The Memories of Us
Vanessa Carnevale

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright © Vanessa Carnevale

Cover design © Becky Glibbery 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock 2018

Cover photograph © Getty 2018

Vanessa Carnevale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008295066

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008295059

Version: 2018-02-12

Dedication

For my dear friend, Lucy. May the memories of your mother, and the memories that made us, be cherished forever.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

We have been arguing for six minutes. Blake switches off the radio. We never travel with the radio off. Unless we are arguing of course, something we hardly ever do. He takes one hand from the steering wheel, flicks open a tin of mints with his thumb, tilts back his head and lets one fall into his mouth. He crunches it between his teeth before swallowing. He doesn’t offer me one like he usually does. I sink deeper into my seat and stare at the tin lying in the console between us. The car seems quieter than it did before.

‘How are we going to handle this, Gracie? What do you want to do?’ he says finally, the sharp scent of mint permeating the space between us. His brow creases in a way that makes me want to reach over and smooth it out. Make things better. Only now would be a terrible time to do that. I check my watch. Another eight minutes and we’ll be off the freeway and at the restaurant. We’re already late. We are never late. Except for today because we are arguing and the radio is turned off and I don’t know how I’m going to tell my fiancé the truth.

‘I don’t know,’ I say through gritted teeth. Only I do know. And it’s going to throw our lives into total disarray.

‘You don’t know?’ he says, tossing me a glance. He resets the cruise control, lets his window down, and undoes the button on his collar. A rush of cold air enters the car.

‘Can you put the window up?’ I say, the annoyance in my voice evident as I try to hold my hair in place.

He presses the window switch and looks over at me. ‘If you don’t know what you want, then how should I know?’

‘Keep your eyes on the road. Let’s talk about it later. I don’t want to ruin Scarlett’s birthday.’ I clasp the flowers I’m holding for my best friend closer to my chest, a classic spray of creamy white Claire Austin roses, the same blooms I manage to source for her every year.

‘Don’t change the subject,’ he says. ‘You were the one who brought this up, and I think it’s time we work out once and for all how we want things to go. So, let me ask you again so we can put this to bed—’

Deep breaths, Gracie. Deep breaths.

There will never be a perfect time to tell him how I’m feeling. I fumble with my engagement ring and form the words I’ve been too afraid to admit out loud. ‘Okay, so if you want to know the truth, I don’t want to m—’

The sound of Blake slamming the brakes robs the breath from my chest and seals our fate. We slide towards the truck that’s pulled out in front of us on the freeway and then we are spinning into a lane we shouldn’t be in. Blake calls my name. He sees what’s coming before me. I scream. Two dozen flower stems lurch from the safe crevice of my arm. They hit the dashboard before I do, the force of the impact showering the car with petals as I’m tossed in one direction and then the other.

And then, the world goes silent.

ONE

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice are the dinner-plate dahlias on the table at the foot of my bed. They’re café au laits. They struggle in cold soil and you plant the tubers when the soil temperature picks up and there’s no more risk of frost.

My eyes flutter closed again. I can’t seem to form any words to answer the woman who is patting my thigh. She keeps squeezing my hand, repeating the name, ‘Gracie.’

‘Open your eyes, Gracie. Can you hear me, Gracie?’

I want to tell her she’s in the wrong room, that she has the wrong person, but I can’t seem to find the energy to.

She squeezes my hand once more.

This time I find the strength to squeeze back.

‘Good girl. Open your eyes now, sweetheart.’

I hear footsteps. A male voice. Hushed whispers. Pages flicking. A pen clicking. There is beeping that I hadn’t noticed till now, and a steady hum. The room smells sterile. I open my eyes and the room slowly comes into focus. My eyelids feel so heavy.

The woman is wearing a blue shirt with white trim around the collar and her name badge tells me she’s a nurse. Her name is Bea. Which means the man standing beside her with a stethoscope around his neck is a … doctor. Which means I’m in a … hospital.

‘Hello, Gracie, I’m Dr Cleave. How’s that head of yours feeling?’

My arm feels like lead, but I manage to lift it and run my fingers over the bandage that’s wrapped around my head. Did I fall? I must have fallen. But when? Where? My heart starts to beat faster. Bea glances at the monitor by my bed and adjusts the pulse oximeter on my finger.

‘Gracie,’ I whisper, repeating the name that doesn’t seem to fit me. I search for another name for myself, but nothing comes.

Dr Cleave narrows his eyes, appearing slightly concerned.

‘Can you tell me your full name?’ he asks.

I take a moment to think about it, but there is blankness in that space where my name should be.

