What Alice Forgot (21 page)

Except for the roses. She remembered how the image of exactly those roses had popped into her mind while she was in the ambulance yesterday. She went over to the dressing table and studied them. Who gave her those? And why was she keeping them in her bedroom when she hated that sort of arrangement?

There was a small square card sitting next to the vase. Nick? Nick wanting her back and forgetting she didn't like roses? Nick
making a point
by sending her roses he knew she would hate?

Alice picked it up and read:
“Dear Alice, I hope we can do that again one day—next time in the sunshine? Dominick.”

Oh God. She was dating.

She plunked herself down on the end of the bed, holding the card between disbelieving fingers.

Dating was meant to be something from her past, not something from her future. She'd never enjoyed it that much anyway. The self-conscious, trapped feeling when you were sitting in the car together for the first time; the constant horrifying possibility of food caught in between your teeth; the sudden feeling of exhausted boredom when you realized it was your turn to come up with the next stilted topic of conversation.
So what do you like to do on the weekends?

Oh, sure, yes, there was nothing better than when a date actually
worked
. She could remember the euphoria of those early dates with Nick. There was a night where they'd watched Australia Day fireworks from a bar in the Rocks. She was drinking a huge creamy cocktail, and Nick was telling a story about one of his sisters and he was so funny and so sexy and Alice's hair looked nice and her shoes weren't hurting and there were curls of shaved chocolate floating on top of her cocktail and Nick's hand massaging her lower back and she felt such an intense sensation of happiness it frightened her, because surely there was a price to pay for this sort of bliss. (And was this the price? All these years later? Nick swearing at her on the phone from the other side of the world. Had she finally been sent an exorbitant bill?)

A date with any man other than Nick would be boring and awkward and stupid. Dominick. What sort of a name was Dominick?

In a sudden rage, she took the card and tore it into tiny pieces. How could she betray Nick like that by keeping these flowers in her bedroom?

And then there was that other man—that physiotherapist from Melbourne—who had sent her the card with the mention of “happier times.” Who was he? Was she already on to her
second
relationship after breaking up with Nick? Had she turned into a
hussy
? A point-making hussy who went to the gym and upset her beloved sister and hosted “Kindergarten Cocktail Parties”? She hated the person she'd become. The only good part was the clothes.

This all had to stop. She had to get Nick's coins and his socks and his sneakers back in her bedroom, and these roses gone.

She lay back on the bed. Elisabeth was downstairs phoning up that Kate Harper woman trying to get tonight's party canceled.

Alice crawled across the bed, pulled back the duvet, and got into crisp, clean sheets, still wearing her red dress.

She looked at the ceiling (plastered and painted, the water stains and cracks gone as if they'd never existed) and thought of that moment in the bathroom at the hospital when she had been going through that odd makeup routine and she had that rush of feeling after she smelled her perfume. It had seemed like she was about to fall headfirst into all her memories but then she'd deliberately resisted it, stepped back from the edge when she really should have let herself go. It would be far easier and less confusing if she could just remember what the hell was going on in her life. She sniffed at her wrist where she'd sprayed the perfume that had seemed so evocative of everything, but this time she experienced only a confused, choppy mass of half-remembered feelings; they were insubstantial and slippery, gone before she could even attempt to name them.

 

 

She woke to find Frannie sitting at the end of her bed, holding a gift.

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

“Hello.” Alice smiled with relief, because Frannie looked exactly as she should. She was wearing a familiar pale-pink buttoned-up blouse Alice had seen many times before, or at least one like it, and tailored gray pants. Her back was ramrod straight. She was like a little elf. She had short white hair tucked behind tiny ears, creamy white skin, and cat's-eye glasses on a gold chain.

Alice said happily, “You haven't changed a bit. You look just the same.”

“You mean as I did ten years ago?” Frannie adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I guess there was no room for any more wrinkles. Here.” She handed her the present. “You probably won't like it, but I wanted to get you something.”

Alice sat up in bed. “Of course I'll like it.” She unwrapped a bottle of talcum powder. “Lovely.” She twisted the lid, poured some into her palm and sniffed. The scent was simple and flowery and reminded her of nothing. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Frannie. “You gave us all a fright.”

“Fine,” said Alice. “Confused. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the verge of remembering everything, and then other times it all feels like a huge practical joke and you're all just pretending I'm thirty-nine when you know perfectly well that I'm about to turn thirty.”

“I know that feeling,” said Frannie reflectively. “Just the other day I woke up and felt like I was nineteen. I went into the bathroom and saw an old lady staring back at me from the mirror and it really startled me. I thought, ‘Who is that dreadful old crone?'”

“You're not a crone.”

Frannie waved her hand at that dismissively. “Well, anyway, I think you're probably having a nervous breakdown.” Alice looked appalled. “Don't look at me like that! People do have nervous breakdowns, and you've been under so much stress lately. What with this divorce—”

“Yes, about that.
Why
are we breaking up?” interrupted Alice. She couldn't bring herself to say the word “divorce” out loud. Frannie wouldn't try to hide anything from her. She would tell her straight.

But Frannie said, “I have absolutely no idea. That's between you and Nick. All I know is that you both seem very set on the idea. There doesn't seem any chance of reconciliation. So we've all just had to button our lips and accept it.”

“But you must have an opinion. You always have an opinion!”

Frannie smiled. “Yes, I generally do, don't I? But in this case, I really don't know. You haven't confided in me. It's very sad for the children. Especially this awful fighting-over-custody business. I don't approve of that at
all
, as you know.”

“I don't know. I don't remember.”

“Oh. Well, I've made my opinions on the matter clear. Too clear, you might say.”

Alice said, “Do you think I can get him back?”

