So, I'm reclining and I look up and Grace is standing in the doorway watching me. She looks just like I imagined when I first arrived. Most people, when they are standing for any length of time, tend to lean on one foot, or lean against whatever is nearest. It's dark and Grace just stands there with her hands hanging straight down beside her and her bare feet together. Her face is all white, her bottom lip droops and she looks straight at me.
I'm reclining in the reclining chair, frozen. The light is coming from behind her, outlining her shape in the doorway. All I can see is her white face and her dark eyes.
I feel fright, but fright from not expecting her to be there rather than fright from Grace herself. This is just Grace, gentle Grace, silent Grace, Grace for whom I made peanut-butter soldiers this morning.
I stand up and walk over to her.
“What is it?” I ask, putting my hands on her shoulders.
Her dark eyes are on my face, sort of through my face. I'm standing in front of her. She opens her mouth.
Oh my God, she's going to speak.
I stand very still and wait for her to speak. My heart beats very fast, not with fear but excitement and anticipation.
I stood in front of her, waiting. Of course, she didn't speak. She just stood there looking through me with her mouth open. After a while I realized we had been standing there staring at each other for so long it was ridiculous. I turned her around and put her back to bed.
I lay in bed and I couldn't sleep. I wondered what I'd thought it was that she was going to say.
Get out of my spooky box and mind your own business. By the way, I really don't like peanut-butter soldiers.
I lay there and wondered if she would ever speak again. What would her first words be?
Something terrible happened today. Grace has withdrawn again. She wet herself again this afternoon, after we got home. She hasn't done that for ages. She has gone back down again. Whatever was coming out in her has gone. I look into her eyes and there is nothing. She has stopped looking at me again.
I went to university this morning. I was in the lecture theater. Hiro isn't in this class, so I sat by myself. There was a boy sitting in front of me with this giant bottle of water. Every now and then he would take a long leisurely sip.
All of a sudden I was thirstier than I have ever been in my life. My mouth was dry, my throat was dry, my skin was dry. I felt as if I'd just eaten a salt sandwich on stale bread with soy sauce. I couldn't think, because every nerve in my body was saying thirsty, thirsty, thirsty. I looked at this giant bottle of water in front of me that I couldn't have.
I had to leave. I packed up my stuff and walked out of the lecture theater. I had to have a drink.
I walked down to the coffee shop and there was Kate with a whole bunch of herbal-looking people. She was sitting cross-legged on the chair—force of habit, I assume. She waved me over. I took a big bottle of water out of the fridge and paid for it.
I sat down with Kate and her friends. They remembered me from the party. I couldn't remember their names.
“OK, what I want to know is how much of my destiny is predetermined,” I said as I sat down.
“Well,” said Kate, without blinking an eye, “I think it's a combination of choice and fate.”
Kate held her mug of coffee delicately in her lap.
“I disagree,” said a blond surfer type with dreadlocks. “We are all part of a swirling cosmos. Everything connects —that's nature. You know if a butterfly flaps its wings in South America—”
“Don't give me that,” interrupted a pert-looking girl with a red skivvy on, “you're confusing correlation with coincidence.”
The cafeteria buzzed with conversation and laughter. Cleaning ladies in pale blue tunics wandered from table to table collecting dirty plates and stacking them on industrial-looking trolleys.
The pert girl looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “You go ahead and create your own destiny, pet. Don't listen to him. He's an environmental science major.”
“No, you didn't let me finish,” said the boy with dreadlocks, “it's basic physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
“So, what's equal about a wing flap and a meteorological disaster of biblical proportions, you goose?” argued the pert girl.
At the table nearest to us a group of young men erupted with laughter. The dreadlock boy had to raise his voice to be heard above them.
“You can't tell me that Nature doesn't have a plan,” he said. “Let's look at the basic principle of survival of the fittest. You can't tell me that—”
“Yes, but who's talking about Nature? We live in a modern society—an artificial structure that supports the weak,” interrupted the pert girl. “It's one of the critical factors underpinning our civilization, you twerp.”
The boy with the dreadlocks put down the glass bottle he had been drinking from. “Firstly, we are still animals,” he said, shaking his head and pointing his finger. “We are not immune to the forces of Nature. And secondly, I object to your constant insults, which clearly indicate a flimsy argu—”
Sitting between them, Kate and I swiveled our heads from one to the other like tennis spectators.
“Oh, get out of my face,” said the pert girl. She turned her head away and waved her hand at him. “We live in a society where limbs are replaceable and barren women are assisted to bear children. Tell me that isn't a huge step toward immunity.”
The dreadlock boy took a deep breath and was about to speak when I interrupted. “OK, let's say that I go to Edinburgh and become a juggler. Is that fate or coincidence?” I asked.
“Oh, you mean Ruth?” said Kate. “Well, that's different. She definitely heard the call of the juggler within.”
“No doubt about it,” said the pert girl.
“Yes,” agreed the dreadlock boy, “Ruth is a predestined juggler. She would have been a juggler even if she lived in Brewarrina.”
They paused for a moment. A cleaner with trolley leaned toward us, collecting plates and bottles from our table.
