The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018
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 my 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?’
‘Surely if you see Blake again you’ll feel it?’
I shake my head. ‘Scarlett …’ I say softly, looking into her eyes. I know this is going to be painful for her, but I have to make her understand. She blinks at me, her blue eyes wide, waiting for me to speak. ‘I have no idea who you are. I don’t remember anything about you. I don’t remember your birthday, or your shoe size, or the last time we laughed together or cried together or shared a secret together. I don’t know where you live or what you do for a living. I don’t know if I was a good friend, or a bad friend, or …’
Tears well in her eyes. ‘You were the best kind of friend,’ she whispers, her face contorting into a grimace as the tears slide down her cheeks.
I nod, maintaining eye contact with her. ‘If I told Blake what I told you right now, what would that do to him?’
‘He’d be completely heartbroken,’ she says through trembling lips.
‘Right. So now you know why I don’t want to see him at this time. I can’t do it, Scarlett. I don’t feel anything for him. And I should feel something for him. But I don’t. And I don’t know if I ever will again.’
‘That’s a problem.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, handing her a tissue. ‘It’s a very big problem.’
FOUR
Scarlett hasn’t mentioned Blake’s name since our conversation the other day. It doesn’t change the fact that every morning I wake up scrambling for a memory of the two of us. I’ve read his letter so many times I could recite it by heart.
Scarlett lets herself in this afternoon, carrying a new supply of groceries. She’s taken it upon herself to make sure I have a fully stocked fridge at all times. Unable to take more time off from her teaching job at a local primary school, she returned to work a few days ago. Since she reluctantly agreed to move out of my spare room and back to her home in nearby Windsor with her husband, Noah, she is now checking in on me every day after work.
‘Thanks,’ I say, as I take a bag from her arms. ‘For everything.’
‘Noah reminded me to buy you these,’ she says, holding up two blocks of chocolate. ‘He said you and Blake used to argue over the last piece.’
I turn over one of the packets and read the label. Sour cherry and vanilla. Organic. Handmade. I nod and let out a false laugh, as if I recognise the packaging. It makes me wonder what else Blake and I used to argue over, whether we argued sometimes, or whether we argued at all. Were we arguing when he lost control of the car on the night of the accident?
Scarlett doesn’t return the laugh. Instead, she looks at me as if she wants to tell me something but is afraid to. ‘He’s waiting outside.’
My smile fades. ‘Blake?’ I ask, my heart skipping a beat.
‘Noah. He thought he’d come along in case you changed your mind about seeing … meeting …’ Her eyes dart right and left as she tries to decide which is more appropriate. ‘Seeing him,’ she says, pointing her finger in the air as she finally settles on a word. ‘You know what I mean,’ she adds.
As much as I want to do the courteous thing and invite Noah inside, I can’t, so I stand there awkwardly, watching Scarlett pull out a limp bunch of celery and a bag of carrots from my fridge. She holds them up, demanding answers.
‘What?’
‘You haven’t touched them.’
I shrug my shoulders, hoping she’ll let it go.
‘You haven’t been eating,’ she replies, pulling open the crisper to inspect it. ‘Gracie! You haven’t touched a thing in here!’
It’s true. I’ve mainly been surviving on toast and cereal, as well as the occasional omelette. I can finally make them without consulting the recipe.
She eyes the box of cereal on the bench before her eyes travel to the stack of bowls in the sink. She looks me up and down and narrows her eyes.
‘When was the last time you washed your hair?’
My lips twist sideways as I try to figure out how long it’s been. Five days ago? Six, maybe?
She surveys the overflowing bin.
‘Have you even stepped foot out of this apartment since I last checked on you?’ she asks with a hint of annoyance in her voice. ‘If you want me to leave you to look after yourself, you need to show me you can look after yourself. I promised Blake I’d …’
I close my eyes at the mention of his name, even if he’s responsible for saturating most of my thoughts.
‘Getting out of the apartment isn’t on my priority list right now.’ I fold my arms. I don’t want to tell her I’ve been spending my days rotating between bed and the couch. I don’t know if I’ve always been this partial to re-runs of Escape to the Country, but at 3.45 pm I’m there, on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen.
Scarlett inhales and fires a disapproving look at me.
‘I might not be able to find my way back home,’ I retort, and as soon as I say it, I regret it. Scarlett doesn’t deserve me making this situation any harder for her than it already is. She has gone above and beyond what any friend would do.
‘Sorry, I just … we just … we all just want you to be okay.’
‘You want things to be like they were.’
‘Yes,’ she whispers.
