fate noun: a prophetic declaration of
what must be
The day I met Bill he was wearing odd socks. His shirt was untucked. I remember all this. Things he has forgotten.
I was playing tennis with a friend when he walked onto the court. His hair was falling across one eye, like he was winking at all the girls. My friend lobbed the ball at me and I hit it hard. It went right where my heart was – well, sort of. Lucky I was holding back. We might never have had Gracie.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said and ran over to help. I wasn’t, though. Sometimes destiny needs a little help from a killer backhand.
I’d planned on the fact that Helen would be playing tennis. She didn’t know it but I’d been watching her for weeks. Of course, I hadn’t planned on the ball hitting me like that. What man would? She was worth it, though.
‘Good shot,’ I gasped, lying on the ground trying to look casual. It was fate. We were meant to be.
I’ve heard the story a million times. Mum lobbed a ball and hit Dad in the nuts. Whammo. The crazy thing is, the way they always told it to me, it sounded romantic. Sort of like a movie where the girl gets the guy but you don’t expect her to. In the past I’ve always loved hearing the story. Right now, though, I think those two have a lot to answer for.
I mean, you grow up hearing a story like that and you start to expect things. Things like, love will come your way at just the right moment, or there’s a person out there who’s meant only for you. Like he’s got a label on his jumper with my name on it. A person starts looking for signs. Take Nick, for example. He came to our school in Year 8. The first time I saw him in class he had World Soccer hidden behind his science book. I was sitting near him and he must have known I was trying to look at it because he held it up a bit higher so that I could see. I caught a glimpse of a squad crowded around a trophy, fists in the air, and I knew. Nick was it. Maybe I should take Jane’s advice: ‘Just hit him in the balls, Faltrain, and test your parents’ theory.’
Heads it’s Annabelle, tails it’s – Gracie Faltrain.
There’s a whole heap of photos in the bottom drawer of our kitchen. Piles of them, not in albums or anything, just handfuls of stuff we’ve done together. There’s one of Mum and Dad before Karen and me were born. They’re standing out the front of our old house. The grass is so long in the picture it’s covering the bottom of Mum’s skirt. Dad’s looking at the camera and his eyes are wide and sort of wild. His smile’s so big I can see his teeth. His face looks kind of hopeful and their fingers are hooked, like they belong together. I can’t tell which fingers are Mum’s and which are Dad’s. She’s holding on just as tightly as he is, so how come she let go?