Room 46 & Short Story Collection Page 14

  Grace felt a little frisson of shame at that thought. It sounded just a tad manipulative; all right it was very manipulative. But you had to do what you needed to stay in the system and get the support you needed and she certainly wouldn’t be the first to do it.

  That doesn’t make it okay though, the good Grace argued.

  Tired of trying to referee these thoughts, Grace reached for the TV remote to dull them down and picked up her phone by mistake. It then proceeded to ring in her hand, startling her. Giving herself a moment to calm down, Grace answered on the eighth ring.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘Grace?’ the voice on the other end asked tentatively.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Ellen Murphy here, I’m the Centre Manager at Rosehill Gardens.’

  ‘Oh.’ The Centre Manager! She must really be in trouble.

  ‘I’m just calling about Edith,’ Ellen continued.

  Although she had plenty of excuses at the ready, including a defensive attack about Edith’s (and Sylvia’s) deception, Grace could not immediately articulate what was on her mind. ‘I, uh, I … found the recorder,’ she began. ‘They tricked me you see, I didn’t know—’

  Ellen cut her off before she could say anything else. ‘Grace, that’s not important.’

  ‘Does she want to see me again?’ Grace asked, becoming more annoyed and articulate as she went on. Fancy calling in the Centre Manager. That was a bit of a mean trick. Edith was clearly very well regarded by the staff but Grace never imagined she would use it to her advantage like this. ‘I can’t come back,’ she blustered. ‘I know she’s very ill and I should cut her some slack but—’

  ‘Grace,’ Ellen cut in, ‘Please just listen to me. I’m not calling because of any problem or disagreement; I’m calling because Sylvia said you would want to know.’

  So riled up and consumed with her own thoughts, Grace she missed the end of Ellen’s sentence. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  Ellen’s voice was firm but gentle. ‘Edith is gone Grace.’

  It was like one of those sucker punches people talked about. It came right out of nowhere and struck Grace smack in the middle of her solar plexus. ‘What?’ she gasped.

  ‘She’s gone Grace,’ Ellen repeated. ‘We lost her yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t understand! She was okay last time I saw her.’

  ‘Yes, well, she had another setback and there was nothing we could do. We did fear it might happen.’

  ‘But we parted on bad terms, I didn’t get to say goodbye,’ Grace cried.

  ‘That’s the way it goes sometimes, unfortunately,’ Ellen said kindly. ‘I’ve spoken at length with Sylvia and she spoke very highly of you and the wonderful rapport you and Edith shared. She genuinely loved having you visit her. Just focus on those good memories and know that you helped her enjoy her last few weeks with us.’

  An overwhelming sense of loss hit Grace then and she started to cry – noisy, gut-wrenching sobs that caused her thin body to shudder violently. ‘S-s-s-s-o-orry,’ she hiccupped.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Ellen replied patiently. ‘Take all the time you need. I’ll be here when you’ve calmed down a bit.’

  Eventually Grace regained her composure enough to talk to Ellen again. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘That’s all right Grace. It’s been a shock for all of us but as I said Sylvia was most insistent that you should know.’

  ‘Tell her thank you.’

  ‘I will Grace, I will. But you are going to need to speak to her yourself eventually.’

  It felt strange to meet in a café rather than at Rosehill. Standing on the threshold of The Coffee Club in the city Grace peered inside, looking for Sylvia. Dressed casually in skinny jeans and a hoodie and with her hair in a ponytail, it took Grace a moment to recognise the other woman. Looking up from her iPhone she waved Grace over.

  ‘Hi Grace, it’s really nice to see you,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Hello,’ Grace murmured eyes downcast. The sting of betrayal still needled and she wasn’t prepared to brush everything under the carpet just because Edith was gone.

  ‘Did you order something?’ Sylvia asked.

  Grace shook her head.

  ‘I can get you something if you like?’

