Addition (25 page)

Mother gives me a magnificent purple flowering orchid she grew herself. A greater gift from Mother is the gratitude she shows to Jill as we leave, hugging her and thanking her for the lovely dinner, and who would have guessed meatloaf, fish soup and blancmange could go together so well. Jill drives me home, her cheery face unusually glum.

It is 10 past 10 (allowable birthday variation to routine) when she drops me off. As I walk along the top floor balcony I almost miss it. In the shadows, propped up against my door is a small box around 10.5 centimetres square and 3 centimetres high, wrapped in orange/ tan paper with an orange/tan ribbon. No card. I put down my plastic bag of gifts and the orchid, and pick up the box. I feel the weight of it, the shape of it. It has been a long time since I have held something like this, but I remember. I know what this is.

I unpeel the tape a piece at a time, one from each end and one from the middle, unwrapping it without tearing so I can keep even the paper. At last the box lies heavy in my hand. The dark green plastic box. I open the lid to make sure they’re all there. The top layer is full, and when I put my hand flat they slide around a little. My fingers trace the embossing: NUMBER-RODS-IN-COLOUR (FOR CUISENAIRE MATHEMATICS). It is a complete set of vintage rods, identical to the ones I threw away. I can see myself sitting on my bed and playing with them like I used to—tossing them and listening to the almost-metallic tinkling of their mid-air collisions. Waking in the morning to the sight of coloured rods scattered across the quilt, some still clasped in my hands. It’s only now, holding them like this that I realise how much I’ve missed them. A second-hand child’s game. My eyes fill with tears.

There’s no one on the landing. I peer over the railing. From here I can look down to the atrium. There are some struggling trees and 12 mismatched pot-plants belonging to flat two. There is a figure down below, looking up at me.

For a moment I stare at him.

‘Seamus Joseph O’Reilly. Hi.’

18

‘Grace Lisa Vandenburg. Happy thirty-sixth birthday.’

I’d like to grip the railing but I can’t let go of the box. ‘And I don’t look a day over thirty-five, right?’

‘Fishing for compliments? I can’t see your face from way down here. To tell you how wonderful you look I’d have to come up.’

No. Go away. I told you to piss off 15 weeks, 6 days and 16 and a half hours ago.

‘Or I could stay here,’ he says, ‘and we could do the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
.’

Any moment now one of the Indian boys will hear us and stick his head out to see that I’m okay. ‘I think you know the way.’

I watch him take every step. 44. He arrives on the landing. He takes 7 steps towards me.

‘You’re a hard woman to catch. I came around a few times. And I’ve rung.’ He reaches out and holds the railing with his right hand.

He’s wearing brown boots, his pale jeans and a green check shirt. Brown leather jacket unzipped, hands deep in the pockets. Perhaps he’s on his way to a rodeo. His hair is a little shorter than I remember. I wonder if it feels different. I wonder how long he’s been standing down there.

‘Only 23 times,’ I say. ‘Quitter.’

The air is cold and because I was only walking from the car I haven’t put on my jacket. With my spare hand I rub my arm.

‘I hope they’re right,’ he says. ‘I tried to remember. I wanted them to be exactly the same. Yours were a collector’s item.’

I hold the rods under the light outside my door. The green box glistens. ‘They’re perfect. How did you possibly find them?’

‘Ebay. It’s amazing the things people hold on to.’

Some child, somewhere, learned to count with these. Perhaps many children. Tiny hands, making pyramids and lines and stacks. ‘Thank you, Seamus. It was very thoughtful of you.’

He brings one hand to his face and rubs his chin. ‘So, to clarify. You’re grateful?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, are you grateful? For the rods?’

I don’t recall anyone ever asking me that before. It takes a while to find a response. ‘Um, I suppose, yes. I’m not giving away my first-born child or anything, but yes, I suppose I am grateful.’

‘So, you know what gratitude feels like?’

‘Um, yes. My parents fed and clothed me. Sent me to school. I’m 36 now; that’s a lot of birthday presents. I’ve actually been grateful before.’

He nods. ‘And I know you know what guilt feels like.’

This is stupid. I’m cold. I could just say goodnight. I could say, thanks for the gift, Seamus, and go inside and stop this inane conversation. It would be so easy. I’m only 5 paces from my door. Walk, and put the key in the lock. Turn it. Open the door, go inside. But his lovely eyes have an intensity I’ve not seen in them before.

