Chapter 2
Grace
Ten Years Ago
Ifound my future husband at the only party I attended during my time at university. I was having a turquoise day, with barely any fatigue or pain, so when an acquaintance invited me over for the evening, I went.
Nick was standing just outside the circle of the chattiest uni students, sipping a beer.
I had a vague memory of him, so I struck up a conversation, accepting the beer he offered.
I could almost hear Mother’s whispered encouragement as Nick and I exchanged questions and answers about our respective courses (finance and architecture) and about our homes (the nicest residence hall at Otago, and my mom’s increasingly tumbledown house).
I remember squinting at him when the conversation flagged, taking a step back to examine his features without seeming too forward.
“I feel like I already know you.” I set aside the beer. “I’m sure I do—and not from seeing you around campus.”
He smiled and shrugged, and an image of that wooden play structure—the one that fell to pieces years ago—came to my mind.
With his deep grey eyes and dark brown hair, Nick’s features matched the boy who’d tried to save me from Mother.
But no. He didn’t match that boy’s restless, almost frightening energy.
He remained the only person in my life who’d ever openly noticed something might be wrong.
Maybe that kid—Nate, wherever he was—still thought of me as often as I thought of him.
I asked some vague questions about the park and that day so long ago, but Nick looked confused. I dropped the subject.
The two of us fell together so neatly that I was happy for a while, thanks in part to Mother’s open approval.
Nick was sweet beyond what I expected, more than willing to let Mother care for me as she deemed necessary, and highly tolerant of all the quirks and needs of my condition.
He persuaded me to drop classes when I became too sick.
He never said a word when, after a few months of dating, I dropped out of university altogether.
I was heartbroken—and too exhausted to get out of bed most mornings.
The pain that had licked just below the surface engulfed me.
My doctor had no idea how to calm the fire, except to tell me to stay in bed, drink fluids, and let Mother help me.
I told Nick we should break our relationship off—he didn’t need me dragging his life down any further, not when he had ambitions and goals and a future.
Instead, he gave me the surprise of my life and asked me to marry him on the night of his graduation.
It should have been romantic, but it was awkward.
We were on the phone after I watched the live broadcast of the event.
I should have been there to walk across the stage for my own degree.
Nick popped the question during the call, then made a logical argument I could barely hear over the pulsing in my body, the pain that racked me.
I can’t remember what he said, but I somehow avoided answering.
I wasn’t ready for this. We’d only been dating a few months, we hadn’t been intimate yet, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Nick and Mother had been discussing this entire marriage idea behind my back.
The flare got worse, landing me in the emergency department.
The doctors found nothing to go on: I’d tested negative for a number of autoimmune conditions years before and nothing else aligned with my symptoms. They gave me painkillers and sent me home.
Mother helped me, as she always did—and her help hurt, as it always did.
I hadn’t seen Nick since before graduation; he’d had to go home to the North Island to help his brother with a startup they’d been planning for years. I’d been half-hoping he might forget me and the entire marriage business, but Mother kept in touch with him.
“You know,” she said, bringing me soup one night, “Nick could be doing all of this for you. He’s such a good boy, always checking in and asking how you’re doing. I know he’d be all too happy to care for you, Graciously, and I’d guide him every step of the way.”
She put the soup down on a tray, eyeing me.
Mother had been a stunning woman in her youth—pictures of her throughout the years hung in every room of the house.
I knew she mourned the loss of her looks, which she attributed to the stress of my illnesses kicking off when I was three.
I still thought she was beautiful, with her liquid amber eyes, straight nose, and softly curling hair.
But Mother wanted to be svelte again. She wanted the thick hair she’d sported as a young woman, rather than the wisps that never seemed to grow past her ears.
“I still can’t believe you haven’t answered Nick’s proposal,” she said, settling the tray on my lap. “He’s such a good listener and he’s been so patient, waiting on you.”
She went on, speaking until I felt incapable of any kind of decision-making.
The worst part was that her logic was infallible: Nick was everything she said and more.
