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

‘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.