Before I Go To Sleep (Watson, S J)

BeforeIGotoSleep
ANOVEL
S.J.Watson
DedicationFormymother,andforNicholas.EpigraphIwasborntomorrowtodayIliveyesterdaykilledme.—PARVIZOWSIAContents
Cover
TitlePage
Dedication
Epigraph
PartI
Today
PartII–TheJournalofChristineLucas
Friday,November9
Saturday,November10
Monday,November12
Tuesday,November13
Wednesday,November14
Thursday,November15
Friday,November16
Saturday—2:07a.m.
Sunday,November18
Monday,November19
Tuesday,November20
Wednesday,November21
Thursday,November22
Friday,November23
PartIII
Today
Author’sNote
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
Credits
Copyright
AboutthePublisher
PartI
Today
THEBEDROOMISstrange.Unfamiliar.Idon’tknowwhereIam,howIcametobehere.Idon’tknowhowI’mgoingtogethome.
Ihavespentthenighthere.Iwaswokenbyawoman’svoice—atfirstIthoughtshewasinbedwithme,butthenrealizedshewasreadingthenewsandIwashearingaradioalarm—andwhenIopenedmyeyesfoundmyselfhere.InthisroomIdonotrecognize.
MyeyesadjustandIlookaroundinthenear-dark.Adressinggownhangsoffthebackoftheclosetdoor—suitableforawoman,butforonemucholderthanIam—andsomedark-coloredtrousersarefoldedneatlyoverthebackofachairatthedressingtable,butIcanmakeoutlittleelse.Thealarmclocklookscomplicated,butIfindabuttonandmanagetosilenceit.
ItisthenthatIhearajudderingintakeofbreathbehindmeandrealizeIamnotalone.Iturnaround.Iseeanexpanseofskinanddarkhair,fleckedwithwhite.Aman.Hehashisleftarmoutsidethecoversandthereisagoldbandonthethirdfingerofthehand.Isuppressagroan.Sothisoneisnotonlyoldandgray,Ithink,butalsomarried.NotonlyhaveIscrewedamarriedman,butIhavedonesoinwhatIamguessingishishome,inthebedhemustusuallysharewithhiswife.Iliebacktogathermyself.Ioughttobeashamed.
Iwonderwherethewifeis.DoIneedtoworryaboutherarrivingbackatanymoment?Iimagineherstandingattheothersideoftheroom,screaming,callingmeaslut.Amedusa.Amassofsnakes.IwonderhowIwilldefendmyself,ifshedoesappear.Theguyinthebeddoesnotseemconcerned,though.Hehasturnedoverandsnoreson.
Ilieasstillaspossible.UsuallyIcanrememberhowIgetintosituationslikethis,butnottoday.Theremusthavebeenaparty,oratriptoabaroraclub.Imusthavebeenprettywasted.WastedenoughthatIdon’trememberanythingatall.Wastedenoughtohavegonehomewithamanwithaweddingringandhairsonhisback.
IfoldbackthecoversasgentlyasIcanandsitontheedgeofthebed.First,Ineedtousethebathroom.Iignoretheslippersatmyfeet—afterall,fuckingthehusbandisonething,butIcouldneverwearanotherwoman’sshoes—andcreepbarefootontothelanding.Iamawareofmynakedness,fearfulofchoosingthewrongdoor,ofstumblinginonalodger,ateenageson.Relieved,Iseethebathroomdoorisajarandgoin,lockingitbehindme.
Isit,usethetoilet,thenflushitandturntowashmyhands.Ireachforthesoap,butsomethingiswrong.AtfirstIcan’tworkoutwhatitis,butthenIseeit.Thehandgrippingthesoapdoesnotlooklikemine.Itsskiniswrinkled,thenailsareunpolishedandbittentothequickand,likethatofthemaninthebedIhavejustleft,thethirdfingerwearsaplaingoldweddingring.
Istareforamoment,thenwrigglemyfingers.Thefingersofthehandholdingthesoapmovealso.Igasp,andthesoapthudsintothesink.Ilookupatthemirror.
ThefaceIseelookingbackatmeisnotmyown.ThehairhasnovolumeandiscutmuchshorterthanIwearit;theskinonthecheeksandunderthechinsags;thelipsarethin;themouthturneddown.Icryout,awordlessgaspthatwouldturnintoashriekofshockwereItoletit,andthennoticetheeyes.Theskinaroundthemislined,yes,butdespiteeverythingelse,Icanseethattheyaremine.Thepersoninthemirrorisme,butIamtwentyyearstooold.Twenty-five.More.
Thisisn’tpossible.Ibegintoshakeandgriptheedgeofthesink.Anotherscreambeginstoriseinmychestandthisoneeruptsasastrangledgasp.Istepback,awayfromthemirror,anditisthenthatIseethem.Photographs.Tapedtothewall,tothemirroritself.Pictures,interspersedwithyellowpiecesofgummedpaper,felt-tippednotes,dampandcurling.
Ichooseoneatrandom.Christine,itsays,andanarrowpointstoaphotographofme—thisnewme,thisoldme—inwhichIamsittingonabenchonthesideofaquay,nexttoaman.Thenameseemsfamiliar,butonlydistantlyso,asifIamhavingtomakeanefforttobelievethatitismine.Inthephotographwearebothsmilingatthecamera,holdinghands.Heishandsome,attractive,andwhenIlookclosely,IcanseethatitisthesamemanIsleptwith,theoneIleftinthebed.ThewordBeniswrittenbeneathit,andnexttoit,Yourhusband
Igasp,andripitoffthewall.No,Ithink.No!Itcannotbe…Iscantherestofthepictures.Theyareallofme,andhim.InoneIamwearinganuglydressandunwrappingapresent,inanotherbothofuswearmatchingweatherproofjacketsandstandinfrontofawaterfallasasmalldogsniffsatourfeet.Nexttoitisapictureofmesittingbesidehim,sippingaglassoforangejuice,wearingthedressinggownIhaveseeninthebedroomnextdoor.
Istepbackfarther,untilIfeelcoldtilesagainstmyback.ItisthenIgettheglimmerthatIassociatewithmemory.Asmymindtriestosettleonit,itfluttersaway,likeashescaughtinabreeze,andIrealizethatinmylifethereisathen,abefore,thoughbeforewhatIcannotsay,andthereisanow,andthereisnothingbetweenthetwobutalong,silentemptinessthathasledmehere,tomeandhim,inthishouse.
IGOBACKintothebedroom.Istillhavethepictureinmyhand—theoneofmeandthemanIhadwokenupwith—andIholditinfrontofme.
“What’sgoingon?”Isay.Iamscreaming;tearsrundownmyface.Themanissittingupinbed,hiseyeshalf-closed.“Whoareyou?”
“I’myourhusband,”hesays.Hisfaceissleepy,withoutatraceofannoyance.Hedoesnotlookatmynakedbody.“We’vebeenmarriedforyears.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Isay.Iwanttorun,butthereisnowheretogo.“‘Marriedforyears’?Whatdoyoumean?”
Hestandsup.“Here,”hesays,andpassesmethedressinggown,waitingwhileIputiton.Heiswearingpajamatrousersthataretoobigforhim,awhiteT-shirt.Heremindsmeofmyfather.
“Wegotmarriedin1985,”hesays.“Twenty-twoyearsago.You—”
“What—?”Ifeeltheblooddrainfrommyface,theroombegintospin.Aclocktickssomewhereinthehouse,anditsoundsasloudasahammer.“But—?”Hetakesasteptowardme.“How—?”
“Christine,you’reforty-sevennow,”hesays.Ilookathim,thisstrangerwhoissmilingatme.Idon’twanttobelievehim,don’twanttoevenhearwhatheissaying,buthecarrieson.“Youhadanaccident,”hesays.“Abadaccident.Yousufferedheadinjuries.Youhaveproblemsrememberingthings.”
“Whatthings?”Isay,meaning,surelynotthelasttwenty-fiveyears?“Whatthings?”
Hestepstowardmeagain,approachingmeasifIamafrightenedanimal.“Everything,”hesays.“Sometimesstartingfromyourearlytwenties.Sometimesevenearlierthanthat.”
Mymindspins,whirringwithdatesandages.Idon’twanttoask,butknowthatImust.“When…whenwasmyaccident?”
Helooksatme,andhisfaceisamixtureofcompassionandfear.
“Whenyouweretwenty-nine…”
Iclosemyeyes.Evenasmymindtriestorejectthisinformation,Iknow,somewhere,thatitistrue.Ihearmyselfstarttocryagain,andasIdosothisman,thisBen,comesovertowhereIstandinthedoorway.Ifeelhispresencenexttome,donotmoveasheputshisarmsaroundmywaist,donotresistashepullsmeintohim.Heholdsme.Togetherwerockgently,andIrealizethemotionfeelsfamiliarsomehow.Itmakesmefeelbetter.
“Iloveyou,Christine,”hesays,andthoughIknowIamsupposedtosaythatIlovehimtoo,Idon’t.Isaynothing.HowcanIlovehim?Heisastranger.Nothingmakessense.Iwanttoknowsomanythings.HowIgothere,howImanagetosurvive.ButIdon’tknowhowtoask.
“I’mscared,”Isay.
“Iknow,”hereplies.“Iknow.Butdon’tworry,Chris.I’lllookafteryou.I’llalwayslookafteryou.You’llbefine.Trustme.”
HESAYSHEwillshowmearoundthehouse.Ifeelcalmer.IhaveputonapairofpantiesandanoldT-shirtthathegaveme,thenputtherobeovermyshoulders.Wegooutontothelanding.“You’veseenthebathroom,”hesays,openingthedoornexttoit.“Thisistheoffice.”
ThereisaglassdeskwithwhatIguessmustbeacomputer,thoughitlooksridiculouslysmall,almostlikeatoy.Nexttoitisafilingcabinetingunmetalgray,aboveitawallplanner.Allisneat,orderly.“Iworkinthere,nowandthen,”hesays,closingthedoor.Wecrossthelandingandheopensanotherdoor.Abed,adressingtable,moreclosets.ItlooksalmostidenticaltotheroominwhichIwoke.“Sometimesyousleepinhere,”hesays,“whenyoufeellikeit.Butusuallyyoudon’tlikewakingupalone.Yougetpanickedwhenyoucan’tworkoutwhereyouare.”Inod.Ifeellikeaprospectivetenantbeingshownaroundanewflat.Apossiblehousemate.“Let’sgodownstairs.”
Ifollowhimdown.Heshowsmealivingroom—abrownsofaandmatchingchairs,aflatscreenboltedtothewall,whichhetellsmeisatelevision—andadiningroomandkitchen.Noneofitisfamiliar.Ifeelnothingatall,notevenwhen,sittingonasideboard,Iseeaframedphotographofthetwoofus.“There’sagardenouttheback,”hesays,andIlookthroughtheglassdoorthatleadsoffthekitchen.Itisjustbeginningtogetlight,thenightskystartingtoturnaninkyblue,andIcanmakeoutthesilhouetteofalargetree,andashedsittingatthefarendofthesmallgarden,butlittleelse.IrealizeIdon’tevenknowwhatpartoftheworldwearein.
“Wherearewe?”Isay.
Hestandsbehindme.Icanseeusboth,reflectedintheglass.Me.Myhusband.Middle-aged.
“NorthLondon,”hereplies.“CrouchEnd.”
Istepback.Panicbeginstorise.“Jesus,”Isay.“Idon’tevenknowwhereIbloodylive…”
Hetakesmyhand.“Don’tworry.You’llbefine.”Iturnaroundtofacehim,towaitforhimtotellmehow,howIwillbefine,buthedoesnot.“ShallImakeyouyourcoffee?”
ForamomentIresenthim,butthensay,“Yes.Yesplease.”Hefillsakettle.“Black,please,”Isay.“Nosugar.”
“Iknow,”hesays,smilingatme.“Wantsometoast?”
Isayyes.Hemustknowsomuchaboutme,yetstillthisfeelslikethemorningafteraone-nightstand:breakfastwithastrangerinhishouse,plottinghowsoonitwouldbeacceptabletomakeanescape,togobackhome.
Butthat’sthedifference.Apparentlythisismyhome.
“IthinkIneedtositdown,”Isay.Helooksupatme.
“Goandsityourselfdowninthelivingroom,”hesays.“I’llbringthisinaminute.”
Ileavethekitchen.
Afewmomentslater,Benfollowsmein.Hegivesmeabook.“Thisisascrapbook,”hesays.“Itmighthelp.”Itakeitfromhim.Itisboundinplasticthatissupposedtolooklikewornleatherbutdoesnot,andhasaredribbontiedarounditinanuntidybow.“I’llbebackinaminute,”hesays,andleavestheroom.
Isitonthesofa.Thescrapbookweighsheavyinmylap.Tolookatitfeelslikesnooping.Iremindmyselfthatwhateverisinthereisaboutme,wasgiventomebymyhusband.
Iuntiethebowandopenitatrandom.ApictureofmeandBen,lookingmuchyounger.
Islamitclosed.Irunmyhandsaroundthebinding,fanthepages.Imusthavetodothiseveryday.
Icannotimagineit.Iamcertaintherehasbeenaterriblemistake,yettherecannothavebeen.Theevidenceisthere—inthemirrorupstairs,inthecreasesonthehandsthatcaressthebookinfrontofme.IamnotthepersonIthoughtIwaswhenIwokethismorning.
Butwhowasthat?Ithink.WhenwasIthatperson,whowokeinastranger’sbedandthoughtonlyofescape?Iclosemyeyes.IfeelasthoughIamfloating.Untethered.Indangerofbeinglost.
Ineedtoanchormyself.Iclosemyeyesandtrytofocusonsomething,anything,solid.Ifindnothing.Somanyyearsofmylife,Ithink.Missing.
ThisbookwilltellmewhoIam,butIdon’twanttoopenit.Notyet.Iwanttosithereforawhile,withthewholepastablank.Inlimbo,balancedbetweenpossibilityandfact.Iamfrightenedtodiscovermypast.WhatIhaveachieved,andwhatIhavenot.
Bencomesbackinandsetsatrayinfrontofme.Toast,twocupsofcoffee,ajugofmilk.“Youokay?”hesays.Inod.
