The Memories That Make Us

by Vanessa Carnevale

  Dear Blake,

  Do you believe in destiny? Because I don’t know if I do, or if I ever did before. Aside from one brief memory of us, I don’t have any memories of falling or being in love with you and I’m scared I might never remember.

  I went for a jog the other morning and I prayed so hard that I might remember what it was like to have loved you through all those years we spent together, but no matter how hard I prayed and waited for another memory to surface, not one ever did.

  I like it here at Summerhill. I’ve been filling the house with flowers and pottering around the garden. I don’t have a hobby yet, but I took your advice about getting outside and exploring. I started with the roses and I think I’ll tackle the weeds soon, too. It’s all a great big mess. A bit like my life, really.

  I hope you’re doing okay and that even in some small way, you’re getting on with your life without me and that the phone calls about the wedding have settled down now.

  Gracie

  With a heavy sigh, I fold the letter and slide it into an envelope before making my way into town.

  I’m in need of more fresh flowers for the house.

  Tilly is on the same street corner as yesterday. She has a woollen beanie pulled over her head, covering her ears, and she’s humming as she reaches for a Sweet William stem and tucks it into the arrangement she’s holding in her left hand. She admires it and then tightens the string around the bouquet before slipping it into a brown paper sleeve.

  ‘Morning, Tilly. I’ve come for more flowers.’

  ‘Let me guess?’ She closes one eye and looks me up and down with the other. She brings a finger to her lips. ‘Tulips.’

  ‘How’d you know I was going to say that?’ I’m shocked by her accurate guess.

  ‘When you’re as old as me, and you’ve been working the flowers for as long as I have, you just know what’s going to suit. Here, hold these,’ she says, pushing a bunch of snowdrops into my arms. ‘Now close your eyes,’ she commands. ‘Breathe in.’

  I take a deep breath. I’m not sure what Tilly wants me to do or why. I peek through one eye, but she’s quick to tell me off.

  ‘Keep ’em closed. I’m not finished with you yet. You need to listen, but not with these,’ she says, cupping her hands over my ears. Again, I peek through one eye at her. ‘You’ve got a problem with following instructions?’ she scolds. ‘Just like your mother, always wanting to give instructions, never taking the time to listen,’ she mumbles.

  I stifle a laugh.

  ‘Try again,’ she says, more firmly this time. ‘I want to see if you’ve got the gift.’

  ‘What gift?’ I whisper, my eyes still closed.

  ‘Quiet,’ she snaps. ‘Breathe.’

  Instinctively, I burrow my face into the flowers and inhale.

  ‘That’s it,’ she commands, her voice hoarse.

  I clamp my eyes shut and focus on steadying my breath. She continues her melodic humming, against the symphony of other sounds. People bustling around the morning market; footsteps, laughter, chatter, dogs barking, children laughing, bicycle bells ringing. Tilly gently nudges the flowers closer to my nose. The scent is faintly reminiscent of honey and orange blossom. Inhaling more deeply now, my breath slows to a comfortable rhythm and the sounds naturally fade into the background.

  ‘Keep listening,’ Tilly orders in her crackly voice.

  The scent of the snowdrops becomes stronger. I can’t hear the people around me anymore, but I can feel them. In my mind, I can see the blanket of white snowdrops covering a field, heralding the end of winter, their drooping heads a misleading interpretation of how much they can withstand the cold. With their buds encased in their petals, they’re filled with warmth inside so they can survive the temperature outside. I’m struck with awe at how beautiful they are. They’re magnificent. I’m overcome with an intense feeling of wanting to share them with the people around me. The sounds nearby filter back into my consciousness and I open my eyes, but my attention turns away from Tilly, to the bustling market. An elderly woman is ambling past the stand. She seems so lonely. A young woman standing in front of a café pulls a phone from her pocket and cups her mouth as tears begin to fall from her eyes. A man with sagging shoulders and an expression of desperation, hands out flyers to passers-by. He’s lost his dog.