‘Not to worry,’ says Dr Cleave, after an abnormally long silence, which makes me worry more.

‘How did I … get here?’ I can’t seem to remember yesterday, or last month, or last year.

‘You’re in the hospital. You were in a car accident and you’ve been intubated in the ICU for three days. You’re going to feel a little tired, but that’s to be expected,’ he says.

I try to sit up, but it requires too much effort and I collapse back into the pillows. Everything in my body aches.

‘Take it easy, sweetheart,’ says Bea, resting a hand on my shoulder. She readjusts the hospital gown so it covers my collarbone. ‘Are you warm enough?’ she asks, rubbing my forearm. I’m not, yet I nod anyway.

My mouth feels dry. I go to speak, but only a croak comes out. I try again. ‘Car accident?’ I say, looking at the doctor.

‘That’s right. You hit your head and you’ve got a few bumps and bruises. You’re going to be fine, though. Are you in pain?’

I pat the bandage.

‘Let me get onto that for you,’ says Bea. She leaves the room and Dr Cleave moves closer. He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck.

‘By any chance, do you remember anything about the accident?’ he asks casually.

I frown, trying to summon my past, but it’s like reaching into a vast crater. There’s nothing to remember.

‘No. Nothing,’ I reply.

‘That’s okay,’ he says in a voice so reassuring, I almost believe him. He pulls a torch from his coat pocket and shines it into my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t do that. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re wondering about Blake. He was pretty lucky to come out of the accident with only a few stitches and contusions.’ He clicks off the light and tucks it away. I blink, trying to regain focus.

There’s a knock on the door and a woman enters the room. I can tell she’s not a nurse because she’s wearing a tailored red coat, a felted wool beret and is carrying an umbrella. Her bow-shaped lips form a smile when she sees me.

‘Gracie,’ she says, relief in her voice. She hovers in the doorway, seemingly unsure of whether to stay or go.

‘Come in,’ says Dr Cleave.

‘I’m Scarlett,’ she introduces herself to him. ‘Did she just wake up?’ She removes the beret from her head, letting a mass of caramel-coloured curls fall around her shoulders.

Dr Cleave nods. ‘I need to ask her a few questions.’

‘Should I come back later?’ She points to the door.

‘No need, I’ll be done soon,’ says Dr Cleave, glancing over my chart.

I can’t stop staring at the woman—Scarlett, who is now sitting beside the bed and holding my hand. I think I am supposed to know who she is. She obviously knows me. Why don’t I know her?

Dr Cleave slides out a pencil from behind his ear. ‘I’m going to ask you a few more questions, but I don’t want you to worry if you can’t answer them all, okay?’

I swallow nervously and nod, feeling the colour drain from my face.

‘Can you tell me when your birthday is?’

December? No. March. September? I look up at the ceiling, my eyes darting left and right. Surely I must know the answer. Why don’t I know the answer?

‘Gracie?’ says Dr Cleave, trying to grab my attention.

‘I … uh, I don’t know.’

How can I not know my birthday? What month are we even in now? It’s raining outside. Scarlett is wearing a coat. Okay, it must be winter. I was in a car accident. I hit my head. I’m in the hospital. My name is … Gracie.

‘How about your address?’

Oh God, I don’t know my address, either.

I stare blankly at him. I want to tell him but can’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and then … it’s not. And I can’t tell if it’s slipped away or if it was never there in the first place. I glance at Scarlett, who is in the chair near my bed, her mouth ajar. She closes it when her eyes meet mine and resumes fumbling with the hat on her lap.

Dr Cleave continues. ‘Favourite colour?’

I shrug. ‘Purple?’ My voice is barely audible.

He looks at me over his glasses before pushing them up his nose. ‘Really?’

‘Pink?’ I say, feeling hopeless.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second as I draw a long, deep breath. My mind starts to scramble, attempting to search for a recollection of the past, but it’s as if my life is like an empty container. I shake it, turn it upside down, except nothing comes out.

Dr Cleave pats my leg. ‘I think that’s enough for now. I don’t want you to worry,’ he says, but I can’t help noticing the way he’s scribbling down notes. ‘It’s normal for you to feel a bit disorientated like this. I’m going to order a few more tests.’

‘Tests?’

‘I’m going to order a neuropsych assessment and maybe a couple of scans. You had a significant blow to the head, and while I don’t think we have anything to be too concerned about, I’d still like to double-check things, just to be sure.’

‘Okay,’ I reply quietly.