Hesitsbesideme.Hehasshaved,dressedintrousersandashirtandtie.Hedoesnotlooklikemyfatheranymore.Nowhelooksasthoughheworksinabank,oranoffice.Notbad,though,Ithink,thenpushthethoughtfrommymind.
“Iseverydaylikethis?”Isay.Heputsapieceoftoastonaplate,smearsbutteronit.
“Prettymuch,”hesays.“Youwantsome?”Ishakemyheadandhetakesabite.“Youseemtobeabletoretaininformationwhileyou’reawake,”hesays.“Butthen,whenyousleep,mostofitgoes.Isyourcoffeeokay?”
Itellhimit’sfine,andhetakesthebookfrommyhands.“Thisisasortofscrapbook,”hesays,openingit.“Wehadafireafewyearsagosowelostalotoftheoldphotosandthings,buttherearestillafewbitsandpiecesinhere.”Hepointstothefirstpage.“Thisisyourdegreecertificate,”hesays.“Andhere’saphotoofyouonyourgraduationday.”Ilookatwherehepoints;Iamsmiling,squintingintothesun,wearingablackgownandafelthatwithagoldtassel.Justbehindmestandsamaninasuitandtie,hisheadturnedawayfromthecamera.
“That’syou?”Isay.
Hesmiles.“No.Ididn’tgraduateatthesametimeasyou.Iwasstillstudyingthen.Chemistry.”
Ilookupathim.“Whendidwegetmarried?”Isay.
Heturnstofaceme,takingmyhandbetweenhis.Iamsurprisedbytheroughnessofhisskin,used,Isuppose,tothesoftnessofyouth.“TheyearafteryougotyourPhD.We’dbeendatingforafewyears,then,butyou—we—webothwantedtowaituntilyourstudieswereoutoftheway.”
Thatmakessense,Ithink,thoughitfeelsoddlypracticalofme.IwonderifIhadbeenkeentomarryhimatall.
Asifreadingmymind,hesays,“Wewereverymuchinlove,”andthenadds,“westillare.”
Icanthinkofnothingtosay.Ismile.Hetakesaswigofhiscoffeebeforelookingbackatthebookinhislap.Heturnsoversomemorepages.
“YoustudiedEnglish,”hesays.“Thenyoudidafewjobs,onceyou’dgraduated.Justoddthings.Secretarialwork.Sales.I’mnotsureyoureallyknewwhatyouwantedtodo.Ileftwithabachelor’sanddidteachertraining.Itwasastruggle,forafewyears,butthenIwaspromotedandwell,weendeduphere.”
Ilookaroundthelivingroom.Itissmart,comfortable.Blandlymiddle-class.Aframedpictureofawoodlandscenesitsonthewallabovethefireplace,chinafigurinesnexttotheclockonthemantelpiece.IwonderifIhelpedtochoosethedecor.
Bengoeson.“Iteachinahighschoolnearby.I’mheadofdepartment,now.”Hesaysitwithnohintofpride.
“Andme?”Isay,though,really,Iknowtheonlypossibleanswer.Hesqueezesmyhand.
“Youhadtogiveupwork.Afteryouraccident.Youdon’tdoanything.”Hemustsensemydisappointment.“Youdon’tneedto.Iearnagoodenoughwage.Wegetby.We’reokay.”
Iclosemyeyes,putmyhandtomyforehead.Thisallfeelstoomuch,andIwanthimtoshutup.IfeelasifthereisonlysomuchIcanprocess,andifhecarriesonaddingmoretheneventuallyIwillexplode.
ThenwhatdoIdoallday?Iwanttosaybut,fearingtheanswer,Isaynothing.
Hefinisheshistoastandtakesthetrayouttothekitchen.Whenhecomesbackin,heiswearinganovercoat.
“Ihavetoleaveforwork,”hesays.Ifeelmyselftense.
“Don’tworry,”hesays.“You’llbefine.I’llcallyou.Ipromise.Don’tforgettodayisnodifferentfromeveryotherday.You’llbefine.”
“But—”Ibegin.
“Ihavetogo,”hesays.“I’msorry.I’llshowyousomethingsyoumightneed,beforeIleave.”
Inthekitchenheshowsmewhichthingsareinwhichcabinet,pointsoutsomeleftoversinthefridgethatIcanhaveforlunch,andaneraserboardscrewedtothewallnexttoablackmarkerpentiedtoapieceofstring.“Isometimesleavemessageshereforyou,”hesays.IseethathehaswrittenFRIDAYonitinneat,evencapitals,andbeneathlaundry?walk?(takephone!)tv?Underthewordlunch,hehasnotedthatthereissomeleftoversalmoninthefridgeandadded,salad?Finally,hehaswrittenthatheshouldbehomebysix.“Youalsohaveadiary,”hesays.“Inyourbag.Ithasimportantphonenumbersinthebackofit,andouraddress,incaseyougetlost.Andthere’sacellphone—”
“Awhat?”Isay.
“Aphone,”hesays.“It’scordless.Youcanuseitanywhere.Outsidethehouse,anywhere.It’llbeinyourhandbag.Makesureyoutakeitwithyouifyougoout.”
“Iwill,”Isay.
“Right,”hesays.Wegointothehallandhepicksupabatteredleatherbriefcasebythedoor.“I’llbeoff,then.”
“Okay,”Isay.Iamnotsurewhatelsetosay.Ifeellikeachildkeptoutofschool,leftaloneathomewhileherparentsgotowork.Don’ttouchanything,Iimaginehimsaying.Don’tforgettotakeyourmedicine.
HecomesovertowhereIstand.Hekissesme,onthecheek.Idonotstophim,butneitherdoIkisshimback.Heturnstowardthefrontdoor,andisabouttoopenitwhenhestops.
“Oh!”hesays,lookingbackatme.“Ialmostforgot!”Hisvoicesoundssuddenlyforced,theenthusiasmaffected.Heistryingtoohardtomakeitseemnatural;itisobvioushehasbeenbuildinguptowhatheisabouttosayforsometime.
IntheenditisnotasbadasIfeared.“We’regoingawaythisevening,”hesays.“Justfortheweekend.It’souranniversary,soIthoughtI’dbooksomething.Isthatokay?”
Inod.“Thatsoundsnice,”Isay.
Hesmiles,looksrelieved.“Somethingtolookforwardto,eh?Abitofseaair?It’lldousgood.”Heturnsbacktothedoorandopensit.“I’llcallyoulater,”hesays.“Seehowyou’regettingon?”
“Yes,”Isay.“Do.Please.”
“Iloveyou,Christine,”hesays.“Neverforgetthat.”
Heclosesthedoorbehindhim,andIturn.Igobackintothehouse.
LATER,MID-MORNING.Isitinanarmchair.Thedishesaredoneandneatlystackedonthedrainer,thelaundryisinthemachine.Ihavebeenkeepingmyselfbusy.
ButnowIfeelempty.It’strue,whatBensaid.Ihavenomemory.Nothing.ThereisnotathinginthishousethatIrememberseeingbefore.Notasinglephotograph—eitheraroundthemirrororinthescrapbookinfrontofme—thattriggersarecollectionofwhenitwastaken,notamomentwithBenthatIcanrecall,otherthanthosesincewemetthismorning.Mymindfeelstotallyempty.
Iclosemyeyes,trytofocusonsomething.Anything.Yesterday.LastChristmas.AnyChristmas.Mywedding.Thereisnothing.
Istandup.Imovethroughthehouse,fromroomtoroom.Slowly.Drifting,likeawraith,lettingmyhandbrushagainstthewalls,thetables,thebacksofthefurniture,butnotreallytouchinganyofit.HowdidIenduplikethis?Ithink.Ilookatthecarpets,thepatternedrugs,thechinafigurinesonthemantelpieceandornamentalplatesarrangedonthedisplayracksinthediningroom.Itrytotellmyselfthatthisismine.Allmine.Myhome,myhusband,mylife.Butthesethingsdonotbelongtome.Theyarenotpartofme.InthebedroomIopentheclosetdoorandseearowofclothesIdonotrecognize,hangingneatly,likeemptyversionsofawomanIhavenevermet.AwomanwhosehomeIamwanderingthrough,whosesoapandshampooIhaveused,whosedressinggownIhavediscardedandslippersIamwearing.Sheishiddentome,aghostlypresence,aloofanduntouchable.ThismorningIhadselectedmyunderwearguiltily,searchingthroughthepairsofpanties,balledtogetherwithtightsandstockings,asifIwasafraidofbeingcaught.IheldmybreathasIfoundpantiesinsilkandlaceatthebackofthedrawer,itemsboughttobeseenaswellasworn.RearrangingtheunusedonesexactlyasIhadfoundthem,Ichoseapalebluepairthatseemedtohaveamatchingbraandslippedthembothon,beforepullingaheavypairoftightsoverthetop,andthentrousersandablouseandfinallyasweater.
Ihadsatdownatthedressingtabletoexaminemyfaceinthemirror,approachingmyreflectioncautiously.Itracedthelinesonmyforehead,thefoldsofskinundermyeyes.Ismiledandlookedatmyteeth,andatthewrinklesthatbunchedaroundtheedgeofmymouth,thecrow’sfeetthatappeared.Inoticedtheblotchesonmyskin,adiscolorationonmyforeheadthatlookedlikeabruisethathadnotquitefaded.Ifoundsomemakeup,andputalittleon.Alightpowder,atouchofblush.Ipicturedawoman—mymother,Irealizenow—doingthesame,callingitherwarpaint,andthismorning,asIblottedmylipstickonatissueandrecappedthemascara,thewordfeltappropriate.IfeltthatIwasgoingintosomekindofbattle,orthatsomebattlewascomingtome.
Sendingmeofftoschool.Puttingonhermakeup.Itriedtothinkofmymotherdoingsomethingelse.Anything.Nothingcame.Isawonlyavoid,vastgapsbetweentinyislandsofmemory,yearsofemptiness.
Now,inthekitchen,Iopencabinets:packagesofpasta,packetsofaricelabeledARBORIO,cansofkidneybeans.Idonotrecognizethisfood.Iremembereatingcheeseontoast,macaroniandcheese,cornedbeefsandwiches.IpulloutacanlabeledCHICKPEAS,apacketofsomethingcalledcouscous.Idonotknowwhatthesethingsare,lesshowtocookthem.How,then,doIsurviveasawife?
IlookupattheeraserboardthatBenhadshownmebeforeheleft.Itisadirtygraycolor;wordshavebeenscrawledonitandwipedout,replaced,amended,eachleavingafaintresidue.IwonderwhatIwouldfindifIcouldgobackanddecipherthelayers,ifitwerepossibletodelveintomypastthatway,butrealizethat,evenifitwerepossible,itwouldbefutile.IamcertainthatallIwouldfindaremessagesandlists,groceriestobuy,taskstoperform.
Isthisreallymylife?Ithink.IsthisallIam?Itakethepenandaddanothernotetotheboard.Packbagfortonight?itsays.Notmuchofareminder,butmyown.
Ihearanoise.Atune,comingfrommybag.Iopenitandemptyitscontentsontothesofa.Mypurse,sometissues,pens,alipstick.Apowdercompact,areceiptfortwocoffees.Adiary,justacoupleofinchessquareandwithafloraldesignonthefrontandapencilinitsspine.
IfindsomethingthatIguessmustbethephonethatBendescribed—itissmall,plastic,withakeypadthatmakesitlooklikeatoy.Itisringing,thescreenflashing.IpresswhatIhopeistherightbutton.
“Hello?”Isay.ThevoicethatrepliesisnotBen’s.
“Hi,”itsays.“Christine?IsthatChristineLucas?”
Idonotwanttoanswer.Mylastnameseemsasstrangeasmyfirstnamehad.IfeelasthoughanysolidgroundIhadattainedhasvanishedagain,replacedbyquicksand.
“Christine?Areyouthere?”
Whocanitbe?WhoknowswhereIam,whoIam?Irealizeitcouldbeanyone.Ifeelpanicriseinme.Myfingerhoversoverthebuttonthatwillendthecall.
“Christine?It’sme.Dr.Nash.Pleaseanswer.”
Thenamemeansnothingtome,butstillIsay,“Whoisthis?”
Thevoicetakesonanewtone.Relief?“It’sDr.Nash,”hesays.“Yourdoctor?”
Anotherflashofpanic.“Mydoctor?”Isay.I’mnotill,Iwanttoadd,butIdonotknoweventhis.Ifeelmymindbegintospin.
“Yes,”hesays.“Butdon’tworry.We’vejustbeendoingsomeworkonyourmemory.Nothing’swrong.”
Inoticethetensehehasused.Havebeen.SothisissomeoneelseIhavenomemoryof.
“Whatkindofwork?”Isay.
“I’vebeentryingtohelpyoutoimprovethings,”hesays.“Tryingtoworkoutexactlywhat’scausedyourmemoryproblems,andwhetherthere’sanythingwecandoaboutthem.”
Itmakessense,thoughanotherthoughtcomestome.WhyhadBennotmentionedthisdoctorbeforeheleftthismorning?
“How?”Isay.“Whathavewebeendoing?”
“We’vebeenmeetingoverthelastfewweeks.Acoupleoftimesaweek,giveortake.”
Itdoesnotseempossible.AnotherpersonIseeregularlywhohasleftnoimpressiononmewhatsoever.
ButI’venevermetyoubefore,Iwanttosay.Youcouldbeanyone.
Isaynothing.ThesamecouldbesaidofthemanIwokeupwiththismorning,andheturnedouttobemyhusband.
“Idon’tremember,”Isayinstead.
Hisvoicesoftens.“Don’tworry.Iknow.”Ifwhathesaysistruethenhemustunderstandthataswellasanyone.Heexplainsthatournextappointmentistoday.
“Today?”Isay.IthinkbacktowhatBentoldmethismorning,tothelistofjobswrittenontheboardinthekitchen.“Butmyhusbandhasn’tmentionedanythingtome.”IrealizeitisthefirsttimeIhavereferredinthiswaytothemanIwokeupwith.
Thereisapause,andthenDr.Nashsays,“I’mnotsureBenknowsyou’remeetingme.”
Inoticethatheknowsmyhusband’sname,butsay,“That’sridiculous!Howcanhenot?Hewouldhavetoldme!”
