The Memories That Make Us Read online

  VANESSA CARNEVALE is an author and freelance writer based in Melbourne, Australia, where she lives with her husband and two children. The Florentine Bridge, her first novel, was published by Harlequin in 2017. She loves travel, tea, and flowers, and often dreams of escaping to the country.

  You can connect with Vanessa at www.vanessacarnevale.com

  Also by Vanessa Carnevale

  The Florentine Bridge

  The Memories That Make Us

  Vanessa Carnevale

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For my dear friend, Lucy. May the memories of your mother,

  and the memories that made us, be cherished forever.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Book Club Questions

  Glossary of Flowers

  Excerpt

  PROLOGUE

  We have been arguing for six minutes. Blake switches off the radio. We never travel with the radio off. Unless we are arguing of course, something we hardly ever do. He takes one hand from the steering wheel, flicks open a tin of mints with his thumb, tilts back his head and lets one fall into his mouth. He crunches it between his teeth before swallowing. He doesn’t offer me one like he usually does. I sink deeper into my seat and stare at the tin lying in the console between us. The car seems quieter than it did before.

  ‘How are we going to handle this, Gracie? What do you want to do?’ he says finally, the sharp scent of mint permeating the space between us. His brow creases in a way that makes me want to reach over and smooth it out. Make things better. Only now would be a terrible time to do that. I check my watch. Another eight minutes and we’ll be off the freeway and at the restaurant. We’re already late. We are never late. Except for today because we are arguing and the radio is turned off and I don’t know how I’m going to tell my fiancé the truth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say through gritted teeth. Only I do know. And it’s going to throw our lives into total disarray.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he says, tossing me a glance. He resets the cruise control, lets his window down, and undoes the button on his collar. A rush of cold air enters the car.

  ‘Can you put the window up?’ I say, the annoyance in my voice evident as I try to hold my hair in place.

  He presses the window switch and looks over at me. ‘If you don’t know what you want, then how should I know?’

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road. Let’s talk about it later. I don’t want to ruin Scarlett’s birthday.’ I clasp the flowers I’m holding for my best friend closer to my chest, a classic spray of creamy white Claire Austin roses, the same blooms I manage to source for her every year.

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ he says. ‘You were the one who brought this up, and I think it’s time we work out once and for all how we want things to go. So, let me ask you again so we can put this to bed—’

  Deep breaths, Gracie. Deep breaths.

  There will never be a perfect time to tell him how I’m feeling. I fumble with my engagement ring and form the words I’ve been too afraid to admit out loud. ‘Okay, so if you want to know the truth, I don’t want to m—’

  The sound of Blake slamming the brakes robs the breath from my chest and seals our fate. We slide towards the truck that’s pulled out in front of us on the freeway and then we are spinning into a lane we shouldn’t be in. Blake calls my name. He sees what’s coming before me. I scream. Two dozen flower stems lurch from the safe crevice of my arm. They hit the dashboard before I do, the force of the impact showering the car with petals as I’m tossed in one direction and then the other.

  And then, the world goes silent.

  ONE

  When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice are the dinner-plate dahlias on the table at the foot of my bed. They’re café au laits. They struggle in cold soil and you plant the tubers when the soil temperature picks up and there’s no more risk of frost.

  My eyes flutter closed again. I can’t seem to form any words to answer the woman who is patting my thigh. She keeps squeezing my hand, repeating the name, ‘Gracie.’

  ‘Open your eyes, Gracie. Can you hear me, Gracie?’

  I want to tell her she’s in the wrong room, that she has the wrong person, but I can’t seem to find the energy to.

  She squeezes my hand once more.

  This time I find the strength to squeeze back.

  ‘Good girl. Open your eyes now, sweetheart.’

  I hear footsteps. A male voice. Hushed whispers. Pages flicking. A pen clicking. There is beeping that I hadn’t noticed till now, and a steady hum. The room smells sterile. I open my eyes and the room slowly comes into focus. My eyelids feel so heavy.

  The woman is wearing a blue shirt with white trim around the collar and her name badge tells me she’s a nurse. Her name is Bea. Which means the man standing beside her with a stethoscope around his neck is a … doctor. Which means I’m in a … hospital.

  ‘Hello, Gracie, I’m Dr Cleave. How’s that head of yours feeling?’

  My arm feels like lead, but I manage to lift it and run my fingers over the bandage that’s wrapped around my head. Did I fall? I must have fallen. But when? Where? My heart starts to beat faster. Bea glances at the monitor by my bed and adjusts the pulse oximeter on my finger.

  ‘Gracie,’ I whisper, repeating the name that doesn’t seem to fit me. I search for another name for myself, but nothing comes.

  Dr Cleave narrows his eyes, appearing slightly concerned.

  ‘Can you tell me your full name?’ he asks.

  I take a moment to think about it, but there is blankness in that space where my name should be.

  ‘Not to worry,’ says Dr Cleave, after an abnormally long silence, which makes me worry more.

