The Memories That Make Us

by Vanessa Carnevale

  She bundles up my flowers, snips the thread of twine holding them together, and extends an arm to hand them back to me, but I stand there, staring past her to the homeware and gift store across the street that’s captured my attention.

  ‘That’ll be sixteen dollars,’ she says, her voice like a distant echo. Eyes still trained on the store, I thrust a twenty-dollar note in her direction, accept the flowers, and before she can reach into her empty tea tin for change, I’ve turned my back and am heading across the street.

  When I make my way back to the road that leads to Summerhill, pushing a wheelbarrow stacked with pots, a watering can, a pair of gumboots and a decked-out tool belt with pruning shears and flower snips, I can almost swear Tilly’s nodding at me from a distance. I wonder if she’s noticed the copy of A Novice’s Guide to Flower Farming that’s balancing on top of it all.

  The tingle of crisp air makes the stroll home a pleasant one. I wave hello to Charlie, where he’s scooping chestnuts into cones for a family that’s stopped by the side of the road. He eyes my wheelbarrow and shakes his head in amusement as I pass the stand, doing my best to not let its contents topple over as I cross the bumpy road. Manoeuvring the wheelbarrow up the driveway, almost losing my footing in the process, I pause at the front fence when I notice a pair of legs protruding from beneath the porch swing in the front yard. Flynn’s legs.

  Nudging open the gate, I approach the porch swing, wondering what he could possibly be doing lying underneath it.

  ‘Just make yourself right at home,’ I say, towering above him. I park my new gardening supplies and book beside the swing.

  He pokes his head out from underneath the bench and flashes a grin. ‘A coffee would be great,’ he says.

  With an armload of flowers still under my left arm, I unlock the front door and push it open with my foot.

  Flynn continues whistling as he shifts back under the swing, a screwdriver in hand. ‘They parrot tulips?’

  I stop in my tracks and check the flowers I’m holding. Sure enough, these frilly and flamboyant blooms with flushes of pink, cream and green are parrot tulips.

  ‘How’d you know that?’ I ask, turning around to narrow my gaze.

  He takes a screw out of his mouth, his eyes not quite meeting mine. ‘Any guy worth holding onto should know that kind of stuff. To be honest though, I prefer regular tulips. Less showy, still beautiful, and the thing that makes them most attractive is that they have no idea how beautiful they actually are.’ His eyes lock onto mine, holding my gaze for a second or so, before turning his attention back to the swing. I’m left speechless, feeling a slow rush of heat pricking my cheeks until I’m almost certain they are flushing pink.

  ‘You should get those into some water.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The flowers,’ he says. ‘Don’t forget to snip the stems. They’ll last longer in the vase.’ He attempts to keep a straight face.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you how irritating you are?’

  ‘It’s one of the most endearing things about me,’ he calls. I catch him smirking to himself. He’s clearly enjoying this.

  I take a deep breath, annoyed with myself that I don’t have a smart comeback. ‘How do you like your coffee?’ I reply, but before he can answer me, I’ve shut the front door behind me.

  ‘All fixed,’ calls Flynn a few minutes later, poking his head through the kitchen door. ‘Is the coffee ready?’

  I finish spooning some coffee into a couple of mugs. ‘Almost.’ I add a dash of milk to both and watch Flynn’s facial expression as his eyes travel over the numerous vases I have in the kitchen and living room, before fixating on the fresh blooms I’ve left on the kitchen table, still wrapped. He looks thoughtfully at them. I’m not sure how to explain why my cottage is filled with so many flowers, but he doesn’t question it.

  ‘When you’re ready, come check out the swing. It’s as good as new,’ he says.

  I meet him outside, carrying two coffee mugs with me, trying not to spill them as I step over Flynn’s tool bag. ‘How’d you know it was broken?’ I ask, as I hand him a cup. ‘Did you want any sugar?’

  ‘No thanks. I tried to sit on it,’ he says, as if it’s obvious.

  ‘I know you said you’re between jobs, but don’t you have better things to do with your time?’