Thereisasigh.“You’llhavetotrustme,”hesays.“Icanexplaineverything,whenwemeet.We’rereallymakingprogress.”
Whenwemeet.Howcanwedothat?Thethoughtofgoingout,withoutBen,withouthimevenknowingwhereIamorwhoIamwith,terrifiesme.
“I’msorry,”Isay.“Ican’t.”
“Christine,”hesays.“It’simportant.Ifyoulookinyourdiaryyou’llseewhatI’msayingistrue.Doyouhaveit?Itshouldbeinyourbag.”
Ipickupthefloralbookfromwhereithadfallenontothesofaandregistertheshockofseeingtheyearprintedonthefrontingoldlettering.2007.Twentyyearslaterthanitshouldbe.
“Yes.”
“Lookattoday’sdate,”hesays.“Novemberthirtieth.Youshouldseeourappointment?”
Idon’tunderstandhowitcanbeNovember—Decembertomorrow—butstillIskimthroughtheleaves,thinastissue,totoday’sdate.There,tuckedbetweenthepages,isapieceofpaper,andonit,printedinhandwritingIdon’trecognize,arethewordsNovember30th—seeingDr.Nash.Beneaththem,arethewordsDon’ttellBen.Iwonderifhehasreadthem,whetherhelooksthroughmythings.
Idecidethereisnoreasonhewould.Theotherdaysareblank.Nobirthdays,nonightsout,noparties.Doesthisreallydescribemylife?
“Okay,”Isay.Heexplainsthathewillcomeandpickmeup,thatheknowswhereIliveandwillbethereinanhour.
“Butmyhusband—”Isay.
“It’sokay.We’llbebacklongbeforehegetsinfromwork.Ipromise.Trustme.”
TheclockonthemantelpiecechimesandIglanceatit.Itisold-fashioned,alargedialinawoodencase,edgedwithromannumerals.Itreadseleventhirty.Nexttoitsitsasilverkeyforwindingit,somethingthatIsupposeBenmustremembertodoeveryevening.Itlooksoldenoughtobeanantique,andIwonderhowwecametoownsuchaclock.Perhapsithasnohistory,ornonewithusatleast,butissimplysomethingwesawonce,inashoporatamarket,andoneofuslikedit.ProbablyBen,Ithink.IrealizeIdon’tlikeit.
I’llseehimjustthisonce,Idecide.Andthen,tonight,whenhegetshome,IwilltellBen.IcannotbelieveIamkeepingsomethinglikethisfromhim.NotwhenIrelysoutterlyonhim.
ButthereisanoddfamiliaritytoDr.Nash’svoice.UnlikeBen,hedoesnotseementirelyalientome.IrealizeIalmostfinditeasiertobelievethatIhavemethimbeforethanIdomyhusband.
We’remakingprogress,he’dsaid.Ineedtoknowwhatkindofprogresshemeans.
“Okay,”Isay.“Come.”
WHENHEARRIVES,Dr.Nashsuggestswegoforacupofcoffee.“Areyouthirsty?”hesays.“Idon’tthinkthere’smuchpointindrivingallthewaytotheoffice.Imostlywantedtotalktoyoutoday,anyway.”
Inodandsayyes.Iwasinthebedroomwhenhearrived,andwatchedhimparkhiscarandlockit,sawhimrearrangehishair,smoothhisjacket,pickuphisbriefcase.Nothim,Ithoughtashenoddedtotheworkmenwhowereunloadingtoolsfromavan,butthenhewalkedupthepathtoourhouse.Helookedyoung——tooyoungtobeadoctor——and,thoughIdon’tknowwhatIhadbeenexpectinghimtobewearing,itwasnotthesportsjacketandgraycorduroytrousersthathehadon.
“There’saparkattheendofthestreet,”hesays.“Ithinkithasacafé.Wecouldgothere?”
Wewalktogether.ThecoldisbitingandIpullmyscarftightaroundmyneck.IamgladIhaveinmybagthecellphonethatBenhasgivenme.Glad,too,thatDr.Nashhasnotinsistedwedrivesomewhere.Thereissomepartofmethattruststhisman,butanother,largerparttellsmehecouldbeanyone.Astranger.
Iamanadult,butadamagedone.Itwouldbeeasyforthismantotakemesomewhere,thoughIdon’tknowwhathewouldwanttodo.Iamasvulnerableasachild.
Wereachthemainroadthatseparatestheendofthestreetfromtheparkopposite,andwaittocross.Thesilencebetweenusfeelsoppressive.Ihadintendedtowaituntilweweresittingdownbeforeaskinghim,butfindmyselfspeaking.“Whatsortofdoctorareyou?”Iamsaying.“Whatdoyoudo?Howdidyoufindme?”
Helooksoveratme.“I’maneuropsychologist,”hesays.Heissmiling.IwonderifIaskhimthesamequestioneverytimewemeet.“Ispecializeinpatientswithbraindisorders,withaninterestinsomeofthenewerfunctionalneuroimagingtechniques.ForalongtimeI’vebeenparticularlyinterestedinresearchingmemoryprocessandfunction.Iheardaboutyouthroughtheliteratureonthesubject,andtrackedyoudown.Itwasn’ttoodifficult.”
Acarroundsthebendfartheruptheroadandheadstowardus.“Theliterature?”
“Yes.Therehavebeenacoupleofcasestudieswrittenaboutyou.Igotintouchwiththeplacewhereyouwerebeingtreatedbeforeyoucametoliveathome.”
“Why?Whydidyouwanttofindme?”
Hesmiles.“BecauseIthoughtIcouldhelpyou.I’vebeenworkingwithpatientswiththesesortsofproblemsforalittlewhile.Ibelievetheycanbehelped;however,theyrequiremoreintensiveinputthantheusualonehourperweek.Ihadafewideasabouthowrealimprovementscouldbeeffectedandwantedtotrysomeofthemout.”Hepauses.“PlusI’vebeenwritingapaperonyourcase.Thedefinitivework,youmightsay.”Hebeginstolaugh,butcutsitshortwhenIdonotjoinin.Heclearshisthroat.“Yourcaseisunusual.Ibelievewecandiscoveralotmoreaboutthewaymemoryworksthanwealreadyknow.”
Thecarpassesandwecrosstheroad.Ifeelmyselfgetanxious,uptight.Braindisorders.Researching.Trackedyoudown.Itrytobreathe,torelax,butfindIcannot.Therearetwoofme,now,inthesamebody;oneisaforty-seven-year-oldwoman,calm,polite,awareofwhatkindofbehaviorisappropriateandwhatisnot,andtheotherisinhertwenties,andscreaming.Icannotdecidewhichisme,buttheonlynoiseIhearisthatofdistanttrafficandtheshoutsofchildrenfromthepark,andsoIguessitmustbethefirst.
Ontheotherside,Istopandsay,“Look,what’sgoingon?IwokeupthismorninginaplaceI’veneverseenbutthat’sapparentlymyhome,lyingnexttoamanI’venevermetwhotellsmeI’vebeenmarriedtohimforyears.AndyouseemtoknowmoreaboutmethanIknowaboutmyself.”
Henodsslowly.“Youhaveamnesia,”hesays,puttinghishandonmyarm.“You’vehadamnesiaforalongtime.Youcan’tretainnewmemories,soyou’veforgottenmuchofwhat’shappenedtoyouforyourentireadultlife.Everydayyouwakeupasifyouareayoungwoman.Somedaysyouwakeasifyouareachild.”
Somehowitseemsworse,comingfromhim.Adoctor.“Soit’strue?”
“I’mafraidso.Yes.Themanathomeisyourhusband.Ben.You’vebeenmarriedtohimforyears.Sincelongbeforeyouramnesiabegan.”Inod.“Shallwegoon?”
Isayyes,andwewalkintothepark.Apathcirclesitsedge,andthereisachildren’splaygroundnearby,nexttoahutfromwhichIseepeopleemergecarryingtraysofsnacks.Weheadthere,andItakeaseatatoneofthechippedFormicatableswhileDr.Nashordersourdrinks.
Whenhereturns,heiscarryingtwoplasticcupsfilledwithstrongcoffee,mineblack,hiswhite.Headdssugarfromthebowlonthetablebutoffersnonetome,anditisthat,morethananything,thatconvincesmewehavemetbefore.HelooksupandasksmehowIhurtmyforehead.
“What—?”Isayatfirst,butthenIrememberthebruiseIsawthismorning.Mymakeuphasclearlynotcoveredit.“That?”Isay.“I’mnotsure.It’snothing,really.Itdoesn’thurt.”
Hedoesnotanswer.Hestirshiscoffee
“Somyhusbandlooksaftermeathome?”Isay.
Helooksup.“Yes,thoughhehasn’talways.Atfirstyourconditionwassoseverethatyourequiredround-the-clockcare.IthasonlybeenfairlyrecentlythatBenfelthecouldlookafteryoualone.”
SothewayIfeelatthemomentisanimprovement,then.IamgladIcannotrememberthetimewhenthingswereworse.
“Hemustlovemeverymuch,”Isay,moretomyselfthantoNash.
Henods.Thereisapause.Webothsipourdrinks.“Yes.Ithinkhemust.”
Ismileandlookdown,atmyhandsholdingthehotdrink,atthegoldweddingband,attheshortnails,atmylegs,crossedpolitely.ldonotrecognizemyownbody.
“Whydoesn’tmyhusbandknowthatI’mseeingyou?”Isay.
Hesighsandcloseshiseyes.“I’llbehonest,”hesays,claspinghishandstogetherandleaningforwardinhisseat.“InitiallyIaskedyounottotellBenthatyouwereseeingme.”
Ajoltoffeargoesthroughme,almostanecho.Yethedoesnotlookuntrustworthy.
“Goon,”Isay.Iwanttobelievehecanhelpme.
“Severalpeople—doctors,psychiatrists,psychologists,andsoon—haveapproachedyouandBeninthepast,wantingtoworkwithyou.Buthehasalwaysbeenextremelyreluctanttoletyouseetheseprofessionals.Hehasmadeitveryclearthatyouhavehadextensivetreatmentbefore,andinhisopinionithasachievednothingotherthantoupsetyou.Naturallyhewantedtospareyou—andhimself—fromanymoreupset.”
Ofcourse;hedoesn’twanttoraisemyhopes.“Soyoupersuadedmetocomeandseeyouwithouthimknowing?”
“Yes.IdidapproachBenfirst.Wespokeonthephone.IevenaskedhimtomeetwithmesothatIcouldexplainwhatIhadtooffer,butherefused.SoIcontactedyoudirectly.”
Anotherjoltoffear,asiffromnowhere.“How?”Isay.
Helookeddownathisdrink.“Icametoseeyou.Iwaiteduntilyoucameoutofthehouseandthenintroducedmyself.”
“AndIagreedtoseeyou?Justlikethat?”
“Notatfirst.No.Ihadtopersuadeyouthatyoucouldtrustme.Isuggestedthatweshouldmeetonce,justforonesession.WithoutBen’sknowledgeifthatwaswhatittook.IsaidIwouldexplaintoyouwhyIwantedyoutocomeandseeme,andwhatIthoughtIcouldofferyou.”
“AndIagreed…”
Helooksup.“Yes,”hesays.“ItoldyouthatafterthatfirstvisititwasentirelyuptoyouwhetheryouchosetotellBenornot,butifyoudecidednottoIwouldcallyoutomakesureyourememberedourappointments,andsoon.”
“AndIchosenotto.”
“Yes.That’sright.You’vespokenaboutwantingtowaituntilweweremakingprogressbeforetellinghim.Youfeltthatwasbetter.”
“Andarewe?”
“What?”
“Makingprogress?”
Heswallowssomemorecoffee,thenputshiscupbackonthetable.“Ibelieveso,yes.Thoughprogressissomewhatdifficulttoquantifyexactly.Butlotsofmemoriesseemtohavecomebacktoyouoverthelastfewweeks—manyofthemforthefirsttime,asfarasweknow.Andtherearecertaintruthsthatyouareawareofmoreoften,wheretherewerefewbefore.Forexample,youoccasionallywakeupandrememberthatyou’remarried,now.And—”
Hepauses.“And?”Isay.
“And,well,you’regainingindependence,Ithink.”
“Independence?”
“Yes.Youdon’trelyonBenasmuchasyoudid.Orme.”
That’sit,Ithink.Thatistheprogressheistalkingabout.Independence.PerhapshemeansIcanmakeittotheshopsoralibrarywithoutachaperone,thoughrightnowIamnotevensurethatmuchistrue.Inanycase,Ihavenotyetmadeenoughprogressformetowaveitproudlyinfrontofmyhusband.NotevenenoughformetoalwayswakeuprememberingIhaveone.
“Butthat’sit?”
“It’simportant,”hesays.“Don’tunderestimateit,Christine.”
Idon’tsayanything.Itakeasipofmydrinkandlookaroundthecafé.Itisalmostempty.Therearevoicesfromasmallkitchenattheback,theoccasionalrattleasthewaterinanurnreachesboilingpoint,thenoiseofchildrenplayinginthedistance.ItisdifficulttobelievethatthisplaceissoclosetomyhomeandyetIhavenomemoryofeverbeingherebefore.
“Yousaywe’vebeenmeetingforafewweeks,”IsaytoDr.Nash.“Sowhathavewebeendoing?”
“Doyourememberanythingofourprevioussessions?Anythingatall?”
“No,”Isay.“Nothing.AsfarasIknowIammeetingyouforthefirsttimetoday.”
“Forgivemeasking,”hesays.“AsIsaid,youhaveflashesofmemory,sometimes.Itseemsyouknowmoreonsomedaysthanonothers.”
“Idon’tunderstand,”Isay.“Ihavenomemoryofevermeetingyoubefore,orofwhathappenedyesterday,orthedaybefore,orlastyearforthatmatter.YetIcanremembersomethingsfromyearsago.Mychildhood.Mymother.Irememberbeingatuniversity,just.Idon’tunderstandhowtheseoldmemoriescouldhavesurvivedwheneverythingelsehasbeenwipedclean.”
Henodsthroughoutmyquestion.Idon’tdoubthehashearditbefore.PossiblyIaskthesamethingeveryweek.Possiblywehaveexactlythesameconversation.
