The January Wish (6 page)

Sylvia smiled, touched by Grace’s thoughtfulness and amused by her spontaneity. ‘I’m sure your dad will love it.’

‘I hope so, I mean, I don’t want it to upset him with all the memories and that, but I think as time goes by it’ll be something he’ll look at again and again. And hopefully the photos of
my
life will remind him there’s always hope for the future.’ Grace leaned forward in her chair and took a mouthful of risotto.

I can’t believe she’s my daughter.
Sylvia silently acknowledged her gratefulness for the couple who took her daughter home as their own. The couple who cared for her, fed her, taught her, and obviously loved her. She wondered how Grace would have turned out had she taken the responsibility of bringing her up herself. Would she be the same girl that sat here now? Would she dress the same, speak the same, and like the same food? Would she be making a memory album of
her
if she’d been the one who’d died?

A few quiet moments followed while they ate their meals, and the restaurant became busier with groups of people coming in and lining up for the buffet. Did people think they were mother and daughter? Or perhaps aunt and niece? It was strange to be having dinner out with an eighteen-year-old girl. Sylvia only ever went out with Larissa, a current boyfriend, or colleagues for a work function. And occasionally her parents on the rare occasions they came to visit, or when she visited them. Since her father’s retirement a year ago, Sylvia thought they might visit more often now they had more time on their hands, but it seemed they’d filled their spare time with golf, day trips with friends, and nights at the theatre. Not to mention the adult education courses they had enrolled in. She couldn’t understand why after a lifetime of working in schools her father would want to become a student himself, let alone study the oriental horticultural art of Bonsai. Her mother, yes, but she was happy to go along with anything.

After more conversation about general topics and a dessert of lemon meringue pie, Sylvia wondered when she should see Grace next. Should she be taking her under her wing and inviting her to stay at her house? Would a parent want their daughter staying in a caravan by herself? She couldn’t decide the right thing to do. Deciding on a course of action with a patient was relatively easy. You assess the priorities and target each issue step by step. But she wasn’t trained for this.

‘You know, I’m loving the caravan park, everyone is so nice and friendly, and the bathrooms are actually quite decent. I’ve put up a few pictures in the caravan too, just to make it more homely,’ Grace said.

‘That’s great,’ replied Sylvia.
Phew.
Decision made. Looks like it was probably best to leave things the way they were for now. Besides, she barely knew her daughter. It would be utterly strange to have her under the same roof.

‘Oh, I’ve heard the monthly markets are on this Sunday, are they any good?’ Grace asked, resting her elbows on the table.

Yes! That would be the perfect ‘next meet-up’, plenty of distractions around to get them talking. Sitting one on one at a table felt slightly awkward. Although Grace was showing herself to be quite the talker. Sylvia found it easy and fascinating to listen to her. ‘They’re fantastic. Many people come down from Sydney for the day. There’s food stalls, art, craft, jewellery, live entertainment…it’s a great day out. Even though I’ve been to more than I can remember, I still enjoy wandering around the park on market day.’ Sylvia dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then straightened in her chair as she adjusted her shirt.

‘Sounds awesome, I’ll definitely check them out.’ Grace fiddled with her phone.

Sensing that Grace was waiting for her to say something, Sylvia leaned forward slightly. ‘Would you like to meet there?’

Grace’s cheeks warmed with a pink glow. ‘I’d love to, I mean, that is, if you don’t have other things to do,’ she said feebly.

‘No, I’d love to join you for the day,’ Sylvia replied. ‘How about we meet at eleven?’

‘Sure, whereabouts?’

Sylvia thought for a moment and smiled softly at the irony. ‘At the Wishing Fountain in Miracle Park.’

‘All ready for tonight, Syl?’ asked Larissa.

With all that had been going on lately, and an uncharacteristic sleep-in this morning, Sylvia had momentarily forgotten about her best friend’s hen’s night tonight. As the more responsible of the bridesmaids she was to be the designated driver, which meant no drinking, or at the very least, one glass of wine early in the evening. Sylvia and alcohol didn’t mix well. She did drink here and there, but never more than one or two at the most; not after that night back in high school when she’d had four or five drinks, resulting in a night she could only just remember and a baby nine months later.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Sylvia, while opening her wardrobe to check which outfit she would be wearing, and gulping in horror when she realised she hadn’t yet prepared it on the clothes hanger labelled ‘special events’.