“How prometropolitan are you?” said the pert girl, as the cleaning lady moved away. “Are you suggesting that someone who lives in a remote or regional area can't have aspirations in the field of performing arts?”
“No,” replied the dreadlock boy. “Just that opportunities to pursue different occupations are locality-based.”
“Don't listen to him,” said the pert girl, leaning toward me and placing her hand on my arm, “he's from Cronulla.”
“Now who's being locationalist? I'm just saying that you're going to have a hard time being a marine biologist if you live in Alice,” said the dreadlock boy.
“Which brings me back to my original question,” I said. “Are you a marine biologist because you live by the sea, or do you live by the sea because you are a marine biologist?”
Kate smiled at me and said, “I think it's a combination of choice and fate.”
I'd finished guzzling my water so I said goodbye to Kate and her friends and meandered home across the park. I thought about having just missed my first lecture. I couldn't believe it. I wondered if I should go back. What if they'd talked about something really important that was going to be in the exam? One lecture, surely one lecture doesn't matter? As long as I read what's in the textbook I'll be right.
I walked along the cycleway through the park. A cyclist zipped up behind me, ringing his little bell. How can anyone be taken seriously with a wee bell like that?
Ting, ting, everybody move! Ting, ting.
Quick, quick. Everybody move out of the way! There is a thin person in Lycra, on a lightweight aluminum frame with flimsy wheels.
Cyclists should have a gong. I'm sure people would have more respect for them if they had a gong. Also, it would help if they didn't shave their legs. Please? How much quicker do they honestly think that makes them? If your leg hair is so long that it's getting caught in your spokes, fair enough. I can see how that would make a difference. Othe
rwise, I'm just not convinced.
I mean, just take a look at animals for whom speed really matters: African big cats, for example, zebras, antelopes. They all have hair! How many lions does one see saying, “Damn, I could have caught that wildebeest, if only it wasn't for these blasted hairy legs!”
So, I'm walking along the cycleway in the park. I'm thinking I might go grocery shopping. The only thing in the cupboard is a tin of artichoke hearts. I don't know any recipes that use artichoke hearts.
I think it's time to shop.
So, when I get home I take Grace to the supermarket. We were doing the grocery shopping. We were at the counter. I would hand things to Grace—things out of the trolley and she would put them on the counter—not the heavy things. She was doing really well. I was talking to her, making encouraging noises. People standing around must think I'm a dill.
Anyway, I'd forgotten to get dishwashing liquid. She was doing so well and the queue behind us was really long. It was only two aisles away, so I left her on her own. I decided I'd just duck over and grab the dishwashing liquid. I'd be back in two seconds. All she had to do was just stand there, right? Stupid, I know, in hindsight. I should know by now not to leave her on her own.
Anyway, I left her standing there. I rushed down to the aisle with the dishwashing liquid. Maybe she got frightened, maybe she was just wandering about looking for me? Who knows?
I came out of the aisle and I could see what was happening. It was as if it were in slow motion. She was walking through the checkout. The lady behind the counter was saying “Hey, come back, you'll set off the—” It was as if I can see the words coming out of her mouth, and I'm watching as Grace walks through the alarm doorway thing. She's got a bottle of cranberry juice in her hand. I can still see her walking, head swiveling as she's looking for me, still hear the checkout chick, when the alarm goes off, “REEP, REEP, REEP.” You know that really earsplitting sound like someone screaming.
I'm standing there at the end of the aisle. I can see Grace's eyes, opening very wide as she spins around.
Panic.
I can see as she drops the bottle of cranberry juice, her mouth open, she puts her hand up to her ears. The bottle falls on the floor and shatters in a million pieces. The cranberry juice is flowing all over the floor.
I start running toward her, but there are all these trolleys in the way and all these people moving closer to see what's going on. I'm yelling, trying to sound soothing over the sound of this alarm. “It's all right, turtledove.”
I'm pushing people and trolleys out of the way, they're all moving closer to the commotion. I can't get to her. I feel as if I'm on a conveyor belt that's going the other way.
I'm watching and I see a security guard approaching from behind Grace.
No, don't touch her!
He grabs her by the upper arm. She didn't see him approaching and she struggles to get away from him. She slips on the cranberry juice and falls. I can see her eyes.
Panic.
She falls on the floor and she's sliding along, her arms and hands sliced up by the broken glass on the floor. I'm still running—still trying to get past the stupid trolleys. The alarm's going “REEP, REEP!” The guard leans forward and grabs her arm again, hauling her to her feet and she's struggling, making these little squeaky noises.
There's blood dripping down her arm. The guard is shouting at her. “Just settle down, love, just settle down.”
She pulls away from the guard and falls again. I can see a big chunk of glass sticking out of her calf. I shove my way through the people, really pushing them out of the way, and burst my way through the checkout like a cannonball. I throw my arms around her in a bear hug.
I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
I hold her, whispering in her ear. “It's OK, turtledove, it's OK. I'm here.” I'm sitting there on the floor wrapped around Grace and she's shaking all over. We're covered in blood and cranberry juice. Sitting there on the floor, I'm rocking her gently. She's shuddering and taking big gulping breaths.
