The January Wish Read online

  ‘All Australian made, love,’ the woman behind the stall said. ‘And for the rest of the afternoon, fifty percent off.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Grace said, her eyes not moving from the glimmering display of rings.

  ‘I’ll buy one for you,’ Jonah offered. ‘Which one do you like?’

  Grace touched them with her fingers as though doing so would help her see them better, then picked up a ring that caught her eye. She slid it onto her finger, the plastic backing board still attached. It resembled a sunflower, its stem wrapped in a diagonal circle around her finger, and the flower spreading out on top. ‘This one,’ she said, and then pulled at the ring. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Uh-oh, I think it’s stuck.’ Grace looked helplessly at Jonah and the saleswoman. Jonah tried to pull it off, but couldn’t.

  ‘Here, I’ll have to cut off the plastic binding connecting it to the backing board,’ the woman said. ‘But I’m afraid you will have to buy it after that.’

  Jonah grinned. ‘It’s okay, we’ll take it.’

  With a quick snap the binding was released, and the ring could now be easily slid on and off. Jonah paid, and they walked off, Grace tilting her hand side to side to admire the ring. ‘I can’t believe it got stuck!’ she said.

  ‘I can,’ Jonah replied.

  ‘What? Do you mean I’ve got fat fingers?’ Grace joked.

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied, cuddling her. ‘I just meant that it’s stuck on you, like I am.’

  Grace sunk into his grasp. ‘Oh, you’re so corny! But I love it,’ she whispered.

  * * *

  Sylvia opened the door just as Grace was walking up the steps of the front porch. Well, floating up, more like it.

  ‘Isn’t it a beautiful afternoon?’ Grace said.

  Sylvia poked her head outside. ‘Um, yes. It certainly is.’ She welcomed Grace inside and led her towards the piano. Sylvia had told Grace she could come over and practise every Sunday until the concert. ‘Can I get you anything, a drink?’

  ‘No I’m fine, I just had an ice-cream,’ Grace replied, twirling a curl in circular motions around her finger.

  ‘Nice ring,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Oh, thanks. I just got it from the markets. Actually,’ she said, leaning closer to Sylvia, ‘My boyfriend bought it for me.’

  Jonah.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Sylvia didn’t want to embarrass Grace by saying she’d seen her kiss Jonah yesterday.

  ‘Yep. Jonah DeRae. He works at Café Lagoon, you know him?’

  ‘I know Jonah and his parents quite well, actually,’ Sylvia replied with a smile, glad Grace had brought up the topic of boyfriends and not her.

  ‘Wow, this is a small town,’ Grace said. ‘Everyone seems to know everyone.’

  Sylvia nodded. ‘So, let’s get started. Would you like to perform an existing composition, or one of your own?’

  ‘My own composition. That way if I stuff up people might not notice!’

  ‘Grace, you won’t stuff up, you’re going to be great.’ Sylvia pulled a dining chair over while Grace took her place at the piano. ‘Show me what you’ve got in mind.’

  For the next hour and a half, Grace showed Sylvia her ideas, stopping here and there for Sylvia’s feedback, and to make adjustments to the composition. Sylvia agreed that an upbeat piece would be best, as Grace’s fingers were so quick on the keys it brought the room to life. Plus it would suit her bubbly personality.

  ‘Here,’ Sylvia dropped a key into Grace’s hand as she went to leave. ‘Why don’t you come by on Wednesdays to practise when you’re not at work.’

  ‘You sure? You don’t mind me being here when you’re not around?’

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘Of course not. It’ll be good for you to get a chance to practise on your own without me hovering over your shoulder. Make yourself at home, and feel free to help yourself to any food.’ Just don’t move the fridge magnets or rearrange the perfectly organised bookshelves. ‘Anyway, the house is closed up during the day so it would be a good chance to let some fresh air circulate.’ And remember to wipe the benches down after eating.

  ‘In that case, I’ll be sure to open all the windows when I come by,’ Grace said.

