
The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018
‘Good news. Blake has parked the car and should be up here soon.’
I stop sipping my water and splutter. My body tenses up.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘I don’t feel good about this.’
She shakes her head in confusion.
‘About seeing him. I don’t remember him. I don’t know anything about him—or how we were—what sort of relationship we had.’ I desperately want her to understand.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to know and we’ll start there?’
‘Um, I think I’d rather have the chance to—’
Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘I bet that’s him. Come in,’ she says. ‘See, now Blake can tell you everything himself.’
My chest tightens. ‘No.’
Scarlett fires me a look of confusion. ‘No, what?’
‘I don’t want any visitors,’ I whisper. A surge of adrenaline floods through me. I want to be left alone.
‘But it’s Blake.’
‘No,’ I repeat, close to tears.
‘Why not, Gracie?’
‘Please, I don’t know who he is. I don’t know how I’m meant to act around him or what I’m supposed to even say.’ My eyes plead with her. ‘Scarlett, I can’t face him right now.’
‘But …’ Scarlett is unable to hide her shock. ‘He’s your fiancé.’
The door creaks open.
‘Gracie?’ says a voice. A voice that is completely foreign to me.
‘I mean it. I don’t want to see anyone right now.’ I draw my knees up to my chest, squeezing my eyes closed, wanting to block everything out.
‘Blake, hold on,’ says Scarlett, approaching the door. She presses a hand against it.
On the next inhale, my future outside the hospital flashes in front of me—the countless questions, the endless stories, the photographs. The people who have become strangers to me will be desperate to help me fill the gaps, become the person they knew me to be. Blake is going to tell me I loved him and he loved me and I will have no choice but to believe him. And when I leave this hospital I’m going to have to consciously try to fall in love with him.
At this realisation, the world constricts around me and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. I press my palm against my chest, which seems to be hammering much faster than it should be. I can’t seem to stop the rush of thoughts spiralling around in my head. If Blake walks into this room, I will have to look into the eyes of the man I am supposed to marry and tell him I feel nothing for him.
‘Gracie,’ calls Blake through the doorway.
I shoot a look at Scarlett, pleading with her. ‘I don’t want to see him. Please just tell him I need some time.’ I pin my lip between my teeth and scrunch my eyes closed again.
‘Okay, okay,’ says Scarlett.
I roll onto my side so that I’m not facing the door, and curl into a ball, bringing the covers up to my chin. I can’t seem to get a handle on this feeling of being completely and utterly out of control. Despite my requests, the door opens.
‘Gracie? What’s going on?’ says a male voice from behind me. I close my eyes tighter. I can’t answer him. And I still can’t seem to control my breathing.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Maybe I should page the nurses,’ says Scarlett.
‘Gracie, it’s me,’ he says softly, resting a hand on my arm. He runs his fingers through my hair, moving the loose strands away from my face and then he kisses my cheek, the stubble from his face grazing my skin. The fragrance of his aftershave wafts through the air, and along with that comes a shattering confirmation that I don’t recognise it. This aftershave could belong to any man. A series of unintentional moans escape me.
I hear Scarlett whisper to Blake, ‘Maybe you should wait outside. Give her a few minutes and I’ll explain everything.’
There are footsteps and a moment later the door clicks shut. When Scarlett re-enters the room a minute or so later, she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Breathe, Gracie. Deep breaths,’ she commands, rubbing my back. I can’t seem to stop shaking. She presses the buzzer for the nurses. ‘Open your eyes, I want you to look at me.’
I flick my eyes open. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ My face contorts into a grimace. ‘I’m scared,’ I croak. ‘I’m really, really scared.’
Bea enters the room. ‘Gracie? What’s going on, love? Is everything okay?’
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me … but I can’t … I don’t want to see him … I don’t want to see anyone.’
‘I think she’s having a panic attack,’ says Scarlett.
Bea nods and tells me to breathe, but no matter how hard I try, it still feels like there isn’t enough air.
The door clicks open again. ‘Gracie!’ calls Blake. ‘It’s just me, I promise you, everything will be okay if you let me in.’
‘No,’ I say, my eyes pleading with Bea.
‘It’s okay, honey,’ she says, pressing a hand on my shoulder.
She leaves the room and a few seconds later Blake’s voice reverberates through the hospital.
‘You need to let me see her!’ he yells.
‘That’s not what she wants, she’s distressed enough as it is, and we need to respect her wishes,’ she says.
‘This is ridiculous, I’m her fiancé.’
