Finding Grace Read online

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  NIGHT FLYING

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  GODDESS OF YESTERDAY

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  GHOST BOY

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  ANNA OF BYZANTIUM

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  acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my mother, Lynette, who never wishes me luck but instead encourages me to do my best. Thanks also to Nicole, Robyn, Dirk, Peter and Therese, who told me that they liked it, which gave me the confidence to find out whether maybe someone else might too.

  Grace had a brain injury. That's just how she was.

  She spent a lot of time sitting in her leather wingbacked chair just staring out the window. I didn't know what was happening inside her head, and I didn't really think about it.

  I was eighteen and knew everything. Well, not everything, but I did know a great deal about a great many things. For example, I knew that time healed most wounds and those that it didn't you simply got used to.

  That was before I met Grace or Mr. Alistair Preston.

  I was sitting on the stage at my high school graduation. The principal was standing at the lectern pontificating to my hungover, tired and emotional classmates and their thank-God-the-Higher-School-Certificate-is-over parents. Most of the girls were weepy. There had been some strenuous merrymaking going on the night before.

  I was looking out at my fellow students and casting my verdict about their collective destinies (because I was eighteen and knew everything, well, not everything, but I did know, for example, that birds have to flock together, whatever their feather, in the schoolyard. It's just one big aviary and if you're a little sparrow you'd better make yourself as inconspicuous as possible).

  I was glad to be leaving school. Our school was just about the most concrete place you can imagine. The playground was concrete. The canteen area was concrete. The bus stop was concrete.

  What was the Department of Education thinking? “Hey! Look at this design, it's simplistic, it's raw, it's lowmaintenance. It says “place of learning.' Let's build it!” Or maybe there was another, more sinister purpose in mind? Maybe this concrete school was an experiment in elementary forces as a form of discipline?

  Anyway, in my tired and emotional state, I was looking out at all my ex-classmates and thinking that I'm the worst off of the lot. At least they didn't have the superbright lights shining in their eyes. How much more conspicuous can you be?

  I looked over at Mr. Preston sitting next to me. He's the “distinguished, pillar-of-the-community” guest. He's one of those really rich fellows giving back to the community.

  He had a notepad on his lap, and was stroking his chins, listening with interest to the principal's speech, jotting down notes. He looked down (“studying,” snort), so I leaned over and had a really good look. He was chunky with broad shoulders and a bit of a belly—“a veranda over his toy shop,” is what Nanna would have called it. Nanna came from the mobile-home side of the family and had a whole swag of analogies for human reproductive organs that she had no qualms about including in any conversation.

  Mr. Preston had a commanding presence. He looked to me like a no-nonsense chap. I could imagine him as a secret agent with a tuxedo on under his wetsuit. It was a stretch, but I could imagine it.

  I looked down at his notes.

  Ladies and gentlemen, firstly I would like to thank you for the opportunity to speak here today, blah, blah …

  Curriculum. Aware of the dedication and commitment required, blah, blah …

  Be bold, don't settle for mediocrity, have fun …

  I couldn't believe my eyes! The man was writing his speech! Right there on the stage, seconds before he was supposed to say it! More, he had seriously written “blah, blah …” as if he was going to make those bits up as they came to him. Up here! In front of five hundred people!

  I'm having a quiet panic for him. I'm thinking that he's never going to make it. I'm getting embarrassed for him already. I'm squirming in my chair, I'm going red.

  That's one of my problems. I turn red at the drop of a hat. I have see-through skin. I am so white, I'm the whitest person you can imagine. My skin is my greatest enemy. It betrays every emotion that I have. I'm happy, I blush. I'm sad, I blush. I blush, I blush more.

  The stupid thing is, I don't even have to be having an emotion. I don't have to be embarrassed or angry or anything. I can just blush totally out of the blue. It's as if I've been going through “the change” my whole life.

  I've developed a number of defensive responses to it, though. For example, if I can feel a blush coming on, in my head I'm saying, “Oh, my God, I'm going to blush. No, Rachel, don't do it, don't do it, here it comes,” and then I just turn around and run away. It doesn't matter if I'm in the middle of a sentence, I just run out of the room. Then, when the glow has subsided, I stroll back in as if nothing has happened.

  Or the other thing I do (and you may consider this to be a bit childish), if I feel a blush coming on, is to start looking around at anything other than the person I'm talking to. I look over their shoulder or pretend to be really interested in something behind me. My rationale is that they will be so busy trying to figure out what I'm looking at that they'll ignore the fact that the person they're talking to has just been magically replaced by a gigantic tomato. Or maybe I think that if I'm not looking at them, then they're not looking at me.

  I told you it was childish.

  As a result, I think I have a reputation for being quirky. Quirky is neither conspicuous nor attractive. Have you ever heard a boy say, “I really like that girl, she is so quirky”?

  Anyway, I'm sitting onstage wriggling and glowing a lovely fuchsia—nowhere to run. I examine my fingernails and let my hair hang down over my face. Mr. Preston turns toward me. He has a serious frown happening, or that might have been his normal expression. Old people tend to have their most common expression permanently entrenched in wrinkles. Anyway, he has this stern gaze happening and he says, “Ants in your pants?”