“Memoryisacomplexthing,”hesays.“Humanbeingshaveashort-termmemorythatcanstorefactsandinformationforaboutaminuteorso,butalsoalong-termmemory.Herewecanstorehugequantitiesofinformation,andretainitforaseeminglyindefinitelengthoftime.Wenowknowthatthesetwofunctionsseemtobecontrolledbydifferentpartsofthebrain,withsomeneuralconnectionsbetweenthem.Thereisalsoapartofthebrainthatseemstoberesponsiblefortakingshort-term,transientmemoriesandcodingthemaslong-termmemoriesforrecallmuchlater.”
Hespeakseasily,quickly,asifheisnowonsolidterritory.Iwouldhavebeenlikethatonce,Isuppose;sureofmyself.
“Therearetwomaintypesofamnesia,”hesays.“Mostcommonlytheaffectedpersoncannotrecallpastevents,withmorerecenteventsbeingmostseverelyaffected.Soif,forexample,thesuffererhasamotoraccident,theymaynotremembertheaccident,orthedaysorweeksprecedingit,butcanremembereverythingupto,say,sixmonthsbeforetheaccidentperfectlywell.”
Inod.“Andtheother?”
“Theotherisrarer,”hesays.“Sometimesthereisaninabilitytotransfermemoriesfromshort-termstorageintolong-termstorage.Peoplewiththisconditionliveinthemoment,abletorecallonlytheimmediatepast,andthenonlyforasmallamountoftime.”
Hestopstalking,asifwaitingformetosaysomething.Itisasifweeachhaveourlines,haverehearsedthisconversationoften.
“Ihaveboth?”Isay.“AlossofthememoriesIhad,plusaninabilitytoformnewones?”
Heclearshisthroat.“Yes,unfortunately.It’snotcommon,butperfectlypossible.What’sunusualinyourcase,however,isthepatternofyouramnesia.Generallyyouhavenoconsistentmemoryofanythingthathappenedsinceyourearlychildhood,butyouseemtoprocessnewmemoriesinawayIhavenevercomeacrossbefore.IfIleftthisroomnowandreturnedintwominutes,mostpeoplewithanterogradeamnesiawouldnotrememberhavingmetmeatall,certainlynottoday.Butyouseemtorememberwholechunksoftime—uptotwenty-fourhours—whichyouthenlose.That’snottypical.Tobehonest,itdoesn’tmakeanysense,consideringthewaywebelievethatmemoryworks.Itsuggestsyouareabletotransferthingsfromshort-termtolong-termstorageperfectlywell.Idon’tunderstandwhyyoucan’tretainthem.”
Imaybeleadingashatteredlife,butatleastitisshatteredintopieceslargeenoughformetomaintainasemblanceofindependence.IguessthatmeansIamlucky.
“Why?”Isay.“Whathascausedit?”
Hedoesnotsayanything.Theroomgoesquiet.Theairfeelsstillandsticky.Whenhespeaks,hiswordsseemtoechooffthewalls.“Manythingscancauseanimpairmentofmemory,”hesays.“Eitherlong-termorshort-term.Disease,trauma,druguse.Theexactnatureoftheimpairmentseemstodiffer,dependingonthepartofthebrainthathasbeenaffected.”
“Yes,”Isay.“Butwhathascausedmine?”
Helooksatmeforamoment.“WhathasBentoldyou?”
Ithinkbacktoourconversationinthebedroom.Anaccident,hehadsaid.Abadaccident.
“Hedidn’treallytellmeanything,”Isay.“Nothingspecific,anyway.HejustsaidI’dhadanaccident.”
“Yes,”hesays,reachingforhisbagthatsitsunderthetable.“Youramnesiawascausedbytrauma.That’strue,atleastpartly.”Heopenshisbagandtakesoutabook.Atfirst,Iwonderifheisgoingtoconsulthisnotes,butinsteadhepassesitacrossthetabletome.“Look.Iwantyoutohavethis,”hesays.“Itwillexplaineverything.BetterthanIcan.Aboutwhathascausedyourcondition,especially.Butotherthingsaswell.”
Itakeitfromhim.Itisbrown,boundinleather.Iopenitatrandom.Thepaperisheavyandfaintlylined,witharedmargin,andthepagesarefilledwithdensehandwriting.“Whatisit?”Isay.
“It’sajournal,”hesays.“Onethatyou’vebeenkeepingoverthepastfewweeks.”
Iamshocked.“Ajournal?”Iwonderwhyhehasit.
“Yes.Arecordofwhatwe’vebeendoingrecently.Iaskedyoutokeepit.We’vebeendoingalotofworktryingtofindoutexactlyhowyourmemorybehaves.Ithoughtitmightbehelpfulforyoutokeeparecordofwhatwe’vebeendoing.”
Ilookatthebookinfrontofme.“SoI’vewrittenthis?”
“Yes.Itoldyoutowritewhateveryoulikeinit.Manyamnesiacshavetriedasimilarapproach,butusuallyit’snotashelpfulasyoumightthink,astheyhavesuchashortwindowofmemory.Butastherearesomethingsthatyoucanrememberforthewholeday,Ididn’tseewhyyoushouldn’tjotdownsomenotesinabookeveryevening.Ithoughtitmighthelpyoutomaintainathreadofmemoryfromonedaytothenext.PlusIfeltthatmemorymightbelikeamuscle,somethingthatcanbestrengthenedthroughexercise.”
“Andyou’vebeenreadingit,aswe’vebeengoingalong?”
“No,”hesays.“You’vebeenwritingitinprivate.”
“Buthow—?”Ibegin,andthensay,“Ben’sbeenremindingmetowriteinit?”
Heshakeshishead.“Isuggestedthatyoukeepitsecret,”hesays.“You’vebeenhidingit,athome.I’vebeencallingyoutotellyouwhereitishidden.”
“Everyday?”
“Yes.Moreorless.”
“NotBen?”
Hepauses,thensays,“No.Benhasn’treadit.”
Iwonderwhynot,whatitmightcontainthatIdonotwantmyhusbandtosee.WhatsecretsmightIhave?SecretsIdonotevenknowmyself.
“Butyou’vereadit?”
“Youleftitwithmeafewdaysago,”hesays.“Yousaidyouwantedmetoreadit.Thatitwastime.”
Ilookatthebook.Iamexcited.Ajournal.Alinkbacktoalostpast,albeitonlyrecent.
“Haveyoureaditall?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Mostofit.IthinkI’vereadeverythingimportant,anyway.”Hepauses,andlooksawayfromme,scratchingthebackofhisneck.Embarrassed,Ithink.Iwonderifheistellingmethetruth,whatthebookcontains.Hedrainsthelastofhiscupofcoffee,andsays,“Ididn’tforceyoutoletmeseeit.Iwantyoutoknowthat.”
Inod,andfinishtherestofmydrinkinsilence,flickingthroughthepagesofthebookasIdo.Ontheinsideofthefrontcoverisalistofdates.“Whatarethese?”Isay.
“They’rethedateswe’vebeenmeeting,”hesays.“Aswellastheoneswehadplanned.We’vebeenarrangingthemaswegoalong.I’vebeencallingtoremindyou,askingyoutolookinyourjournal.”
Ithinkoftheyellownotetuckedbetweenthepagesofmydiarytoday.“Buttoday?”
“TodayIhadyourjournal,”hesays.“Sowewroteanoteinstead.”
Inodandlookthroughtherestofthebook.ItisfilledwithadensehandwritingthatIdon’trecognize.Pageafterpage.Daysanddays’worthofwork.
IwonderhowIfoundthetime,butthenthinkoftheboardinthekitchen,andtheanswerisobvious:Ihavehadnothingelsetodo.
Iputitbackonthetable.AyoungmanwearingjeansandaT-shirtcomesinandglancesovertowherewesit,beforeorderingadrinkandsettlingatatablewiththenewspaper.Hedoesnotlookupatmeagain,andthetwenty-year-oldmeisupset.IfeelasthoughIaminvisible.
“Shallwego?”Isay.
Wewalkbackthewaywehadcome.Theskyhascloudedover,andathinmisthangsintheair.Thegroundissoggyunderfoot;itfeelslikewalkingonquicksand.Ontheplayground,Iseeamerry-go-round,turningslowlyeventhoughnooneisridingit.
“Wedon’tnormallymeethere?”Isay,whenwereachtheroad.“Inthecafé,Imean?”
“No.No,wenormallymeetinmyoffice.Wedoexercises.Testsandthings.”
“Sowhyheretoday?”
“Ireallyjustwantedtogiveyouyourbookback,”hesays.“Iwasworriedaboutyounothavingit.”
“I’vecometorelyonit?”Isay.
“Inaway,yes.”
WecrosstheroadandwalkbackdowntothehouseIsharewithBen.IcanseeDr.Nash’scar,stillparkedwhereheleftit,thetinygardenoutsideourwindow,theshortpathandneatflowerbeds.IstillcannotquitebelievethisistheplaceinwhichIlive.
“Doyouwanttocomein?”Isay.“Anotherdrink?”
Heshakeshishead.“No.No,Iwon’t,thanks.Ihavetogetgoing.JulieandIhaveplansthisevening.”
Hestandsforamoment,lookingatme.Inoticehishair,cutshort,neatlyparted,andthewayhisshirthasaverticalstripethatclasheswiththehorizontaloneonhispullover.IrealizethatheisonlyafewyearsolderthanIthoughtIwaswhenIwokethismorning.“Julieisyourwife?”
Hesmilesandshakeshishead.“No,mygirlfriend.Actually,myfiancée.Wegotengaged.Ikeepforgetting.”
Ismilebackathim.ThesearethedetailsIshouldremember,Isuppose.Thelittlethings.PerhapsitisthesetrivialitiesIhavebeenwritingdowninmybook,thesesmallhooksonwhichawholelifeishung.
“Congratulations,”Isay,andhethanksme.
IfeellikeIoughttoaskmorequestions,oughttoshowmoreinterest,butthereislittlepoint.AnythinghetellsmenowIwillhaveforgottenbythetimeIwaketomorrow.TodayisallIhave.“Ioughttogetbackanyway,”Isay.“We’regoingawaythisweekend.Tothecoast.Ineedtopacklater…”
Hesmiles.“Good-bye,Christine,”hesays.Heturnstoleave,butthenlooksbackatme.“Yourjournalhasmynumberswritteninit,”hesays.“Atthefront.Callme,ifyou’dliketoseemeagain.Tocarryonwithyourtreatment,Imean.Okay?”
“If?”Isay.Iremembermyjournal,theappointmentsthatwehadpenciledinbetweennowandtheendoftheyear.“Ithoughtwehadmoresessionsbooked?”
“You’llunderstandwhenyoureadyourbook,”hesays.“Itwillallmakesense.Ipromise.”
“Okay,”Isay.IrealizeItrusthim,andIamglad.GladthatIdonotonlyhavemyhusbandtorelyon.
“It’suptoyou,Christine.Callme,wheneveryoulike.”
“Iwill,”Isay,andthenhewavesandgetsintohiscarand,checkingoverhisshoulderashedoes,hepullsoutintotheroadandisgone.
Imakeacupofcoffeeandcarryitintothelivingroom.FromoutsideIhearthesoundofwhistling,puncturedbyheavydrillingandanoccasionalburstofstaccatolaughter,buteventhatrecedestoagentlebuzzasIsitinthearmchair.ThesunshinesweaklythroughthenetcurtainsandIfeelitsdullwarmthonmyarmsandthighs.Itakethejournaloutofmybag.
Ifeelnervous.Idonotknowwhatthisbookwillcontain.Whatshocksandsurprises.Whatmysteries.Iseethescrapbookonthecoffeetable.Inthatbookisaversionofmypast,butonechosenbyBen.DoesthebookIholdcontainanother?Iopenit.
Thefirstpageisunlined.Ihavewrittenmynameinblackinkacrossitscenter.CHRISTINELUCASIt’sawonderIhaven’twrittenPRIVATE!beneathit.OrKEEPOUT!
Somethinghasbeenadded.Somethingunexpected,terrifying.MoreterrifyingthananythingelseIhaveseentoday.There,beneathmyname,inblueinkandcapitalletters,arethreewords.
DON’TTRUSTBEN.
ThereisnothingIcandobutturnthepage.
Ibegintoreadmyhistory.
PartIITheJournalofChristineLucas
Friday,November9
MynameisChristineLucas.Iamforty-seven.Anamnesiac.Iamsittinghere,inthisunfamiliarbed,writingmystorydressedinasilknightiethatthemandownstairs—whotellsmethatheismyhusband,thatheiscalledBen—apparentlyboughtmeformyforty-sixthbirthday.Theroomissilentandtheonlylightcomesfromthelamponthebedside
Ihavethebedroomdoorclosed.Iamwritingthisinprivate.Insecret.Icanhearmyhusbandinthelivingroom—thesoftsighofthesofaasheleansforwardorstandsup,anoccasionalcough,politelystifled—butIwillhidethisbookifhecomesupstairs.Iwillputitunderthebed,orthepillow.Idon’twanthimtoseeIamwritinginit.Idon’twanttohavetotellhimhowIgotit.
Ilookattheclockonthebedsidetable.Itisalmosteleven;Imustwritequickly.IimaginethatsoonIwillheartheTVsilenced,acreakofafloorboardasBencrossestheroom,theflickofalightswitch.Willhegointothekitchenandmakeasandwichorpourhimselfaglassofwater?Orwillhecomestraighttobed?Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowhisrituals.Idon’tknowmyown.
BecauseIhavenomemory.AccordingtoBen,accordingtothedoctorImetthisafternoon,tonight,asIsleep,mymindwilleraseeverythingIknowtoday.EverythingIdidtoday.IwillwakeuptomorrowasIdidthismorning.ThinkingIamstillachild.ThinkingIstillhaveawholelifetimeofchoiceaheadofme.
AndthenIwillfindout,again,thatIamwrong.Mychoiceshavealreadybeenmade.Halfmylifeisbehindme.
ThedoctorwascalledNash.Hecalledmethismorning,collectedmeinhiscar,drovemetoanoffice.HeaskedmeandItoldhimthatIhadnevermethimbefore;hesmiled—thoughnotunkindly—andopenedthelidofthecomputerthatsatonhisdesk.