  ‘How did I … get here?’ I can’t seem to remember yesterday, or last month, or last year.

  ‘You’re in the hospital. You were in a car accident and you’ve been intubated in the ICU for three days. You’re going to feel a little tired, but that’s to be expected,’ he says.

  I try to sit up, but it requires too much effort and I collapse back into the pillows. Everything in my body aches.

  ‘Take it easy, sweetheart,’ says Bea, resting a hand on my shoulder. She readjusts the hospital gown so it covers my collarbone. ‘Are you warm enough?’ she asks, rubbing my forearm. I’m not, yet I nod anyway.

  My mouth feels dry. I go to speak, but only a croak comes out. I try again. ‘Car accident?’ I say, looking at the doctor.

  ‘That’s right. You hit your head and you’ve got a few bumps and bruises. You’re going to be fine, though. Are you in pain?’

  I pat the bandage.


  ‘Let me get onto that for you,’ says Bea. She leaves the room and Dr Cleave moves closer. He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck.

  ‘By any chance, do you remember anything about the accident?’ he asks casually.

  I frown, trying to summon my past, but it’s like reaching into a vast crater. There’s nothing to remember.

  ‘No. Nothing,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says in a voice so reassuring, I almost believe him. He pulls a torch from his coat pocket and shines it into my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t do that. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re wondering about Blake. He was pretty lucky to come out of the accident with only a few stitches and contusions.’ He clicks off the light and tucks it away. I blink, trying to regain focus.

  There’s a knock on the door and a woman enters the room. I can tell she’s not a nurse because she’s wearing a tailored red coat, a felted wool beret and is carrying an umbrella. Her bow-shaped lips form a smile when she sees me.

  ‘Gracie,’ she says, relief in her voice. She hovers in the doorway, seemingly unsure of whether to stay or go.

  ‘Come in,’ says Dr Cleave.

  ‘I’m Scarlett,’ she introduces herself to him. ‘Did she just wake up?’ She removes the beret from her head, letting a mass of caramel-coloured curls fall around her shoulders.

  Dr Cleave nods. ‘I need to ask her a few questions.’

  ‘Should I come back later?’ She points to the door.

  ‘No need, I’ll be done soon,’ says Dr Cleave, glancing over my chart.

  I can’t stop staring at the woman—Scarlett, who is now sitting beside the bed and holding my hand. I think I am supposed to know who she is. She obviously knows me. Why don’t I know her?

  Dr Cleave slides out a pencil from behind his ear. ‘I’m going to ask you a few more questions, but I don’t want you to worry if you can’t answer them all, okay?’

  I swallow nervously and nod, feeling the colour drain from my face.

  ‘Can you tell me when your birthday is?’

  December? No. March. September? I look up at the ceiling, my eyes darting left and right. Surely I must know the answer. Why don’t I know the answer?

  ‘Gracie?’ says Dr Cleave, trying to grab my attention.

  ‘I … uh, I don’t know.’

  How can I not know my birthday? What month are we even in now? It’s raining outside. Scarlett is wearing a coat. Okay, it must be winter. I was in a car accident. I hit my head. I’m in the hospital. My name is … Gracie.

  ‘How about your address?’

  Oh God, I don’t know my address, either.

  I stare blankly at him. I want to tell him but can’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and then … it’s not. And I can’t tell if it’s slipped away or if it was never there in the first place. I glance at Scarlett, who is in the chair near my bed, her mouth ajar. She closes it when her eyes meet mine and resumes fumbling with the hat on her lap.

  Dr Cleave continues. ‘Favourite colour?’

  I shrug. ‘Purple?’ My voice is barely audible.

  He looks at me over his glasses before pushing them up his nose. ‘Really?’

  ‘Pink?’ I say, feeling hopeless.

  I squeeze my eyes closed for a second as I draw a long, deep breath. My mind starts to scramble, attempting to search for a recollection of the past, but it’s as if my life is like an empty container. I shake it, turn it upside down, except nothing comes out.

  Dr Cleave pats my leg. ‘I think that’s enough for now. I don’t want you to worry,’ he says, but I can’t help noticing the way he’s scribbling down notes. ‘It’s normal for you to feel a bit disorientated like this. I’m going to order a few more tests.’

  ‘Tests?’

  ‘I’m going to order a neuropsych assessment and maybe a couple of scans. You had a significant blow to the head, and while I don’t think we have anything to be too concerned about, I’d still like to double-check things, just to be sure.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply quietly.

  ‘I’m going to have a word with Scarlett, and I’ll be back a little later. I want you to rest up for now. Do you have any questions in the meantime?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I allow my eyes to momentarily drift shut before opening them again.

  ‘I should let Blake know she’s awake,’ says Scarlett, who is still sitting beside me. She’s stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. I pull away and ball my hand into a fist.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she says, her deep-blue eyes trying to meet mine. I don’t know how to tell her that I have no idea who she is. I look the other way, avoiding eye contact with her.