‘I’m going to have a word with Scarlett, and I’ll be back a little later. I want you to rest up for now. Do you have any questions in the meantime?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I allow my eyes to momentarily drift shut before opening them again.

‘I should let Blake know she’s awake,’ says Scarlett, who is still sitting beside me. She’s stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. I pull away and ball my hand into a fist.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says, her deep-blue eyes trying to meet mine. I don’t know how to tell her that I have no idea who she is. I look the other way, avoiding eye contact with her.

Dr Cleave peers over his clipboard, and glances at the hand I’ve pulled away from Scarlett. He clicks his pen, tucks it in his coat pocket and turns around to leave the room.

Scarlett stands up to follow him.

‘Actually … I do have a question,’ I say, directing my words to Dr Cleave. My voice wobbles. ‘Who’s Blake?’

Scarlett lets out a noise, like a whimper, only louder.

Dr Cleave flips back around, failing to hide the look of disquiet on his face.

‘You don’t know who Blake is?’ he asks, tilting his head.

‘Should I?’

Dr Cleave glances at Scarlett, who interjects, ‘Gracie, Blake’s your fiancé.’

‘That’s … impossible,’ I reply.

Isn’t it?

‘You’re supposed to be getting married in three months. You’ve known each other for …’ She looks at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to work it out. ‘Fourteen years,’ she says finally.

‘That can’t be … I’m not …’

Engaged?

‘It’s okay,’ says Dr Cleave, trying to reassure me. ‘We’ll get Blake in and I’m sure that’ll help—’

‘I can’t … I don’t … just wait,’ I say, trying to make sense of all this. I press my hand against my forehead. Think, Gracie. Think. Maybe if they give me a chance to think about it all, I’ll be able to remember.

Scarlett places a hand on my wrist.

‘Gracie,’ she says. ‘Look at me.’

I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.

‘I know you’re scared, and I know you’re freaking out, but we’ll help you to remember.’

My heart starts to hammer.

But what if I never do?

When Scarlett returns to my room after chatting with Dr Cleave, she’s carrying a fresh arrangement of flowers. They’re not just any flowers. They’re tulips. Rembrandts. Like the painter. Butter-coloured petals variegated with bright-red flames.

‘The perfect way to brighten up your hospital room,’ she says, her lips forming a smile as she carries them over to the round table in the corner. She starts arranging them into a vase that’s much too small. She needs to cut the stems shorter.

‘It’s too early for tulips,’ I whisper. ‘Tulips don’t bloom in winter.’

Scarlett pauses with a stem in her hand. ‘What did you say?’ she asks, narrowing her gaze.

‘Neither do dahlias. They must be imported,’ I murmur.

Why do I know this? How can I know this but nothing else, like my birthday? Or my favourite colour? Or Blake?

My fiancé. The fiancé who, according to Scarlett, I am supposed to be marrying in three months’ time. The fiancé I am supposed to be spending the rest of my life with but can’t remember.

‘Dr Cleave said he’s going to run those extra tests as soon as possible. We’re just waiting for Blake to arrive.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I told him you’re having some trouble recalling things, but I didn’t exactly tell him you couldn’t remember who he is.’ She scrunches her face. ‘I think it’s better if Dr Cleave tells him, don’t you?’

I bite down on my lip but don’t answer her.

‘Anyway, he left with Noah and went home this morning for a shower and change of clothes. We practically had to force him out of here. He didn’t leave your side for days and then the moment he leaves, you wake up …’

Scarlett continues rambling on, which appears to be more out of nervousness than anything else. ‘Noah will pop in after work. Oh, I called Ava from your office to let her know what happened, but I need the number for—’

‘Where are my parents?’ I cut into her blather.

Scarlett almost knocks over the flowers. She tilts her head and blinks at me as if she hasn’t heard me properly. Her brow creases but she stands there, frozen, her fingers gripping the vase.

‘My mum? Dad? Brother? Sister?’ I press.

Scarlett’s eyes widen with each passing second until she regains her composure and sucks in a breath as she approaches the bed. She speaks softly, the way a mother might break bad news to a child in the most honest and gentle way possible. ‘You never knew your dad. You’re an only child and your mum … well …’

I search her eyes for answers, holding my breath, waiting for her to explain.

‘Your mum passed away twelve months ago. Her name was Lainey and she … it was her heart. It was sudden and she hadn’t been diagnosed before it happened.’

This can’t be true. None of it can be true. How can I not know any of this? I don’t even remember my own mother? Scarlett reaches for my hand, but I pull it away before she can touch me.