I turn my head to the side and look over the railing again. ‘Yes, Seamus. Yes, I know what guilt feels like.’

‘And you know what it feels like to try to be someone you’re not.’

I put the rods in my bag of presents and fold my arms. ‘Yep. Lots of experience at that. Considering doing my PhD in trying to be someone you’re not.’

He takes 2 steps towards me. He holds on to my arms. I can feel his hands warm through the fabric of my dress.

‘So, we’ve established that you know what gratitude, guilt and pretending feel like.’

He’s so close to me now. At first all I can do is nod.

‘What do you want, Seamus?’ My voice is too low.

‘I don’t want any confusion about what happens from here.’

Those beautiful eyes. ‘What…what happens from here, Seamus?’

Slowly he lowers his head and he kisses me. A soft kiss. I had forgotten how this meeting of lips liquefies my bones. It’s been centuries since I’ve been kissed by him. I close my eyes.

‘I…I need to tell you…’

‘Hmm?’

‘I…therapy…I dropped out. Stopped the medication. The counselling. Everything.’

‘Honesty. Good start. I know, Grace. I spoke with Francine. She said something about carnations. Don’t change the subject.’

‘What was the subject again?’

‘Was there any gratitude, guilt or pretending in that kiss?’

I realise I’m gripping his shirt, my fingers threaded through between the buttons to touch the skin of his chest.

‘I’m not 100 per cent sure. Can you do it again?’

This time my hands leave his shirt and twirl around his neck. I remember the feel of his hair, the way the curls go in different directions. I remember the feeling of my breasts pressing against his chest. I remember everything. When he stops kissing me, my lips chase his. I open my eyes.

‘Well?’ He’s frowning, staring.

‘Let me see. Nope. No gratitude. No guilt. No pretending.’

‘No more lies, Grace.’

‘It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t meant to be a lie, but I can’t talk about it. I can’t think about it. I can’t even remember what I was doing, you know? That’s the worst part. The thing I was doing that was so important that I didn’t close the door—I don’t even know what that was.’

‘It’s okay, Grace. It’s okay.’

‘It’s almost his birthday. We’d be planning a party for next month. He could have been a builder or a sailor or a chef. He might have loved skiing or cycling. Everything would have been different.’

He holds me for a long time without speaking. ‘Everything is not so bad,’ he says. ‘A lot of it was my fault. I’m sorry, Grace. Truly, it wasn’t about changing you or rescuing you. I just wanted you to be happy.’

He’s warm. I can feel his heart beating. ‘Everything is fine,’ I say.

He reaches behind his neck and unwraps my arms. Returns them to my side, and strokes them. ‘Good. Great. Well, good night Grace.’

Before I know it he’s at the top of the stairs.

‘What? Just where do you think you’re going?’

He turns. A cheeky grin. ‘I’m going home now. Good night.’

I stomp towards him, maybe 5 or 6 steps. I lose count. ‘Listen to me, banana boy. You can’t just kiss me like that and then say good night.’

He grins and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I think part of the problem last time was that we started off a bit fast. I think it scared you. The fact is, I went out with you because I liked you. You, Grace, just as you were. Not you as raw material for the new improved Grace. I know the therapy was my idea, but…God, I can’t be brilliant all the time. This time we’re going to take it easy; really get to know each other. No rush. In a week or so I’ll ring you. And then we’ll have coffee. Then in a few months we’ll hold hands. No rush.’

If I still had the rods in my hand I would have smacked him over the head with them.

‘That must be the single most stupid idea I’ve ever heard in my life. At least it’s in the top ten. Do you think we’ll live to be a hundred? Or have you decided to become a Buddhist, and pray we have plenty of time together in your next life?’

He laughs. ‘I’m just trying to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing, heh? So in a week or so, you’ll ring me.’ His shirt is tucked into his jeans. I yank it out. He doesn’t move.

‘Yes.’

‘And then maybe we’ll have coffee.’ His shirt has 6 buttons, pearl coloured plastic. I undo the bottom one.

‘That’s what I said. Yes.’

‘Then we work our way up to holding hands? In a few months, if we feel like we’re ready.’ I undo another button. My fingers brush the warm skin of his stomach.

He gulps. ‘No rush.’

‘And…’ Button 3. ‘After that?’ Button 4. ‘After we hold hands?’ Button 5.

‘Grace…Grace it’s freezing.’