I didn’t tell her that his doting nauseated me at times, and his patience, kindness, and consideration seemed to prevent the passion I craved from him.
The deepest part of the problem was what I couldn’t say aloud: Nick’s treatment of me was similar to Mother’s.
He loved to make sure I was perfectly comfortable all the time, treating me like spun glass while feeding me foods you’re meant to give a sick person: toasted bread, chicken noodle soup, and oatmeal.
Every time I’d tried to initiate sex throughout our relationship, he’d demurred, saying he didn’t want to mess up my joints, or cause further inflammation.
I never asked where he got the idea that physical intimacy would cause me pain.
I already knew Mother was at the root of it.
I sat in bed, spooning soup into my mouth, my hand shaking from the pain in my wrist. Every joint hurt badly enough that the painkillers hardly helped. Mother stepped into my line of vision and waved her hand in front of my eyes.
“Are you even listening to me?”
I startled, spilling some soup onto my pyjamas. “Oh no…”
Mother smirked. “It’s okay, Graciously. I brought a cloth.”
She proceeded to wipe me down, taking hold of me as if I were a young child instead of a woman who should’ve been graduating alongside her boyfriend.
“Now, what do you say about Nick? He’s the best you’re going to get, you know, and he said he’d be willing to move in right next door.
The landlord’s looking for a buyer—you remember Moira?
She still owns the place and I got her to cut you and Nick a newlyweds deal.
I already put in an application for both of you.
Nick’s on board, so you’re the one delaying things, Graciously.
Don’t you want to live right next door, lovey?
Don’t you want to marry a nice man with a promising future? ”
No, I don’t, the words came to my mind, loud and clear, no, please…
I took another spoonful of Mother’s soup, the slightly astringent flavour causing the hinges of my jaw to smart.
“I’m not sure if Nick even wants me,” I whispered, trying to voice my concern. “We’ve never—”
I didn’t say more, but Mother seemed to understand.
“Oh, my dear, there is so much more to marriage than that.” She gave a fake little shiver, her eyes turning sharp. “In fact, you’re probably better off without it, when you’re so sick all the time. Be grateful for such a nice man, Graciously. Now, let’s call him and tell him the good news.”
And that was that. Mother called Nick and we were engaged, even though I never actually said ‘yes’.
I was too sick to participate in the feverish planning that followed, and I barely saw Nick at all.
He’d joined his brother in the North Island to deliver on the pact they’d made years before.
While Nick had been getting his degree, his brother had skipped uni altogether to work three jobs for some startup capital.
With Nick’s contacts and degree, and his brother’s money and sheer bloody-mindedness, the two of them put everything they had into launching a crypto app.
And, to my amazement and Mother’s delight, it worked.
Even in the midst of my pain and dread, I couldn’t help but marvel at what my fiancé and his brother had managed to do: their app made more money in one month than most New Zealanders made in a year.
And, once we were married, Nick would come back to the South Island to be with me.
I was trying to reassure myself that this was the right thing, that marriage made sense at this stage, and that moving in next door to Mother would keep me close while allowing me to have my own life.
More than that, I knew her assessment of Nick was right: he was a good man with excellent prospects, and I should be grateful he wanted me at all.
Despite my attempts at positivity, I was deeply unsure.
I’d hoped to finish my Architecture degree once I was well enough, and I had no idea how returning to uni would fit with Nick and Mother’s marriage plans.
Something told me neither of them would support me finishing my last two semesters.
My final project had been all about customising residential houses to the land they were built on, matching innovation with environmental factors.
This was nothing new, of course, but the merging of ancestral ways with sustainability was largely unstudied.
I’d started the project early, and my supervising professor had wanted to see it through to the graduate level.
Then I got sick again.
My recovery was slow, with bouts of clarity in between days of pain as I watched Mother plan the wedding I didn’t want. The whole time, something niggled at me—Nate, that long-ago boy, whose face matched Nick’s, and who I still somehow missed.
When I finally met Nate for the second time, it was at my wedding.
To his twin brother.