‘Why do you keep doing that?’ She raises a hand to her lips as understanding dawns. ‘Oh my God. You don’t know me either, do you? You have no idea who I am.’ She takes a step back. ‘Gracie,’ she says, her voice fractured, filled with disbelief. ‘We’ve known each other for years. You don’t remember anything about me … us … the past?’

I’m scared to answer her, scared about what this all means.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice hoarse.

She cups her mouth, tears forming in her eyes—eyes that are blinking at me in shock. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She snivels. She takes a tissue from the bedside table and blows her nose, turning her back to me. She stands in front of the window, staring out to the carpark. Raindrops slide down the glass pane, the focal point of Scarlett’s attention as she takes the time to process this. Finally, she glances over her shoulder at me. I register the crestfallen expression on her face and wince. I don’t mean to hurt her like this and I don’t know how to make this easier for her.

She starts tearing the tissue she’s holding into tiny pieces.

‘What if my memory never comes back?’ I say quietly.

She approaches the bed. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll tell you everything you forgot. Everything that made you who you are, and everything you would have never wanted to forget.’ She sits down and cups my face. ‘Okay?’ she says, smiling through her tears.

‘Um, okay,’ I say, agreeing. My head feels full.

Scarlett rubs the moisture from under her eyes and inhales sharply, as if she’s hitting a reset button.

She scrunches the pieces of tissue into one hand and tosses them into the bin beside the bed. ‘Okay so, where to start?’ she says, sitting up straighter. ‘Do you know where you were going before you had the accident?’

I look blankly at her. I don’t really want to hear this. I want some time alone. To sleep. To think.

‘Of course you don’t,’ she says before I have a chance to answer her. ‘It was my birthday, and we were going out for dinner. There were about twenty of us. You baked my cake for me,’ she says, smiling. I can tell she’s trying to inject some lightness into our conversation to downplay the seriousness of all this, but it doesn’t work. She pauses, and I’m almost sure she’s waiting for me to nod or show some kind of sign that I recognise what she’s telling me; I simply stare back at her.

‘You and Blake were running late. You’re never late, which is sort of weird,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘Never mind. Chrissie and Tom were there, Mel and Jack, Erin, Maddie …’ Her words trail off and fizzle into the air as her gaze meets mine. ‘You don’t remember any of these people, do you?’ she says finally.

‘Um, no.’

‘Okay, well, what if I tell you about—’

‘My mother,’ I interject.

‘Gracie,’ she says softly. ‘Are you saying you don’t remember anything about your mum, either?’

I don’t need to answer her because my expression says it all.

‘Oh, love,’ she says, closing her eyes momentarily. When she opens them she inhales deeply. ‘You were very close, more like sisters than mother and daughter. You used to talk on the phone all the time, at least once a day. And you used to visit her every weekend. You know that much, don’t you?’ she says hopefully.

‘No, I don’t. Do I … miss her?’ After I ask this question, I realise what a silly one it is. Naturally I must miss her, only I can’t seem to tap into any feelings that resemble the heartache of missing someone you love.

‘Of course you do,’ says Scarlett. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but you’re strong and you’re doing okay—slowly coming to peace with things. Nothing could have prepared you for it. She was only fifty-six … no … fifty-eight …’ She places a finger on her lips. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember exactly.’

‘What did I love most about her?’ I whisper.

She smiles. ‘Well, I’d say you probably loved everything about her. She was kind and generous and loving, and she knew how to make you feel better when you were feeling down.’

Something about this answer doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sound … I don’t know … specific? I’d imagine that’s the sort of description you’d get about any mother. And I want to know about my mother—something unique, something to give me a connection to her. ‘Um, what did I love most about her?’

Scarlett frowns. ‘I just told you.’

I swallow. How do I explain it to Scarlett? ‘I … I want to know exactly why she was special to me.’

‘She was your mother. That’s why she was special to you,’ says Scarlett quietly.

I rub my head, which has started to ache. I must look unhappy because Scarlett goes on.

‘Well, I know you loved spending time outdoors with her. You also liked baking. Every Christmas Eve you’d bake together.’

‘What did we bake?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Um, shortbread cookies, I think.’

I rub at my head again. She doesn’t sound very sure and it isn’t the sort of detail I was hoping for.

‘It was Christmas,’ she adds, looking as though she wants to say more. But right now, all I want is to close my eyes.

‘Um, I’m really tired. I think I need to sleep now,’ I say, avoiding her gaze as I burrow under the blanket. My eyes drift shut and I let the world fade away, hoping that by the time I open them life might feel a little more familiar.