Heplayedmeafilm.Avideoclip.Itwasofmeandhim,sittingindifferentclothesbutthesamechairs,inthesameoffice.Inthefilmhehandedmeapencilandaskedmetodrawshapesonapieceofpaper,butbylookingonlyinamirrorsothateverythingappearedbackward.IcouldseethatIfounditdifficult,butwatchingitnowallIcouldseewasmywrinkledfingersandtheglintoftheweddingringonmylefthand.WhenIhadfinished,heseemedpleased.“You’regettingfaster,”hesaidonthevideo,thenaddedthatsomewhere,deep,deepdown,ImustberememberingtheeffectsofmyweeksofpracticeevenifIdidnotrememberthepracticeitself.“Thatmeansyourlong-termmemorymustbeworkingonsomelevel,”hesaid.Ismiledthen,butdidnotlookhappy.Thefilmended.
Dr.Nashclosedhiscomputer.Hesaidwehavebeenmeetingforthelastfewweeks,thatIhaveasevereimpairmentofsomethingcalledmyepisodicmemory.HeexplainedthatthismeansIcan’trememberevents,orautobiographicaldetails,andtoldmethatthisisusuallyduetosomekindofneurologicalproblem.Structural,orchemical,hesaid.Orahormonalimbalance.Itisveryrare,andIseemtobeaffectedparticularlybadly.WhenIaskedhimhowbadly,hetoldmethatsomedaysIcan’tremembermuchbeyondmyearlychildhood.Ithoughtofthismorning,whenIhadwokenwithnoadultmemoriesatall.
“Somedays?”Isaid.Hedidnotanswer,andhissilencetoldmewhathereallymeant:
Mostdays.
Therearetreatmentsforpersistentamnesia,hesaid—drugs,hypnosis—butmosthavealreadybeentried.“Butyou’reuniquelyplacedtohelpyourself,Christine,”hesaid,andwhenIaskedhimwhy,hetoldmeitwasbecauseIamdifferentfrommostamnesiacs.“Yourpatternofsymptomsdoesnotsuggestthatyourmemoriesarelostforever,”hesaid.“Youcanrecallthingsforhours.Rightupuntilyougotosleep.Youcanevendozeandstillrememberthingswhenyouwakeup,aslongasyouhaven’tbeeninadeepsleep.That’sveryunusual.Mostamnesiacslosetheirnewmemorieseveryfewseconds…”
“And?”Isaid.Heslidabrownnotebookacrossthedesktowardme.
“Ithinkitmightbeworthyoudocumentingyourtreatment,yourfeelings,anyimpressionsormemoriesthatcometoyou.Inhere.”
Ireachedforwardandtookthebookfromhim.Itspageswereblank.
Sothisismytreatment?Ithought.Keepingajournal?Iwanttorememberthings,notjustrecordthem.
Hemusthavesensedmydisappointment.“I’malsohopingtheactofwritingyourmemoriesmighttriggersomemore,”hesaid.“Theeffectmightbecumulative.”
Iwassilentforamoment.WhatchoicedidIhave,really?KeepajournalorstayasIam,forever.
“Okay,”Isaid.“I’lldoit.”
“Good,”hesaid.“I’vewrittenmynumbersinthefrontofthebook.Callmeifyougetconfused.”
ItookthebookfromhimandsaidIwould.Therewasalongpause,andhesaid,“We’vebeendoingsomegoodworkrecentlyaroundyourearlychildhood.We’vebeenlookingatpictures.Thingslikethat.”Isaidnothing,andhetookaphotographoutofthefileinfrontofhim.“TodayI’dlikeyoutotakealookatthis,”hesaid.“Doyourecognizeit?”
Thephotographwasofahouse.Atfirstitseemedtotallyunfamiliartome,butthenIsawthewornstepthatledtothefrontdoorandsuddenlyknew.ItwasthehouseinwhichIhadgrownup,theonethat,thismorning,IhadthoughtIwaswakingupin.Ithadlookeddifferent,somehowlessreal,butwasunmistakable.Iswallowedhard.“It’swhereIlivedasachild,”Isaid.
Henoddedandtoldmethatmostofmyearlymemoriesareunaffected.Heaskedmetodescribetheinsideofthehouse.
ItoldhimwhatIremembered:thatthefrontdooropeneddirectlyintothelivingroom,thattherewasasmalldiningroomatthebackofthehouse,thatvisitorswereencouragedtousethealleythatseparatedourhousefromtheneighborsandgostraightintothekitchenattheback.
“More?”hesaid.“Howaboutupstairs?”
“Twobedrooms,”Isaid.“Oneatthefront,oneattheback.Thebathandtoiletwerethroughthekitchen,attheverybackofthehouse.They’dbeeninaseparatebuildinguntilitwasjoinedtotherestofthehousewithtwobrickwallsandaroofofcorrugatedplastic.”
“More?”
Ididnotknowwhathewaslookingfor.“I’mnotsure…”Isaid.
HeaskedmeifIrememberedanysmalldetails.
Itcametomethen.“MymotherkeptajarinthepantrywiththewordSugarwrittenonit,”Isaid.“Sheusedtokeepmoneyinthere.She’dhideitonthetopshelf.Therewerejamsupthere,too.Shemadeherown.Weusedtopicktheberriesfromawoodthatwedroveto.Idon’trememberwhere.Thethreeofuswouldwalkdeepintotheforestandpickblackberries.Bagsandbags.Andthenmymotherwouldboilthemtomakejam.”
“Good,”hesaid,nodding.“Excellent!”Hewaswritinginthefileinfrontofhim.“Whataboutthese?”
Heshowedmeacouplemorepictures.Oneofawomanwho,afterafewmoments,Irecognizedasmymother.Oneofme.ItoldhimwhatIcould.WhenIfinished,heputthemaway.“That’sgood.You’verememberedalotmoreofyourchildhoodthanusual.Ithinkbecauseofthephotographs.”Hepaused.“NexttimeI’dliketoshowyouafewmore.”
Isaidyes.Iwonderedwherehehadgotthesephotos,howmuchheknewofmylifethatIdidnotknowmyself.
“CanIkeepit?”Isaid.“Thatpictureofmyoldhouse?”
Hesmiled.“Ofcourse!”HepasseditoverandIslippeditbetweenthepagesofthenotebook.
Hedrovemeback.He’dalreadyexplainedthatBendoesnotknowwearemeeting,butnowhetoldmeIoughttothinkcarefullyaboutwhetherIwantedtotellhimaboutthejournalIwastokeep.“Youmightfeelinhibited,”hesaid.“Reluctanttowriteaboutcertainthings.Ithinkitveryimportantthatyoufeelabletowritewhateveryouwant.PlusBenmightnotbehappytofindthatyou’vedecidedtoattempttreatment,onceagain.”Hepaused.“Youmighthavetohideit.”
“ButhowwillIknowtowriteinit?”Isaid.Hesaidnothing.Anideacametome.“Willyouremindme?”
Hetoldmehewould.“Butyou’llhavetotellmewhereyou’regoingtohideit,”hesaid.Wewerepullingupinfrontofahouse.Amomentafterhestoppedthecar,Irealizeditwasmyown.
“Thecloset,”Isaid.“I’llputitinthebackofthecloset.”IthoughtbacktowhatI’dseenthismorning,asI’ddressed.“There’sashoeboxinthere.I’llputitinthat.”
“Goodidea,”hesaid.“Butyou’llhavetowriteinittonight.Beforeyougotosleep.Otherwisetomorrowit’llbejustanotherblanknotebook.Youwon’tknowwhatitis.”
IsaidIwould,thatIunderstood.Igotoutofthecar.
“Takecare,Christine,”hesaid.
NowIsitinbed.Waitingformyhusband.IlookatthephotoofthehomeinwhichIgrewup.Itlookssonormal,somundane.Andsofamiliar.
HowdidIgetfromtheretohere?Ithink.Whathappened?Whatismyhistory?
Iheartheclockinthelivingroomchime.Midnight.Beniscomingupthestairs.IwillhidethisbookintheshoeboxIhavefound.Iwillputitinthecloset,rightwhereIhavetoldDr.Nashitwillbe.Tomorrow,ifhecalls,Iwillwritemore.
Saturday,November10
Iamwritingthisatnoon.Benisdownstairs,reading.HethinksIamrestingbut,eventhoughIamtired,Iamnot.Idonothavetime.Ihavetowritethisdown,beforeIloseit.Ihavetowritemyjournal.
Ilookatmywatchandnotethetime.Benhassuggestedwegoforawalkthisafternoon.Ihavealittleoveranhour
ThismorningIwokenotknowingwhoIam.Whenmyeyesflickedopen,Iexpectedtoseethehardedgesofabedsidetable,ayellowlamp.Aboxybureauinthecorneroftheroomandwallpaperwithamutedpatternofferns.Iexpectedtohearmymotherdownstairscookingbacon,ormyfatherinthegardenwhistlingashetrimsthehedge.IexpectedthebedIwasintobesingle,tocontainnothingexceptmeandastuffedrabbitwithonetornear.
Iwaswrong.Iaminmyparents’room,Ithoughtfirst,thenrealizedIrecognizednothing.Thebedroomwascompletelyforeign.Ilaybackinbed.Somethingiswrong,Ithought.Terribly,terriblywrong.
BythetimeIwentdownstairs,Ihadseenthephotographsaroundthemirror,readtheirlabels.IknewIwasnotachild,notevenateenager,andhadworkedoutthatthemanIcouldhearcookingbreakfastandwhistlingalongtotheradiowasnotmyfather,oraroommate,orboyfriend,buthewascalledBen,andhewasmyhusband.
Ihesitatedoutsidethekitchen.Ifeltscared.Iwasabouttomeethim,asifforthefirsttime.Whatwouldhebelike?Wouldhelookashedidinthepictures?Orwerethey,too,aninaccuraterepresentation?Wouldhebeolder,fatter,balder?Howwouldhesound?Howwouldhemove?HowwellhadImarried?
Avisioncamefromnowhere.Awoman—mymother?—tellingmetobecareful.Marryinhaste…
Ipushedthedooropen.Benhadhisbacktome,nudgingbaconwithaspatulaasitspatandsizzledinthepan.Hehadnotheardmecomein.
“Ben?”Isaid.Heturnedaroundquickly.
“Christine?Areyouokay?”
Ididnotknowhowtoanswer,andsoIsaid,“Yes.Ithinkso.”
Hesmiledthen,alookofrelief,andIdidthesame.Helookedolderthaninthepicturesupstairs—hisfacecarriedmorelines,hishairwasbeginningtograyandrecedingslightlyatthetemples—butthishadtheeffectofmakinghimmore,ratherthanless,attractive.Hisjawhadastrengththatsuitedanolderman,hiseyesshonemischief.Irealizedheresembledaslightlyolderversionofmyfather.Icouldhavedoneworse,Ithought.Muchworse.
“You’veseenthepictures?”hesaid.Inodded.“Don’tworry.I’llexplaineverything.Whydon’tyougoandsitdown?”Hegesturedbacktowardthehallway.“Thediningroom’sthere.Iwon’tbeamoment.Here,takethis.”
HehandedmeapeppermillandIwenttothediningroom.Afewminuteslater,hefollowedmewithtwoplates.Apalesliverofbaconswamingrease,aneggandsomebreadhadbeenfriedandsatontheside.AsIate,heexplainedhowIsurvivemylife.
TodayisSaturday,hesaid.Heworksduringtheweek;heisateacher.HeexplainedaboutthephoneIhaveinmybag,theboardtackedonthewallinthekitchen.Heshowedmewherewekeepouremergencyfund—twotwenty-poundnotes,rolledtightlyandtuckedbehindtheclockonthemantelpiece—andthescrapbookinwhichIcanglimpsesnatchesofmylife.Hetoldmethat,together,wemanage.IwasnotsureIbelievedhim,yetknewImust.
WefinishedeatingandIhelpedhimtidyawaythebreakfastthings.“Weshouldgoforastroll,later,”hesaid.“Ifyoulike?”IsaidthatIwouldandhelookedpleased.“I’mjustgoingtoreadthepaper,”hesaid.“Okay?”
Icameupstairs.OnceIwasalone,myheadspun,fullandemptyatthesametime.Ifeltunabletograspanything.Nothingseemedreal.IlookedatthehouseIwasin—theoneInowknewwasmyhome—witheyesthathadneverknownitbefore.ForamomentIfeltlikerunning.Ihadtocalmmyself.
IsatontheedgeofthebedinwhichIhadslept.Ishouldmakeit,Ithought.Tidyup.Keepmyselfbusy.IpickedupthepillowtoplumpitandasIdid,somethingbegantobuzz.
Iwasn’tsurewhatitwas.Itwaslow,insistent.Atune,thinandquiet.MybagwasatmyfeetandwhenIpickeditupIrealizedthebuzzseemedtocomefromthere.IrememberedBentellingmeaboutthephoneIhave.
WhenIfounditthephonewaslitup.Istaredatitforalongmoment.Somepartofme,burieddeep,orsomewhereattheveryedgeofmemory,knewexactlywhatthecallwasabout.Iansweredit
“Hello?”Aman’svoice.“Christine?Christine,areyouthere?”
ItoldhimIwas.
“It’syourdoctor.Areyouokay?IsBenaround?”
“No,”Isaid.“He’s—What’sthisabout?”
Hetoldmehisnameandthatwehavebeenworkingtogetherforafewweeks.“Onyourmemory,”hesaid,andwhenIdidn’treply,hesaid,“Iwantyoutotrustme.Iwantyoutolookintheclosetinyourbedroom.”Anotherpausethen,beforehewenton,“There’sashoeboxonthefloorinthere.Havealookinsidethat.Thereshouldbeanotebook.”
Iglancedattheclosetinthecorneroftheroom.
“Howdoyouknowallthis?”
“Youtoldme,”hesaid.“Isawyouyesterday.Wedecidedyoushouldkeepajournal.That’swhereyoutoldmeyou’dhideit.”
Idon’tbelieveyou,Iwantedtosay,butitseemedimpoliteandwasnotentirelytrue.