  Grace shook her head again. ‘No I’m fine. I’ve got my water,’ she replied, pulling a battered Mount Franklin bottle out of her bag and setting it on the table.

  Sylvia sighed. ‘All right Grace, I’m sorry it’s taken this long to get back to you about the email you sent. As you can understand the loss of Edith obviously had to take precedence over everything else that was happening. And of course I was on leave when you sent it so I’ve only just recently had the opportunity to catch up on all that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘Grace I just want you to know I have a lot of sympathy for you and what you’ve been through. I know you feel your privacy has been violated by me knowing so many of your personal details but it was necessary so that we could make the most of your placement at Rosehill. I’m not one of those administrators who takes programs like Rejoin lightly. If I put my name to it I do it properly.’

  ‘And that includes spying on people without their knowledge? Tricking them into revealing things to a person who can’t speak who they think is safe to talk freely to?’

  The waitress with Sylvia’s chai latte interrupted them briefly. ‘Thanks,’ Sylvia said with a smile.

  ‘No worries,’ the teenager replied cheerily. ‘Let me know if you need anything else. You can refill your bottle over at the fountain if you like,’ she said to Grace, motioning to the far wall.

  ‘Okay,’ Grace replied.

  Sylvia stirred her drink slowly before scooping some froth off the top. ‘I can understand you feeling the way you do,’ she said, pausing to lick her spoon, ‘but you’ve really got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘I’m not sure how there can be a right end to this particular stick,’ Grace countered, taking a sip of water.

  ‘I’m not happy that this has distressed you Grace, but I can’t help being pleased that it has brought you out of yourself. You barely looked at me that first day we met and now you look like you could happily rip my head off.’

  ‘It’s just really hard when you feel like other people are making all the decisions about your life.’

  ‘We’ll get to Rejoin in a minute, for now I just want to explain about the whole recording thing.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘As I told you on your first visit, Edith used to be an English teacher and she loved to read and write. She had lots of different volunteers read to her while she was with us. It was a deliberate thing on her part as she liked to engage with a wide range of people.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Anyway back when she could still talk she mentioned to me one day how so many of her volunteers just liked to chat after reading and that many of them had really interesting stories to tell. We came up with a plan to record each person’s story, then Edith would work on it with an old teaching colleague of hers to create a short story. It was a great project as it kept her brain busy and let her do something she loved to do.’

  ‘So all the stories I read were true?’

  Sylvia took another sip of latte. ‘Yeah, more or less. Edith and her friend changed the names and enough details to protect the identity of each person but they are based on real experiences.’

  ‘But they’ve all got that twist you don’t see coming.’

  ‘That’s right. Edith was a big believer that if you looked at any event the right way there was an unexpected element in it somewhere. That was the challenge for her, to work it in such a way that it fit the same format.’

  Grace’s eyes widened. ‘So you’ve met all those people?’

  ‘Yes I have. Well versions of them. That’s the amazing thing about the volunteer roster at a nursing home, you really do get all types.’

&nb
sp; Grace started fiddling with the lid on her water bottle, twisting it back and forth. ‘So she did that without telling them?’

  ‘Oh no, no, not at all. Of course we asked them.’

  ‘But you didn’t ask me.’

  Sylvia averted her gaze for a moment then looked Grace in the eye. ‘You’re right Grace, we should have asked first. But you were a bit of a special case. Edith had this idea that she could re-write the ending of your story to inspire you to start really living your life again. But she needed to hear the background first.’

  A thought struck Grace and she looked at Sylvia sharply. ‘How could she do that if she couldn’t speak or type?’

  ‘Her friend had an iPad with some pretty amazing apps. They worked out a system.’

  ‘It’s a shame I didn’t finish telling it,’ Grace murmured. ‘But then again I doubt even Edith could have fashioned a happy ending. Only a fairy godmother with magical powers could create a twist that would somehow make my life turn out okay.’