When I wake up, Scarlett is sitting in the same position she was before. She notices me looking at her and sets down the book she’s been reading.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Before I can nod, her hands are already on the jug of water. She hands me a glass and guides the straw to my mouth.

‘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.

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?’

Scarlett rubs her temples, her cheeks filling with air before letting it out steadily. She opens her palms and holds them out, as if she’s trying to get a handle on all of this. ‘I get it, you’re overwhelmed and afraid, but it’s going to take time and we all understand that. I think it’s a matter of you accepting it. Accepting our help. You can’t spend your days flicking through magazines wishing your memory to come back.’

‘It’s not like I have anything else to do,’ I mutter.

She blinks and looks thoughtfully at me. ‘Gracie, there’s something else I’m worried about.’

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to speak. I feel so bad that she’s afraid to talk to me, that she’s tiptoeing around me like this.

‘Have you given any more thought to … the wedding?’

I cross my arms. I don’t want to think about Blake or the wedding or the fact that I can’t tie my own shoelaces.

‘No,’ I reply firmly, not wanting to elaborate because I can’t admit my intentions to her yet. ‘But there is something I’ve been wondering about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Was I really as happy as you seem to think I was?’

She looks me square in the eyes. ‘Yes, you were happy. In fact, when it comes to Blake, you were lit up from the inside, radiant on the outside, life has never been a better kind of happy.’

I sigh, wishing I had a past to hold onto. Without any semblance of a past there is almost nothing. Aside from Scarlett, all I have is one vague memory of a field full of flowers and a brand-new wedding dress I don’t remember buying.

FIVE

Aside from one small detail about loving egg-free coconut-cream cake, days pass with no memories of Blake, or any other significant aspect of my past surfacing. After several failed batches (despite following the recipe and using kitchen scales), I’ve managed to bake my favourite cake with success. Even though Dr Cleave told me that simple tasks could be challenging, I’m still finding it hard to accept. Hence, my six attempts at making coconut-cream cake until I got it right.

On this particular morning, I’m trying to master the fine art of tying shoelaces, with the aim of taking a walk around the Royal Botanic Gardens before lunchtime, when the landline rings. I wait before answering. What if it’s Blake calling? I’ve had my mobile phone, with its countless unread messages from him, switched off and tucked away in a drawer since I returned home from hospital. When I can no longer ignore it, I take a deep breath and answer on the fifth ring.

‘Hello, this is Gracie.’

‘Oh, Gracie, it’s Amanda Chadwick of Chadwick and Nelson Real Estate. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. Your mobile keeps going to voicemail. Anyway, I was wondering if you could come in for a chat. There are a few things we should talk about regarding your mother’s property. I’ve got a busy week in front of me, but does this morning happen to suit? I could fit you in around ten.’

‘Uh, yeah, sure … this morning’s fine. What’s the address?’

She titters. ‘Still the same.’

‘Right. Okay, well, I’ll see you then.’ I hesitate. ‘Um, what’s the street name again?’

After a slight pause, she reels off the address, which I silently repeat in my head several times over. I hang up the phone and contemplate how I’m going to make this appointment. Deciding that I’m going to need to embrace autonomy sooner or later, I look up the address and manage to work out that Amanda’s office is only a few tram stops away. As soon as I reach the end of the street, the thought of throwing myself onto a congested tram with other commuters is too overwhelming, so I make the trip by foot, instead. After stopping several times to ask for directions, I eventually make it to Amanda’s office, its large frontage visible at the end of a tree-lined street. The trees look unhappy here surrounded by concrete, their naked boughs almost completely free of the weight of their leaves. I reach for a leaf from the nearly bare canopy of an elm, and trace the veins with my thumb. The veins don’t meet in the middle.

A receptionist greets me once I step through the door, and a couple of minutes later, Amanda emerges from her office sporting a crisply ironed red shirt, a grey pencil skirt and black patent leather shoes. She flashes me a smile, revealing a mouth of perfectly white teeth. Striding towards me, I’m confronted with the scent of her perfume, a blend of floral tones with a hint of spice. She extends a manicured hand, before gesturing to her office.

‘Come right in.’ She motions to one of the leather seats in front of her mahogany desk as she reaches into a drawer with her other hand. She pulls out a manila folder, before pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She opens it, revealing a full-page colour advertisement for a property located in the Macedon Ranges. A perfect family home just a kilometre from the heart of Daylesford. I twist my head, trying to make out the finer details of the property, a restored 1870s miner’s cottage—a white weatherboard, fringed with delicate latticework, with a wraparound porch and grey Colorbond roof on a plot of land surrounded by flowers. Lots of them. I can’t take my eyes off them.

