to remember?’ she asks, turning her body towards me.
I fold my hands in my lap. In the hospital, I’d asked Scarlett to not tell me details about my life until I was ready. I try explaining it to her again. ‘Of course … of course I do.
I just … I want to remember on my terms. I don’t want to remember things because you or anyone else that knows me remembered them a certain way. I don’t want to be told stories about how things were and what I felt. I want to know it and feel it myself. Otherwise, how am I going to know if what I feel is real?’
The Memories That Make Us Page 3