‘What’s that noise?’ Larissa enquired curiously into the phone.

‘What noise?’ Sylvia rebutted, as hangers slid and clothes swooshed along the railing until she found the outfit she planned on wearing. It was clean, but a little crumpled from being sandwiched between the hardly-worn funeral outfit and the often-worn conference suit.

‘Don’t tell me you’re rifling through your wardrobe figuring out what to wear, Sylvia Greene?’

‘Um, I already know what I’m wearing, don’t you worry.’ Sylvia yanked the long black dress with ruffled chiffon neckline out from its hanger, almost ripping the shoulder seam on the way. She placed it on the bed then reached up to remove the strappy heels from the front-opening transparent shoe boxes stacked neatly from floor to ceiling, organised by colour, type, and purpose. Not that there were many different colours, only black, cream, and one pair of white sandals. Flats lived at the bottom, and heels towered above, gradually increasing in heel height by the time they reached the top.

‘Good, so I’ll see you at my place at 2 p.m.?’

‘Absolutely, see you then.’ Sylvia hung up the phone and carried the dress to the laundry to iron it, making a mental note to tighten the threads on the shoulder seam.

A few hours later she’d picked up Larissa, who reluctantly put on her ‘Bride-To-Be’ tiara, and driven her and the three other bridesmaids, plus some other friends, to a classy day spa in the city of Welston, about a half hour’s drive from Tarrin’s Bay. Going there always reminded her of times gone by. She’d had placements at Welston hospital during her training. Sadly, it now also reminded her of Richard, as this was where he worked and lived.

Each woman was to get a facial, foot massage, and their hair and make-up done, before heading over to The Rooftop Restaurant and Bar. When Sylvia had been put in charge of organising the night, she immediately booked the
actual
rooftop of the restaurant, aware of how quickly it booked out to group functions. She’d had her thirtieth birthday party there, and the atmosphere, food, and service was impeccable. Despite her birthday being in autumn, the weather had been mild, and the chimineas on the rooftop kept the surroundings comfortably warm. Today, though, was a steamy thirty-three degrees, so she doubted the chimineas would be in action tonight.

Sylvia slipped out of her dress and into the robe provided by the day spa, and rang the tiny bell to indicate she was ready for her pampering session. Well, ready at least, but pampering she was not used to. She always felt she should be doing something productive, instead of wasting time having her skin rubbed, massaged, and slathered with creams containing God knows what Miracle Ingredient sourced from some exotic country or an obscure part of an amphibian’s anatomy. But heck, she may as well try to enjoy it. It could take her mind off Richard. She still couldn’t believe he’d been so inflexible and heartless. Okay, so she didn’t tell him she had a daughter, but she wasn’t exactly expecting to bump into her, at least not yet.

‘Okay Sylvia, close your eyes and try to relax…’ the beautician’s soft voice permeated the room as she floated in.

Why was it that whenever someone said ‘try to relax’ she’d end up becoming more tense? It was like at work when she’d say to patients, ‘try to think of something nice’, while shoving a hypodermic needle into their deltoid muscle.

As the beautician rhythmically lathered a thick cleansing cream over her neck and cheeks in soft upward movements, she somehow got a mental image of slopping a heap of cream onto Richard’s face, in a kind of ‘take that!’ gesture. Like they did with a cream pie in old movies. The bastard, he didn’t even stay to
talk
about the issue that night, he simply left. Just like that! Oh well, maybe she’d be better off without him, if he was the type to run at the first hint of commitment. Besides, once when he helped load the dishwasher, he put the forks and spoons together in the same segment of the cutlery holder. Unforgiveable!

As the Richard in her mind tried to wipe the cream away from his face so he could breathe again, gluggy droplets of cream bobbed up and down and side to side as he cried, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’

Laughter burst out of Sylvia’s throat, as the image of Richard looking like a cross between a melting vampire and the marshmallow man from
Ghostbusters
was too much to bear.

‘Oh.’ The beautician stopped lathering. ‘Are you okay, Sylvia?’ She hovered above, a curious half-smile on her face.

Sylvia cleared her throat, trying to eradicate the image of Richard from her mind. ‘Yes, sorry about that, it’s just, er… I’m a little ticklish that’s all,’ she reasoned.