  I haven't heard that expression since I was five years old. No-nonsense chap indeed!

  I whisper, “Is that your speech?” He's nodding and clapping for the principal.

  I've spent more time studying the speech I'm about to make than my three-unit English text. I'm about to tell him this when the principal introduces him and he stands up. He smiles at me, while I'm having mild apoplexy on his behalf, and says, “Easy-peasy.”

  I'm sorry, was that easy-peasy? Two infantile expressions in a row. Pop goes the commanding presence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, firstly, I would like to thank you for the opportunity to speak here today. I feel very honored.” He puts his hand over his heart.

  “Secondly, as a contributor to your school, I am aware of the dedication and commitment required in undertaking your studies. My heartfelt congratulations to each of you,” he says, looking out at the faces in the crowd. “What an amazing achievement.” He stands back from the microphone and claps. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for these incredible young people.”

  “OK”—he pauses and rubs his jaw—“I've prepared a speech here about citizenship and how it was in my day.” He waves the notepad in the air above his head. “But I think you've had just about enough lectures.” He turns, puts the notes down, winks at me, turns back and grips the sides of the lectern.

  “Please, allow me to offer you three pieces of advice before this boring old man sits down and lets you get on with your celebrating.

  “One”—he pauses—“b
e bold. Never miss an opportunity to let your brilliance shine and dazzle. Take a chance. Accept the challenge, or if the challenge doesn't arise, make your own challenges.”

  He frowns and looks earnest. “Two, don't settle for mediocrity. Find a dream and pursue it. Let every decision you make bring you closer to achieving that dream.

  “And three”—he smiles and nods—“have fun. Take time to play, because if you're not having a good tearsquirting belly laugh, chances are you're not doing it right.

  “I will not wish you good luck.” He stops and looks out at the people. “I don't believe luck to be a necessary ingredient for success. Instead, I wish you the wisdom to make good decisions. Thank you for your attention.”

  He stands back from the lectern and nods while the people clap. He waves at the crowd as he is walking away from the microphone, like the President of the United States or Nelson Mandela or something. The audience is still clapping. Everyone's emotional. That's what happens when you've had no sleep and your life is all over the shop. Everyone's entitled to get a little teary under those circumstances.

  Mr. Preston shakes his head, smiling. They're still clapping after he's sat down.

  … … …

  Afterward I'm serving tea and those little triangle sandwiches that always have stringy limp lettuce and some kind of canned fish on them, doing my last prefect duty. Mr. Preston is poking them down his neck, whole.

  “You're Rachel,” he says, consulting his program. “What are you going to do when you grow up, then?”

  I'm so sick of this question. When you're doing your HSC, everyone asks, “What are you going to do?”, “What are you going to do?” After a while it is difficult to withhold the urge to scream, “I DON'T KNOW, MAN! I'm just trying to finish what I'm doing now!”

  I really don't know what it is that I want to do with my life. Maybe science? I'm good at science. I'm good at English too. How do you really know what you want? Even if you do know what you want, how can you be sure you'll end up there anyway? I look at the shop attendants behind the counter and wonder. I sit staring at the back of the bus driver's head and think, “Is this what you always dreamed of? Or do you just do? How did you end up here, anyway?”

  Instead of screaming at Mr. Preston, I say, “I've applied for a science degree. I'm interested in pursuing marine biology, astronomy or forensic psychology, but I haven't decided on a specific field at this point.”

  My mother insists that “I haven't decided on a specific field at this point” is a more civilized response than “I don't know, man.” I think she's probably right.

  The speech is over, the paracetamol is kicking in, I've finished school forever, and I'm feeling a little brazen.

  “So,” I ask, “what are you going to do when you grow up, then?”

  He places the teacup gently in the saucer and smiles at me. “I'm going to drive a fire engine.”

  … ……

  The second time I met Mr. Preston, I was at work. Working is much easier than school, because someone approaches you once a week with money. That never happens at school, unless you are a drug dealer.

  My job was to make cappuccinos and toasted sandwiches at this funky café down at the end of the main street. It's an old warehouse done up in stainless steel.

  There are tables out on the footpath looking over the harbor. As the sun sets, the smog from the industrial sites wafts out over the water, turning the horizon a magnificent tangerine. At night the industrial lighting from the shipyards dances out across the water on little rainbows of spilt oil and diesel and the tankers float silently past.

  The staff in the funky café wear those long black aprons that are “en vogue.” All the waitresses except me have short hair in vibrant colors. I can't wear my hair in vibrant colors. It clashes with my blushes. My hair is long and straight and a blondey brown. Very boring, but at least it blends nicely with my blushes. If one is going to have a neurotic episode that manifests itself in a physical form, it's always nice to be matching.

  I'm serving those little triangle toasted sandwiches again. Light meals seem to be my lot in life. It doesn't pay very well, but dollars are dollars and it's nearly Christmas. My mother always makes a big deal about Christmas.