“Willyoulook?”hesaid.ItoldhimIwould,thenheadded,“Doitnow.Don’tsayanythingtoBen.Doitnow.”
Ididnotendthecallbutwentovertothecloset.Hewasright.Inside,onthefloor,wasashoebox—ablueboxwiththewordSCHOLLontheill-fittinglid—andinsidethatabookwrappedintissue.
“Doyouhaveit?”saidDr.Nash.
Ilifteditoutandunwrappedit.Itwasbrownleatherandlookedexpensive.
“Christine?”
“Yes.Ihaveit.”
“Good.Haveyouwritteninit?”
Iopenedittothefirstpage.IsawthatIhad.MynameisChristineLucas,itbegan.Iamforty-seven.Anamnesiac.Ifeltnervous,excited.Itfeltlikesnooping,butonmyself.
“Ihave,”Isaid.
“Excellent!”hesaid,andthenhesaidhewouldphonemetomorrowandweendedthecall.
Ididnotmove.There,crouchingonthefloorbytheopencloset,thebedstillunmade,Ibegantoread.
Atfirst,Ifeltdisappointed.IrememberednothingofwhatIhadwritten.NotDr.Nash,northeofficesIclaimthathetookmeto,thepuzzlesIsaythatwedid.Despitehavingjustheardhisvoice,Icouldnotpicturehim,ormyselfwithhim.Thebookreadlikefiction.Butthen,tuckedbetweentwopagesnearthebackofthebook,Ifoundaphotograph.ThehouseinwhichIhadgrownup,theoneinwhichIexpectedtofindmyselfwhenIwokethismorning.Itwasreal,thiswasmyevidence.IhadseenDr.Nash,andhehadgivenmethispicture,thisfragmentofmypast.
Iclosedmyeyes.YesterdayIhaddescribedmyoldhome,thesugarjarinthepantry,pickingberriesinthewoods.Werethosememoriesstillthere?CouldIconjuremore?Ithoughtofmymother,myfather,willingsomethingelsetocome.Imagesformedsilently.Adullorangecarpet,anolive-greenvase.Ayellowromperwithapinkducksewnontothebreastandsnapsupthemiddle.Aplasticcarseatinnavyblueandafadedpinkpotty.
Colorsandshapes,butnothingthatdescribedalife.Nothing.Iwanttoseemyparents,Ithought,anditwasthen,forthefirsttime,IrealizedthatsomehowIknewthattheyweredead.
Isighedandsatontheedgeoftheunmadebed.Apenwastuckedbetweenthepagesofthejournal,andalmostwithoutthinkingItookitout,intendingtowritemore.Iheldit,poisedoverthepage,andclosedmyeyestoconcentrate.
Itwasthenthatithappened.Whetherthatrealization—thatmyparentsaregone—triggeredothers,Idon’tknow,butitfeltasifmymindwokeupfromalong,deepsleep.Itcamealive.Butnotgradually;thiswasajolt.Asparkofelectricity.SuddenlyIwasnotsittinginabedroomwithablankpageinfrontofmebutsomewhereelse.Backinthepast—apastIthoughtIhadlost—andIcouldtouchandfeelandtasteeverything.IrealizedIwasremembering.
Isawmyselfcominghome,tothehouseIgrewupin.Iamthirteenorfourteen,eagertogetonwithastoryIamwriting,butIfindanoteonthekitchentable.We’vehadtogoout,itsays.UncleTedwillpickyouupatsix.Igetadrinkandasandwichandsitdownwithmynotebook.Mrs.Roycehassaidthatmystoriesare‘strong’and‘moving’;shethinksIcouldturnthemintoacareer.ButIcannotthinkwhattowrite,cannotconcentrate.Iseetheinsilentfury.Itistheirfault.Wherearethey?Whataretheydoing?Whyaren’tIinvited?Iscrewupthepaperandthrowitaway.
Theimagevanished,butstraightawaytherewasanother.Stronger.Morereal.Myfatherisdrivingushome.Iamsittinginthebackofthecar,staringatafixedspotonthewindshield.Adeadfly.Apieceofdirt.Icannottell.Ispeak,notsurewhatIamgoingtosay.
“Whenwereyougoingtotellme?”
Nobodyanswers.
“Mum?”
“Christine,”saysmymother.“Don’t.”
“Dad?Whenwereyougoingtotellme?”Silence.“Willyoudie?”Iask,myeyesstillfocusedonthespotonthewindow.“Daddy?Willyoudie?”
Heglancesoverhisshoulderandsmilesatme.“Ofcoursenot,angel.Ofcoursenot.NotuntilI’manold,oldman.Withlotsandlotsofgrandchildren!”
Iknowhe’slying.
“We’regoingtofightthis,”hesays.“Ipromise.”
Agasp.Iopenedmyeyes.Thevisionhadended,wasgone.Isatinabedroom,thebedroomIhadwokenupinthismorning,yetforamomentitlookeddifferent.Completelyflat.Colorless.Devoidofenergy,asifIwaslookingataphotographthathadfadedinthesun.Itwasasifthevibrancyofthepasthadleachedallthelifefromthepresent.
Ilookeddown,atthebookinmyhand.Thepenhadslippedfrommyfingers,markingthepagewithathinbluelineasitslidtothefloor.Myheartracedinmychest.Ihadrememberedsomething.Somethinghuge,important.Itwasnotlost.Ipickedthepenoffthefloorandstartedwritingthis.
Iwillfinishthere.WhenIclosemyeyesandtrytowilltheimageback,Ican.Myself.Myparents.Drivinghome.Itisstillthere.Lessvivid,asifithasfadedwithtime,butstillthere.Evenso,IamgladIhavewrittenitdown.Iknowthateventuallyitwilldisappear.Atleastnowitisnotcompletelylost.
Benmusthavefinishedhispaper.Hehascalledupstairs,askedifIamreadytogoout.ItoldhimIwas.Iwillhidethisbookinthecloset,findajacketandsomeboots.Iwillwritemorelater.IfIremember.
***
Thatwaswrittenhoursago.Wehavebeenoutallafternoon,butarebackathomenow.Benisinthekitchen,cookingfishforourdinner.HehastheradioonandthesoundofjazzdriftsuptothebedroomwhereIsit,writingthis.Ididnotoffertomakeourmeal—IwastooeagertocomeupstairsandrecordwhatIsawthisafternoon—buthedidnot
“Youhaveanap,”hesaid.“It’llbeaboutforty-fiveminutesbeforeweeat.”Inodded.“I’llcallyou,whenit’sready.”
Ilookatmywatch.IfIwritequickly,Ishouldhavetime.
Weleftthehousejustbeforeoneo’clock.Wedidnotgofar,andparkedthecarbyalow,squatbuilding.Itlookedabandoned;asinglegraypigeonsatineachoftheboardedwindows;thedoorwashiddenwithcorrugatediron.“That’stheoutdoorpool,”saidBenashegotoutofthecar.“It’sopeninsummer,Ithink.Shallwewalk?”
Aconcretepathcurvedtowardthebrowofthehill.Wewalkedinsilence,hearingonlytheoccasionalshriekofoneofthecrowsthatsatontheemptyfootballfieldoradistantdog’splaintivebark,children’svoices,thehumofthecity.Ithoughtofmyfather,ofhisdeathandthefactthatIhadrememberedalittleofitatleast.AlonejoggerpaddedaroundarunningtrackandIwatchedherforawhilebeforethepathtookusbeyondatallhedgeanduptowardthetopofthehill.ThereIcouldseelife;alittleboyflewakitewhilehisfatherstoodbehindhim,agirlwalkedasmalldogonalongleash.
“ThisisParliamentHill,”saidBen.“Wecomehereoften.”
Isaidnothing.Thecitysprawledbeforeusunderthelowcloud.Itseemedpeaceful.AndsmallerthanIimagined;Icouldseeallthewayacrossittolowhillsinthedistance.IcouldseethethrustoftheTelecomtower,St.Paul’sdome,thepowerstationatBattersea,shapesIrecognized,thoughdimlyandwithoutknowingwhy.Therewereother,lessfamiliar,landmarks,too:aglassbuildingshapedlikeafatcigar,agiantwheel,wayinthedistance.Likemyownface,theviewseemedbothalienandsomehowfamiliar.
“IfeelIrecognizethisplace,”Isaid.
“Yes,”saidBen.“Yes.We’vebeencominghereforawhile,thoughtheviewchangesallthetime.”
Wecontinuedwalking.Mostofthebencheswereoccupiedbypeople,alone,orincouples.Weheadedforonejustpastthetopofthehill,andsatdown.Ismelledketchup;ahalf-eatenburgerlayunderthebenchinacardboardbox.
Benpickeditupcarefullyandputitinoneofthegarbagebins,thenreturnedtositnexttome.Hepointedoutsomeofthelandmarks.“That’sCanaryWharf,”hesaid,gesturingtowardabuildingthat,evenatthisdistance,lookedimmeasurablytall.“Itwasbuiltintheearlynineties,Ithink.They’realloffices,thingslikethat.”
Thenineties.ItwasoddtohearsummedupintwowordsadecadethatIcouldnotrememberlivingthrough.Imusthavemissedsomuch.Somuchmusic,somanyfilmsandbooks,somuchnews.Disasters,tragedies,wars.WholecountriesmighthavefallentopiecesasIwandered,oblivious,fromonedaytothenext.
Somuchofmyownlife,too.SomanyviewsIdonotrecognize,despiteseeingthemeveryday.
“Ben?”Isaid.“Tellmeaboutus.”
“Us?”hesaid.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Iturnedtofacehim.Thewindgustedupthehill,coldagainstmyface.Adogbarkedsomewhere.Iwasn’tsurehowmuchtosay;heknowsIremembernothingofhimatall.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Idon’tknowanythingaboutmeandyou.Idon’tevenknowhowwemet,orwhenwegotmarried,oranything.”
Hesmiled,andshuffledalongthebenchsothatweweretouching.Heputhisarmaroundmyshoulder.Ibegantorecoil,thenrememberedheisnotastrangerbutthemanImarried.“Whatdoyouwanttoknow?”
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Howdidwemeet?”
“Well,wewerebothatuniversity,”hesaid.“YouhadjuststartedyourPhD.Doyourememberthat?”
Ishookmyhead.“Notreally.WhatdidIstudy?”
“You’dgraduatedinEnglish,”hesaid,andanimageflashedinfrontofme,quickandsharp.Isawmyselfinalibraryandrecalledvagueideasofwritingathesisconcerningfeministtheoryandearlytwentieth-centuryliterature,thoughreallyitwasjustsomethingIcouldbedoingwhileIworkedonnovels,somethingmymothermightnotunderstandbutwouldatleastseeaslegitimate.Thescenehungforamoment,shimmering,sorealIcouldalmosttouchit,butthenBenspokeanditvanished.
“Iwasdoingmydegree,”hesaid,“inchemistry.Iwouldseeyouallthetime.Atthelibrary,inthebar,whatever.Iwouldalwaysbeamazedathowbeautifulyoulooked,butIcouldneverbringmyselftospeaktoyou.”
Ilaughed.“Really?”Icouldnotimaginemyselfasintimidating.
“Youalwaysseemedsoconfident.Andintense.Youwouldsitforhours,surroundedbybooks,justreadingandtakingnotes,sippingfromcupsofcoffeeorwhatever.Youlookedsobeautiful.Ineverdreamedyouwouldeverbeinterestedinme.ButthenonedayIhappenedtobesittingnexttoyouinthelibrary,andyouaccidentallyknockedyourcupover,andyourcoffeewentallovermybooks.Youweresoapologetic,eventhoughithardlymatteredanyway,andwemoppedupthecoffeeandthenIinsistedonbuyingyouanother.Yousaiditoughttobeyoubuyingmeone,tosaysorry,andIsaidokaythen,andwewentforcoffee.Andthatwasthat.”
Itriedtopicturethescene,torememberthetwoofus,young,inalibrary,surroundedbysoggypapers,laughing.Icouldnot,andfeltthehotstabofsadness.Iimaginedhoweverycouplemustlovethestoryofhowtheymet—whofirstspoketowhom,whatwassaid—yetIhavenorecollectionofours.Thewindwhippedthetailofthelittleboy’skite;asoundlikeadeathrattle.
“Whathappenedthen?”Isaid.
“Well,wedated.Theusual,youknow?Ifinishedmydegree,andyoufinishedyourPhD,andthenwegotmarried.”
“How?Whoaskedwho?”
“Oh,”hesaid.“Iaskedyou.”
“Where?Tellmehowithappened.”
“Weweretotallyinlove,”hesaid.Helookedaway,intothedistance.“Wespentallourtimetogether.Yousharedahouse,butyouwerehardlythereatall.Mostofyourtimeyouwouldspendwithme.Itmadesenseforustolivetogether,togetmarried.So,oneValentine’sDay,Iboughtyouabarofsoap.Expensivesoap,thekindyoureallyliked,andItookoffthecellophanewrapperandIpressedtheengagementringintothesoap,andthenIwrappeditbackupandgaveittoyou.Asyouweregettingreadythatevening,youfoundit,andyousaidyes.”
Ismiledtomyself.Itsoundedmessy,aringcakedinsoapandfraughtwiththepossibilitythatImightnothaveusedthebar,orfoundthering,forweeks.Butstill,itwasnotanunromanticstory.
“WhodidIshareahousewith?”Isaid.
“Oh,”hesaid,“Idon’treallyremember.Afriend.Anyway,wegotmarriedthefollowingyear.InachurchinManchester,nearwhereyourmotherlived.Itwasalovelyday.Iwastrainingtobeateacherbythen,sowedidn’thavemuchmoney,butitwasstilllovely.Thesunshone,everyonewashappy.Andthenwewentforourhoneymoon.ToItaly.Thelakes.Itwaswonderful.”
Itriedtopicturethechurch,mydress,theviewfromahotelroom.Nothingwouldcome.
“Idon’trememberanyofit,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”
Helookedaway,turninghisheadsothatIcouldn’tseehisface.“Itdoesn’tmatter.Iunderstand.”
“Therearen’tmanyphotographs,”Isaid.“Inthescrapbook,Imean.Therearen’tanyphotosofusfromourwedding.”
“Wehadafire,”hesaid.“Inthelastplacewewereliving.”
