‘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.
SEVEN
Woodend, a small country village in the centre of the Victorian Macedon Ranges, comes into view after an hour’s train ride from Melbourne’s Southern Cross station. As I stroll down the quiet street to the nearest bus stop, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafts from the bakery but is quickly overpowered by the smell of coffee from the café next door.
‘Just in time, love,’ says the bus driver, as I haul my suitcase up the steps.
‘Are you heading to Daylesford?’ I ask.
‘Sure am.’
‘Could you let me know once we’ve arrived?’ I request, before taking a seat. He salutes in response, before telling me we should be there in around forty-five minutes.
The bus rattles away as we pass through a large avenue lined with English oaks, and travel past frost-dusted paddocks and restored homesteads. Puffs of smoke billow from chimneys while a light fog slowly lifts in the distance.
Eventually, we reach the heart of Daylesford, which has come to life under the mid-morning sun. ‘This’ll be your stop,’ calls the bus driver, opening the doors for me. I thank him and tug my luggage off the step, pulling it behind me over the bumpy asphalt, while I try to work out which direction to step in. I tap the door, which opens for me almost immediately. ‘Um, by any chance would you happen to know where Summerhill is? It used to be a flower farm.’
The driver rubs his chin and points ahead. ‘You’ll need to walk all the way down there and turn right once you reach the directional signs for the lake. Once you’re there, ask for more directions. It shouldn’t be far off.’
An eclectic array of shops throng the main street—a large bakehouse, a bookstore, various gift shops, upmarket clothing stores, and a wine bar whose entry is manned by two wooden barrels with fistfuls of paper daisies cascading over their edges. Couples of varying ages spill in and out of the cafés on either side of the road, emerging with takeaway cups of steaming coffee. It’s no wonder everyone looks relaxed here. Originally a gold-mining town, the spot is now a haven for day-spa retreats, pampering and romantic weekend getaways.
At the end of the main street, the shops peter out, replaced by picket fences and Victorian-style cottages, including B&Bs sporting ‘No Vacancy’ signs, even though it’s midwinter. I continue down the road, following the directions pointing me to Lake Daylesford.
Further ahead lies a roadside stand where the street widens. A man wearing fingerless gloves, an oversized coat and a tweed cap is selling roasted chestnuts, the smoky aroma reminding me that I skipped breakfast completely. I breathe in the earthy scent of eucalyptus and sprawling countryside and wait as the man shovels a scoop-full of chestnuts into a brown paper cone and hands them to a customer, while another one, a male, probably around my age, leans against the stall, popping chestnuts into his mouth as he chats to the vendor. He watches me approach, lifts his eyebrows and smiles at me.
‘That’ll be four dollars,’ says the vendor to a customer. ‘And for you, Miss, what’ll it be?’
‘I’m just looking for directions,’ I say, digging into my pocket for the property listing.
‘The lake’s that way,’ he says, nodding to his left.
‘Well, actually, I’m looking for 495 Darlinghurst Way? Otherwise known as Summerhill.’
The guy standing beside the stall perks to attention. ‘You want to know where Summerhill is?’ His eyes meet mine, where they settle for a second.
‘Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s close by, but …’ I flick my eyes to the piece of paper. ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure.’
‘Nobody lives there, so—’
‘I live there,’ I say, wondering if he’s noticed the hint of irritation in my voice.
‘It’s a little hard to find.’
He waits for me to reply, but when I don’t respond, he continues. ‘But if you look beyond those gum trees, you’ll see it right up there,’ he says, pointing across the road to a cottage on the hill directly in front of the chestnut stall.
The trees, with their hundred-year-old limbs, obscure the house almost completely. I squint, trying to get a better view.
‘I hope your electricity’s running.’ He pops a chestnut into his mouth. ‘Cold snap,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. He rolls up the collar of his grey herringbone coat and I can feel his eyes lingering on me as I hand the vendor some change in exchange for a paper cone.
‘Everything is in order,’ I mutter. I can’t believe I’ve stupidly overlooked this detail. Maybe Scarlett was right about this not being a good idea. She’d asked me not to leave until she had a chance to help me sort out a few things and now I know this is what she meant. Raising the handle of the suitcase, I take a few steps towards the road and call out over my shoulder, ‘Thanks for the directio
ns.’
Before I have a chance to get very far, the guy’s beside me, his jog slowing to a walk. ‘Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I said something to upset you.’
I’m not in the mood to explain that the only person I’m really irritated with is myself. My silence does little to shrug him off.
He flashes me a smile, which I ignore, even if it is of the slightly charming variety. I take another step forward, but he extends a hand just as I move, knocking the paper cone out of my hand.
‘I’m Flynn,’ he says, as my chestnuts spill to the ground. He runs a hand through the natural waves of his unruly blond hair. ‘Uh, not usually this clumsy, I can assure you.’ He looks down at the chestnuts, then back at me, his mouth twisting into an amused smile.
Despite his handsome looks—large marine-blue eyes, a strong jaw line, light scruff, and two smile-enhancing dimples that make it almost impossible to not smile back, I’m starting to find this guy increasingly exasperating. I eye off my lunch, which is now scattered around my feet. My stomach growls.
‘Nice meeting you, Flynn,’ I reply, just before I cross the road.
I tug my suitcase up the gravel-lined driveway, my heart sinking with each step. The garden beds out front are in dire need of attention, the dormant roses desperately needing a winter prune. Bare branches of wisteria snake over one side of the white weatherboard façade, tendrils curling through the fretwork, and the overstuffed letterbox is spewing yellowed, soggy newspapers, which I dislodge and tuck under one arm before ramming my hip against the gate to open it.
I’m overwhelmed by a woody, musty smell the moment I push open the sage-green front door, but despite the cold and minimal furnishings of the cottage, there’s an element of warmth here. It feels as if my mother could emerge from the kitchen at any moment; oven mitts on, pulling a steaming hot apple pie from the oil-fired Rayburn. A pair of kitchen scales sits beside a stack of recipe books that have gathered a layer of dust. There’s a modest-sized living room with a double-sided fireplace and an armchair positioned in a reading nook, the wall partially covered with bookshelves. Are any of the books mine? Did my mother ever hold me on her lap and read to me when I was a child?
The Memories That Make Us Page 6