Amanda pulls in her chair and starts flicking through the papers in her file. She lifts out a sheet and scans it. ‘It’s been a while since we last spoke. Now … where to start?’ she says, looking up at me. ‘So, I finally got a call last week from my colleagues in the country—’

I lean forward. ‘When was the last time?’ I ask, interrupting her.

She shakes her head with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘A few months ago.’

‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘Uh, go on.’

She looks strangely at me and then continues. ‘Given the location, the current market and the potential for—’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

She slides her glasses down her nose and peers closely at me. ‘I found a buyer for Summerhill, Gracie. They’ve made an offer that’s more than generous seeing as it’s ridiculously overpriced in the first place. A young family looking to move from the city.’

I fold my arms across my chest and clear my throat. ‘It’s no longer up for sale,’ I say, trying to act as business-like as possible.

Amanda sits back, purses her lips together and slowly nods, as if she’s trying to figure out the real problem here. I pull down my blouse and readjust the woollen vest I’m wearing over the top of it. I really should buy some more comfortable clothes. Everything in my wardrobe feels so stiff and corporate.

‘I know where you’re coming from, Gracie, but hear me out. I think this is going to be as good as it gets.’

‘Tell the buyer it’s off the market,’ I say, surprised at the firmness in my voice. There’s no way I can let this sliver of a memory slip away to a buyer. I know this must be the property I remember—the place I grew up. The place that surely must hold more memories of my mother and me.

Amanda narrows her eyes. ‘You’ve been waiting nearly a year for someone to come along and make an offer on this place. You told me you hadn’t set foot there since your mother passed away. Why the sudden change of mind?’

‘Memories,’ I reply.

Amanda’s expression softens as she reaches for my hands. ‘I know this must feel like the final goodbye, but the thing is, she’s gone.’

‘I know. But I need to be close to her.’

Her eyes meet mine.

I swallow uncomfortably. I don’t want to have to find a way to explain my reasons for not wanting to sell when I don’t understand why I wanted to sell in the first place.

Finally, Amanda gives me a nod and inhales deeply. ‘Okay,’ she replies in defeat. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’

Relieved, I make my way to the door and pause before letting myself out. ‘Could I have a copy of the listing, please?’

She takes the sheet from the folder and hands it to me. ‘Gracie, I want you to go home and really think about your decision. If you don’t do something soon with it, it’ll become harder to sell in the long run. It’s only costing you money right now.’ She extends a hand and dangles the keys in front of me.

‘I promise you I’ll think about it,’ I reply, nodding as I close my hand around the keys, a hint of hope filling me.

‘I know you loved it there.’

I know. I just wish I could remember.

On leaving Amanda’s office, I head down the street in what seems to be the direction I’ve come from, but once I walk several blocks, none of the surroundings seem familiar. In fact, all these homes with their grand façades and luxury cars parked in their driveways seem so similar I can’t tell one apart from the other. I fumble through my handbag, a feeling of dread anchoring itself in my stomach. All I manage to find are three lipsticks, mascara, a miniature bottle of perfume, an empty packet of mints and a set of keys. No wallet. No driver’s licence. No phone. I close my eyes and groan. ‘Stupid,’ I mutter.

Pausing on a street corner, I ask a man for directions, but he responds with a thick accent, telling me he’s not from around here. I continue down the road, turning into street after street, hoping I can recognise my apartment complex. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve been walking for over an hour. I wait at a bus stop beside a woman with a toddler. ‘Excuse me, by any chance do you know of an apartment complex around here with a white stucco façade and a wrought-iron gate out front?’

‘Do you know the street name?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘Um, no, never mind.’

She offers a sympathetic smile and it takes everything I have to hold back the tears.

Dark clouds have gathered above, bringing with them the smell of impending rain. The trees murmur as the wind picks up, and the rain starts to tumble out from the sky with fury. I stand on the street corner on my tiptoes, trying to spot a cab in the sea of traffic, while the tyres of passing cars spray muddy water in my direction. Eventually, I manage to wave down a taxi, and soaked, I take a seat in the back.

‘Where are you off to?’ asks the driver.

I wipe the moisture off my face and fasten my seatbelt. ‘Let me explain,’ I tell him.

I tell the driver everything—about the accident, Blake, Scarlett, the apartment, the wedding, the coffee, the omelettes, my shoelaces, the toothbrushes—all of it pours out of me. Harry ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘wows’ and ‘my Gods’, intermittently handing me tissues over his shoulder. Eighteen minutes later, I blow my nose with as much elegance as a small child, and tell him, ‘I think we can go now.’

