Finding Grace (2 page)

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.

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.”

I suddenly felt sad. I don't have many friends. There's Kate that I work with at the café and a few friends from school but they are mostly my friends because we were in the same class. I'm a bit of a loner.

I wanted to tell my mother that I'm not ready to go out
on the town. I don't know about boys and clothes. Other girls at school seemed to know about this sort of thing by instinct. Not me. I'm just a plain old sparrow. This job would suit me because it would give me an excuse. I could tell myself I wasn't going out because I was working, not because no one had asked me.

“It can't hurt to go for an interview,” I mumbled.

My mother rubbed my shoulder and smiled. “You do what you want to do, darling. I just want you to be happy.”

… … …

The interview was held in an office building in the city. It was a private nursing agency that provided “carers” at an hourly rate for elderly or disabled clients.

I was interviewed by the manager of the agency and (surprise, surprise) Mr. Alistair Preston. The manager was an attractive woman in a conservative navy pinstriped suit. She smiled, shook my hand and thanked me for coming.

I was to live, rent-free, in a two-bedroom house near the university. I was to receive a wage of $135 a week.

$135 a week! Boggle, boggle.

I was to care for a brain-injured woman named Grace. For between fourteen and twenty hours a week I was to be relieved by a nurse, who would administer Grace's physiotherapy.

“Since Grace came out of hospital she has been cared for by this agency,” said the manager. “We have provided a series of nurses on a rotational basis twenty-four hours a day. We have been more than pleased to offer this service; however, this kind of care is unusual for us. Grace is an unusual client because there is no primary carer.

“Our normal service is to provide relief to the primary
carer of the client, usually parents, adult children or other family. As part of the service we hold six-monthly evaluation consultations with the client's doctor and family.”

Mr. Preston leaned forward. “At the last consultation we discussed the adverse effect of this constant stream of new faces on Grace's progress. We haven't seen any improvement since she's come home. We're not sure that she will
ever
improve, but we have decided to introduce a primary carer. This person, having almost constant interaction with Grace, will be in the best position to note any behavioral changes. The agency will continue to relieve that primary carer, as they would for other clients.”

“But I have no training,” I interrupted.

“Her condition does not necessarily require formal training,” the manager explained. “She can walk. She can feed herself. But she doesn't do anything without direction. She can hear but she doesn't respond and she doesn't speak. You will require some initial training, first aid and so forth. We hold courses here and have taken the liberty of allocating a place for you and the other applicants in the class commencing Saturday. Otherwise, the role is not dissimilar to that of a nanny. Of course, as part of our service, a nurse is available immediately if you need help.”

I guessed it was light meals and cleaning for one.

No problem!

I received
my letter of acceptance into a science degree at Newcastle University on a Thursday. I should have been more excited, but I had worked hard at school so it was no less than I expected. I had reaped what I had sown. I had made hay while the sun shone.

I started my training course for the job on the following Saturday. On the first day I learned how to make a splint, how to deliver CPR and how to help someone who is choking.

I worked in the café with Kate in the afternoons. She's a couple of years older than I am. Kate is one of those slim, funky people who can wear short hair.

I can't wear short hair. I look like a boy—an ugly boy with a bad haircut.

Kate can start fashions. She could wear a sack, and have people say,
“I just love your hessian tunic, where did you get it?”
They would just say to me,
“Excuse me, why are you wearing a sack? Are you protesting about something?”

I hope one day I can look as relaxed as Kate does. She has been at uni for about six years. Her student loan debt would probably be equivalent to the gross domestic product of a small nation. She's doing engineering and has the most enormous brain, so she'll probably be able to afford it.

While we're cashing up at the end of the day I tell Kate about the new job.

“How “community sector' of you,” replies Kate, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't get me wrong—that sounds great! It's just that, well, you struck me more as a kind of reclusive privatesector research type, that's all,” says Kate. “I always pictured you in some brutally white laboratory sewing body parts on mice, or something.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes. You always look so diabolically cerebral,” she replies.