Finding Grace

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—“be 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.