We pulled up to the house that Grace had been sharing with Jordan and I immediately noticed the garden. Set just a street away from the beach, the colonial-style house was surrounded by layers of greenery. Leaving me in the car to marvel at the exterior, Grace was quick to jump out and get to work. Picking up the boxes from the back of the car, I followed her inside. Once we were through the front door, I was gobsmacked. Sky-high ceilings throughout the single storey home allowed for an abundance of light and fresh air to stream in and across the dark timber flooring. Indoor palms framed the entrance as I walked into the open-plan living area. Linen sofas were strategically placed around a tribal patterned coffee table to offset the soft rug underfoot. The place oozed cool, calm and sophisticated. Following the sound of Grace’s voice, I stumbled down the hallway on the left, walking into the master bedroom. With the dark timber flooring and the white walls continuing through to this room, my eyes were drawn to the four-poster bed sitting front and centre. Layers of fabrics and cushions lay atop, all in varying shades of white. Anchored beside the bed sat two bedside tables, each with photographs on top. I walked to the side I presumed to be Grace’s and bent down to pick up a photo. In it, radiating with joy, Grace stood, wearing a figure-hugging silk white gown. She looked every bit the glowing bride. Standing next to her was Jordan, clad in a black tux, his eyes shining with affection for Grace. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, his eyes crinkled at the corners, laughing at something he just said. Apart from salt and pepper hair, he looked remarkably young considering that Grace said he was almost twenty years older than her.
Not knowing where Grace was, I called out to her again. She eventually replied: I’m back here! Around the wall behind the bed, there was a walk-in wardrobe. With enough shelving on either side to start a small storage business, I wasn’t surprised to see that Grace had already used up most of the boxes for clothes only. Past the wardrobe, an arched doorway led into another room, the ensuite bathroom. I gasped at the marble stone that covered both the floor and walls and couldn’t help but walk over to the basin, running my hands over the brass tapware. Drooling at the opulence, I turned to walk back when I saw Grace frozen in front of a box. I leant over to see what she was staring at and saw a small blue jewellery box resting in her hands.
Grace had placed her engagement ring back into this box. Not knowing what to say, I bent down next to her and draped my arm around her shoulders. We sat there in silence until Grace took a breath and looked up to say: I didn’t like the ring anyway. Placed in a single solitaire setting, the large cushion-cut diamond would melt most hearts. But I knew Grace—if there was anything that she hated more than raisins, it was expensive jewellery. I remembered the time that Grace had begged mum to wear her grandmother’s pearl earrings. They were expensive pearls, yes, but it was the sentimental value that rendered those earrings priceless. I had no interest in jewellery, so it was not long before mum gave in and allowed Grace to wear them. Not wanting the earrings to sit around and collect dust, mum was happy to finally see them being worn. Fast forward to our year six school camp, we spent the day in the water, only to arrive back at our cabin and find that Grace was missing an earring. Mortified at the loss of something so treasured, Grace returned home, apologised profusely and swore she would never wear something so expensive again. That promise clearly stuck because, even now, she won’t wear any jewellery, bare fingers and all. Standing up, Grace walked around to Jordan’s side of the king-sized bed and, leaning down, placed the Tiffany box on the bedside table. Stuck in a trance, I watched as Grace mindlessly rubbed her ring finger as if she secretly missed the weight of the ring on her hand.
Back in the wardrobe, I got to work packing up her clothes in an effort to give her some privacy. Without a word, Grace returned and started folding the clothes beside me. We spent the next few hours in a comfortable silence, switching from pulling items down off coat hangers to folding and organising. I took a moment to stand up and stretch my legs after sitting down for so long when a flicker of light caught my eye. Looking over to an area in which Grace’s remaining shoes sat, I saw the light again. I bent down to get a closer view and saw it. There, wedged behind a pair of knee-high leather boots, sat a photo album. The silver embellishments on the cover caught the sun from the skylight above, bouncing it back into the room. I picked up the album and Grace froze. Turning from the album cover, which read ‘Our Wedding Day’, to the look on Grace’s face, I knew that she was about to break. Just as I predicted, her jaw quickly clamped down, trying to suppress her emotions but her eyes betrayed them. What started out as just one tear trailing down her check, turned into a waterfall. Her mouth scrunched up just before she let her face fall into her hands and cried. Soft whimpers turned into shuddering wails. Even breaths turned into sharp intakes of air. Her normally calm and level-headed persona turned into that of a broken woman. Dropping the album on the floor, I rushed over to where she sat sprawled amongst the sandals.
