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The Memories That Make Us

Page 13

by Vanessa Carnevale

Flynn smiles. ‘All right, well, I’ll drop his food by before I leave.’

  We finish eating and as we’re clearing the table the phone rings. I ignore it.

  ‘You going to answer that?’ asks Flynn.

  ‘Oh, it’s probably not important,’ I say, reaching for my coffee, knowing it’s Scarlett.

  The phone rings out and several seconds later starts ringing again. ‘You really should answer that,’ he says.

  He’s right. Scarlett will be ready to send out a search party for me if I don’t pick up the call.

  ‘Hey, Scarlett,’ I answer, trying to sound as fresh as possible.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday afternoon!’

  ‘Sorry, I was out.’

  ‘You were out? Where’d you go?’

  ‘To a pub.’

  ‘A pub?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘You mean to say you went to a pub alone?’

  ‘No, I went to a pub with a friend.’ I smile at Flynn.

  Flynn stares into his coffee.

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘His name’s Flynn. You told me to get out of the house, to get back into the real world, into a routine. I had an invitation to go out and so I did.’

  Scarlett’s talking so loudly, I’m almost certain Flynn can hear her. I cover the receiver and mouth, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You mean you went out with a guy?’

  ‘Well, he’s just a friend, it’s not anything …’ I look sheepishly at Flynn, who’s now pretending not to listen. ‘I need to go. We’re in the middle of breakfast.’

  ‘You mean he’s still there? Oh my God, Gracie, the minute I let you out of my sight! What’s Blake going to … What do you mean—’

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ I cut her off.

  I hang up the phone and glance at Flynn, who looks mildly uncomfortable. ‘That was my best friend, Scarlett. She thinks you stayed the night.’

  He laughs. I laugh. We both laugh as if it’s the silliest proposition ever.

  Last night definitely wasn’t a date.

  My cheeks start to burn. I stand up, the screech of the wooden chair against the tiles breaking the silence. Plates in hand, our attention turns to the car that’s just pulled up at the letterbox. The colour drains from my face.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got mail,’ says Flynn.

  The letter isn’t from Blake. The letter is from the bank. The bank that’s advising me that the mortgage repayment for the farm is overdue. And now I understand why Amanda tried to tell me that selling to our interested buyer was a good idea. After Flynn leaves, I call the bank to discuss the letter. The bank manager informs me that I’ve been making payments towards the rent for our apartment in Melbourne plus mortgage repayments on Summerhill. My savings are going to afford me limited time here, maybe four months at the most. This means I’m left with no choice but to somehow find a way to keep the farm, or sell up completely. Both options feel impossible. One of them feels imminent.

  I toss the calculator across the kitchen. It hits a photo frame, dislodging it from the wall. I drop my head onto the table, the thump muted by the sound of breaking glass as the photo of me and my mother hits the ground. There is no other place for me to call home. I have no job, I have no past, I have no idea how to navigate the future. Teetering on the edge of a crossroad with no clear path ahead, it’s hard to know what to do. The barn needs tidying, the garden needs a complete overhaul, and the fields need clearing. Everything is a mess. My life is a mess. I have no idea what came before and I have no idea what lies ahead, but I know what I want right now.

  I want to stay.

  I really, really want to stay.

  ‘What am I going to do, Parrot?’ Parrot looks up at me with his droopy eyes before he goes back to devouring the bone he’s been chewing on. I look out the window to the field. If I sell up now, I won’t even have the chance to see the fields in bloom. It’s the flowers that are supposed to hold all the answers to all the questions I might have about life. If it’s true that they know when to blossom, and how to blossom, then maybe it’s up to me to understand why they blossom at all, before I have to leave this all behind. Of course, there are some things I know about the flowers, but I need to learn more. And I think Tilly is the woman to teach me.

