Finding Grace Read Free

could almost see him sounding out each syllable in his mind, much like a small child trying to build a scale model of the Anzac Bridge with Popsicle sticks and crepe paper.
    So, I was telling Mum how I thought I should tell Amanda that it was a mistake.
    “Rachel darling,” Mum said, “what do you suppose that will achieve?”
    “Well, she won't move in with him.”
    My mother shook her head. She said, “No, she
will
move in with him, and she won't be your friend anymore,and if she did want to move out again, she wouldn't turn to you for help, because it would give you the chance to say “I told you so.' ”
    I took a sip of my red cordial, listening to the clinking of the ice cubes, and thought about what she had said. It occurred to me that she had been using that technique on me for years and I hadn't even noticed.
    So I showed her the ad and she frowned.
    “It says close to shops and uni,” I said, nodding and hoping that she would nod too.
    “It sounds like a big job, darling.”
    “Nah,” I said, waving my arm in the air, “it's just like babysitting.”
    She shifted in her chair but said nothing.
    “I'll be earning money just by sharing a house. How good is
that
?”
    “But it's not just sharing a house. You will be responsible for another person. You'll be
responsible
.”
    “But I'll be earning money and it's close to uni.”
    She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well, you can do whatever you want, but I just want you to think about something; when you're at uni you'll be studying. It's hard work. When you're not studying you're going to want to go out on the town and make new friends or meet boys. You're going to want to bring friends home. You won't be able to do that.”
    I suddenly felt sad. I don't have many friends. There's Kate that I work with at the café and a few friends from school but they are mostly my friends because we were in the same class. I'm a bit of a loner.
    I wanted to tell my mother that I'm not ready to go outon the town. I don't know about boys and clothes. Other girls at school seemed to know about this sort of thing by instinct. Not me. I'm just a plain old sparrow. This job would suit me because it would give me an excuse. I could tell myself I wasn't going out because I was working, not because no one had asked me.
    “It can't hurt to go for an interview,” I mumbled.
    My mother rubbed my shoulder and smiled. “You do what you want to do, darling. I just want you to be happy.”
    … … …
    The interview was held in an office building in the city. It was a private nursing agency that provided “carers” at an hourly rate for elderly or disabled clients.
    I was interviewed by the manager of the agency and (surprise, surprise) Mr. Alistair Preston. The manager was an attractive woman in a conservative navy pinstriped suit. She smiled, shook my hand and thanked me for coming.
    I was to live, rent-free, in a two-bedroom house near the university. I was to receive a wage of $135 a week.
    $135 a week! Boggle, boggle.
    I was to care for a brain-injured woman named Grace. For between fourteen and twenty hours a week I was to be relieved by a nurse, who would administer Grace's physiotherapy.
    “Since Grace came out of hospital she has been cared for by this agency,” said the manager. “We have provided a series of nurses on a rotational basis twenty-four hours a day. We have been more than pleased to offer this service; however, this kind of care is unusual for us. Grace is an unusual client because there is no primary carer.
    “Our normal service is to provide relief to the primarycarer of the client, usually parents, adult children or other family. As part of the service we hold six-monthly evaluation consultations with the client's doctor and family.”
    Mr. Preston leaned forward. “At the last consultation we discussed the adverse effect of this constant stream of new faces on Grace's progress. We haven't seen any improvement since she's come home.