  ‘Words?’ says Tilly.

  I shake my head, not quite understanding.

  ‘What are the first words that come to you?’

  ‘Hope and strength,’ I reply, the words spilling out of me before I can give them any thought.

  ‘Knew you’d have the gift.’ She clicks her tongue in satisfaction.

  I’m still not entirely sure what she means, but I can’t help wondering whether it has something to do with the fact that I’m much more aware of the people around me now than I was before. Reluctantly, I hand the flowers back to her.

  ‘They’re yours. God knows it looks like you need them. It’s not all about what you can see, you know,’ she says. ‘It’s about the way they make you feel.’

  ‘Let me pay you for them, then. How much?’

  She waves her hand at me and continues arranging the flowers she’s holding onto in a posy. ‘Just for the tulips will do.’

  I hand her a ten-dollar note, which she stuffs into her tin before handing me a bunch of fringed tulips.

  ‘I’ve got work to do. Was there anything else you wanted?’

  ‘No, I think I have all I need for now,’ I reply. I look down at the flowers cradled in my arm. ‘The tulips—why did you choose them for me?’

  ‘Why don’t you go home and let me know once you’ve figured it out?’ She gently nudges me towards the street.

  The woman who was on the phone has started to walk away and is about to cross the road. I speed up my pace and reach her. She’s waiting for the line of cars to pass. ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  She looks at me, her face stained with tears, her cheeks a blotchy shade of pink and red.

  ‘I thought you might need these,’ I say, extending my arms. She throws me an odd look and my body tenses. I glance over at Tilly’s stand. She’s watching me. ‘I think you might need them more than I do,’ I add nervously.

  ‘My mum just passed away,’ she whispers. She eyes the flowers, and a resurgence of tears begin to flow. ‘These were her favourites,’ she says, smiling through her tears. My heart starts to beat a little faster and it occurs to me as I let go of the snow-capped blooms that maybe Tilly’s right. Maybe it’s not only me that needs the flowers. Spring is, after all, right around the corner.

  THIRTEEN

  That evening, I curl up in bed with my (until now) untouched copy of A Novice’s Guide to Flower Farming. After reading about soil types and bed preparation, I glance up at the clock and realise I forgot to call Scarlett today. I reach for the phone and dial her number, hoping it’s not too late.

  She answers on the second ring.

  ‘Gracie! I’ve been trying to call you all day.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. I bought more flowers today. Did you know that gerberas should have their stems scalded in hot water before putting them in a vase?’

  ‘No. I didn’t,’ says Scarlett, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she thinks I’ve completely lost it.

  ‘Same with hydrangeas. You can bring them back to life, Scarlett.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘I know all these things. I remember all these things.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What do you mean anything else? I’m telling you everything. My mother used to let me force the hyacinths to bloom. You can do it by putting the bulbs in a glass jar with some pebbles and …’

  ‘Gracie.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m fine.’

  ‘All this talk about the flowers, I think that maybe going back to your old routine could help. You haven’t even been seeing a therapist or any of the specialists Dr C
leave recommended. Besides, you’re all alone out there and what if something happens? What if you get lost or need help with something?’

  ‘I’ve got a neighbour who can help. I have to tell you about him. He’s so completely perplexing, you’ve no idea. But he’s harmless. A helper, really. And he makes good company.’

  ‘A guy?’

  ‘I must admit, he’s quite handsome.’ As soon as I say it, I regret it. In anticipation of Scarlett’s reaction, I suck in a breath. ‘Sorry. It was … just an observation.’ I run my finger down the stem of the gerbera that’s wedged next to the spine of my gardening book, acting like a bookmark.

  The line is heavy with silence. I wait; Scarlett doesn’t respond.

  ‘How’s Blake?’ I ask quietly. ‘And how are you feeling?’

  ‘Ugh. Still nauseous every day. I’ve been wanting to visit, but I don’t think I can manage the car ride.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just come up when you’re ready.’