  FIFTEEN

  Tilly has finished trading for the day and is pushing her cart across the street to the sound of intermittent screeches as wheels turn. She moves slowly, as if every step is counted. I wave my hands and shout from across the road. ‘Tilly, wait!’ I must look so silly waving at her like this. ‘Tilly!’ I shout again, but she still can’t hear me. A woman taps her on the shoulder and she turns around to face me. I cross the street, and without stopping to catch my breath, tell her why I’ve come here. ‘I need your help,’ I blurt. ‘I need you to teach me what you know about the flowers. How did you know to sell that woman the viburnums? Why not the proteas or the Iceland poppies?’ I ask, pointing to a woman who has just left the stand. I brush the loose strands of hair away from my face. I’m still puffed out from running. I’ve jogged most of the way into town.

  She stares at me, as if she’s weighing up her response.

  ‘I think you choose them for a reason. It’s like you have a special way of knowing exactly what flowers people need most. Am I right?’

  ‘Why do you think I choose them?’ she asks smugly.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Well … come back once you’ve worked it out.’

  I swallow my embarrassment.

  ‘And once you figure it out, you might find that you actually don’t need me at all. Because the flowers, it’s—’

  ‘Their unseen beauty that makes them special.’ Goosebumps tingle on my arms at the thought of how true these words feel to me.

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiles to herself.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I think you mean, who told your mama that,’ she says, looking at me above the rim of her glasses. She pushes them up over her nose, and I follow her bony finger with my eyes.

  ‘Please. Tell me about her. I need to know.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything about your mama that you don’t already know.’

  I bite my lip. ‘Well, that’s not entirely true,’ I say.

  Tilly squints at me with curiosity. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I was in an accident you see … about six weeks ago. And … well … I lost my memory.’

  Tilly looks to the flowers and then to me, her face scrunching into a puzzled expression which makes her appear more wrinkled than usual.

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Very little. I just have the odd memory here and there of being with my mother on the farm. Details about the flowers. I can tell you that dahlias hate wet feet, and peonies have a short flowering window, tulips grow taller in water, and if you dip a gerbera stem in boiling water they last longer in the vase.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Well, I can reel off more facts about the flowers, but I don’t remember much else,’ I admit.

  ‘Come past on Monday morning before ten—the last cottage at the edge of Worthington Way. You’ll know it when you see it. I’ll have something for you.’ She reaches over to her cart and pulls out a small paper bag. ‘But in the meantime, take this,’ she says, handing it to me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it when you get home. Think of it as a prescription.’ I want to ask her what she means by this, but the expression on her face makes me think better of it, so I just reply, ‘Thank you.’

  Back at the cottage, I potter around the house, mulling over Tilly, the flowers, my mother and my memory. I turn the paper bag Tilly gave me upside down. Packets of sweet pea seeds, enclosed in brown paper envelopes, fall out. On the back, in barely legible scrawl, she’s written some instructions, including a warning to sow them where the cold can’t reach them. Each packet contains one hundred pea-sized bal
ls. I hold one in the palm of my hand, before enclosing it in there and putting it in my pocket.

  I close my eyes and in my mind hear my mother’s voice, like a gentle wave, bringing truth and knowing to the shore.

  The sweet peas know where to look for the light.

  Flynn shows up at my front door close to eight o’clock. I wasn’t expecting him home until tomorrow and I’m already in my pyjamas.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Sorry it’s late. I would have called, but my phone went flat.’

  ‘No problem,’ I reply, feeling slightly embarrassed about my attire. Flynn doesn’t seem to have noticed. Parrot rushes to the door and starts running around in circles. ‘Clearly he missed you.’

  Flynn crouches down to pat him as I close the front door. He looks tired, worn out, a little ragged.

  ‘How was your time in Melbourne?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replies coolly.

  ‘So, what did you do there?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just had some work to take care of.’

  ‘Sounds all so mysterious,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.

  Flynn looks at me for a few seconds, as if he wants to tell me something but is holding back.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, but I’m—’

  ‘Let me guess. Starving?’

  Flynn follows me into the kitchen. He looks at my plate on the table, where a slice of bread smothered in honey and a few bread crusts remain. ‘Is that your dinner?’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘Well … cooking’s not my forte and it was just that kind of day. I got it from a local stall three paddocks away. As Linda said herself, “You can’t get any better than Central Highlands Honey Co.”’

