by Toni Jordan
He holds me for a long time without speaking. ‘Everything is not so bad,’ he says. ‘A lot of it was my fault. I’m sorry, Grace. Truly, it wasn’t about changing you or rescuing you. I just wanted you to be happy.’
He’s warm. I can feel his heart beating. ‘Everything is fine,’ I say.
He reaches behind his neck and unwraps my arms. Returns them to my side, and strokes them. ‘Good. Great. Well, good night Grace.’
Before I know it he’s at the top of the stairs.
‘What? Just where do you think you’re going?’
He turns. A cheeky grin. ‘I’m going home now. Good night.’
I stomp towards him, maybe 5 or 6 steps. I lose count. ‘Listen to me, banana boy. You can’t just kiss me like that and then say good night.’
He grins and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I think part of the problem last time was that we started off a bit fast. I think it scared you. The fact is, I went out with you because I liked you. You, Grace, just as you were. Not you as raw material for the new improved Grace. I know the therapy was my idea, but…God, I can’t be brilliant all the time. This time we’re going to take it easy; really get to know each other. No rush. In a week or so I’ll ring you. And then we’ll have coffee. Then in a few months we’ll hold hands. No rush.’
If I still had the rods in my hand I would have smacked him over the head with them.
‘That must be the single most stupid idea I’ve ever heard in my life. At least it’s in the top ten. Do you think we’ll live to be a hundred? Or have you decided to become a Buddhist, and pray we have plenty of time together in your next life?’
He laughs. ‘I’m just trying to do the right thing.’
‘The right thing, heh? So in a week or so, you’ll ring me.’ His shirt is tucked into his jeans. I yank it out. He doesn’t move.
‘Yes.’
‘And then maybe we’ll have coffee.’ His shirt has 6 buttons, pearl coloured plastic. I undo the bottom one.
‘That’s what I said. Yes.’
‘Then we work our way up to holding hands? In a few months, if we feel like we’re ready.’ I undo another button. My fingers brush the warm skin of his stomach.
He gulps. ‘No rush.’
‘And…’ Button 3. ‘After that?’ Button 4. ‘After we hold hands?’ Button 5.
‘Grace…Grace it’s freezing.’
‘I can fix that.’ Button 6. ‘Come inside.’
19
It’s not perfect. Problems still pop up sometimes, but it’s surprising how things can be managed with a bit of imagination. Of the many things that have changed about my life, the most remarkable must be football. I love it. Seamus was right, that first morning we woke up together last summer. It is glorious. It’s all about numbers: touches, handballs, kicks, marks, percentage. And each player has a number on his back! How long has this been going on? Saturday afternoon has become the highlight of my week, although we also go on a Sunday if Hawthorn is playing. We need to arrive a little early so I can have my ham, cheese and tomato on wholemeal, brought from home, at exactly 1.15 p.m. Seamus has a pie and a beer any time he wants. Seamus misses all the good counting bits, but he seems content to sit with his arm around my shoulders and watch the game. Cricket season is coming up. Seamus says I’ll like that even more once I get my head around strike rates, batting averages and run-rate per over. I believe him.
Larry and Jill and Mother are delighted I am back with Seamus. We go to see Larry in the school play (she is Levi in a horrible performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat). Mother especially adores him (Seamus, not Andrew Lloyd Webber). He is full of anecdotes of wonderful football injuries, like knees smashing cheekbones and eye-sockets, and shins shoving noses through the front of skulls. My mother has never been a sports fan before; now, with Seamus’s guidance, she never misses a game on TV. Shoulder reconstructions, anterior cruciates. She’s becoming an expert. Next year Marjorie, he tells her, I’ll take you to the motor racing. She can hardly wait.
One memorable day during the school holidays I take some time off work and Larry and I catch the bus to Chadstone. We sit in the food court. Larry chooses where we sit, then leaves to stand in line for a burger and chips. When she comes back to the table, she holds my hand and when she notices my eyes shut or my breathing become shallow, speaks soft words in my ear about courage and triumph and how proud she is of her aunt. Her favourite aunt.
We don’t manage to stay long (the array of chairs, uncountable because of people sitting, standing and moving, is unsettling and I have an allergy to something—I begin to itch uncontrollably) but she doesn’t seem to mind and helps me outside, again with her arm in mine. As soon as we are in the fresh air the itching stops, so perhaps it was caused by toxic gas coming off the plastic. It may have been fleas but they would have hung about for longer, I’m sure. We take a taxi back to my café where I buy her a chocolate muffin and a Diet Coke.
And all this time I never lecture her. I give her no advice, tell her no analogies or homilies. I compare her with no one. Because there are some things you must find out for yourself. But if there was just one thing that I could give to this beautiful child—just one thing I could hand her, wrapped in shiny paper and finished with a stiff bow, this is what I would tell her.
Most people miss their whole lives, you know. Listen, life isn’t when you are standing on top of a mountain looking at the sunset. Life isn’t waiting at the altar or the moment your child is born or that time you were swimming in deep water and a dolphin came up alongside you. These are fragments. Ten or twelve grains of sand spread throughout your entire existence. These are not life. Life is brushing your teeth or making a sandwich or watching the news or waiting for the bus. Or walking. Every day, thousands of tiny events happen and if you’re not watching, if you’re not careful, if you don’t capture them and make them count, you could miss it.
You could miss your whole life.
Acknowledgments
For information about the life of Nikola Tesla, I am indebted to Margaret Cheney’s Tesla: man out of time, and to Marc J. Seifer for Wizard: The life and times of Nikola Tesla. Any errors remain my own (or Grace’s).
I owe much to the wonderful Clifford A. Pickover’s Wonders of numbers: Adventures in mathematics, minds and meaning, which was filled with fascinating information about numbers. And I am grateful to www.crimelibrary.com for facts on the trial and death of William Kemmler.
My thanks must also go to those readers who gave me helpful advice especially Keren Barnett, Melissa Cranenburgh, Jess Howard, Irene Korsten, Caroline Lee, Fiona Mackrell, Jess Obersby, Steve Wide and Chris Womersley. Friends were generous with their ideas and support, in particular Lee Falvey, Scott Falvey and Lee Miller.
Special thanks go to Peter Bishop and the supporters of Varuna writers’ retreat where I wrote part of this novel, and to RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing faculty, particularly Olga Lorenzo. I am incredibly grateful to Michael Williams for believing this manuscript could count, and to the brilliant and inspiring book lovers at Text Publishing, especially Michael Heyward.