  ‘As for Blake, I haven’t seen or spoken to him, but Noah says he’s doing okay.’

  ‘Just okay?’

  ‘Apparently, he’s been a little elusive, wanting to be left alone lately. He’s still fielding a lot of calls from wedding guests demanding answers—it’s been never-ending for the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ I reply.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you anything about him? There’s so much I want to tell you. So many things you need to know. I could tell you a story, or—’

  ‘No,’ I reply, cutting her off. ‘He told me some things in his letter.’ I twirl a loose thread from the quilt around my finger. ‘I was happy.’

  ‘Yes, you were. And you will be again.’

  ‘It’s late. I should let you go.’

  ‘Get some rest. I’m at a cocktail party. Better get back to it. Noah’s presenting an award for a new charity.’

  We exchange our goodbyes and I hang up the phone, promising to call back soon. I open up my book and read over the introduction again.

  When I look out onto a field of flowers I feel Mother Nature’s heartbeat. French lavender swaying in the breeze, wildflowers caressing the pastures, sunflowers turning their faces towards the light. I squint into the sun, feel the earth beneath my toes, and think to myself that there’s no place I’d rather be.

  I reach for a pair of socks in my bedside table drawer, pull them on, and as my eyelids drift shut, gerbera resting against my chest, my heart gives a gentle nod.

  The ceramic pie weights in my palm roll around as I transfer them from one hand to the other, thinking about Tilly, and my mother, the woman who lost her mother yesterday, and of course, Blake. Outside, there’s an empty bird feeder in the front yard, that I still haven’t got around to filling. There are so many things I should get around to doing here before spring, like mowing the lawn, attacking the weeds … finding the courage to face my fiancé.

  The tulips, now sitting in a vase under the kitchen windowsill, have opened up, their rubbery stamens smiling at the light. As the sunlight fades, the frilly petals will close, the cycle of one day complete.

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’ I whisper, as the pie weights clack against each other. ‘Why did Tilly choose you?’

  Elbows leaning on the table, chin resting on one hand, I sit in a chair, hoping for some kind of answer to come to me, and when it never does, I muster the strength to stand up, releasing the pie weights from my hand. They roll across the table in different directions. One after the other they drop to the ground in a series of thumps. When I bend down to pick them up, the room appears different to me than it did before. Crouching down in this position, I’m struck by how many vases of flowers I’ve beautified the house with. I take them all in: the china-pink hyacinths brushing shoulders with the milky-white viburnums, the tangerine double-cupped Lady Emma Hamilton roses with their heavenly pear-and-grape fragrance infusing the living area, teemed with branches of crimson Japanese quince and rich lemoncoloured winter jasmine. The tulips, the hellebores, the daffs—they all make my heart feel a little more open, and it dawns on me that working with the flowers—having them around me—brings me joy. It’s as if I’ve unlocked a secret— the realisation that flowers are important to me because they make me feel good. Scarlett had told me she and I used to go shopping for flowers every week at the Queen Vic Market, and now I know why. My love for flowers all started here, in Summerhill, with my mother. Suddenly, I feel closer to her. I might not remember her, but I have come to know part of the bond that binds us together—a reverent and mutual love of flowers.

  I bring the vases from the various positions they’ve assumed around the open-plan cottage to the dining table. I line them all up: juice bottles, milk bottles, mason jars, drinking glasses, and Waterford Crystal vases, all holding the blooms I’ve been travelling into town and back for over the past several days. Arms crossed, I study each one, and before I can give it another thought, I pull the stems from each vase, slip my feet into my leather boots, close the door behind me, and head straight to the barn.

