The Unknown Home

The baked dish was warm in my hands, the crinkled foil covering the tray glinting in the evening glow. It was the kind of night where mosquitoes claimed the warm, dusky air and the shrill croak of crickets emanated from the bushes. Shifting the dish into one hand, I jammed my thumb into the old doorbell, flakes of rust spiralling to the ground. No response, no sound that the doorbell had done anything at all. I lifted my hand and rapped my knuckles against the wooden door, and quickly, a shadow passed through the stained glass window on the side.

‘Hailey! So good to see you.’ Leanne’s eyes flitted to the dish in my hands. ‘Oh, thanks for cooking. You really didn’t have to. Come in, everyone’s here already.’

‘Thanks, Leanne,’ I said, handing over the dish. For some reason, ever since I had moved out, it felt unnatural to call her Mum. I had barely uttered her name when I was a kid, going up until nearly five years old thinking Mum was her name. But now, it was as if some intangible switch had been flicked inside my mind, and the name slipped off my tongue more than it used to.

I followed Leanne through the hallway into the kitchen, where Clint was talking to Grace, sitting at the kitchen island. Grace looked older than the last time I had seen her, the bags under her eyes deeper, the creases around her eyes telling stories I hadn’t been involved in. Clint’s hair was wispier than I remembered, like puffy clouds surrounding a bald spot the size of a tennis ball in the middle of his head. James was in the kitchen, an apron tied around his torso, smears of a red sauce like blood on the otherwise white fabric. It had been nearly four years, I knew he went to culinary school but it was hard to imagine him in the kitchen.

‘Hailey! Hey, how have you been? It’s been a while, huh,’ Grace said, turning her attention to me. There were crimson rings on the bench beside her and two empty glasses in front of her and Clint.

‘Yeah, a long time. I’ve been alright. It’s tough working two jobs, living in a small apartment and working through university, but I manage. And you?’ I said, pulling up a chair beside her.

‘That’s good. I’ve been doing okay, too. I’m working in a bank now, not sure if you’ve heard, and it’s going well.’ She said.

‘No, haven’t heard. That’s good. How long have you been doing that for?’

‘Two and a half years. Yeah, it’s going well. Sorry, can I get you anything? A drink, maybe? I know we didn’t wait for you. Dad wanted to open the new bottle. It’s from half a decade ago.’ Clint heaved a chuckle, shooting a glance at the two empty glasses beside them.

‘Yeah, a drink would be lovely, thanks,’ I said, glancing at the kitchen. Long, shiny knife handles jutted out from a well-oiled wooden block, next to it an electric stove and a toaster, dark burn marks like parasites on its metallic exterior. The oven’s door was grimy with fingerprints, though it worked, unlike the oven at my childhood home. ‘Nice place. When did you get it?’ I asked Clint.

‘About four years ago. It was a bit more… suitable for us, you know? Is this the first time you’ve seen it?’ There was an air of cautiousness to the question.

‘Yeah, I think so.’ I said slowly. I hadn’t visited or seen him or Leanne in four years, the time he said it had been since he bought the house. But cream coloured walls, the frame of the family one Christmas with a tiny crack piercing through the side, the drip of paint that had hardened and immortalised on the wall –it seemed familiar, like a place I had seen in a dream. The kind of place that has an uncanny familiarity, my mind reaching to grasp the origin of the feeling, or convince me it didn’t exist.

Grace slid a glass in front of me and tipped the long neck of the bottle into it. ‘Tell me when to stop,’ she said, raising the bottle until a steady stream of the liquid came rushing out. The bottle was more than half-empty, I realised. Leanne had sworn off drinking years ago, and James’ glass had enough liquid that I wondered if he had sipped it at all.

‘That’s good, thanks,’ I said, when the glass reached just under half-full. Grace nodded, and turned to Clint.

‘Top-up?’ She asked, and he nodded. He cut her off when the dark liquid reached about half of the glass, then he grabbed the stem and began swirling it around before bringing it up to his lips.

Grace filled her own glass, then brought the bottle up to the light. Only a small amount of liquid glazed the bottom.

‘Might as well use the rest of it,’ she said, tipping the remainder of the bottle into her glass.

‘Oh, wow, good job, Hailey. This looks amazing.’ James had peeked under the tinfoil wrapping of the dish that I brought.

‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t wany you doing all the cooking. Not that you’re bad or anything, it’s just a lot of work.’ It was mac and cheese with a crispy breadcrumb topping, baked less than an hour ago.

‘No, it’s great. It’s a good side. And it’d be a good dinner if I screwed up the chicken.’ He shot a glance at the oven, where the roast chicken was basking in the dull yellow light, as if willing it to turn out well.

‘I doubt you’ll mess up the chicken. Isn’t it like, your specialty?’ I said, and James tucked the mitts onto his hand.

‘Used to be,’ he said, waving the heat away as he opened the oven. ‘I’m more of a dessert guy now. Got something up my sleeve for after dinner.’ I forced a chuckle, swirling my drink around in my hand.

‘Speaking of dinner, when’s it ready?’ Grace asked. Her voice had a lightness to it, her words slightly merging together like melting ice. She was already drunk, despite her glass still being full. I wondered how long she had been there before I arrived.