“Afire?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Ourhouseprettymuchburneddown.Welostalotofthings.”
Isighed.Itdidnotseemfair,tohavelostbothmymemoriesandmysouvenirsofthepast.
“Whathappenedthen?”
“Then?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Whathappened?Afterthemarriage,thehoneymoon?”
“Wemovedintogether.Wewereveryhappy.”
“Andthen?”
Hesighedandsaidnothing.Thatcan’tbeit,Ithought.Thatcan’tdescribemywholelifeThatcan’tbeallIamountedto.Awedding,ahoneymoon,amarriage.ButwhatelsewasIexpecting?Whatelsecouldtherehavebeen?
Theanswercamesuddenly.Children.Babies.Irealizedwithashudderthatthatwaswhatseemedtobemissingfrommylife,fromourhome.Therewerenopicturesonthemantelpieceofasonordaughter—clutchingadegreecertificate,white-waterrafting,evenjustposing,bored,forthecamera—andnoneofgrandchildreneither.Ihadnothadababy
Ifelttheslapofdisappointment.Theunsatisfieddesirewasburnedintomysubconscious.EventhoughIhadwokenupnotevenknowinghowoldIwas,somepartofmemusthaveknownIhadwantedtohaveachild.
SuddenlyIheardmyownmother,describingthebiologicalclockasifitwereabomb.“Getbusyachievingallthethingsinlifeyouwanttoachieve,”shesaid,“becauseonedayyou’llbefineandthenext…”
Iknewwhatshemeant:Boom!MyambitionswoulddisappearandallIwouldwanttodowouldbetohavechildren.“It’swhathappenedtome,”shesaid.“It’llhappentoyou.Ithappenstoeveryone.”
Butithadn’t,Isuppose.Orsomethingelsehadhappenedinstead.Ilookedatmyhusband.
“Ben?”Isaid.“Whatthen?”
Helookedatmeandsqueezedmyhand.
“Thenyoulostyourmemory,”hesaid.
Mymemory.Itallcamebacktothat,intheend.Always.
Ilookedoutacrossthecity.Thesunhunglowinthesky,shiningweaklythroughtheclouds,castinglongshadowsonthegrass.Irealizedthatitwouldbedarksoon.Thesunwouldset,finally,themoonwouldriseinthesky.Anotherdaywouldend.Anotherlostday.
“Weneverhadchildren,”Isaid.Itwasnotaquestion.
Hedidnotanswerbutturnedtolookatme.Heheldmyhandsinhis,rubbingthemasifagainstthecold.
“No,”hesaid.“No.Wedidn’t.”
Sadnessetchedhisface.Forhimself,orme?Icouldnottell.Ilethimrubmyhands,holdmyfingersbetweenhis.Irealizedthat,evendespitetheconfusion,Ifeltsafethere,withthisman.Icouldseethathewaskind,andthoughtful,andpatient.Nomatterhowawfulmysituation,itcouldbesomuchworse.
“Why?”Isaid.
Hesaidnothing.Helookedatme,theexpressiononhisfaceoneofpain.Painanddisappointment.
“Howdidithappen,Ben?”Isaid.“HowdidIgettobelikethis?”
Ifelthimtense.“You’resureyouwanttoknow?”hesaid.
Ifixedmyeyesonalittlegirlridingatricycleinthedistance.Iknewthiscouldn’tbethefirsttimeIhaveaskedhimthisquestion,thefirsttimehehashadtoexplainthesethingstome.PossiblyIaskhimeveryday.
“Yes,”Isaid.Irealizedthistimewasdifferent.ThistimeIwouldwritedownwhathetoldme.
Hetookadeepbreath.“ItwasDecember.Icy.You’dbeenoutfortheday,atwork.Youwereonyourwayhome,ashortwalk.Therewerenowitnesses.Wedon’tknowifyouwerecrossingthestreetatthetimeorifthecarthathityoumountedthesidewalk,buteitherwayyoumusthavegoneoverthehood.Youwereverybadlyinjured.Bothlegswerebroken.Anarmandyourcollarbone.”
Hestoppedtalking.Icouldhearthelowbeatofthecity.Traffic,aplaneoverhead,themurmurofthewindinthetrees.Bensqueezedmyhand.
“Theysaidyourheadmusthavehitthegroundfirst,whichiswhyyoulostyourmemory.”
Iclosedmyeyes.Icouldremembernothingoftheaccident,andsodidnotfeelangryorevenupset.Iwasfilledinsteadwithakindofquietregret.Anemptiness.Arippleacrossthesurfaceofthelakeofmemory.
Hesqueezedmyhand,andIputmineoverhis,feelingthecold,hardbandofhisweddingring.“Youwereluckytosurvive,”hesaid.
Ifeltmyselfgocold.“Whathappenedtothedriver?”
“Hedidn’tstop.Itwasahit-and-run.Wedon’tknowwhohityou.”
“Butwhowoulddothat?”Isaid.“Whowouldrunsomeoneoverandthenjustdriveaway?”
Hesaidnothing.Ididn’tknowwhatIhadexpected.IthoughtofwhatIhadreadofmymeetingwithDr.Nash.Aneurologicalproblem,hehadtoldme.Structural,orchemical.Ahormonalimbalance.Iassumedhehadmeantanillness.Somethingthathadjusthappened,hadcomeoutofnowhere.Oneofthosethings.
Butthisseemedworse;itwasdonetomebysomeoneelse,ithadbeenavoidable.IfIhadtakenadifferentroutehomethatevening—orifthedriverofthecarthathitmehaddoneso—Iwouldhavestillbeennormal.Imightevenhavebeenagrandmotherbynow,just.
“Why?”Isaid.“Why?”
ItwasnotaquestionBencouldanswer,andsohesaidnothing.Wesatinsilenceforawhile,ourhandslockedtogether.Itgrewdark.Thecitywasbright,thebuildingslit.Itwillbewintersoon,Ithought.WewillsoonbehalfwaythroughNovember.Decemberwillfollow,andthenChristmas.Icouldn’timaginehowIwouldgetfromheretothere.Icouldn’timaginelivingthroughawholestringofidenticaldays.
“Shallwego?”saidBen.“Backhome?”
Ididn’tanswerhim.“WherewasI?”Isaid.“ThedaythatIwashitbythecar.WhathadIbeendoing?”
“Youwereonyourwayhomefromwork,”hesaid.
“Whatjob,though?WhatwasIdoing?”
“Oh,”hesaid.“Youhadatemporaryjobasasecretary—well,personalassistant,really—atsomelawyer’s,Ithinkitwas.”
“Butwhy—”Ibegan.
“Youneededtoworksothatwecouldpaythemortgage,”hesaid.“Itwastough,forawhile.”
Thatwasn’twhatImeant,though.WhatIwantedtosaywas,YoutoldmeIhadaPhD.WhyhadIsettledforthat?
“ButwhywasIworkingasasecretary?”Isaid.
“Itwastheonlyjobyoucouldget.Timeswerehard.”
IrememberedthefeelingIhadearlier.“WasIwriting?”Isaid.“Books?”
Heshookhishead.“No.”
Soitwasatransitoryambition,then.OrmaybeIhadtriedandfailed.AsIturnedtoaskhim,thecloudslitupand,amomentlater,therewasaloudbang.Startled,Ilookedout;sparksinthedistantsky,rainingdownonthecitybelow.
“Whatwasthat?”Isaid.
“Afirework,”saidBen.“ItwasGuyFawkesNightthisweek.”
Amomentlater,anotherfireworklitthesky,anotherloudbang.
“Itlookslikethere’llbeadisplay,”hesaid.“Shallwewatch?”
Inodded.Itcoulddonoharm,andthoughpartofmewantedtorushhometomyjournal,towritedownwhatBenhadtoldme,anotherpartofmewantedtostay,hopinghemighttellmemore.“Yes,”Isaid.“Let’s.”
Hegrinnedandputhisarmaroundmyshoulders.Theskywasdarkforamoment,andthentherewasacrackleandfizz,andathinwhistleasatinysparkshothigh.Ithungforaslowmomentbeforeexplodinginorangebrilliancewithanechoingbang.Itwasbeautiful.
“Usuallywegotoseethefireworks,”saidBen.“Oneofthebigorganizeddisplays.ButIforgotitwastonight.”Henuzzledmyneckwithhischin.“Isthisokay?”
“Yes,”Isaid.Ilookedoutoverthecity,attheexplosionsofcolorintheairaboveit,atthescreechinglights.“Thisisfine.Thiswaywegettoseealltheshows.”
Hesighed.Ourbreathmistedintheairinfrontofus,eachmingledwiththatoftheother,andwesatinsilence,watchingtheskyturntocolorandlight.Thesmokerosefromthegardensofthecity,litwithviolence—withredandorange,blueandpurple—andthenightairturnedsmoky,shotthroughwithaflintysmell,dryandmetallic.Ilickedmylips,tastedsulfur,andasIdidso,anothermemorystruck.
Itwasneedle-sharp.Thesoundsweretooloud,thecolorstoobright.IfeltnotlikeanobserverbutinsteadasthoughIwasstillinthemiddleofit.IhadthesensationIwasfallingbackward.IgrippedBen’shand.
Isawmyselfwithawoman.Shehasredhair,andwearestandingonarooftop,watchingfireworks.Icanheartherhythmicthrobofmusicthatplaysintheroombeneathourfeet,andacoldwindblows,sendingacridsmokefloatingoverus.EventhoughIamwearingonlyathindress,Ifeelwarm,buzzingwithalcoholandthejointthatIamstillholdingbetweenmyfingers.IfeelgravelundermyfeetandrememberIhavediscardedmyshoesandlefttheminthisgirl’sbedroomdownstairs.Ilookacrossatherassheturnstofacemeandfeelalive,dizzilyhappy.
“Chrissy,”shesays,takingthejoint.“Fancyatab?”
Idon’tknowwhatshemeans,andtellher.
Shelaughs.“Youknow!”shesays.“Atab.Atrip.Acid.I’mprettysureNigehasbroughtsome.Hetoldmehewould.”
“I’mnotsure,”Isay.
“C’mon!It’dbefun!”
Ilaughandtakethejointback,inhalingalungfulasiftoprovethatIamnotboring.Wehavepromisedourselvesthatwewillneverbeboring.
“Idon’tthinkso,”Isay.“It’snotmyscene.IthinkIjustwanttosticktothis.Andbeer.Okay?”
“Isupposeso,”shesays,lookingbackovertherailing.Icantellsheisdisappointed,thoughnotangrywithme,andwonderwhethershewilldoitanyway.Withoutme.
Idoubtit.Ihaveneverhadafriendlikeherbefore.Onewhoknowseverythingaboutme,whomItrust,sometimesevenmorethanItrustmyself.Ilookathernow,herredhairwind-whipped,theendofthejointglowinginthedark.Isshehappywiththewayherlifeisturningout?Orisittooearlytosay?
“Lookatthat!”shesays,pointingtowhereaRomancandlehasexploded,throwingthetreesintosilhouetteinfrontofitsredglare.“Fuckingbeautiful,isn’tit?”
Ilaugh,agreeingwithher,andthenwestandinsilenceforafewmoreminutes,passingthejointbetweenus.Eventuallysheoffersmewhatisleftofthesoggyroachand,whenIrefuse,grindsitintotheasphaltwithherbootedfoot.
“Weshouldgodownstairs,”shesays,grabbingmyarm.“There’ssomeoneIwantyoutomeet.”
“Notagain!”Isay,butIgoanyway.Westepoveracouplekissingonthestairs.“It’snotgoingtobeanotheroneofthosepricksfromyourcourse,isit?”
“Fuckoff!”shesays,trottingdownthestairs.“Ithoughtyou’dloveAlan!”
“Idid!”Isaid.“RightupuntilthemomenthetoldmehewasinlovewithaguycalledKristian.”
“Yes,well.”Shelaughs.“HowwasIsupposedtoknowthatAlanwoulddecidetochooseyoutocomeoutto?Thisone’sdifferent.You’lllovehim.Iknowit.Justsayhello.There’snopressure.”
“Okay,”Isay.Ipushthedooropenandwegointotheparty.
Theroomislarge,withconcretewallsandunshadedlightbulbshangingfromtheceiling.Wemakeourwaytothekitchenareaandgetourselvesabeer,thenfindaspotoverbythewindow.“Sowhere’sthisguy,then?”Isay,butshedoesnothearme.Ifeelthebuzzofthealcoholandtheweedandbegintodance.Theroomisfullofpeople,dressedmostlyinblack.Fuckingartstudents,Ithink
Someonecomesoverandstandsinfrontofus.Irecognizehim.Keith.We’vemetbefore,atadifferentparty,whereweendedupkissinginoneofthebedrooms.Now,though,heistalkingtomyfriend,pointingtooneofherpaintings,whichhangsonthewallinthelivingroom.Iwonderwhetherhe’sdecidedtoignoreme,orcannotrememberhavingmetmebefore.Eitherway,Ithink,he’sajerk.Ifinishmybeer.
“Wantanother?”Isay.
“Yeah,”saysmyfriend.“WanttogetthemwhileIdealwithKeith?AndthenI’llintroduceyoutothatguyImentioned.Okay?”
Ilaugh.“Okay.Whatever.”Iwanderoff,intothekitchen.
Avoice,then.Loudinmyear.“Christine!Chris!Areyouokay?”Ifeltconfused;thevoicesoundedfamiliar.Iopenedmyeyes.Withastart,IrealizedIwasoutside,inthenightair,onParliamentHill,withBencallingmynameandfireworksinfrontofmeturningtheskythecolorofblood.“Youhadyoureyesclosed,”hesaid.“What’sthematter?What’swrong?”
“Nothing,”Isaid.Myheadspun;Icouldhardlybreathe.Iturnedawayfrommyhusband,pretendingtowatchtherestofthedisplay.“I’msorry.Nothing.I’mfine.I’mfine.”
“You’reshivering,”hesaid.“Areyoucold?Doyouwanttogohome?”
IrealizedIwas.Idid.IwantedtorecordwhatIhadjustseen.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Doyoumind?”