We’ll get through this, I offered, pulling her into a tight embrace. What doesn’t hurt you makes you stronger.
Grace paused briefly and looked at me. What? she questioned.
The confused look in her eyes had me explaining. You know, the popular saying—what doesn’t hurt you makes you stronger?
Her reply was blunt. You’re supposed to say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
We looked at each other as the realisation dawned on my face. Grace was the first one to break, beginning to laugh.
God, you’re an idiot sometimes.
Happy to see that my lapse in intelligence provided her with some much-needed relief, I just shrugged and said: At least I didn’t accidently call Mrs Wiltmore mum in senior year!
Looking pointedly at Grace, she paused to look at me, shocked that I still remembered, and then proceeded to laugh, rolling down on the floor. Tears that streamed down her face now were tears of joy as opposed to sorrow. Flashing back to our English class in year twelve, every student was working on their Shakespeare essay when Grace called out to the teacher for help. The only problem was that instead of saying ‘Mrs Wiltmore’, Grace had said ‘Mum’. A class full of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds busted out into hysterical laughter at the verbal slip that Grace had made, me included. It took a good two months before people forgot about it. Grace had cried in the bathroom at lunch one day, upset over the fact that people, like Sophia Frances, were still teasing her about it. That afternoon, as school finished, I ‘accidently’ slipped and fell into Sophia who, in turn, slipped and fell down a couple of stairs. At the time, I was frustrated that she only ended up with a couple of bruises but, looking back on it now, I’m just thankful that she wasn’t seriously hurt. Sometimes I forget how aggressive I had been as a teenager and a sense of regret washes over me. But then I remember the smile on Grace’s face when the whole year forgot about what she had said and Sophia stopped teasing her, so I know deep down that it was all worth it.
Grace now lay there wiping the tears from her eyes and I wondered what I did to deserve her. We’ve had each other’s back since the day we were born and yet I had left her as soon as I graduated. I had spent my time at school looking out for her but, as soon as we finished, I just packed my bags and walked out. Fuelled by the desire to escape the small-town bubble, I deserted my sister and mother. I was so selfish in making that decision that I failed to see how it would hurt them. How, after all those years of sticking by her, I left her when she needed me the most. I left her here, assuming that nothing would ever change and oblivious to that fact that everything did change. That, despite living in the same small town, everyone grew up and everyone moved on.
Picking up one of the boxes that was already full of clothing, I stepped around Grace and started to make my way outside.
I’ll start loading these into the car, you can finish sorting out the rest, I muttered over my shoulder.
Grace smiled her thanks before returning to the clothes.
After several back and forth trips to the car, we both now stood in the kitchen. Taking a seat, I watched Grace write a letter to Jordan and couldn’t help but imagine how beautiful their wedding must have been. If the photo in the bedroom was anything to go by, I just knew that Grace had glowed. To know that she had truly been happy on that day and that I had missed it will haunt me forever. From the proposal to the ceremony, I wasn’t there for any of it—and that hurt. Placing the pen back into the kitchen drawer, Grace looked over at me. Those same helpless eyes that had beseeched me in the high school bathroom shone right back at me. I walked over to where she stood and pulled her into a tight embrace, whispering into her ear: What doesn’t hurt you makes you stronger.
She pushed me away and shook her head, smiling.
Alright, you idiot, let’s get out of here. I need a drink.
Chuckling as I lead the way out of the house, I turned to check whether Grace was following me. She stood there with her hand on the door handle, pausing to take one last look at the place she had called her home for the past year. As if trying to commit it to memory, she looked around, then slowly stepped over the threshold and softly closed the door.