‘She’s having an anxiety attack,’ Bea says firmly. ‘This is not the right time.’
‘Let me talk to her, I’ll help calm her down.’
‘I’m sorry, but she’s not in the frame of mind to see you right now. This is all a huge shock for her. It’s a lot to take in. She needs time to adjust, to get her head around what’s happened. She’s frightened and very fragile, not to mention exhausted, and I think it’s best to let her accept this first and then—’
‘Please let me see her. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.’
I cup my hands over my ears. Scarlett rubs my back more furiously. ‘Someone needs to tell him I don’t remember him,’ I say, but it comes out like a drawn-out moan.
‘It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,’ says Scarlett, exhaling a long breath.
No matter how convincing she sounds, I don’t believe her.
The following days pass like a blur. Scans, sleep, neuropsych assessments filled with questions I can’t answer. The constant thrum of monitors and footsteps of nurses coming in and out to check on me. Scarlett humming away from the armchair in the corner of the room, turning the pages of a book, repeatedly telling me that everything is going to be fine when nobody really knows for sure whether it will be.
After he’d run a series of tests, Dr Cleave told me (rather unconvincingly) that there was every possibility my memory loss could be temporary. ‘Retrograde amnesia,’ he said, confirming the diagnosis. ‘You need to be really patient. Life is going to look a little different for you when you go back home. There’s a chance your procedural memory has been affected, and we won’t know the extent of that immediately. You might find that certain everyday functions are challenging at first. You’ll need support, and I encourage you to take things slowly. Lean on those who love you to help get you through this. I know that’s going to be hard for someone like you, but it’s important you don’t try to go through this alone.’
I knew what he meant by that—both he and Scarlett have made it clear they think that me refusing to see Blake or anyone else is a bad idea. While keeping family and friends away isn’t an issue, keeping Blake away is turning out to be a bigger kind of problem.
‘He’s beside himself,’ says Scarlett. ‘Seeing him might help you remember. He can answer any questions you have, run you through the kinds of things you used to do together—’
‘That’s not what I want,’ I reply, my voice flat. I dig my spoon into a tub of jelly without enthusiasm. I can’t seem to stomach anything on my plate let alone the snacks Scarlett has brought me: kale chips, goji berries, a zip-lock bag filled with some kind of assortment of seeds.
Blake has shown up at the hospital every day to try to see me. Today is no exception. It’s six pm and on cue, there’s a knock on the door.
‘Gracie, it’s me. Can I come in? I brought your favourite magazines and some photos of our trip to Fiji,’ says Blake through the gap in the door.
My body freezes. I push away the tray. I wish everyone would understand that I don’t want to have to remember my life, or our life, through his eyes or anyone else’s eyes. I want to remember through my eyes.
‘What should I do, Gracie? I can’t keep turning him away like this,’ says Scarlett.
‘Ask him what I loved most about my mother.’
‘How is this relevant right now?’ She frowns at me.
I don’t answer her.
She goes to speak but holds back. ‘Fine,’ she mutters, shaking her head.
‘Scarlett, what’s going on?’ says Blake. ‘What’s she saying?’
Scarlett glances at me uncomfortably before leaving the room.
‘The way she always managed to find a way to smile,’ she declares upon re-entering a minute later. ‘So, can I let him in now?’
I clench my jaw and take a deep breath, lowering my head against my knees. What Scarlett remembers about my mum, isn’t what Blake remembers and isn’t necessarily what I would remember. Which means that if I let the people that know me tell me about who I was and what I liked, and who I should be, and what I should feel and how I should feel it, I’ll have no way of knowing if that’s the truth for me.
‘We can’t just leave him standing there in the hallway,’ she says.
I busy myself by tearing open a packet of chips and sniff them, inhaling their not-quite-so-appealing vegetable scent.
She sighs. ‘Fine. Let me take care of it.’ She exits the room but leaves the door slightly ajar. I can still make out her voice—only just.
‘I’m looking after her, leave it with me. If you don’t want her to continue to refuse to see you, you need to listen to what she wants. Because if you go in there right now she might completely push you away. She’s confused and she’s still in shock. She’ll come around with time.’
‘What if she doesn’t let me back in her life? I don’t want to lose her.’
‘You won’t. She loves you,’ she replies, but even I notice the waver in her voice.
I squeeze the packet of chips between my hands, crushing the crisp leaves into tiny pieces. Maybe the one thing we all know for sure, is that I’m already lost.
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?
Concentrate, Gracie.