‘Well, things are different now. They’re not as they were. I don’t think they’ll ever be the way they were again.’ There’s something in my voice I don’t recognise. Bitterness. Resentment. Somehow, it all sounds so much worse when I admit my feelings out loud. If things can’t ever be the way they were before, then all I have is what is in my life right now. A life stuck in an apartment, with crumpled bedsheets, a fridge full of decaying vegetables, and more empty bowls of cereal than I can count, seems like a terrible prospect for the future. Envisaging anything else seems so impossible, though. Venturing out into Melbourne’s busy streets alone frightens me, going back to work isn’t an option, and I don’t have any hobbies. None that I’m aware of, anyway.
‘You don’t know that, Gracie.’
‘I’m having a hard time right now maintaining your level of optimism. It’s kind of hard, considering I couldn’t tie my own shoelaces yesterday.’
Scarlett’s jaw drops.
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘And the day before that? I couldn’t work out how to turn on the washing machine. There’s this trick, you see, where you have to—’
‘I thought the doctors said your procedural memory was okay. Even you said you were okay.’
At my check-up last week, Dr Cleave and his team had reiterated that it might take some time to relearn some of the tasks I used to be able to do with ease. I haven’t been completely honest with him or anybody else about not being able to do some of these things.
‘Well, obviously, it’s not,’ I reply, looking down at my feet. I’m wearing the same pair of yoga pants I was wearing three days ago, with oversized bed socks that have slipped down to my ankles. My hair hasn’t had a brush through it all day, and a wisp of fresh air hasn’t swept through the apartment in days.
Scarlett and I look at each other, and in that moment we both realise that my life has changed in more ways than one.
‘Different doesn’t mean it has to be harder than it needs to be,’ she says softly, almost so I can’t hear her.
‘For the record, I’m not trying to be difficult. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d just like to know whether the blue or yellow toothbrush belongs to me.’
‘If you let us in, we could tell you.’
‘I don’t want you to tell me, Scarlett,’ I say, the frustration I’ve been holding onto escalating. ‘I want to know it and feel it and understand all the things that make me, me. I want to know what it’s like to fall in love. I want to know what it feels like to go weak at the knees and have your belly flip-flop when someone you love looks at you or whispers your name. I want to know what it was like to enjoy styling fruit platters and boho furniture because right now, I couldn’t think of a more boring job! I’d love to know why I chose to live in an apartment in Melbourne when I can’t stand city traffic or concrete footpaths and I’m not interested in art galleries or theatre shows.’ I make my way to the pantry and fling the doors open. I start pulling canisters of tea from it, lining them on the bench. Scarlett cringes and takes a step back.
Unintentionally, my voice rises. ‘And I’d also love to know why on earth my pantry is stocked with ten different kinds of tea and I have sixteen teapots in the cupboard, when I can’t stand the taste of it!’ I pause to catch a breath, swallowing down my anger. Scarlett’s lip starts to quiver.
‘You used to drag me into tea stores, trying to find the perfect herbal tea. We had a thing for tea. It was our thing.’
I push down the guilt, staring blankly back at her. I’m sick of the way I look blankly at her.
‘Piermont and Lincoln’s on the first Sunday of every month?’ she questions me, as if I’m meant to remember.
I shake my head, the words, I don’t remember, but I want to remember, catching somewhere deep inside my throat.
Scarlett rubs her temples and returns to unpacking the shopping. ‘You don’t remember that either, do you?’ This time she says it like a statement.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.
Her face contorts into a grimace, tears imminent. She raises a hand for me to not say anything more. I hand her a tissue and she bows her head into it, blowing her nose before she straightens up, gathering her composure again. She unwraps a tart from its brown paper packaging. ‘It’s feta and asparagus,’ she says, switching on the oven. ‘Seeing as you’re now eating eggs,’ she adds, trying to crack a joke.
I don’t know what I loved about her before, but one of Scarlett’s most endearing qualities is her ability to bounce from sad to hopeful in an instant. As much as I’d like to, I can’t seem to find a way to laugh at her joke; another reminder that I’m different now.
‘I can do it,’ I say, taking the tart from her. ‘You get going. You don’t want to keep Noah waiting. It’s raining out there.’
She releases her grip on the tart.
‘Blake asked me to pick up some of his belongings. Is that okay?’
‘’Course.’
‘He wondered if he might be able to come and do that next time. Will that be all right?’
‘Um … I guess so. Might be a nice excuse to get me out of the apartment.’
Scarlett doesn’t laugh. Her eyes blink at me with disappointment before she hands me the list he’s given her. It isn’t fair on him. This is his home. I lean against the doorframe of the bedroom and watch Scarlett check off some of the items on the list: t-shirts, a jacket, two pairs of shoes.
‘He must hate me,’ I say.