… … …
Well, I won't be leaving her on her own anymore.
The security guard at the shopping center has wrapped up Grace's arms and leg in bandages. I drive Grace to the hospital. A nurse takes her away into a little room. I phone Mr. Preston from the public telephone in the foyer.
“I'm at the hospital,” I say. I coil the phone wire around and around my wrist as I'm talking.
“What's happened?”
“I left her on her own, just for a second, in the supermarket. She fell over and cut herself.”
There is silence on the other end of the line.
“How bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“I'll be right there.”
I'm sitting in the foyer, forever. I've got a magazine open on my lap but I'm not reading it.
Mr. Preston comes running into the foyer. He sees me and walks over. “Where's Grace?”
“She's in there,” I say, pointing to the little room. I put my hands up to my face and start to cry. “I'm so sorry. It's my fault. I left her on her own. I went to get dishwashing liquid. It's my fault.”
He sits down on the plastic chair next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. He pulls me toward him and kisses me on the top of my head. Then he stands up and walks into the little room.
Mr. Preston drives Grace home. One of her legs and both her arms are in bandages. At home I sit her in her chair. Mr. Preston makes us a cup of coffee. We sit in silence on the couch.
Eventually I say, “Would you like me to resign?”
Mr. Preston frowns at me. “Grace has just made a payment, in flesh, toward your education. You don't think we're going to start all over again with someone else?”
I feel bad. I feel very bad.
We are silent again.
He finishes his coffee. “Well, I think it's time to go home. It's been a big day.” He stands up and takes my cup out of my hand. He walks into the kitchen. “I was having coffee with my ex-wife when you rang. We're very civilized, you see. Sometimes the civility can be … stressful.”
I can't think of anything to say.
Mr. Preston walks over to Grace, kneels down before her and holds her hands. He speaks to her quietly, but I can hear him.
“Well, now, you gave us quite a fright today. I'm going now. Please be gentle with my little chum. We can't have her beating herself up, as well.”
He kisses her hands and walks to the front door.
On the veranda I say to him, “I'm so sorry. I will never leave her on her own again. I wasn't thinking. I did the wrong thing.”
He nods. He scuffs the sole of his shoes on the edge of the step. He puts his hands on his hips. “The garden is looking good,” he observes.
“I've let you down. I wasn't doing my job. Now Grace is a mess and it's my fault.”
I look at him closely. There are tears in his eyes. He stands on the veranda, looking at the garden.
I can't believe he's crying. He's a grown-up, for heaven's sake!
“I am so sorry,” I say.
“Shut up for a minute, will you? Grace's cuts will heal. Do you hear me? You're doing a fantastic job.”
Then he turns and looks me right in the eye.
“I know where you are right now. You're blaming yourself. Well, I can trump that. I was there the night Grace had the accident. That was my fault. How does that grab you?”
Two tears roll down his cheeks.
“Grace's cuts will heal. What I did she will never recover from—never, ever.” He pulls his hair back from his forehead with both hands and rubs his eyes. “I tell myself she was at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the truth is, I took her to that place. I took them both there.”
He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes.
“I have to go.”
He walks down the steps to his car. He turns back toward me as he opens the car door.
“Your trial is over, by the way.”
We picked up Prickles this morning and we brought him home in a pillowcase on Grace's lap. I haven't let Grace out of my sight. She hasn't looked at me once since the supermarket.
Marie gave me some pills for Prickles and some special food. She told me that he's going to be sore for a couple of weeks, but he'll be fine.
When we got home I pulled him out of the pillowcase and put him on the floor. He lay there for a while on his side, and I could see his naked little belly, where they'd shaved him, and a big line of stitches.
I picked him up gently and put him on Grace's lap. She looked down and stroked him along his back.
I sat on the couch looking at them: Grace with her arms and leg in bandages, Prickles with his stitches all the way up his belly—what a pair.
Yeah, I'm doing a fantastic job. Australia's number one primary carer, that's me.
I locked the front and back doors and walked into the study and pulled out the spooky box. For a while I sat at the desk just looking at the box. I felt bad. I felt voyeuristic, but I couldn't help myself, I wanted to know more.
I could have put it away but I opened it instead. I pulled out the bundle that I'd already read and picked up the next piece of paper. It was written in crayon in a childish hand. There was a drawing—a kid's drawing with a big yellow smiling sun in the corner. I sat there at Grace's desk and read.
Dear Aunty Grace,
Thank you for taking me to the zoo when Mummy was sick. I liked the monkeys best.
I told Daddy how you taught me to play the piano.
You'll never guess what. When I came home I had a new sister! Her name is Bianca.
Can I come and stay again?
I told Aunty Brioney you make better cakes than her.
Love from Simone
PS I drawed you a picture of us at the zoo with the monkeys.
I smiled as I put the picture under the ribbon. I just bet Brioney would love being told Grace makes better cakes than she does.
I heard the floorboards in the hallway creak. I put the lid on the box and left it sitting on the desk.
Finding Grace Page 11