‘Ten minutes, maybe?’ James said. ‘You could set the table, if you want something to do.’

‘Thanks, mum,’ Grace rolled her eyes. Leanne suddenly paused from wiping the bench, cloth still pressed beneath her hand. ‘No, not you, Mum. Him.’ Grace said quickly, flicking a glance at James.

Clint suddenly stood up, his chair scraping behind him. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, leaving his glass on the bench and walking around to the cutlery drawers.

‘More wine, Hailey?’ Grace asked. I realised the glass in front of me was empty.

‘No, I’m alright, thanks.’ I said. ‘Bottle’s empty now, anyway.’

‘We can get out another bottle,’ Grace retaliated, a glint of something unreadable in her eye. ‘Come on, we used to do this all the time.’ I strained to remember a time when I drank more than a glass at a time.

‘No, I’m okay. Maybe after dinner.’ I said. I had quite a high tolerance for alcohol, I had found out, but the bitterness left a dry and astringent flavour in my mouth which I struggled to remove.

Grace huffed. ‘You used to be so much more fun.’

I had never seen Grace drunk, though somehow I knew what she would be like. Overly emotional, sensitive, but free from the weight of reality and living in the moment. I drew my gaze from her and shifted it blankly to the floor. What did she mean, I used to be more fun? What did we used to do all the time?

What memories were slipping away from me?

I shook the thought away, returning to reality. I lifted my gaze, but it flicked back to where I had been staring. A rack of bottles of different types of alcohol, many of which I had never tried.

Yet somehow, I instantly knew which was my favourite. I could almost taste it on my tongue, the warming sensation as I swallowed.

‘What do you mean, I used to be more fun?’ I asked. Grace looked at me, her expression blank and unreadable. There had been a silence, and I was picking up the scraps of the conversation.

‘You used to drink with me all the time. A couple of years ago. Remember?’ She asked.

‘No. What are you talking about?’ My mind flicked back to the past, like an old video tape rewinding. I couldn’t remember anything before I started university, I realised. Before that, high school. There was a gap in my memory. Two years, from when I was eighteen to when I was twenty. What had happened in the period I couldn’t remember?

‘Back when you lived here. After your little crash, before your friend took all the fun away. Don’t you remember?’ I forced a smile, but my mind was melting inside. What was she talking about? What crash?

‘Oh, right. Remind me, what happened again?’ I said.

‘Seriously?’ Grace raised an eyebrow, and I held my breath. I needed her to tell me. Two years that had elapsed and I hadn’t remembered anything. The truth had been held from me –possibly deliberately –and I needed to find out what it was.

‘Yeah,’ I responded, as casually as I could. Clint was still occupied with the cutlery. James was fussing over the chicken and Leanne was cleaning up. If Grace wasn’t supposed to be sharing this, no one would know.

‘When you crashed, and got amnesia, you came to live here. You couldn’t remember anything new for ages, but I could tell you stuff that had happened previously and you’d believe it. Anyway, it was fun, especially with all the money. The money that bought the house, paid the mortgage, all the gifts, everything. Until Tanya came and had to ruin it all by taking you away.’ She huffed, as if she hadn’t just shattered my world.

Suddenly, a fragmented memory resurfaced in my mind. A car, rain, headlights. A collision. And, after that: hospital. A new home. Every day, I woke up and wondered where I was. When we moved house. Why I was older and looked different than I remembered. Where all the money for the house came from, and every now and then, I would work it out, only to forget it the next day. It was my money. Given to me to help me live in a world that was wiped from my mind. To help me exist, but never spend on me. Spent on the house that wasn’t mine, Clint’s laptop I wasn’t allowed to touch, the big T.V I couldn’t watch. What was the point, I’d ask. All this stuff. It’s mine, but I can’t use it. Because I’d have no use for it, I was told. But I wasn’t stupid. Memories didn’t stick in my mind so I’d forget the fights, forget the money and wake up wondering what kind of hotel I was in as if nothing had ever happened. Until one day, my best friend saved me. Dragged me out of the house, set me up with money, got me my own place. Funded my therapy until I remembered enough to thank her. It all came back like a tidal wave.

‘Right. Can’t believe I’d forgot.’ I forced a meek chuckle through my teeth, and Grace rolled her eyes. Suddenly, I realised everything beneath the glowing white bulbs on the ceiling was mine. I had paid for it all. Everything was mine. I knew why I recognised the house. I had lived here for two years, the memories concealed in a dark corner of my mind, finally brought into the light. But now, I was struggling to keep my head above water. I shared a small apartment with two roommates, worked two jobs and was putting myself through university, with not so much as a dollar from my parents. Not so much as giving the money back that was mine to begin with.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ James said, and I watched as he carefully pulled the golden brown chicken out of the oven, surrounded by a ring of potatoes and sprigs of rosemary. A skill he had acquired in culinary school. A place, I suddenly realised, my money had funded. Given to me, but taken from my control, not even returned when I arrived at my own university. My stomach was a cauldron and anger was brewing inside. I could ignore it, be forgiving, move on.

Or I could get my money back, start my career the way it should have been. They had hidden this from me, hoping I would never remember. The scars on my head weren’t as deep as the scars in my heart, urging for justice, a dish I knew I would serve cold.