He nods sympathetically and pulls out into the traffic. We manage to find my apartment thirty-eight minutes and forty-one dollars later.

‘Hold on and I’ll go up to grab some money for you,’ I say, as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I make my way through the front gate and upstairs to the apartment, pulling a fifty-dollar note from my wallet, which is sitting happily on the hallway table. I race down the stairs, and run out to the street. Harry’s cab is nowhere to be seen.

SIX

My phone is still flat in my bedside table drawer, and my fridge is still being stocked by my best friend when Dr Cleave finally declares I’m making progress, given the fact I can travel four tram stops, make two route changes and manage to find my way home without needing to take a taxi.

‘You should be pleased with how things are coming along,’ he tells me, as he closes the folder on his desk. ‘How have the appointments with Pete been going? I don’t seem to have a report from him yet. I’ll need to chase that up.’

‘Um, well, I haven’t had a chance to see him since that initial session we had.’

Dr Cleave arches an eyebrow. ‘I thought you said your appointments were all booked in.’

I chew my lip. ‘Well, yes, they were … but …’ I shake my head. ‘I just don’t feel like seeing him.’

Dr Cleave leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. ‘Okay, so tell me—how have you been spending your time?’

If I’m not spending the day curled up on the couch or under the bedsheets in my pyjamas, my life consists of little more than walks along the Yarra and to the nearby Botanic Gardens, mainly so I can report back to Scarlett and convince her I’m making an effort. But really, all it feels like I’m doing is waiting. Waiting for the things that have slipped away to come back to me: memories, recollections, reminders. I’m waiting for these things to pop back into my consciousness, with no guarantee they ever will.

Of course I don’t mention any of this to Dr Cleave, so I simply say, ‘I’ve been spending a lot of time outdoors. Long walks, that sort of thing.’

He nods approvingly. ‘Never underestimate the power of fresh air, sunshine and exercise. Any plans to go back to work?’

‘Not really. I think I need a bit more time. More fresh air,’ I say, fiddling with my hands. ‘My mum had a property in the country—Daylesford, actually. So, I was thinking of spending a bit of time there—I thought the country air might be good for me.’ I hold my breath, almost certain he’s going to tell me it’s not advisable, but his eyes brighten.

‘I think that’s a great idea. As long as you keep those appointments with Pete. Counselling is very important for your recovery, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.’

My thoughts wander to the listing in my pocket. ‘Yes, I think it’s a great idea, too.’

As the following days pass, I become increasingly aware that Blake can’t wait forever. The apartment is his home, also. Scarlett visits most evenings after work and finds creative ways to casually hint that I should think about writing back to Blake or at least allowing him to see me. He’s been to the apartment twice. Once to pick up his golf clubs and more clothing, and another time to collect some paperwork and other personal items. All arranged via Scarlett. Both times, he left flowers. First paperwhites and then an arrangement of lisianthus. The first note said, Hope you’re doing okay, ladybug. And the second, I miss you. I hope you won’t need much longer. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay away. Write me?

‘So, did you write him?’ asks Scarlett, folding the note. Her patience has been wearing a little thin lately. I don’t blame her.

I shake my head in response, unable to tell her what she wants to hear.

‘You really need to be a bit more proactive about all of this,’ she tells me as she folds the note. ‘If you’re going to expect Blake to give you the space you’re asking for, the least you can do is take some kind of action to at least try to get your memory back,’ she says, flicking from TV channel to TV channel. I pinch the remote from her as I drop down onto the sofa with a bag of chips.

‘What are you doing?’ she says. ‘Where did you get them from?’

‘I bought them today,’ I say, shovelling a handful into my mouth before offering her the bag.

‘Good lord,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Right, this is spiralling out of control. This is not the Gracie Ashcroft I knew and this is not the Gracie Ashcroft you are going to become!’ she says, snatching the packet from me. ‘Do you have no regard for your waistline or your health?’ She stomps to the kitchen and tosses the bag into the rubbish. ‘These are not organic, nor do they constitute any of the major food groups!’

I look down at my feet, feeling sheepish, like a toddler that’s being reprimanded by its mother.

I lick the salt off my lips. ‘Well, actually, there is one thing I think I could do to help things along.’ I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Summerhill since my encounters with Amanda and Dr Cleave, and have been waiting for the right time to bring things up with Scarlett.