  And be sure to close them before you leave. Sylvia bit her lip to avoid giving orders. It was strange to know that someone would be in her house while she wasn’t home, but Grace was her daughter. She could trust her. Okay, she barely knew her, but they shared the same DNA. Surely somewhere in there was the sense of order and superb organisational ability that took up about eighty percent of Sylvia’s DNA. Then again, Grace also had her father’s DNA, eighty percent of which probably contained his childlike sense of fun and superb sporting ability.

  Grace attached the key to her key ring, which only had two other keys on it, and dropped it into her bag. She turned towards the front door, then hesitated a moment before turning back around. ‘Have you heard anything from your parents yet, about the concert?’

  ‘Not yet, but they’re on the road a lot, so they might not have had a chance to read their emails,’ Sylvia replied. It wasn’t the complete truth. She had received a ‘read receipt’, an automatic notification that they had opened her email, but no reply as yet. Disappointing. She’d told them the granddaughter they’ve never met was here, the least they could do was acknowledge that. As always, her parents would do what they wanted to do when they wanted to do it, and she would just have to wait until they were ready to talk. ‘I’ll let you know when I hear from them,’ she added.

  Grace nodded, and looked at her watch. ‘Oh boy, I better go, I have to be ready in half an hour!’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Sylvia asked, forcing a casual tone as she leaned on the doorframe. Lately, she’d become increasingly concerned with Grace’s whereabouts, wanting to know more about where she went and what she did. She would have been a basket case of a mother, always needing to know the exact movements, times, and locations of her child’s social life. Had she reared Grace herself, she probably would have supplied her with a pre-programmed electronic organiser with curfew times and reminder beeps, emergency contact numbers, and a first aid instruction manual.

  ‘Jonah’s taking me to see a band in Welston tonight. It’s gonna rock!’

  Grace told her the name of the band, and Sylvia nodded as though she knew who they were. ‘Well, enjoy!’ And don’t stay out too late. ‘I guess you’ll have a quiet night tomorrow after work then.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. I now do taekwondo on Monday nights, and Tuesday is Pump class at the gym, Wednesday I’ve enrolled in a dance class, and Thursday is Pilates,’ she explained. ‘I’m on a bit of a fitness binge!’

  Yep. Eighty percent sporty DNA. ‘I do the occasional Pump class and Pilates too, but mostly I swim,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Yeah, I noticed the pool out back.’

  ‘Feel free to use it when you come on Wednesdays,’ Sylvia said. Just dry yourself off in the laundry before coming back inside.

  ‘Thanks! Anyway, better go, thanks again for letting me use the piano.’ Grace trotted down the front steps.

  ‘You’re welcome, have a good night!’ Sylvia threw her voice to catch Grace who was jogging off down the driveway, one hand in the air waving at Sylvia, not looking where she was going. Before closing the door Sylvia saw Grace give a wave to Nancy Dillinger too. The comings and goings at Sylvia’s house lately were probably better than daytime television for Nancy.

  Back in the living room, Sylvia switched on her computer and logged into her email program. Fourteen new emails greeted her: a general practitioners newsletter, medical research subscription, a few from a Mr Gentleman trying to sell a bottle of Viagra for her dwindling manhood, and one from her parents. Although tempted to open the email from her parents right away, Sylvia followed her ‘email-checking protocol’ and deleted the spam first, filed the newsletters away to read later, and finally clicked open on the email with the subject: Re: I have some news.

  Chapter 2
5

  A month and a half since his run-in with Sylvia about his wife’s death, Mark had only sorted through one box of Cindy’s belongings. There were still eight more to go, and if the first was anything to go by, it wasn’t going to be an easy task. Tentatively, he’d cut the tape that secured the box together and peered inside. It was filled with an assortment of mismatched items, probably from one of the drawers of her bedside table. Three or four paperbacks, notepads, pens, candles, hair bands, even tissues. When he was preparing to move house, Mark had told his brother to put everything belonging to Cindy in boxes, and not to throw anything out.

  He could almost smell his wife’s scent, feel the remnants of her touch as he ran his fingers over the items in the box. He took the cap off her favourite vanilla lip balm, and touched it to his lips for a moment, knowing it last touched hers. The welcoming scent and moist sensation sent shivers down the length of his spine, just like when he’d first kissed Cindy.