‘He could never hate you. He’s head over heels for you. Why else do you think he’s agreed to stay away? Think about the kind of willpower this guy has.’
‘So, he does understand?’
She folds the last t-shirt and zips up the overnight bag.
‘Nope. He just knows how stubborn you are. Which means he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?’
‘You honestly think I’m making a mistake?’
Scarlett hauls the bag over her shoulder. ‘Yes. I think you are.’ She sighs. ‘I also don’t think this is good for you.’
‘What?’ I say, following her into the living room.
‘Not letting us into your life. We’re all worried about you.’
‘You don’t need to worry about me. You just need to give me some space to figure this out. To let me figure out who I am, and who I was and who I’m meant to be.’
‘Tell me what you know so far.’
‘Not much. Just a little about my mother … and flowers. I think she loved flowers.’
She smiles. ‘Flowers? You both adored flowers,’ she says, nodding enthusiastically.
‘She taught me what I know about them, but I don’t remember a lot,’ I tell her. ‘Mainly being in a flower field with her … it was spring and …’
Scarlett nods, encouraging me to keep talking. ‘Go on …’
‘Okay,’ I say, exhaling a breath, as I take myself back to that place of comfort.
It was the harvest of my ninth year. ‘Flowers start to heal themselves once they’ve been cut,’ said Mum, as she snipped the stem of a rose at the perfect angle, right at the place where it intersected a new leaf line. She said that everything I needed to know about life was in the flowers; they held all the answers to all the questions I might have.
I followed her into the field, my young body tugging an unsteady wagon through the uneven spaces between the rows of sweet peas. She stopped for a moment, tucked her pruning scissors into the pocket of her apron, and waited for me to catch up to her. Then, from behind, she framed my face with her hands and gently turned it towards the sun, just as it was emerging over the verdant hills in the distance. ‘That’s where all the warmth is, Gracie. The sweet peas know where to look for the light,’ she said, tickling my ear with her breath. The scent of my childhood wafted around us in that crisp morning breeze, an olfactory cocktail of blossoming flowers and freshly cut grass. We stood there in silence between the vines of ruffled blooms, the early rays causing the scattered dew drops to glisten; a gentle wake-up call from Mother Nature letting us know there was work to be done on our five-acre plot. Soon the bees would start swarming from their wooden hotels, orienting themselves with the sun, and the tulips would slowly yawn and stretch, opening their petals to greet the first morning light.
She kissed the top of my head and we followed the fragrance of roses to the edge of the plot along the fence line, where she started stripping the first bush of its flowers. She wiped the beads of sweat off her brow with the back of her goatskin glove, and passed a rose to me, as if she were handing me the most precious gift in the world. I ran my fingers along the stem, tracing the curves of the thorns, until I reached the bud.
‘They’re nature’s best healers. They know how to talk to us,’ she said, handing me more flowers. When we got home, I sat on an upside-down crate, counting the stems, knowing exactly how many days it took the first one to bloom after the beginning of spring. But I was still left wondering about their secrets; how they knew when to blossom, and how to blossom, and why they blossomed at all.
‘That’s it. That’s all I remember and I have no idea why,’ I tell Scarlett with a frown.
‘It doesn’t matter why. It’s progress, Gracie,’ says Scarlett with so much hope in her voice I want to believe her. ‘You know, we go to the Queen Victoria Market for flowers every …’ She stops herself. ‘Sorry.’ She cringes.
‘No, go on.’ I can’t explain it, but since she’s mentioned flowers, I don’t want her to stop.
‘You and I, Queen Vic Market. Every Saturday morning.’
Got it. Piermont and Lincoln’s on the first Sunday of the month. Queen Vic Market every Saturday morning.
‘Blake and Noah on the other hand, play golf on Saturday mornings.’
Of course. Typical blokey thing to do, I suppose.
‘How’s your list coming along?’ Scarlett asks, changing the subject. ‘Did you call your boss?’
I shuffle awkwardly.
‘Gracie?’ she says firmly.
‘I quit my job.’
‘What?! The doctors said that you need as much normality back in your life as possible. Why would you do that?’
‘Well, they didn’t exactly accept my resignation. Ava said they’re going to hold my position for a couple more months in case I change my mind. She said I could even freelance.’
Scarlett shoots me a look of disapproval. ‘You never missed a day of work.’
‘Well … things have changed. Life’s different now.’ I glance over to the tower of magazines by the couch. ‘I’ve flicked through pages and pages of those spreads and I can’t remember styling a single one. I can’t remember any of the prop suppliers I used to use and I don’t know a thing about lighting or room sets. Heck, I don’t even recognise the route stops on a tram guide! How can I go back to a job not knowing any of this?’