  Dr Cleave peers over his clipboard, and glances at the hand I’ve pulled away from Scarlett. He clicks his pen, tucks it in his coat pocket and turns around to leave the room.

  Scarlett stands up to follow him.

  ‘Actually … I do have a question,’ I say, directing my words to Dr Cleave. My voice wobbles. ‘Who’s Blake?’

  Scarlett lets out a noise, like a whimper, only louder.

  Dr Cleave flips back around, failing to hide the look of disquiet on his face.

  ‘You don’t know who Blake is?’ he asks, tilting his head.

  ‘Should I?’

  Dr Cleave glances at Scarlett, who interjects, ‘Gracie, Blake’s your fiancé.’

  ‘That’s … impossible,’ I reply.

  Isn’t it?

  ‘You’re supposed to be getting married in three months. You’ve known each other for …’ She looks at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to work it out. ‘Fourteen years,’ she says finally.

  ‘That can’t be … I’m not …’

  Engaged?

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Dr Cleave, trying to reassure me. ‘We’ll get Blake in and I’m sure that’ll help—’

  ‘I can’t … I don’t … just wait,’ I say, trying to make sense of all this. I press my hand against my forehead. Think, Gracie. Think. Maybe if they give me a chance to think about it all, I’ll be able to remember.

  Scarlett places a hand on my wrist.

  ‘Gracie,’ she says. ‘Look at me.’

  I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.

  ‘I know you’re scared, and I know you’re freaking out, but we’ll help you to remember.’

  My heart starts to hammer.

  But what if I never do?

  When Scarlett returns to my room after chatting with Dr Cleave, she’s carrying a fresh arrangement of flowers. They’re not just any flowers. They’re tulips. Rembrandts. Like the painter. Butter-coloured petals variegated with bright-red flames.

  ‘The perfect way to brighten up your hospital room,’ she says, her lips forming a smile as she carries them over to the round table in the corner. She starts arranging them into a vase that’s much too small. She needs to cut the stems shorter.

  ‘It’s too early for tulips,’ I whisper. ‘Tulips don’t bloom in winter.’

  Scarlett pauses with a stem in her hand. ‘What did you say?’ she asks, narrowing her gaze.

  ‘Neither do dahlias. They must be imported,’ I murmur.

  Why do I know this? How can I know this but nothing else, like my birthday? Or my favourite colour? Or Blake?

  My fiancé. The fiancé who, according to Scarlett, I am supposed to be marrying in three months’ time. The fiancé I am supposed to be spending the rest of my life with but can’t remember.

  ‘Dr Cleave said he’s going to run those extra tests as soon as possible. We’re just waiting for Blake to arrive.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I told him you’re having some trouble recalling things, but I didn’t exactly tell him you couldn’t remember who he is.’ She scrunches her face. ‘I think it’s better if Dr Cleave tells him, don’t you?’

  I bite down on my lip but don’t answer her.

  ‘Anyway, he left with Noah and went home this morning for a shower and change of clothes. We practically had to force him out of here. He didn’t leave your
side for days and then the moment he leaves, you wake up …’

  Scarlett continues rambling on, which appears to be more out of nervousness than anything else. ‘Noah will pop in after work. Oh, I called Ava from your office to let her know what happened, but I need the number for—’

  ‘Where are my parents?’ I cut into her blather.

  Scarlett almost knocks over the flowers. She tilts her head and blinks at me as if she hasn’t heard me properly. Her brow creases but she stands there, frozen, her fingers gripping the vase.

  ‘My mum? Dad? Brother? Sister?’ I press.

  Scarlett’s eyes widen with each passing second until she regains her composure and sucks in a breath as she approaches the bed. She speaks softly, the way a mother might break bad news to a child in the most honest and gentle way possible. ‘You never knew your dad. You’re an only child and your mum … well …’

  I search her eyes for answers, holding my breath, waiting for her to explain.

  ‘Your mum passed away twelve months ago. Her name was Lainey and she … it was her heart. It was sudden and she hadn’t been diagnosed before it happened.’

  This can’t be true. None of it can be true. How can I not know any of this? I don’t even remember my own mother? Scarlett reaches for my hand, but I pull it away before she can touch me.

  ‘Why do you keep doing that?’ She raises a hand to her lips as understanding dawns. ‘Oh my God. You don’t know me either, do you? You have no idea who I am.’ She takes a step back. ‘Gracie,’ she says, her voice fractured, filled with disbelief. ‘We’ve known each other for years. You don’t remember anything about me … us … the past?’

  I’m scared to answer her, scared about what this all means.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice hoarse.

  She cups her mouth, tears forming in her eyes—eyes that are blinking at me in shock. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She snivels. She takes a tissue from the bedside table and blows her nose, turning her back to me. She stands in front of the window, staring out to the carpark. Raindrops slide down the glass pane, the focal point of Scarlett’s attention as she takes the time to process this. Finally, she glances over her shoulder at me. I register the crestfallen expression on her face and wince. I don’t mean to hurt her like this and I don’t know how to make this easier for her.