She takes me by the hand and leads me towards the front door, where she grabs my coat from the stand and pulls a beanie over my head. ‘Good,’ she says, pressing her palms against my cheeks. ‘Blake’s coming by in half an hour, and we’re going to Piermont and Lincoln’s and you’re going to tell me all about it over tea.’

Scarlett and I squeeze onto a tram and find two spare seats. ‘It’s so stuffy in here, don’t you think?’ She unbuttons her coat and fans her face, her cheeks flushed.

‘Scarlett?’

‘Mmm,’ she replies.

‘Tell me about Summerhill?’

She raises her eyebrows in excitement. ‘You grew up there. You moved to Melbourne when Blake graduated—’

I raise a hand. ‘Don’t tell me. Not about him—not yet. Just about the farm.’ The way I see it, I’ll have a chance to get to know Blake again, eventually, but I’ll never have a chance to know my mother again, and perhaps starting at the place I do have a memory of, might lead me to others.

‘You put it on the market after your mum passed away. You said it was too painful to hold onto those memories.’ Scarlett becomes silent as the tram doors open and a woman slides into the seat beside her.

I stare into my lap, my stomach twisting at the bitterness of it all. ‘And now they’re completely gone,’ I whisper.

Scarlett orders a pot of oolong to share between us. I think she’s overlooked the fact that I’d prefer a strong coffee, but I don’t say anything. I watch her pour the steaming liquid into two lemon-coloured teacups rimmed with gold trim, painted with apple blossoms. I gulp mine down quickly, figuring it might not be so bad if I drain my cup in one go.

‘I probably should have ordered the peppermint. I don’t know why they call it morning sickness when it has the capacity to debilitate you at any given moment of the day,’ says Scarlett. She blows a wisp of hair out of her eye and fans her face with her hands.

My back straightens as I register her words. My eyes travel to her belly, which I completely failed to notice before now. A bump. A baby.

‘How far along are you?’ I ask, thinking that she’s doing an incredible job of hiding a baby. Maybe it’s the oversized winter clothing, or the fact that I have nothing to compare her figure to from before.

She smiles. ‘Twenty-four weeks. I’ve had to go up two bra sizes, you know. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted—to be a mum,’ she says dreamily.

I return Scarlett’s smile. She’s positively radiant.

‘I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you. I mean, you knew before. You were the first to know after Noah. There’s a role for godmother up for grabs. Yours if you want it.’ She takes a sip of tea, a hint of a smile playing over the rim of her cup.

‘Of course,’ I reply softly.

Twenty-four weeks? How could I not have noticed?

‘That’s what you said last time.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The only difference was that you almost tackled me to the ground and squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe.’ She giggles.

‘I’m happy for you. You’ve got so much to look forward to.’

‘And then you said you couldn’t wait until it was going to be your turn.’

I pour myself more tea and bring the cup to my mouth, closing my eyes as the tannin-filled liquid travels down my throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Was I ready to have a baby? Had Blake and I planned things? Spoken about it?

Scarlett squashes a sandwich into her mouth and pats away the crumbs on her chin with a napkin. She groans. ‘I’m starving all the time,’ she says, her mouth still full. She selects a few triangles and heaps them on my plate. ‘These are your favourites.’ She pulls her hand back and cringes. ‘Sorry!’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I mutter, pushing away the plate. I’ve lost my appetite, anyway.

‘Tell me about what you mentioned before. The thing you think could help improve things,’ she says.

My body tenses. Taking charge of my own life—it all feels impossible. Scarlett’s having a baby and I’m still trying to piece my life together. My fiancé is at home, the place that once was our home, taking care of loose ends; picking up more clothes and things; his things, our things, things from our life together.

‘I don’t think I can marry him,’ I blurt out.

She swallows a mouthful of food and sits there frozen, staring into her teacup as she processes what I’ve said. Finally, she draws a deep breath and speaks on the exhale. ‘I think you’re making a mistake. Think about what you’re doing. You can’t just end it. You need to give him a chance. The wedding isn’t for another nine weeks. Surely by then—’

‘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 directions.’

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?

Most of the contents of the cottage have long ago been boxed up, and according to Scarlett, were sold off or donated to charity last spring. But some things remain, like the furniture, drawers filled with kitchen utensils and crockery, some linen, and most of the appliances. After spending some time exploring the two-bedroom cottage, taking in my new surroundings, dusting surfaces and nudging windows open to allow some fresh air inside, I venture outside to explore. There’s a large wooden barn with a gable rooftop and sliding door located around a hundred metres away from the cottage itself. A silver Volkswagen is parked in front of it, a car I didn’t notice on my arrival. I approach with caution and call out before poking my head inside.

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