“Who back? You mean Nick? But you don't want him back,” said Frannie. “Actually you talked to me on Wednesday and said you'd just received roses from some new fellow called Dominick. You seemed very excited about it.”

Alice looked with dislike at the roses. She said sourly, “I thought you said I was stressed.”

Frannie said, “Well, yes, you're stressed, but you were happy about the roses.”

Alice sighed. “How are
you
, Frannie? You're still living next door to Mum, right?”

“No, darling.” Frannie patted Alice on the leg. “I moved myself into a retirement village five years ago. Just after your mother moved in with Roger.”

“Oh.” Alice paused to consider this news. “Do you like the retirement village? Is it fun?”

“Fun,” said Frannie reflectively. “That's what's important these days, isn't it. Everything should be
fun
and lighthearted.”

“Well, not everything, obviously.”

“Do you think I have a sense of humor?” asked Frannie. She gave Alice a look that was surprisingly vulnerable.

“Of course you have a sense of humor!”

Although “sense of humor” weren't exactly the first words that came to mind when you thought of Frannie.

Frannie sighed and smiled. She wasn't an especially smiley lady, so when she smiled, it was like receiving a gift. “Thank you, darling. Tell me something, would you buy deodorant in front of a man? Or would you think that was too . . . personal?”

“What man?” said Alice.

“Any man!” said Frannie irritably.

“Well, I think I probably would. There's nothing especially personal about deodorant. Unless, I guess, you had to use some really heavy-duty one that would make him think you had some sort of rare and horrible perspiration disease.”

“I can assure you, Alice, I don't need a ‘heavy-duty' deodorant!” said Frannie, looking affronted.

“What's this about?” asked Alice.

“Nothing. Just a very silly friend of mine asked the question.”

Was
Frannie
interested in some man? Alice knew that Frannie had lost a boyfriend during the Second World War, but as far as she was aware, there had never been anyone else in her life since, although there had been that time when they were teenagers and Elisabeth had seen a half-finished letter sitting on Frannie's desk. When Elisabeth asked who she was writing to, Frannie had apparently been so flustered, she had actually (Alice thought Elisabeth must be making this part up)
blushed
. She had said she was writing to “an old friend,” but Elisabeth had been convinced from her reaction that it was a “secret lover.” “Probably someone else's husband,” Elisabeth had said, with a knowing, cynical look. “I expect they meet at motels in the middle of the day.” Alice had been deeply shocked and wasn't able to look Frannie in the eye for weeks after.

“Come on, let's go downstairs,” said Frannie. “Your mother is making lunch.”

As they walked out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs, Frannie said, “Walk alongside me, Alice.”

“I am,” said Alice.

“No. Properly. That's it! See! We can walk side by side, without tripping all over each other, can't we?”

“We sure can,” said Alice, wondering if Frannie had gone a little senile in 2008.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Alice stopped abruptly at the sound of a deep, familiar male voice. “Alice, my dear! I was just coming up to collect you!”

“How are you, Roger?” Alice peered over the banister, horrified to see him at the bottom of the stairs. He was all out of context without Nick. He was a visitor you planned for (steeled yourself for), not someone who looked comfortably up at you from the bottom of your stairs, as if he belonged in your house.

“Never better,” Roger called back. “It's you we're worried about!”

Frannie's eyes met Alice's and she lifted a wry eyebrow. She wasn't senile. She was still as sharp as a tack.

“Is she up, then?” Alice's mother emerged from the kitchen and looked up at them.

Alice walked behind Frannie down the stairs, glad to see that although she was behaving oddly, she didn't seem that much frailer than Alice remembered.

Barb and Roger stood at the bottom with their palms lifted, like ministers welcoming the congregation, identical weirdly evangelical expressions on their faces.

“Did you have a good sleep, Alice?” asked Barb, trying in vain to take Frannie's elbow. “Rest is the best thing for you, I'm sure. I suppose everything has come back to you now?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Are you hungry?”

Roger took Alice by the arm and led her into the dining area, behind Barb and Frannie, his fingertips solicitously pressed to the small of her back.

“Don't
hover
, Barbara!” snapped Frannie, as Barb fussed about the best seat for her at the long pine table.

Alice sat down next to her, anxious to escape the oily feel of Roger's fingertips. She watched in fascination at the relaxed way her mother tilted her head coquettishly up at him. Thankfully, she was no longer wearing the exotic salsa-dancing outfit from the day before, but she was wearing a rather low-cut T-shirt and capri pants, and her long hair was up in a jaunty ponytail.

“Now, I've made a nice tuna salad for our lunch. I chose that specifically for you, Alice, because fish is brain food. Roger and I have been taking fish oil every day, haven't we, darl?”

Darl.
Her mother just called Roger “darl.”

Roger didn't seem to have changed at all in the last ten years. He was still tanned and polished and pleased with himself. Had he had plastic surgery? Alice wouldn't put it past him. He was wearing a pink polo-necked shirt, with a gold chain nestled in graying chest hair. His shorts were just a little too tight, revealing muscular brown legs.

As Barb turned to go back toward the kitchen, Roger gave her a playful, not-at-all-discreet slap on the bottom. Appalled, Alice averted her eyes. (Roger, she remembered, owned a waterbed. “The ladies love it,” he'd told Alice once.)

Frannie gave a low chuckle and laid her hand over Alice's in sympathy. Alice distracted herself by examining the long pine table in front of her. She'd dreamed about this table at the hospital. Nick was sitting at it, while she was cleaning the kitchen. He'd said something that made no sense. What was it?

Elisabeth came into the room, lifting her handbag over her shoulder. “I've got to go.”

“Where are you going?” asked Alice desperately. She needed support to help her cope with Roger and her mother. “Are you coming back?”

Elisabeth gave her an odd look. “I'm meeting some people for lunch. I'll come back if you like.”