There are times when a little help from your friends is actually what you need.
Mary called and I could hardly hear her. There was the lively bustle in the background that I recognised as either a coffee shop or a restaurant; from the time, I guessed the latter. She carried on shouting over the noise but with little success; eventually I hung up. Caleb was home without Tuesday or The Redhead and, frankly, Mary was intruding. He’d been ironing what looked like work shirts for forty minutes; the ironing board propped up in the living room to give him a good view of the television. I was part way through typing a text to tell Mary I was busy when she called again.
‘Mare, I can hardly hear you,’ I answered as the call connected.
‘I’m outside.’ She sounded unimpressed. ‘Are you late, or…’
It was or. Or did you forget? Or did you lose a day? Or did you get a better offer?
‘Shit, I’m so sorry–’
‘Did you stand me up, is that what’s happening here?’
Her tone was so hard around the edges, I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for any man who may at one point or another have stood Mary up for dinner.
‘That isn’t what happened, honestly.’ I was starting to throw that word around more often; usually when it wasn’t in the least bit applicable. ‘It was the worst day and I got home and crashed, I just completely lost track of time. Gimme ten minutes, would you?’
‘Ten minutes, that’s all it’ll take to get ready for a date with me?’
Friend date, I thought, but the correction didn’t seem likely to help. ‘Dinner’s on me.’
She fell silent. Mary and I had never had any huge disagreements in our friendship. But in my experience of the minor disagreements, food never made a problem worse. ‘Fine, whatever, you can buy me dinner.’
‘I’ll be out the house in ten minutes, I promise.’
‘You better be.’
‘I know I’m in no position, but could you do me a favour?’
She sighed. ‘You’re right. But what?’
‘Text me the restaurant that you’re at?’
When I arrived Mary was looking around the room. She was, I guessed, playing a game of How Many Dates? but she didn’t look to be enjoying it much. I pulled out the seat opposite her and for a full twenty seconds she pretended that she hadn’t noticed me. Then her eyes widened and her head jerked back, feigning surprise.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ She set her glass down. ‘What a surprise, I didn’t think I’d see–’
‘Jesus, if I throw in dessert with dinner can you spare me?’
She softened then. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, really.’ I was already looking at the menu. Mary had been there long enough to know every item by its listed number, so I needed to make a hasty decision. ‘It’s just been one long day after another.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Did you forget where we were meeting?’
‘Yes.’ I tried to laugh it off. ‘Because I didn’t write it down, and I’m old.’
‘Only as old as me and I managed to get myself here.’
‘Can I take orders now?’ the waiter cut in and I could have tipped him for it.
‘I’ll take beer-battered cod with twice-cooked chips, and I’d like a side of onion rings, and I’d like another Sex on the Beach.’ Mary stared at me the whole time she was ordering, as though underscoring how much preparation time she’d had.
‘I’ll have the same.’
‘Two portions of onion rings?’ the waiter checked, and I glanced at Mary.
‘Well I’m not sharing.’
‘Please, good man, two portions.’ He disappeared and I wanted to collar him back just for the company – or to be a witness. ‘How many apologies will this take?’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘None. But I’m worried.’
‘Don’t be? It’s a mad time at work, really, that’s all this is.’
‘Are you still taking your meds?’ she asked and like a knee-jerk reaction my eyes widened. ‘You can’t blame a girl.’
‘I’m thirty minutes late for dinner and suddenly I’m crazy?’
‘Ah,’ she held a finger up in protest, ‘I told you we don’t use that word.’
I hadn’t been to counselling since I’d rediscovered Fern. The conversation with Mum was the closest I’d come to openly discussing things. And I was actively avoiding conversations with Dad, so I hadn’t had the chance to get his memories from it all. Fern was before Mary’s time, I knew, but the thought of talking it all through caused an ache in my chest that made me realise how much I was holding in.
‘You know I struggle with memory sometimes?’ It was rhetorical. Mary knew because Mary had seen it. Her boyfriend in our second year of university had become abusive one night after too many drinks – ‘You’re a selfish bitch!’ – and he bawled the house down. I bawled back, Mary said, as though he’d triggered something. They broke up shortly after – she chose me over him, naturally – but we never really talked about what happened. ‘I’ve started to get some things back, I think.’
Mary’s jaw jutted from one side to the other as though chewing over the revelation. ‘Some things, meaning, memories?’
‘I think so? But,’ I rested my elbows on the table and leaned in, ‘they’re all wrong.’
‘Wrong how?’ She looked concerned again, and I was relieved she’d softened for this.
‘I can’t make sense of them, like, at all. They’re in short sharp bursts and I kind of recognise things but there’s a woman who I don’t recognise at all, and I can’t work out whether she belongs in the memories or not.’ It all came out in a rush. When I looked up Mary had a raised eyebrow that made me uncomfortable. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Who’s the woman?’
I half-laughed. ‘Jealous?’
Mary cracked a smile and reached out to me. There was something comforting about a hand hold; the type of contact I missed.
‘It makes sense that stuff doesn’t make sense, okay? These are things you misplaced years ago and, let’s say, they’ve been in this box and now you’re finally getting them out to give them a good airing. You’d expect some dust from that, right? Plus, when things have been in a box for years, they might look different when you shake ’em all out. Like, a pattern you’d forgotten about, or maybe the blue wasn’t as bright as you remember it being.’
I smirked. ‘We’re talking about memories?’
‘Yes.’ She cocked the eyebrow again which at least made me smile. ‘I’m just saying, don’t go all Nutty Professor on me because you’re remembering things in a different shape. Maybe they just need a good shake out, that’s all.’
I squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘I know.’
‘Sex on the Beach?’ the waiter interrupted again and even he seemed more relaxed by our conciliation. I wondered whether we’d given him the air of a couple on the brink of an argument.
‘Oof, please.’ Mary winked at me.
I let go of her hand so she could take her drink. Her hair was wild; the flawless sort of wild that only women as loud and as beautiful as Mary can get away with. She was wearing a chiffon dress made up from a patchwork of colours: rustic orange and turquoise blue, a pink that was trying to be purple. There was a shawl thrown over the back of her chair, too; black, I thought, or at least a very dark navy blue. She sipped her drink through a straw and looked around the room, as though picking a target for us. I watched her, and I tried very hard to remember everything about the moment.