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

‘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.

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.