  My mother makes a big deal out of every possible celebration. Sometimes I will come home and find her in a cardboard sombrero and there will be my brother sitting at the table in a newspaper poncho and all of a sudden it's Mexican night at our place. We have impromptu theme nights all the time. My mother loves to celebrate. She's having a good life.

  My brother's name is Brody. Apparently, my mother was all set to call him Benjamin but when she was in hospital, somewhat altered by painkillers, flipping around the Bs in the baby-name book, she came across Brody—an unusual beard. She laughed and laughed.

  I thought it was funny too, until I looked up my name. It means “ewe.” My mother always looks at us with this little twinkle in her eye. We are an endless source of amusement to her.

  Anyway, Mr. Preston wanders in and orders a short black to go. He looks at me, frowns and looks away. He's leaning his arm on the counter. He's dressed in a really expensive-looking plum-colored suit. I'm pouring coffee into the little Styrofoam cup.

  Everyone in the café is digging Grace Jones' “Walking in the Rain.” That's how funky this café is, they play lateseventies music with pride, and the punters love it.

  Mr. Preston turns toward me again. I can tell he's trying to place me. I put the coffee on the counter and say, “Easypeasy.” He smiles. “That's right,” he says, “and you're the astronomical forensic biologist.”

  He pays and saunters out of the café.

  … ……

  My third encounter with Mr. Preston was at the café again. It was lunchtime and we had the whole back section booked for a suit function. I was in the kitchen, stuffing volau-vent cases. The chef was having an anxiety attack. The chef always had an anxiety attack when there were more than three tables occupied at any one time.

  The chef was sautéing fillets of veal and weeping and singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Every now and then he would turn to me and shriek, “Oh! It's all too much, Toto.”

  Mr. Preston left an envelope on the counter. Inside was a short note and a newspaper clipping.

  You seem to be a bit of a bright spark. While the world of marine psychology eagerly awaits your contribution, perhaps you may wish to consider this challenge?

  POSITION VACANT

  Live-in carer required to assist female with personal and domestic duties. Furnished accommodation provided close to shops and university. Experience in the area of disability care desirable but not essential. Suits student/nurse/OT or similar. $'s negotiable.

  I took the ad home to my mother. She frowned.

  I've started to consult my mother about things that happen in my life. A couple of years ago I would just wait until she was concentrating on something else, like watching the news or reading, and I'd tiptoe into the room and say in a quiet voice something like “I'm going to buy a pony, if you don't say anything in the next three seconds that means I'm not allowed … (one, two, three), thanks, Mum.”

  Now I've discovered that she actually knows more than I do. It was a revelation to me, given that I'm eighteen and know everything—well, not everything, but certainly an enormous amount about a number of things. For example, I know that no news isn't necessarily good news. It may just mean that the bad news is delivered to you far beyond the time in which steps could have been taken to remedy the disagreeable situation.

  The discovery of my mother's wisdom happened one afternoon when I was chatting to her over an ice-cold red cordial. We were sitting out back, on the veranda. There was no particular theme that afternoon (although I'm sure if I had given my mother the opportunity she would have said “Australiana,” on account of the furiously blossoming melaleuca).

  I was telling her about one of my school friends, Amanda, who was moving in with this absolute Neanderthal.
He's an apprentice tiler and the most intelligent conversation I have ever had with him was when he was really stoned (and that always makes for sprightly repartee, doesn't it?).

  Bozza (as he was known) was providing me with a blowby-blow description of how he had learned that day that you can't put the cut edge of a tile in the bottom row of a shower because the moisture seeps in and discolors the tile. He was talking in a monotone. I could almost see him sounding out each syllable in his mind, much like a small child trying to build a scale model of the Anzac Bridge with Popsicle sticks and crepe paper.

  So, I was telling Mum how I thought I should tell Amanda that it was a mistake.

  “Rachel darling,” Mum said, “what do you suppose that will achieve?”

  “Well, she won't move in with him.”

  My mother shook her head. She said, “No, she will move in with him, and she won't be your friend anymore, and if she did want to move out again, she wouldn't turn to you for help, because it would give you the chance to say “I told you so.' ”

  I took a sip of my red cordial, listening to the clinking of the ice cubes, and thought about what she had said. It occurred to me that she had been using that technique on me for years and I hadn't even noticed.

  So I showed her the ad and she frowned.

  “It says close to shops and uni,” I said, nodding and hoping that she would nod too.

  “It sounds like a big job, darling.”

  “Nah,” I said, waving my arm in the air, “it's just like babysitting.”

  She shifted in her chair but said nothing.

  “I'll be earning money just by sharing a house. How good is that?”

  “But it's not just sharing a house. You will be responsible for another person. You'll be responsible.”

  “But I'll be earning money and it's close to uni.”

  She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well, you can do whatever you want, but I just want you to think about something; when you're at uni you'll be studying. It's hard work. When you're not studying you're going to want to go out on the town and make new friends or meet boys. You're going to want to bring friends home. You won't be able to do that.”