  In the box he’d also found notes she’d written to herself—Don’t forget to organise a quote for the new curtains, Remember to bring fitness gear to park tomorrow for outdoor session, Book appointment with hairdresser, Return DVD’s. Such trivial things, yet these were all aspects of her life. Cindy liked to make sure she kept on top of things. She’d often joked that if it wasn’t written on a list somewhere it wouldn’t get done, so Mark had started adding his own notes to her lists: Cook gourmet three course dinner for darling husband, Give wonderful husband a luxurious massage, Breakfast in bed for Mark on Sunday. Now he wished he’d written: Go to doctor for a check-up, Tell husband you’re really not well enough to be left at home.

  Before a well of grief and regret threatened to drown his heart, he’d scrunched up the notes and tossed them in the bin. Waiting for his heart rate to normalise, he did the same with the lip balm, hair bands, and half burned candles. He tried scribbling with the pens. They still worked so he decided to keep them. The books he would take to the second hand store, along with some little trinkets.

  He’d been about to toss what looked like an empty envelope into the bin, when he’d opened it just to make sure. Inside were two ticket stubs from the movie theatre when they’d had their first date. Mark couldn’t believe she’d kept them. It brought a sliver of a tear to his eye, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw them out. He retrieved a shoebox from his wardrobe and placed the ticket stubs inside. Anything else he came across that he couldn’t bear to part with he could put in there and decide what to do with later.

  Mark sat silently, heavily, the remaining boxes a weight in his mind. One was enough for now; he couldn’t bear opening another. Afflicted with the sudden urge to move, he walked out of the tiny spare room, grabbed his house keys from the kitchen bench, went outside and flung the front door closed behind him.

  Mark lifted his leg over his bike and cycled down the long hilly road towards town. Crisp autumn air nipped his cheeks and woke him from his reminiscing, and he felt strangely euphoric. The combination of the air on his face, the rapid intermittent pedalling pushing blood through his muscles, and the sensation of moving forward made him feel alive. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but didn’t feel at all concerned with the speed he was travelling. In this moment, in his mind, he was invincible. Just like when he was a kid and he’d ride his bike down the steep hill around the corner from his house. Death Hill, the neighbourhood kids had called it. If you could descend it at full speed without stacking you were admitted into the Invincible Club. Since the inaugural ‘death ride’, only four kids had been inaugurated into the club by spitting onto the telegraph pole at the bottom of the hill and carving their name into it. Mark became the fifth. Two more followed, until someone stacked it badly and broke their leg and collarbone, and neighbours complained about the dangers to the local council. Eventually, a ‘no cycling downhill’ sign was erected, and the seven members of the Invincible Club became neighbourhood legends.

  Mark had gone back to his hometown a few years ago and found his name still existed on the telegraph pole. He’d imagined taking his future son to Death Hill and showing him the carving, telling him stories about his own childhood adventures.

  The son he was supposed to have with Cindy.

  The son who would never exist.

  He and Cindy had only just agreed to start trying for a baby a week before she died, but that dream died along with her. Pain ripped at Mark’s chest at the injustice that Cindy never got to experience motherhood, something she’d always wanted, but ‘only when the time was right’. How cruel that when the time finally was right, the opportunity was taken from her.

  And him.

  If she hadn’t died, they might have been parents by now, perhaps with a six-month-old baby. Mark would have been a father. Something he’d always wanted to be. Now, he was just a widower, who almost two years after his wife’s death had only just started going through her things, and still kept her photos in every room of the house. How was he supposed to move on when everything around him reminded him of her?

  Forced to slow to a stop by the inconvenient stop sign at the next intersection, Mark shook the memories and unfulfilled dreams from his mind. Up ahead were two white figures, and for a moment he thought he was hallucinating, the bizarre thought that they were ghosts flashing briefly across his mind. He rode past them, and one waved. It was Grace Forrester. Trying to keep his balance he returned a quick wave to her, and continued pedalling. She was with a young man who was wearing a black belt, Grace herself in a white belt, and obviously wearing a martial arts uniform. Ghosts! Was he going mad?