  ‘If you’re going to drill me with questions like this, you should at least sit down,’ he says, shifting from the middle of the swing to the side. As much as Flynn irritates me, there’s something likeable about him, so I sit, curling my hands around the pleasantly warm mug. The temperature has dropped since I arrived home and the sky now has a grey tinge to it.

  ‘I wanted to see how you were doing,’ he replies casually. ‘It can be pretty lonely out here in winter.’

  I stare into my coffee. ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘There’s a decent amount of work to do out here,’ Flynn muses, his left foot playing with a pebble. Parrot’s lying on my feet, which I don’t mind because I can barely feel my toes inside my boots.

  I take another long sip of coffee before I answer him. ‘Yeah, it’s not in the best shape.’

  Flynn reaches over to the wheelbarrow and picks up the book I purchased in town. ‘Flower growing, hey?’ He flicks through it, before finally looking up at me.

  I don’t know how to respond. It’s not the question that grates against me, but the answer I’m searching for. I don’t know what I’m doing with this book or with all these flowers. All I know is that they’re the only things that offer the loosest thread of connection to my old life.

  ‘I don’t know … the flowers, they interest me. I like the way they make me feel.’ I take another sip of coffee. ‘I’ve been learning a bit more about myself since I got here, actually.’

  ‘Like what?’ asks Flynn.

  ‘I stay away from sugar, and can’t cook to save myself. As it turns out, I’m an early riser. I like to jog, and even though I haven’t been lately, I think I’m going to start again. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ he says brightly. ‘Meet me at the field gate tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Okay. Six am too early?’ I say, smiling into my mug. I’m almost sure the cold early mornings will be a turn-off for him.

  ‘Nope,’ he says, a satisfied expression playing on his lips.

  ‘Cold dark mornings don’t bother you?’

  ‘Nope,’ he says coolly.

  I give a half-supressed laugh. We’ll see about that. ‘So, what brought you here, specifically?’ I ask, my teeth starting to chatter. ‘Are you starting a new job out here?’

  Flynn’s silent for a moment. ‘I’m not entirely sure yet.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’d better get going. The temperature has dropped. I’ll let you move inside.’ He stands up.

  ‘But you haven’t even finished your coffee.’ His mug is still on the table beside me. He hasn’t touched it.

  ‘Not a huge fan of instant,’ he says, making his way to the front gate. ‘Should have asked you for a hot chocolate.’ He whistles for Parrot to follow. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he says, holding back a smile. He’d be insanely attractive under the right circumstances, if he weren’t so sure of himself, not to mention, annoying.

  As I carry the two mugs towards the front door, I notice the fresh stack of firewood piled up beside it. And then my body floods with the oddest sensation. I think it’s my chest expanding. Before I can turn around to thank him, he’s closed the front fence behind him.

  ELEVEN

  It’s 5.45 am and I’m lying in bed, listening to the persistent ringing of an alarm clock that’s desperately trying to nudge me closer to who I once was. Except my life is still like a jigsaw puzzle—incomplete, fragments missing, with no clear picture of what might be eventually pieced together at all. I watch the digits on the clock flip over, while my mind scrambles for information from the past, just like it does every other morning.

  Nope, still nothing.

&nbs
p; From my bedroom window lies a view of a hauntingly beautiful landscape, where a layer of silver has dusted the grass in the fields. From here, Flynn’s cottage next door is visible. Its bluestone façade is partially obscured by the branches of an oak that’s positioned by a low stone wall separating our properties. The outside light is on, thick plumes of smoke billowing from the chimney. Parrot is lying patiently on the front porch by the stack of firewood near the front door.

  I stoke the two-sided fireplace that’s almost spent, the smoky aroma filtering through the bedroom. After changing and tucking my laces into my shoes, I head into the kitchen to pour myself an orange juice. Making my way to the door with a piece of almost-burnt toast in my mouth, I scoop my hair into a high ponytail. The sudden rush of cold hits me as I open the front door and almost trip over Parrot.

  My arms reach out for something to prevent me from falling, coming into contact with a chest. I look up, the piece of toast still hanging from my mouth.

  Flynn lets go of me and helps me regain my balance, trying to hold back his laughter.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?!’ I exclaim.

  He points at Parrot. ‘Following him.’

