Forgive What!

I remember my first apartment—more than a bachelor pad and a step up from the older style share-house of my university life. A deposit was paid with money saved from freelance work.

I moved into my apartment in the late summer of 1980. Jenny tarried interstate on her graduation holiday; I wished she were home.

I daydreamed of us hand in hand or sharing a meal.

My parents helped with the apartment renovations and furniture. A sofa and table off Noah's Ark were resuscitated from storage in my parent's garage. Dad joked that he could finally expand his workshop. I appreciated his help stripping 50s wallpaper and painting the apartment bedrooms in a light creamy tone.

My mum packed my remaining stuff from home and dropped the boxes in my new hallway. As I sorted it, I unpacked a couple of table tennis trophies and my Sunday school prize books.

Mum trimmed and weeded the patio garden but said it needed a woman's touch to add colour.

The small kitchen and cruddy bathroom would have to wait till I earned serious money for makeovers.

I cooked for one alone in the evenings and then read till bedtime. The wall phone engaged my eyes every night, preparing and eating dinner.

I wished it to ring —I hoped Jenny decided to ring.

I recall vividly the final time Jenny rang.

That night, I decided to cook Asian.

To start, I had to mix spices. My small bench was a messy cluster of ingredients. I checked the list in the cookbook.

Damn, cumin! 

I appreciated its warm, peppery flavour in a stir fry. My head ducked low into the bench cupboard as I scoured the front bottles. I pushed sachets of herbs aside, targetting an errant spice.

Cumin. 

I shook the packet and loosened the caked powder when I found it.

Happy, I mixed the fresh and dried herbs using my mortar and pestle. Next, I checked the seaweed strips I had left soaking in a bowl of warm water on the kitchen counter. I tested with a fork that they were tender and separated the tangled strands around the edge of the bowl.

My knife lay ready on a wooden chopping board. I pulled bunches of lemongrass and coriander out of the fridge. The fresh herbs wafted aromatic as I commenced dicing.

My attention wandered to a postcard that was taped to the fridge door.

Jenny sent me the card, a stunning photograph of Byron Bay lighthouse, imposing above the glistening sea. I counted the weeks since its arrival.

Busy Jenny, accompanying her cousin Abigail, roaming. 

I smiled contently as a boy who believed his girl would be home soon.

Next week? 

Or the week after — Jenny would come home. 

As I cut the lemongrass into thin slices, I recalled Jenny's words on her postcard.

We attended a local dance. 

Wish you were here. Abigail and I are country town wallflowers.

When I read the postcard, I failed to picture Jenny standing as a wallflower at a dance. Unimaginable, my amber-eyed lass, without a dance partner! 

I imagined walking into the hall, sweeping Jenny off her feet, pitching my tent next to hers, and inviting her into mine for the night.

I recalled her last phone call as being more recent than the postcard.

Jenny finally rang — late — past eleven o'clock to say hi and goodnight before I climbed into bed. I skirted; I slept earlier in her absence and scrambled to the phone in my pj's.

"Hi and goodnight," she always said.

"Jenny, it's terrific to hear you," I started, still drowsy. "It's been a while. How's the trip? Where are you?"

"Oh, it's great! We are at The Entrance, free accommodation. Ab's aunt is ace."

Her relaxed holiday mood carried through the line.

"It's hard to get a phone," she added cheerfully.

I recalled other difficulties with travel calls. Jenny once used a payphone on their trip to a small country town. She excitedly told me how Abigail and she pitched their tent near a weir and plunged into the incredible depths.

I opened my mouth to respond when suddenly Jenny exclaimed, "I'm out of coins!"

The line cut.

With access to a house phone at The Entrance, Jenny talked non-stop.

Listening to her excitement lifted my spirits: she detailed unspoilt beaches and surf fishing.

"We went out for dinner, yum! We had seafood at a place you would enjoy."

I cherished Jenny; I visualised having her beside me, telling me about her travels. Her voice bubbled as she expanded her travel plans and relaxed seaside activities.

She listened as I summarised renovations and routine outings. My dull, humdrum tales petered, and my voice trailed.

Suddenly we speed spoke conjointly on the phone.

Hearts understand the space between words.

In a gabble — we missed each other and looked forward to being together.

We stopped when she asked me to hold.

I heard her voice indistinct off the line.

Then Jenny said, " Abigail needed her, and she had to go — Bye and goodnight." 

These were simple words in themselves, yet when delivered by Jenny, they sang to my heart.

A phone call. 

A postcard. 

An empty mailbox and no phone calls turned into three weeks.

My ego dipped but didn't dive completely; I didn't allow myself to brood.

I had started cooking dinner when Jenny rang me.

My wooden stirring spoon slid into the wok and sank. I blanked out on reducing the stovetop heat.

My hand stretched out to secure the receiver.

"Luke," said Jenny.

Effusive, I was over the top of her, "It's perfect to hear you. I've missed you, Jenny — Is everything okay?" 

Cloaked doubts emerge quicker than a rogue wave.

"No," Jenny responded in a drawn-out way — like the word was too hard to say.

"Oh, can I help?"

Delivered like — I was the one who required the help.

"No," she said pointedly as if she was delivering bad news.

"What is it, Jenny?" I asked, my voice faltering as I gripped the phone.

My throat tightened, and my fingers fumbled to open my collar button, which was already free.

"I'm not coming back, Luke. I'm not," she delivered searchingly, seeking forgiveness in advance.

Forgive what! 

Jenny avidly committed to the combination of us!

Still, how could she back out now?