  Shaking that thought from his mind too, Mark remembered that Grace had cancelled her follow up appointment last week. Oh well, she must be doing alright then. Or maybe she was too busy at the moment. He hoped she’d come back though, there were other things he wanted to discuss with her. He decided if he hadn’t heard from her within the next month he’d call to see how she was going and encourage another consultation. Mark didn’t want another tragedy on his conscience.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve seen that guy around, who is he?’ Jonah asked, after Grace waved to Mark as he cycled past.

  ‘Mark Bastian. He’s the naturopath who works with Sylvia.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘I should have asked him to give me something to settle my nerves for today!’ Grace fiddled with her uniform as they walked around the corner towards the high school hall.

  ‘I can give you something,’ Jonah said, drawing her in and kissing her lips. ‘Anyway, you’ll be fine. I don’t know anyone who ever failed their first taekwondo grading. In another couple of hours you’ll be an official yellow belt!’

  Grace smiled. ‘It would be good to bring some colour to this uniform, I feel like a ghost!’

  Jonah wiggled his fingers in the air and sang, ‘Doo-doo-doo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo,’ in a spooky Twilight Zone voice, before wrapping an arm around her waist.

  ‘You’re crazy.’ Grace laughed.

  ‘That’s what happens when people get haunted by ghosts, they go craazeee!’

  Grace gave him a friendly slap across the chest, and within minutes the lighthearted mood Jonah had managed to create dissipated as they arrived at the check-in desk for the grading. Grace got her name ticked off, and Jonah led her to where she had to wait while he went to join the other black belts who were helping out for the day. She exchanged nervous glances with a few other white belts, and looked over at the blue and red belts, wondering if she’d ever get to their level, let alone black belt level.

  Sitting around waiting was making her sleepy, so she wiggled her legs and took a few sips of water, and soon the official proceedings began. After a ten minute warm-up, the white belts were first to take their position and perform the stances, while a crowd of about thirty or forty people in the audience watched in silence—except for a few young children who chattered and giggled, parents shushing them.

  Next, Grace performed the blocking techniques, followed by basic kicks a
nd punches. Each movement had to be accompanied by an enthusiastic gee yup, or loud yell, a way of raising your energy and intimidating your opponent. At the first class she attended she’d felt awkward and embarrassed to yell, but once she saw other people doing it she got into it, proudly gee yupping with the best of them! Apparently you lost points if you didn’t gee yup with enough enthusiasm, so Grace thought she might as well perfect that aspect of the martial art in case she needed it to make up for lack of skill in any other area.

  Before too long that portion of the grading was over, and Grace took her seat again, waiting and watching as each belt level performed their required techniques. It was great to watch some of the more advanced kick combinations from the red belts. Grace had tried a couple of them in the privacy of her caravan, but the lack of room combined with lack of training resulted in her knocking over the plastic bowls and cutlery on her tiny kitchenette bench, and falling onto the bed causing it to fold backwards into its alter ego, the makeshift couch.

  When all the techniques had been assessed, Grace and the other white belts rose from their seats for the sparring component of the grading. She was paired up with a girl a few years younger, but the same height as her. A female black belt in her twenties she’d seen at some of the classes stood near them, acting as a referee, and Jonah stood near one of the other pairs. Master Jin gave the instructions and they began sparring. Grace and her opponent kicked and punched while moving around, making sure not to contact each other. It looked more like playing than fighting and, with the girl’s high-pitched gee yupping that sounded like a crow on helium, Grace tried hard not to laugh.

  When all the belt levels had performed their spar, the students went through some cool down exercises then sat on the floor while Master Jin talked about their results. He announced that everyone had passed, and even though Grace knew she had, she wondered what he would say if she hadn’t. ‘Everyone has passed, except for YOU, Grace Forrester!’ and everyone would look at her and laugh until she ran from the room crying. Silly, but sometimes her mind thought up worst-case scenarios so that anything else would feel like a bonus.