  ‘Gracie, this isn’t good for you.’ He takes off his jacket and pulls out a chair.

  ‘It’s Manuka.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

  ‘On homemade sourdough.’

  He raises an eyebrow, showing me he’s not convinced with my justification.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Omelette or toast?’ I ask, throwing him a look that tells him that the appropriateness of my meal choices isn’t up for discussion.

  He eyes off my chipped yellow ceramic plate and looks up at me. ‘Toast,’ he says finally, without lowering his gaze. ‘With honey. Because it was just that kind of weekend.’

  Something in my chest flickers, and suddenly I’m aware of the way my heart is beating a little faster than before.

  I slide my plate in front of him.

  He smiles. A knowing smile, a smile telling me he gets it. I no longer care that I’m sitting in the kitchen wearing pyjamas, because I’m sitting in the kitchen with Flynn, the friend who seems to understand me the way nobody else does, considering how little I know about myself. And maybe the best kind of friends, the ones you keep for life, are the kind of friends who understand why sometimes the very best meal choice is toast with honey—even if it is a little burnt around the edges.

  Flynn eats five slices of toast before declaring he’s full. When he’s done, I offer to wash up the dishes and prepare a hot drink. In the short amount of time I spend in the kitchen, Flynn manages to fall asleep on the sofa, against the soothing sounds of the crackle from the fire and the splattering of raindrops against the roof and windows. I stand there in contemplation, watching him, trying to decide if I should wake him or leave him be. The most logical thing would be to nudge him awake and send him home, but he’s clearly exhausted, so I take a woollen blanket from the hall cupboard and lay it over him.

  ‘Night, Parrot,’ I whisper, before switching off the light and retreating down the hall into my bedroom.

  I light a candle, prop myself up against the pillows on my bed, the soft glow from the lamp keeping me company in the ticking moments, while the room infuses with the scent of pear and lime and my mind tries to find a solution to my financial situation. I come up with nothing. Sleep is already so elusive, and now with this to worry about, it’s all the more difficult. I rest my head on the pillow and close my eyes, when Flynn calls softly from down the hall. ‘Gracie, are you still awake?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I call. Before I can get up, he pokes his head through the bedroom door.

  I sit up. ‘You fell asleep. So I thought I’d let you rest.’

  ‘You look tired. It’s late and I should let you get some sleep,’ he says.

  ‘I find it hard to nod off. It’s okay once I fall asleep, but it’s the getting to sleep that’s hard. I toss and turn and think about … I think too much. Usually, I read for a bit and …’

  He steps into the soft light of the room. ‘Lie down,’ he says, his voice low.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He moves slowly, the room falling silent. I’m fixated on him—the way he reaches for one of the books from the bed, stacks the rest of them carefully on the bedside table, and sits down beside me. We are so close, I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. He doesn’t say a word but meets my eyes, holding my gaze for longer than he ever has before. My heart rate quickens and a jolt of excitement tingles through me. Flynn makes himself comfortable, propping himself up against the oversized pillows on the bed, before reaching for Blake’s t-shirt between us. He holds it in his palm, feeling the weight of it in his hand. I swallow uncomfortably. Flynn’s on my bed and Blake is … I don’t know where or what Blake is anymore. Flynn moves the t-shirt across, closer to my side of the bed. I shake my head, clearing my throat. ‘It’s just, uh …’

  ‘No big deal. It’s not like it’s his underwear.’

  Our joint laughter diffuses the awkwardness. Flynn leans back and flicks to the front page of the book. I’m mesmerised by the way the soft lighting accentuates his jawline, the way his lips move when he concentrates, how his five-o’clock shadow suits him. He notices me looking at him, and glances across, a smile playing on his lips—a caring smile, a loving smile, a smile that shows me how safe it is to be with him right now. I smile back and feel his hand close over mine. He squeezes and clears his throat, and when he pulls his hand away, I try to stop myself from reaching out for it again, but can’t. My fingers find his, and without lifting his eyes from the book, he takes hold of my hand and starts stroking it with his thumb.

