Mel sat back later that night, her feet tucked in amongst the cushions piled high on the couch. On the coffee table in front of her sat a spritzer, something that she'd made herself come to appreciate once the boys had been born. No more chilling out with a glass of wine after work, not now, not with two tearaways sound asleep in the room down the hall. No, that sort of relaxation was long gone, Mel thought as she took a sip, the bubbles of the soda water prickling her nose, her tastebuds searching for the hint of wine that had hidden itself in the glass.
Closing her eyes, she tried to find a memory, something – anything – and failed again. Frustrated, she lay her head back against the couch, forcing herself to take a deep breath and to try to calm down. Failure was nothing new, not when it came to this. Failure was something she experienced regularly. The memories just weren't there. She SHOULD remember, after all, it was meant to have been the happiest day of her life – but nothing. No wedding memories, no honeymoon, no – no memory of the night Joe and Tom were conceived. Nothing. No memory of Rick, of meeting him, of falling in love, of – there was nothing there. Sighing, Mel forced herself to sit up. She couldn't wallow, not tonight. Not …..not tonight.
Running her fingers over the album, Mel sighed. Today, the anniversary was today. He'd died today – and she had almost died with him. Mel was never quite sure what made her pull through when Rick had died, and she was resigned to the fact that she would never really know. They'd told her he'd been killed instantly, and that she had had 'life threatening injuries', to use their terminology, but that she had pulled through. Absent-mindedly, Mel rubbed at her chest, the ache more present today, just below her heart where the metal scaffolding from the truck they'd hit had impaled her. A smallish scar now, after the plastic surgery, but a scar nonetheless. A reminder, a permanent reminder.
She'd had amnesia when she'd awoken nine days later. Classic tv-trash plot stuff, but it was true, she really couldn't remember. Didn't know who she was, where she was or what the hell was going on. She hadn't remembered one single thing she could make use of, in the end they'd had to tell her stuff, like her name – and the fact that her husband had been killed. They'd also had to tell her she was pregnant, and damn lucky that the babies were still alive. Still tracing the front cover of the photo-album with a hesitant finger, Mel finally forced herself to open it. She stared down at photo's she did not remember posing for, at images of the day she was married, the smile on Rick's face mirrored only by the smile on hers, the love in her eyes evident. Frustration surged through her as the memories took her nowhere. She just did not remember it. She couldn't remember his smile, his brown eyes, the way his dark blonde hair curled, his solid body – couldn't remember any of it. The boys – neither of them looked like him, both of them having cobalt blue eyes, eyes that sparkled with mischief and happiness. They both had a mop of dark hair, lithe little bodies and loved to laugh. Had Rick loved to laugh? Had he been able to make her laugh just by raising an eyebrow, like Tom could, or by tickling her like Joe did? Had they got that from their dad? How the hell was she supposed to know when she couldn't remember?
Getting up, Mel crept over to the boy's room, cracking open the door silently, praying they'd stay asleep. Neither boy was a deep sleeper, something Mel had found out to her cost, and she had long learned to creep around the house after seven at night. Joe snored softly, and Mel's heart clenched as a fleeting memory tried to make it's way to the surface. She was warm, safe and wrapped in his arms as she drifted towards sleep, his snores rumbling gently behind her, her back warm as his breath soothed her, she turned, smiling, wanting to see his face – and the memory dissolved. Clamping her eyes shut in a failed effort to stave off the tears, Mel turned to watch Tom. His tiny snores resonated as well, legs tucked up under him, his small plump hand gently stroking Rumble, the somewhat threadbare teddy that Tom shared his bed with. Again, Mel was plummeted into a memory, the same bed as before, the same person sleeping behind her, snoring gently, his legs intertwined with hers, his arms holding her tight to him. Again, in her mind, Mel tried to turn, tried to see him, to see Rick – but – but it - but it was gone.
