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

‘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.

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.