  First, I lay the flowers and filler foliage on the wooden table. Rummaging through a crate labelled Flower Supplies, I manage to find some green floral tape, a few rolls of ribbon, wire, pruning scissors and a toolkit. My tongue protrudes out of the corner of my mouth, as I concentrate on the task at hand, a surge of excitement pulsating through me. Between my thumb and forefinger, I create the junction point and cluster the viburnum stems together, balancing each side. Then I add the gerberas, a couple of tulips, and the filler stems of Queen Anne’s lace. Not satisfied with how the posy looks, I take the seeded eucalyptus branches and use those, too. As my hands get to work, my mind drifts, time stands still, worries slip away, and I’m flooded with pleasure. It feels like everything in my life is in place. I smile proudly at the posy I’m holding, and with my spare hand I reach for the roll of floral tape before trying to cut it using my teeth.

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  I look up and see Flynn standing in the doorway of the barn.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full. Here, why don’t you let me help,’ he says. He takes the tape from my mouth and pulls some length from it. I give him a nod once the length is right and he gives it a snip.

  Concentrating, I wind the tape around the stems and adjust the blooms.

  ‘You’re a natural. You sure you haven’t found your calling here?’

  I give Flynn a sideways glance as I reach for some cream ribbon. Holding the edge of the posy in place with my thumb, I tie it around the stems.

  ‘There. All done,’ I say, bringing the posy up to my face. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Flynn looks thoughtfully at me. ‘Sure is. It looks like a …’

  It’s only then I realise I’ve put together the kind of arrangement that a bride might use on her wedding day. A mass of viburnums so soft you’re almost afraid to touch them as they might bruise, parrot tulips with ruffles of peach and soft pink reminiscent of a marbled sunset, and clusters of Queen Anne’s lace, offering the kind of touch that makes you sigh with delight at how perfect Mother Nature can get it.

  I look down at my hands.

  I’m holding a bouquet.

  I’m supposed to be getting married in just under two months.

  I rest the posy on the table, step away, and take a few deep breaths. I’m almost certain that Flynn’s noticed the way the colour has drained from my face. His eyes dart from the posy to me and back again, as if he’s attempting to figure out the connection between the flowers and my odd behaviour.

  ‘They reminded me of him,’ I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘Of the wedding …’

  Flynn clears his throat. ‘Uh, he must have been special to you,’ he replies. ‘Even if you did call it off.’

  ‘He was. Only I don’t remember. I don’t remember him, or what we had, or why he was special to me. I don’t remember any of it.’

  Flynn searches my eyes for answers. ‘Nothing at all?’
he asks, the shock visible on his face.

  ‘I was in a car accident. When I woke up in hospital I couldn’t remember a thing, and I came here with a single memory—of me being here with my mum when I was nine years old. That’s it, that’s all I have. Just my mum and the flower fields.’

  Flynn presses his lips together, waiting for me to continue.

  ‘I was supposed to be getting married in September and I haven’t even seen or spoken to my fiancé since I was taken to the hospital.’ I start packing up the supplies on the bench, placing the items back into the box they belong in. ‘You know what? Maybe coming here was a terrible idea. I think I’ve made a mistake. I should probably go out, get a job, force myself to return to a “normal” life, like my best friend keeps telling me. The only problem is, I’d need to check with her about what my normal used to look like.’

  ‘Gracie …’ Flynn’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down, but before he can say anything, I continue.

  I raise my hands in the air, my voice rising a notch. ‘Look at this, I mean it’s stupid, right? I’ve quit my job, called off my wedding, and left my life behind—my fiancé, my best friend, and everything else I can’t remember—and I’m here, in a barn, in the middle of winter, spending days playing with stupid flowers as if it’s miraculously going to help make things better. I mean, it’s ridiculous. There’s clearly something wrong with me.’

  Flynn steps forward and holds me by the shoulders. He keeps his eyes trained on mine until I make eye contact with him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Gracie. You’re just going through something traumatic. I mean, it’s not every day someone loses their entire life like that,’ he says.

  ‘But it’s completely absurd, isn’t it? That I’d up and leave the way I did? I know the accident affected my brain, but this is ludicrous. Even I know that.’

  ‘So tell me. Why did you leave?’

  ‘Because it didn’t feel right to stay.’

  I swallow past the discomfort. Telling Flynn the truth feels easier than admitting my true feelings to Blake.