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

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.