‘No problem, I’ll adjust the pressure, shall I?’

The beautician resumed lathering but slowed the pace, exerting a firmer, more definite pressure. Then somehow, Sylvia got a mental image of lathering shaving cream onto
Mark’s
face, in an ‘I want you’ kind of gesture. Spreading the cream from the base of his neck, over his Adam’s apple, up over his chin, the side of his cheeks, and around his lips.

Sylvia sprung from the table to a sitting position and gasped, sending clumps of cream cleanser onto her lap and almost knocking over the beautician.

What the hell am I thinking?

Creases of annoyance and perhaps a little fear formed in the beautician’s forehead as she edged backwards. She probably wasn’t used to clients having spontaneous fits of laughter or Tourette’s Syndrome-like jack-in-the-box behaviour. ‘Er, Sylvia, is there something wrong?’ she asked tentatively, slinking further backwards, and probably trying to grab the nearest sharp
implement or hot tub of wax to use as a weapon should her client turn into a psychotic beautician-killer.

‘Oh no, I’m
so
sorry, you must think I’m a complete nutcase!’ Sylvia bowed her head. ‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind that’s all. I’ve had more drama in the past few days than an episode of
Desperate Housewives
.’ She managed a weak laugh, and to her surprise, the beautician, whose nametag said Katie, sat next to her on the table.

‘Tell me all about it,’ Katie insisted, rubbing the cleanser through her fingertips in anticipation.

Sylvia wasn’t the type to enthusiastically hug people she barely knew, let alone people she knew, but an hour later as she walked out of Katie’s treatment room all glossy-faced and glowing, she welcomed Katie’s embrace.

‘Now go on, make the most of this night. You need to let your hair down. And remember, that guy is not worth it. Focus your energy on getting to know Grace. Oh, and don’t discount that other guy, he sounds gorgeous.’ Katie winked, and Sylvia slightly regretted telling her about the shaving cream fantasy.

But it
was
nice to let out everything that was piling up in her head, even if it was with a complete stranger. She hadn’t even told Larissa yet about Richard leaving, or about Grace turning up, for that matter. She didn’t want to bring any of it up tonight. This was Larissa’s night, her night to celebrate.

Another hour or so later Sylvia emerged from the day spa with the others, feeling like a new woman. She certainly didn’t look like the mother of an eighteen-year-old, and tonight she planned on simply being herself. Not Dr Greene, not Richard’s ex-girlfriend, not the pregnant sixteen-year-old who chickened out of motherhood, and not Sylvia the woman who was strangely attracted to a man she’d only just met and now worked with. She was Sylvia Greene—an attractive, exciting woman in her prime. Well, perhaps exciting wasn’t the right choice of word for her personality. Pleasant, yes, that’s what she was—pleasant. But maybe tonight she’d try to be just a little bit exciting. It
was
a hen’s night after all.

A
little bit
exciting was an understatement. Sylvia hadn’t partied this way in years, and there’s no way she would have had the hen’s night been in Tarrin’s Bay. While out, Sylvia would always do a routine glance around the premises to ensure no patients were there. She could never shake the feeling that she shouldn’t be out enjoying herself in public, and that she was supposed to live a quiet, studious life, always on her best behaviour. And she always was, but tonight she went so far as to join the other bridesmaids, dancing on a table in the bar section of the restaurant. Granted, they’d had a few glasses of champagne, and Sylvia only one, but when Aretha Franklin’s song
Respect
came on there was no stopping them. She even agreed to karaoke for the first time in her life, but only as a duet with Larissa.
The Final Countdown
never sounded so good!

Before dancing, they’d enjoyed a sumptuous dinner on the rooftop, with stimulating conversation and the odd explosion of laughter. Sylvia made sure to involve all the women in the ‘How well do you know Larissa?’ quiz she’d created before they got to know the champagne too well. Even Larissa had to answer the questions but, surprisingly, only scored ninety-four percent! Larissa’s younger sister won the quiz, scoring herself a framed photo of the subject in
question. The night was enjoyable, and Sylvia somehow managed to deflect any questions aimed at her regarding her personal life, mostly by saying, ‘More champagne, anyone?’ and lifting the bottle up in the air.