Mel closed the door to her son's room before the tears of frustration really began to fall. The memory was so clear, so – so filled with love – and so missing anything that she could use. Anything that she could pin down to bring her memory back. The confusion, the frustration she felt when she had one of these flashbacks, it was all there. All of it, along with the fear. The fear that gnawed away at her each and every time.
The fear that the man behind her, the man holding her, and whom she knew without a doubt that she loved with all of her heart – that that man was not her husband.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
Tome Croydon stared at Kay. Stared at her until she began to feel uncomfortable, and glanced down at the photo again, but she had been right the first time, and she was right now. This Maggie, she wasn't Maggie, or if it was, then Kay had some excellent news for her next door neighbour. Mel had a sister, because this Maggie was Mel's spitting image.
Kay De Vanhoorn had been a popular member of the community, although an invisible one. Christope and her husband had deemed her place to be at the farm, along with Luka, who - according to them – had spoiled the image of the family. A defective boy, one with a mental age of a young child, he should remain unseen and should not sully their reputation of a powerful family in the area.
Kay had been appalled at the perspectives of her husband and son, and had all but walked out – but the reality was, where would she go? How would she survive – and how would Luka survive? Truth was, neither of them would, as Kay had no real education, having left school at fifteen and according to her husband and son, was definitely not mentally or physically equipped to make it out in 'the real world' as they put it. Their reasoning was that Kay only just made it as a wife and mother – the real world would swamp her and she was better off where she was. And as for Luka, well, he relied on Kay so much, he simply could not survive without her.
So Kay had stayed, had been the perfect wife by remaining in the background and looking after her family. He one joy, her one passion after her son, was baking, and it was this that allowed her a small sense of freedom. Marnie Deetweller had collected the fruits of her labour once a week as she delivered the groceries, and had fed Kay's soul with reports of how well her cakes sold. Vanhoorn Vanilla Slices had become a popular delight in Mt Thomas, Kay was told, and as small a victory as it was, she enjoyed the feeling of independence that fact gave her. Of course, it would have been more rewarding had she been able to ever get into town to be acknowledge for her baking skills, but no, her husband decreed this to be a waste of time, and therefore not going to happen. Kay had to make do with the reports that Marnie brought with her delivery.
When Charles De Vanhoorn had finally died, Christophe had stepped up, and to his mother's dismay, had only reinforced his father's beliefs. Luka was to remain hidden on the farm, the less said or done about him the better. Kay, however, would be allowed into town every now and then, as long as she remained invisible and didn't bring shame to the family. Under no circumstances was the farm to be sold, Christophe dismissed his mother's idea out of hand. Everything would stay the same. Kay and Luka would stay on the farm, and Christophe and his new girlfriend the vacuous Milly, would live it up in the city. Several weeks after the funeral, however, things had changed. Kay was never quite sure how Christophe worked it out, but apparently the farm would make more money tax wise if it was uninhabited, and therefore Kay and Luka were set up in a new house in NSW, Kay applied and got a job as a childminder, and Luka was enrolled at a school where he flourished. There was little contact between the two sides of the family, and neither party was too upset about that. Kay, therefore, had been surprised to receive an invitation from Christophe, requiring her presence at the party to celebrate his engagement to Milly, and had only come when Christophe had grudgingly agreed that Luka could come too.
It had been at this party that Milly had been shot at, and it was that that had led to all hell breaking loose at the station. The detective, PJ, had looked so broken, so furious, and yet so broken as he took off after yet another crass example of Christophe's inability to think of anyone but himself. Kay could understand it, this PJ had loved his fiancée, loved her apparently with a love that wasn't seen often – and she had mirrored it. This Maggie – Mel?? – had loved PJ just as much, according to Tom Croydon, and Christophe had rated it insignificant, like everything else that wasn't directly to do with Christophe.
Kay sighed, looking up to find Tom's eyes watching her every move.
"Kay? What – what does he mean? Who's Mel?"