  ‘Everything You Need to Know About Flower Farming. I hope this is going to be as good as David Copperfield,’ he says, breaking the silence.

  ‘What? Really? You’ve read that?’

  ‘Shhh,’ he says bringing a finger to his lips. He starts reading. ‘Whenever I’m cradling a freshly harvested bunch of flowers in my arms, I feel like I’m holding the world in them. I was brought up amongst flowers, spending long summer days on the roadside stands, where sellers would roll up bunches of blooms in day-old newspapers, handing them over to customers, knowing they had the power to change the course of someone’s day.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, opening my bedside table drawer. I take out a pair of socks and put them on. ‘Okay, you can keep going now.’

  He looks at my feet and smiles to himself before turning his attention back to the page. ‘There’s no greater feeling when you prune a bunch of roses on a Thursday afternoon, at the tail end of winter, with a guy who’s more handsome in your bed than in the field.’

  ‘It does not say that,’ I say, laughing as I slip myself under the comforter.

  He gives a half-supressed laugh and then presses a finger to his lips. ‘You don’t want to get a second wind.’

  I bring the covers to my chin, leaving one arm exposed so Flynn can take my hand in his again. I’m aware of the softness of the bed, the pillow, the light, and Flynn’s voice, guiding me steadily into a state of relaxation I haven’t experienced since I came out of hospital.

  He reads with the same kind of reverence one might give a classic, his voice smooth, rhythmic, soothing. I peek at him over the edge of my comforter, and something in my chest flutters. I inhale, not quite sure what to ma
ke of it all.

  Turning to my side, I cradle my head in my hands and let myself be lulled to sleep by the sound of Flynn’s lulling cadence, which is anything but irritating. As I slip from being awake to almost asleep, to that space where memory plays with the present, and daytime overlaps into night time, and wakefulness meets sleep, he whispers the words, ‘Sleep tight, Gracie,’ right before I hear him blow out the candle.

  There’s a body on the side of the bed where Blake should be, but it doesn’t belong to Blake. I roll away from Flynn, disturbing his sleep in the process. He flicks his eyes open and smiles lazily at me.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ I say, sitting up now.

  He also sits up and shrugs. ‘I fell asleep.’ He extends his arms and stretches. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘What?! How can you be thinking about food right now?’

  He runs his hands through his hair and rubs the stubble on his chin. ‘I always think about food.’

  The alarm buzzes and I lift the comforter off me and stomp towards the other side of the bed to turn it off, stepping over Blake’s t-shirt, which is now on the floor. I’m not annoyed with Flynn. I’m annoyed with myself. What would Blake think if he knew about this?

  I’d explain that Flynn and I are nothing more than friends. Because that’s precisely what we are. Aren’t we? We both reach for the alarm clock, but Flynn grabs it before I do.

  ‘Let’s go for a run,’ he says, teasing me with a smile. He shifts the alarm clock from one hand to another like a ball.

  ‘Give that here.’ He raises it higher so I can’t reach it.

  Flynn switches off the alarm and sets the clock down.

  ‘You shouldn’t have stayed the night,’ I say.

  ‘But I did, and I’m here and it’s done, and today’s a new day.’

  I look at him, dumbfounded. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Can’t go backwards, Gracie. Only forwards.’ He slips on his shoes and heads for the door. ‘Meet you in fifteen minutes. Loser cooks breakfast.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you stay,’ I say, but he doesn’t hear me because he’s already out the door.

  The front door clicks shut behind him. Flopping back onto the bed—Flynn’s side of the bed—I let out a groan and stare at the vaulted ceiling. My mind travels to the way his clear blue eyes greeted me in those moments separating sleep from wakefulness, and I can’t help wishing I knew whether Blake’s eyes might have met mine in the same way. I pick up Blake’s t-shirt, bringing it to my face, inhaling, searching for a hint of his signature scent, but even that has faded now.

 

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