  ‘He opened the gate by himself, I suppose?’ I say dryly.

  He shakes his head, trying to act serious. Secretly, I’m enjoying this. ‘Well, not exactly. He jumped over the wall,’ he says, pointing at the low stone wall. He says it so innocently that I can’t help trying to hide an amused smile.

  ‘I thought we said we’d meet at the rear field gate,’ I say, biting into my toast.

  He cringes slightly, his eyes trained on the piece of charred bread. ‘Changed my mind,’ he says, raising his eyebrows and pulling his hoodie over his head. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and the scruffy look suits him. He eyes me up and down. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Almost.’ I take a minute to warm up, stretching first one leg and then the other, while taking the last bite of my toast. The morning smells distinctly like winter—earthy with a hint of eucalyptus in the air.

  ‘Hurry up, then,’ he says, making his way to the stone wall. He glances back and winks at me before jumping over it. Parrot follows. I trail close behind, wiping the crumbs off my face with the cuff of my windcheater.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, catching up to Flynn. We’re now on his side of the field, making our way up a gentle incline.

  ‘I usually jog near the lake. Come, I’ll show you.’

  We reach the summit on which Flynn’s cottage sits and stop to catch our breath. He points to the towering gum trees studded across the rear of both our properties, where the growth thickens into bush. Several horses, surrounded by the early-morning mist, are grazing in the paddocks to our left.

  ‘Snowdrops,’ I murmur, making out the patches of white flowers in the rear paddocks. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, watching the puffs of warm air dissipate in front of me as the countryside starts to wake up.

  ‘Yep,’ agrees Flynn. ‘Come on, then.’ He hauls himself over a sloppily erected wooden fence and I do the same, only my top gets caught on a nail.

  ‘Hold on, I’m stuck,’ I call, trying to twist my body around to unhook myself from the fence. I can’t quite reach far enough, though, and I struggle to maintain my balance without ripping my windcheater.

  ‘Careful there. Sit back down and hold on,’ says Flynn, coming closer to me. I do as I’m told and can feel the warmth from his body as he stands in front of me, his chest brushing my knee as he leans behind me and unhooks me from the fence. ‘All done.’ He extends a hand to help me down. His hand stays wrapped around mine before I wriggle it out of his grasp.

  Something in my chest flutters. I clear my throat. ‘Uh, thanks,’ I reply, straightening up. I take a step away, reestablishing a comfortable distance from him.

  Parrot forges ahead of us, and Flynn smiles at me, a hint of playfulness in his eyes. ‘Race you there.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Aren’t we a little old for running races?’

  Flynn clearly doesn’t think so because he’s turned his back on me and is racing ahead.

  ‘Let’s see what you’ve got!’ he calls.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ I mumble, beginning to sprint to make up lost ground. My chest burns as my lungs work overtime.

  Flynn beats me, but only by a fraction of a second. He wipes his face with his forearm as he slows his pace down to a walk. ‘Knew you had it in you,’ he says, bending over as he regains his breath.

  I don’t answer him. I’m absorbed in my own thoughts. A little further ahead is a willow tree that has lost its leaves. We reach the tree that seems so familiar to me, and I move towards it, as if in slow motion. My gaze drifts to the words carved into the trunk, and then the world falls silent, as if a blanket has been draped over me. My eyes narrow, searching for some kind of recollection of being here before, but my mind is completely blank. How many times might I have sat under the shade of this tree, its branches cascading over me like a leafy waterfall, toes dipped in the water, sun caressing my skin as I gazed up at the sky through the leafy canopy? I place my palm over its trunk, feeling the texture of the bark as I trace the letters with my fingers. Letters that form the words my mother once told me.

  The sweet peas know where to look for the light.

  ‘Gracie?’ says Flynn, his eyes flicking to mine. They’re filled with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  I try to hold back everything I’m feeling by pinning my lip between my teeth, hoping that he won’t notice the trembling. I can’t find a way to answer him. Another beat of silence passes. I want to tell him that things aren’t right, that everything’s a mess, that I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I belong, and I don’t know how to fit Blake back into my life, but I can’t seem to form the words.

