Finding Grace (24 page)

In the early afternoon they left, two by two. Kate and Suzette were going to the library. Hiro and the dreadlock boy decided to go skateboarding. Herb and Bill continued their meander down the street.

When Hiro left, he kissed me on the cheek and then he blushed. Things may turn out yet.

The light was blinking on the answering machine. I pressed the Message button and listened.

“Rachel, this is Anna. Mum gave me your number. I was really surprised to hear from you. You know, you sort of lose touch with people. I'm living in Sydney now. It would be great to catch up with you, though. Give me a call.”

I wrote her name and number down in the address book next to the phone. I flicked through the pages and found the number for Yvonne. I punched in the number and listened to the dial tone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Yvonne?” I asked.

“Yes,” the voice replied.

“This is Rachel. I am Grace's carer?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“I just wanted you to know that Grace was thinking of you. She wrote a letter before the accident. I don't know if you ever received it.”

“No, I haven't heard from Grace in a long time.”

“Well, if you wanted, you could come and see her,” I said. “I think she would like to see you. The letter … it was really nice. The letter says that she was very fond of you. I think it's important that you know that.”

“Thank you,” said Yvonne. “I would like to see her. The last time we spoke, we … we didn't part on good terms.”

“Well, you can just come around whenever. You know, if you are in the area, or whatever.”

“Thank you, Rachel.”

As I hung up the phone I felt much better. The spooky box was so full of ghosts, bad thoughts, frustration and ill feeling. It was so full of things left unsaid. I might not be able to heal all of Grace's wounds, but at least with Yvonne I had healed one.

It was quiet again. Quiet and empty. But if it hadn't been so quiet, I might have missed something—something special.

I'm eighteen and I know a great many things but I don't know everything (for example, “A stitch in time saves Nine,” what does that mean? My whole life, I've never known what that means. With what sort of needle does one stitch time? Who's Nine?). But I am learning.

Grace was in her chair by the window. I moved her chair so it faced the back garden. I thought she could watch the birds that have moved into the mulberry tree. They have chicks, and the parent birds are always flying in and out
getting little grubs for them. Grace was in her chair looking out the window.

I wasn't playing any music. I usually play music in the afternoon, jazz, or blues, but not today. I could hear the birds chirruping and squabbling in the mulberry tree. I could hear the occasional car as it passed in the street, trains in the distance. I could hear all the sounds of suburbia on a sunny afternoon. Then, very faintly, I could hear another sound. I stood very still and listened. I had my eyes closed, my hand cupped behind my ear.

I could hear Grace.

I moved very quietly toward her, tiptoeing across the wooden floor. I knelt down behind her chair on the floor. Nothing. No sound but the birds and the cars. I shut my eyes and listened.

There it was again!

She was sitting perfectly still. I knelt down behind her. I could hear something.

Grace was singing.

Ever so gently, ever so softly. No words, just a tune, breathy. “La, la, da, da.”

I sat there on the floor behind Grace's chair listening. Listening to Grace sing. Sat there, on the hard wooden floor, with my eyes squeezed shut, listening to Grace sing.

Never before had I heard a single sound from Grace that was voluntary. Never before had I heard her voice.

I sat there on the floor behind Grace's chair, a tear rolling down my cheek, and listened as Grace sang.

When I opened my eyes, I could see her finger ever so slightly tapping the arm of the chair, tapping to the beat, “La, la, da, da.” Tap, tap, tap.

I don't know how long I sat there, but I heard her. I heard Grace.

When there is nothing, there is always music. I know what that means now.

She's in there. I know she is.