  Sylvia pushed her empty cup away and sat up straighter, looking more businesslike as she did so. ‘That’s where you’re wrong Grace. I have a lot of sympathy for the bad times you have endured, but you’re only twenty years old. You cannot let yourself get sucked into the system and spend the rest of your life defending your right to live a life that nowhere near meets your potential.’

  Grace was already shaking her head. ‘I can’t lose my disability payment!’

  Sylvia’s tone was kind but firm. ‘Yes you can. Even though you didn’t finish Rejoin I’ve seen enough to make my recommendation. I’m not ticking the box that says “continued disability support required”, I’m categorising you as work ready.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Grace repeated with tears running down her cheeks. ‘It’s too humiliating to apply for job after job and be asked each time why I didn’t finish school. It just makes me more depressed! I don’t have enough confidence to go to work; didn’t you read the report from the Mental Health Alliance? It says I will never be able to function normally. How can I—’

  ‘Grace,’ Sylvia interrupted, ‘That report was filed to get you maximum assistance when you were in a crisis situation. It does not have to define your life going forward. Besides, the rules have changed in an effort to stop young people like you ending up reliant on welfare.’

  ‘My case worker won’t agree with it.’

  ‘I’ve spoken at length with your case worker and she’s with me on this. It’s time for you to make your way into the world Grace, you’ve got too much to offer to stay a hermit forever.’

  ‘You’re being so unfair,’ Grace sobbed. ‘Who will ever employ me?’

  Sylvia reached over and gently lifted Grace’s chin so she was looking at her. ‘I will Grace. I want you to come and work for me at Rosehill. But first you have to tell me what happened at Strauss.’

  Shocked not only at the job offer but also at what she was asking, Grace stared at Sylvia. ‘But you already know don’t you?’

  ‘No I don’t. All your paperwork tells me is your diagnosis; it doesn’t tell me what caused the nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Really? I thought they told you everything. That’s why I could never look at you.’

  Sylvia shook her head.

  Grace sat up straighter and folded her arms before levelling her gaze at Sylvia. ‘Well I assume you know the first part that I told Edith.’

  Sylvia’s face reddened. ‘Uh, yes I did listen to the recording,’ she admitted.

  Grace raised her eyebrows and let the words hang in the air a moment before answering. ‘All right, fine, I’ll tell you. But I’ll need a proper drink first.’

  Sylvia couldn’t hide her shock. ‘But it’s only 9.30 am!’

  ‘No, I mean something decadent like a white hot chocolate with cream and extra marshmallows.’

  Sylvia was already on her feet. ‘Coming right up.’

  It was a subdued and very nervous Grace who returned to school after the mid-year break. Having gotten hold of a copy of The Courier Mail in question she was relieved to find her story was buried in the Arts section and was not the front page headline her Auntie Ruth’s reaction had suggested. Still it was out there now, her authentic self in all its glory. It wasn’t the paper’s fault of course; they thought they were doing something nice by celebrating a small town girl who had been given an amazing leg up in her chosen field.

  Rather than arriving back on Saturday afternoon as planned, Grace left her return to the last possible moment, slinking in at nine o’clock on Sunday night and heading straight to her room before anybody saw her. At least having her own room meant she could hide away as long as necessary. Sure, she would have to attend classes and practice but at least she could avoid the common room.

  Climbing into bed she buried her head under the pillow to bock out the excited chatter of classmates in their surrounding rooms and steeled herself to ride out the semester ahead alone and friendless if she needed to. All that mattered was getting through the year and making Huntley Valley proud.

  It took Grace a couple of days to realise that she had worried for nothing. Her friends greeted her with open arms, eager to hear about her holidays. No mention was made of the article, and no insults or taunts were slung her way. The reason why didn’t strike her until she was standing at the breakfast buffet several days later. After scooping some fruit salad into her bowl, she didn’t shake the ladle completely and trailed sticky juice along the crisp white tablecloth and on to the stack of newspapers that was delivered each morning; the stack of newspapers the students walked past at every meal but never picked up.