‘I can fix that.’ Button 6. ‘Come inside.’

19

It’s not perfect. Problems still pop up sometimes, but it’s surprising how things can be managed with a bit of imagination. Of the many things that have changed about my life, the most remarkable must be football. I love it. Seamus was right, that first morning we woke up together last summer. It is glorious. It’s all about numbers: touches, handballs, kicks, marks, percentage. And each player has a number on his back! How long has this been going on? Saturday afternoon has become the highlight of my week, although we also go on a Sunday if Hawthorn is playing. We need to arrive a little early so I can have my ham, cheese and tomato on wholemeal, brought from home, at exactly 1.15 p.m. Seamus has a pie and a beer any time he wants. Seamus misses all the good counting bits, but he seems content to sit with his arm around my shoulders and watch the game. Cricket season is coming up. Seamus says I’ll like that even more once I get my head around strike rates, batting averages and run-rate per over. I believe him.

Larry and Jill and Mother are delighted I am back with Seamus. We go to see Larry in the school play (she is Levi in a horrible performance of
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
). Mother especially adores him (Seamus, not Andrew Lloyd Webber). He is full of anecdotes of wonderful football injuries, like knees smashing cheekbones and eye-sockets, and shins shoving noses through the front of skulls. My mother has never been a sports fan before; now, with Seamus’s guidance, she never misses a game on TV. Shoulder reconstructions, anterior cruciates. She’s becoming an expert. Next year Marjorie, he tells her, I’ll take you to the motor racing. She can hardly wait.

One memorable day during the school holidays I take some time off work and Larry and I catch the bus to Chadstone. We sit in the food court. Larry chooses where we sit, then leaves to stand in line for a burger and chips. When she comes back to the table, she holds my hand and when she notices my eyes shut or my breathing become shallow, speaks soft words in my ear about courage and triumph and how proud she is of her aunt. Her favourite aunt.

We don’t manage to stay long (the array of chairs, uncountable because of people sitting, standing and moving, is unsettling and I have an allergy to something—I begin to itch uncontrollably) but she doesn’t seem to mind and helps me outside, again with her arm in mine. As soon as we are in the fresh air the itching stops, so perhaps it was caused by toxic gas coming off the plastic. It may have been fleas but they would have hung about for longer, I’m sure. We take a taxi back to my café where I buy her a chocolate muffin and a Diet Coke.

And all this time I never lecture her. I give her no advice, tell her no analogies or homilies. I compare her with no one. Because there are some things you must find out for yourself. But if there was just one thing that I could give to this beautiful child—just one thing I could hand her, wrapped in shiny paper and finished with a stiff bow, this is what I would tell her.

Most people miss their whole lives, you know. Listen, life isn’t when you are standing on top of a mountain looking at the sunset. Life isn’t waiting at the altar or the moment your child is born or that time you were swimming in deep water and a dolphin came up alongside you. These are fragments. Ten or twelve grains of sand spread throughout your entire existence. These are not life. Life is brushing your teeth or making a sandwich or watching the news or waiting for the bus. Or walking. Every day, thousands of tiny events happen and if you’re not watching, if you’re not careful, if you don’t capture them and make them count, you could miss it.

You could miss your whole life.

Acknowledgments

For information about the life of Nikola Tesla, I am indebted to Margaret Cheney’s
Tesla: man out of time
, and to Marc J. Seifer for
Wizard: The life and times of Nikola Tesla
. Any errors remain my own (or Grace’s).

I owe much to the wonderful Clifford A. Pickover’s
Wonders of
numbers: Adventures in mathematics, minds and meaning
, which was filled with fascinating information about numbers. And I am grateful to
www.crimelibrary.com
for facts on the trial and death of William Kemmler.

My thanks must also go to those readers who gave me helpful advice especially Keren Barnett, Melissa Cranenburgh, Jess Howard, Irene Korsten, Caroline Lee, Fiona Mackrell, Jess Obersby, Steve Wide and Chris Womersley. Friends were generous with their ideas and support, in particular Lee Falvey, Scott Falvey and Lee Miller.

Special thanks go to Peter Bishop and the supporters of Varuna writers’ retreat where I wrote part of this novel, and to RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing faculty, particularly Olga Lorenzo. I am incredibly grateful to Michael Williams for believing this manuscript could count, and to the brilliant and inspiring book lovers at Text Publishing, especially Michael Heyward.