The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018

TWO

I don’t recall buying the pastel-blue toaster and kettle in my kitchen. Or the pear-and-vanilla soy candles on the coffee table in my living room. Or the white teapot with gold polka dots and matching teacups in the wall unit. My two-bedroom apartment in Melbourne’s South Yarra, a ten-minute walk from the Royal Botanic Gardens, and three blocks from the Yarra River, should feel like a cosy home, yet I can’t help feeling like an uninvited guest.

Still clinging tightly to the paper bag from the hospital, I pause by a side table where a set of photo frames are positioned. Part of me wants to satisfy my curiosity about what Blake looks like and what our expressions held in these pictures. I pick up one of the frames and briefly register a black-and-white image of us together. I’m leaning across him, poking out my tongue at the camera. The profile of his face shows a man with smooth cheeks and short dark hair. He’s looking at me, smiling.

We look happy, but were we really happy? How do I know for sure?

One by one, I turn the other photos face down. I can’t bring myself to look at them.

Scarlett’s eyes are on me, while soapy mountain peaks form in the overflowing kitchen sink.

‘Not ready yet,’ I say, feeling the need to explain.

‘Maybe you should go sit down. I’ll bring you some tea.’ She turns off the tap and steps in my direction.

I raise a hand to stop her. My left hand, where I’d slipped on my engagement ring earlier this morning—mostly to see whether it might bring back some kind of recollection about my life with Blake. The halo of diamonds catch the light and glisten at me, begging me to remember what it felt like to lay eyes upon them for the very first time. I’ve sifted through all the possible scenarios of how this ring came to find itself on my finger, but every one feels foreign. Just like everything in this home.

There’s a vase of wilted roses on the kitchen bench. A vase I don’t remember filling. But I recognise the flowers. Windermeres. They start out as cream double-cupped buds and slowly fade to white. They bloom until late in the season and their scent is fruity—with a delicate hint of citrus.

Turning one of the stems around between my fingers, the petals flutter to the floor. How can I know this but not remember the day my mother sailed away into heaven and out of my sight? I let out a sigh and pluck the rest of the flowers from the vase. A trail of stagnant water drips behind me as I head for the sliding door and toss them over the balcony, expelling a frustrated moan as the petals splatter onto the concrete footpath on the street below.

Scarlett cringes. This isn’t easy for her, either.

‘You should go lie down. You know what the doctors said. You need to take it easy.’

‘Just a minute,’ I whisper.

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 know 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?