  Flynn clears his throat before he speaks, the way a person does when they’re not sure what to say. ‘What is it, Gracie?’ he asks, his voice low. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  His deep-blue eyes, a shade darker than they were the other day, are filled with sincerity, and for the first time, I momentarily cast away any judgement I previously had about him possibly being the most irritating man I’ve ever met.

  Slowly, I lift my hand away from the tree. ‘Do you know what it feels like to forget something or someone you wish you could remember?’

  He turns his body towards the tree, where his eyes travel over the words engraved on the trunk. ‘Like when you lose someone and those memories start to feel a little duller— like they’re fading away and you’ll never get them back?’ He pulls the hood off his head and runs a hand through his tousled hair before meeting my gaze again.

  ‘My mother died and I don’t remember her,’ I tell him.

  Flynn steps closer and moves a strand of hair behind my ear. He holds my gaze with his. ‘Losing someone hurts like hell, doesn’t it?’

  I nod, swallowing past the lump that’s formed in my throat.

  Flynn’s penetrating gaze manages to speak a thousand words when only a handful would suffice. My eyes mirror back everything he’s telling me. In that moment of understanding, and of being understood, there’s no need for more words to be exchanged. He blinks at me, his eyes full of empathy, void of judgement, and for a second, life stands still as I momentarily allow myself to wonder what it might be like to look at someone the way you do when you have loved them for years and they know exactly what you’re thinking without needing to utter a single word.

  And that’s when the wave of guilt hits me like a ton of bricks.

  TWELVE

  It’s been almost two weeks since I arrived in Summerhill. Another letter has come from Blake, and I haven’t even managed to regain enough equilibrium to respond to his last one. I’m still not sure what I can say, or what I should say, to make being apart any easier for him.

  I take a long gulp of coffee that’s been sitting on the table long enough to grow lukewarm, and read over his letter again.

  Dear Gracie, />
  I can’t pretend that I don’t miss you. I miss the way you’d hold my hand and squeeze and I’d squeeze back and then you’d squeeze three times and we both knew you were saying I love you. I miss how that used to feel so much.

  I’ve been checking the letterbox as often as I can, hoping there might be mail from you. Scarlett said you’re doing fine, but since she couldn’t tell me anything specific about what you’d been up to, I’m guessing you’re not doing much at all.

  Getting your life back on track must seem like the hardest thing for you right now, but not many people get to have their time over. But you do, so as hard as this is, and as much as you didn’t want this, try to make the most of it. Don’t box yourself up inside waiting for your memory to come back to you. Life’s too short for that. Get outside and explore. Take long walks. Find a way to laugh every day. Find a hobby—something you love. And if you don’t know what you love, try new things. I promise you won’t get this wrong.

  Love,

  Blake

  P.S. You love old-school comedy—think Jerry Lewis.

  I trace a series of question marks onto the window with my forefinger. Answers to the questions I have about my life might be in short supply, but Blake is right—boxing myself up inside, documenting flowers day after day, isn’t going to get me anywhere. So, I pull myself out of the sagging fold of the sofa, take a pen and place a tick beside Blake’s first suggestion: Get outside and explore.

  Summerhill spans five acres, and currently, most of the paddock space is covered with waist-high weeds, overgrown grass and bare trees with carpets of soggy leaves at their feet that need to be cleared. As I wander up to the fields, my boots sink into the spongy earth. The moisture from the grass wicks through my jeans as I venture through a row of garden beds, using my hands to separate the rampant weeds that spill over either side of it. Stumbling over some loose netting and fallen stakes that have been disrupted by the wind, I stop to examine the monochromatic and lifeless heap of growth around me. I’m fairly sure that this tangled mess beneath my feet is what used to be a sweet-pea bed. I try consolidating the memory I have of being here as a child with what I’m seeing now. Inhaling the scent of damp earth, I dig my fingers into the ground and watch the clumps of dirt fall from my hands. I envisage the field the way it sits in my memory—in full bloom, bursts of colour surrounding me, stems swaying in the breeze, butterflies flitting from one pollen-filled blossom to another. The images in my mind play around for a while and I bask in that feeling of peacefulness until I’m overcome with a knowing that this place belongs to me as much as I belong to it.