  Teenagers don’t read newspapers! she realised with a jolt. If they even bothered with the news at all they read it on their iPad or phone. And only the main news items made it onto the website, not the supplements. In addition, a fair portion of Strauss’ students came from interstate, and a few from overseas. Nobody had even seen the piece!

  Grace resisted the urge to break into a happy dance as an overwhelming sense of relief swept over her. It was like the day she passed her driving test or when she got a distinction for AMusA. She knew she shouldn’t feel so relieved that her true background remained hidden, but she was a pragmatist if nothing else. Sometimes you had to work the system to get what you wanted and needed and if playing a little fast and loose with the truth wasn’t hurting anybody then she could certainly live with it.

  * * * * *

  Sylvia had worked her way through her second chai latte by now and watched Grace as she paused to nibble on a marshmallow. The barista had gone all out when Sylvia asked for extras, presenting five marshmallows on a saucer with a fancy doily in addition to the two in her drink.

  ‘I went to the library and looked up the digital file of your newspaper story,’ Sylvia admitted. ‘It was a really nice piece.’

  ‘Yeah it was. I’m not proud of the fact I wanted to hide it from my friends at Strauss, but you know important it is to fit in at school. I just wanted to graduate and then I didn’t care what anyone thought.’

  ‘I understand totally Grace, I’m not judging you.’

  ‘In hindsight, I don’t think the other kids would really have cared that much. Sure, they were all rich kids and it was a very exclusive environment, but the reality was we were all music nerds. At any other normal school we would have been the outcasts, the weird kids who spent all their spare time practising instead of partying.’

  Sylvia nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good point.’

  Grace picked up another marshmallow. ‘But that doesn’t explain why I went off the deep end though, does it?’

  ‘A breakdown isn’t going off the deep end.’

  ‘Oh yes it is. Well that’s what it feels like anyway. It’s like jumping off the highest diving platform and realising you have no safety net and nobody to catch you at the bottom.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that Grace, but yes I am still wondering why?’

  ‘Fair enough. Here comes t
he ugly part.’

  * * * * *

  The semester was five weeks old before Ms Van der Linden arrived back on campus. Fresh from a month long sabbatical at their sister school in Vienna she exuded warmth and enthusiasm as she addressed the student body at Monday assembly. Grace felt her attention wander as she listened to the stick thin, peroxide blonde espouse her own special brand of wisdom. Yes of how her time in Vienna had confirmed what she already knew – that the finest musical achievement was born only in exclusive institutions such as theirs. Bla, bla, bla…

  Grace had disliked Ms Van der Linden from the moment she had realised that she needed to play a role in order to attend Strauss, that she wasn’t there on her musical talent alone. Four months to go Grace, she reminded herself as the principal continued to speak. For all her grand speeches about music and her penchant for dropping in on practice sessions, Grace had never perceived any true musical passion from the older woman. In fact, she had begun to suspect that Ms Van der Linden did not even play a musical instrument. No musician she knew had perfectly manicured fingernails or could stand impassive in a performance room without showing some kind of emotion at the beauty of orchestral music.

  The sound of the school song brought Grace back to the present. Standing with her fellow students she sang proudly, glad to be where she was despite having so little respect for the woman up on the podium.

  It was when Grace was in hospital that the psychiatrist had used the analogy of the frog. Dr Wayne Baker was not known for his dress sense. Stuck in the eighties, at around fifty he still wore stonewash denim and skinny ties. But he was a kind man and Grace knew he was trying his very best to help her.

  ‘If you drop a frog in boiling water it’ll hop right back out quick smart,’ Dr Baker explained during one of his visits. ‘But if you put it in a pan of cold water and gradually heat it up the frog will stay in there, not realising it is gradually being heated until it’s too late. That’s how a mental health crisis can occur. You just accept all the little things and then one day you realise you are in a pot of boiling water with no way out.’