Onthewayhome,IthoughtbacktothevisionIhadseenaswewatchedthefireworks.Ithadshockedmewithitsclarity,itshardedges.Ithadcaughtme,suckedmeintoitasifIwerelivingitagain.Ifelteverything,tastedeverything.Thecoolairandthefizzofthebeer.Theburnoftheweedatthebackofmythroat.Keith’ssaliva,warmonmytongue.Itfeltreal,almostmorerealthanthelifeIhadopenedmyeyestowhenitvanished.
Ididn’tknowexactlywhenitwasfrom.University,Isupposed,orjustafter.ThepartyIhadseenmyselfatwasthekindIimaginedastudentwouldenjoy.Itdidnothavethefeelofresponsibility.Itwascarefree.Light.
And,thoughIcouldnotrememberhername,thiswomanwasimportanttome.Mybestfriend.Forever,Ihadthought,andeventhoughIdidn’tknowwhoshewas,Ihadfeltasenseofsecuritywithher,ofsafety.
Iwonderedbrieflyifwemightstillbeclose,andtriedtotalktoBenaboutitaswedrove.Hewasquiet—notunhappy,butdistracted.ForamomentIconsideredtellinghimeverythingaboutthevision,butinsteadIaskedhimwhomyfriendswere,whenwemet.
“Youhadlotsoffriends,”hesaid.“Youwereverypopular.”
“DidIhaveabestfriend?Someonespecial?”
Heglancedoveratmethen.“No,”hesaid.“Idon’tthinkso.Notparticularly.”
IwonderedwhyIcouldnotrememberthiswoman’sname,yethadrecalledKeithandAlan.
“You’resure?”Isaid.
“Yes,”hesaid.“I’msure.”Heturnedbacktofacetheroad.Itbegantorain.Lightsfromtheshops,andfromtheneonsignsabovethem,werereflectedintheroad.ThereissomuchIwanttoaskhim,Ithought,butIsaidnothingand,afterafewmoreminutes,itwastoolate.Wewerehome,andhehadbeguncooking.Itwastoolate.
***
AssoonasIhadfinishedwritingthat,Bencalledmedowntoourdinner.Hehadsetthetableandpouredglassesofwhitewine,butIwasnothungryandthefishwasdry.Ileftmostofmymeal.Then—sinceBenhadcooked—Iofferedtowashup.Icarriedtheplatesintothekitchenandranhotwaterintothesink,allthetimehopingthatlaterIwouldbeabletomakeanexcuseandcomeupstairstoreadmyjournalandperhapswritesomemore.ButIcouldnot—tospendsomuchtimealoneinourroomwouldarousesuspicion—andsowespenttheeveninginfrontofthetelevision.
Icouldnotrelax.Ithoughtofmyjournalandwatchedthehandsoftheclockonthemantelpiececreepfromninetotentotenthirty.Finally,astheyapproachedeleven,IrealizedIwouldhavenomoretimetonight,andsaid,“IthinkI’mgoingtoturnin.It’sbeenalongday.”
Hesmiled,tiltinghishead.“Okaydarling,”hesaid.“I’llbeupinamoment.”
Inodded,andsaidokay,butasIlefttheroom,Ifeltacreepingdread.Thismanismyhusband,Itoldmyself,Iammarriedtohim,yetstillIfeltsomehowasifgoingtobedwithhimwaswrong.Icouldnotremembereverhavingdonesobefore,anddidnotknowwhattoexpect.
Inthebathroom,Iusedthetoiletandbrushedmyteethwithoutlookingatthemirrororthephotosarrangedaroundit.Iwentintothebedroomandfoundmynightiefoldedonmypillowandbegantogetundressed.Iwantedtobereadybeforehecamein,tobeunderthecovers.Foramoment,IhadtheabsurdideathatIcouldpretendtobeasleep.
Itookoffmypulloverandlookedatmyselfinthemirror.IsawthecreambraIhadputonthismorningand,asIdidso,hadafleetingvisionofmyselfasachild,askingmymotherwhysheworeonewhenIdidnot,andhertellingmethatonedayIwould.Andnowthatdaywashere,andithadnotcomegraduallybutinstantly.Here,evenmoreobviouslythanthelinesonmyfaceandwrinklesonmyhands,wasthefactthatIwasnotagirlanymorebutawoman.Here,inthesoftplumpnessofmybreasts.
Ipulledthenightieovermyheadandflatteneditdown.Ireachedunderneathitandunhookedmybra,feelingtheweightofmychestasIdidso,andthenunzippedmytrousersandsteppedoutofthem.Ididnotwanttoexaminemybodyfurther,nottonight,andso,onceIhadpeeledoffthetightsandpantiesIhadputonthismorning,Islippedbetweenthecoversand,closingmyeyes,turnedontomyside.
Iheardtheclockdownstairschime,then,amomentlater,Bencameintotheroom.Ididnotmovebutlistenedtohimundress,thenfeltthesagofthebedashesatonitsedge.Hewasstillforamoment,andthenIfelthishand,heavyonmyhip.
“Christine?”hesaid,half-whispering.“Areyouawake?”ImurmuredthatIwas.“Yourememberedafriendtoday?”hesaid.Iopenedmyeyesandturnedontomyback.Icouldseethebroadexpanseofhisbareback,thefinehairthatwasscatteredoverhisshoulders.
“Yes,”Isaid.Heturnedtome.
“Whatdidyouremember?”
Itoldhim,thoughonlyvaguely.“Aparty,”Isaid.“Wewerebothstudents,Ithink.”
Hestoodupthenandturnedtogetintobed.Isawthathewasnaked.HispenisswungfromitsdarknestofhairandIhadtosuppresstheurgetogiggle.Icouldnotremembereverseeingmalegenitalsbefore,noteveninbooks,yettheywerenotunfamiliartome.IwonderedhowmuchofthemIknew,whatexperiencesImighthavehad.Almostinvoluntarily,Ilookedaway.
“You’verememberedthatpartybefore,”hesaidashepulledbackthebedclothes.“Itcomestoyoufairlyoften,Ithink.Youhavecertainmemoriesthatseemtocropupregularly.”
Isighed.Soit’snothingnew,heseemedtobesaying.Nothingtogetexcitedabout.Helaybesidemeandpulledthecoversoverusboth.Hedidnotturnoutthelight.
“DoIrememberthingsoften?”Isaid.
“Yes.Afewthings.Mostdays.”
“Thesamethings?”
Heturnedtofaceme,proppinghimselfonhiselbow.“Sometimes,”hesaid.“Usually.Yes.It’srarethere’sasurprise.”
Ilookedawayfromhisfaceanduptotheceiling.“DoIeverrememberyou?”
Heturnedtome.“No,”hesaid.Hetookmyhand.Squeezedit.“Butthat’sokay.Iloveyou.It’sokay.”
“Imustbeadreadfulburdentoyou,”Isaid.
Hemovedhishandandbegantostrokemyarm.Therewasacrackleofstatic.Iflinched.“No,”hesaid.“Notatall.Iloveyou.”
Hetwistedhisbodyintominethen,andkissedmylips.
Iclosedmyeyes.Confused.Didhewanttohavesex?Tomehewasastranger;thoughintellectuallyIknewwegotintobedtogethereverynight,haddonesosinceweweremarried,stillmybodyhadknownhimforlessthanaday.
“I’mverytired,Ben,”Isaid.
Heloweredhisvoice,andbegantomurmur.“Iknow,mydarling,”hesaid.Hekissedme,softly,onthecheek,mylips,myeyes.“Iknow.”Hishandmovedlower,beneaththecovers,andIfeltawaveofanxietybegintobuildwithinme,almostpanic.
“Ben,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”Igrabbedhishandandstoppeditsdescent.Iresistedtheurgetoflingitawayasifitwererevolting,andstrokeditinstead.“I’mtired,”Isaid.“Nottonight.Okay?”
Hesaidnothing,butwithdrewhishandandlayonhisback.Disappointmentcameoffhiminwaves.Ididnotknowwhattosay.SomepartofmethoughtIshouldapologize,butsomelargerparttoldmeIhaddonenothingwrong.Andsowelayinsilence,inbedbutnottouching,andIwonderedhowoftenthishappens.Howoftenhecomestobedandcravessex,whetherIeverwantitmyself,orevenfeelabletogiveittohim,andifthisisalwayswhathappens,thisawkwardsilence,ifIdonot.
“Goodnight,darling,”hesaid,afterafewmoreminutes,andthetensionlifted.Iwaiteduntilhewassnoringsoftlyandslippedoutofbedandhere,inthespareroom,satdowntowritethis
Iwouldlikesomuchtorememberhim.Justonce.
Monday,November12
Theclockhasjustchimedfour;itisbeginningtogetdark.Benwillnotbehomejustyetbut,asIsitandwrite,Ilistenforhiscar.Theshoeboxsitsonthefloornexttomyfeet,thetissuepaperinwhichthisjournalwaswrappedspillsoutofit.Ifhecomesin,IwillputmybookintheclosetandtellhimIhavebeenresting.Itisdishonest,butnotterriblyso,andthereisnothingwrongwithwantingtokeepthecontentsofmyjournalasecret.ImustwritedownwhatIhaveseen.WhatIhavelearned.Butthatdoesn’tmeanIwantsomeone—anyone—toreadit.
IsawDr.Nashtoday.Weweresittingoppositeeachother,oneithersideofhisdesk.Behindhimwasafilingcabinet,ontopofwhichsataplasticmodelofthebrain,sliceddownthemiddle,partedlikeanorange.HeaskedmehowI’dbeengettingon.
“Okay,”Isaid.“Isuppose.”Itwasadifficultquestiontoanswer—thefewhourssinceIhadwokenthatmorningweretheonlyonesIcouldclearlyremember.Imetmyhusband,asifforthefirsttimethoughIknewitwasnot,wascalledbymydoctorwhotoldmeaboutmyjournal.Then,afterlunch,hepickedmeupanddrovemeheretohisoffice
“Iwroteinmyjournal,”Isaid.“Afteryoucalled.OnSaturday.”
Heseemedpleased.“Doyouthinkithelpedatall?”
“Ithinkso,”Isaid.ItoldhimaboutthememoriesI’dhad.Thevisionofthewomanattheparty,oflearningofmyfather’sillness.HemadenotesasIspoke.
“Doyoustillrememberthosethingsnow?”hesaid.“Ordidyouwhenyouwokeupthismorning?”
Ihesitated.ThetruthwasIdidnot.Oronlysomeofit,atleast.ThismorningIhadreadmyentryforSaturday—ofthebreakfastIsharedwithmyhusband,ofthetriptoParliamentHill.Ithadfeltasunrealasfiction,nothingtodowithme,andIfoundmyselfreadingandrereadingthesamesection,overandover,tryingtocementitinmymind,tofixit.Ittookmemorethananhour.
IreadofthethingsBenhadtoldme,ofhowwemetandmarried,ofhowwelived,andIfeltnothing.Yetotherthingsstayedwithme.Thewoman,forexample.Myfriend.Icouldnotrecallspecifics—thefireworksparty,beingontheroofwithher,meetingamancalledKeith—buthermemorystillexistedwithinme,andthismorning,asIreadandrereadmyentryforSaturday,moredetailshadcome.Thevibrantredofherhair,theblackclothesthatshepreferred,thestuddedbelt,thescarletlipstick,thewaythatsheusedtomakesmokinglookasthoughitwasthecoolestthingintheworld.Icouldnotrememberhernamebutnowrecalledthenightwemet,inaroomthatwasshroudedinathickfugofcigarettesmokeandalivewiththewhistlesandbangsofpinballmachinesandatinnyjukebox.ShehadgivenmealightwhenIaskedherforone,thenintroducedherselfandsuggestedIjoinherandherfriends.Wedrankvodkaandlagerand,later,sheheldmyhairoutofthetoiletbowlasIvomitedmostofitbackup.“Iguesswe’redefinitelyfriendsnow!”shesaid,laughing,asIpulledmyselfbacktomyfeet.“Iwouldn’tdothatforjustanyone,youknow?”
Ithankedherand,fornoreasonIknew,andasifitexplainedwhatIhadjustdone,toldhermyfatherwasdead.“Fuck…”shesaid,and,inwhatmusthavebeenthefirstofhermanyswitchesfromdrunkenstupiditytocompassionateefficiency,shetookmebacktoherroomandweatecrackersanddrankblackcoffee,allthewhilelisteningtorecordsandtalkingaboutourlives,untilitbegantogetlight.
Shehadpaintingsproppedupagainstthewallandattheendofthebed,andsketchbookslitteredtheroom.“You’reanartist?”Isaid,andshenodded.“It’swhyI’mhereatuniversity,”shesaid.Irememberedhertellingmeshewasstudyingfineart.“I’llendupateacher,ofcourse,butinthemeantimeonehastodream.Yes?”Ilaughed.“Whataboutyou?Whatareyoustudying?”Itoldher.English.“Ah!”shesaid.“Sodoyouwanttowritenovelsorteach,then?”Shelaughed,notunkindly,butIdidn’tmentionthestoryIhadworkedoninmyroombeforecomingdown.“Dunno,”Isaid,instead,“IguessI’mthesameasyou.”Shelaughedagain,andsaid,“Well,here’stous!”andaswetoastedeachotherwithcoffee,Ifelt,forthefirsttimeinmonths,thatthingsmightfinallybeallright.
Irememberedallthis.Itexhaustedme,thiseffortofwilltosearchthevoidofmymemory,tryingtofindanytinydetailthatmighttriggerarecollection.Butmymemoriesofmylifewithmyhusband?Theyweregone.Readingthosewordshadnotstirredeventhesmallestresidueofmemory.ItwasasifnotonlyhadthetriptoParliamentHillnothappened,butneitherhadthethingshetoldmethere.
“Iremembersomethings,”IsaidtoDr.Nash.“ThingsfromwhenIwasyounger,thingsthatIrememberedyesterday.They’restillthere.AndIcanremembermoredetails,too.ButIcan’trememberwhatwedidyesterdayatall.OronSaturday.IcantrytoconstructapictureofthesceneIdescribedinmyjournal,butIknowitisn’tamemory.IknowI’mjustimaginingit.”
Henodded.“IsthereanythingyourememberfromSaturday?Anysmalldetailthatyouwrotedownthatyoucanstillrecall?Theevening,forexample?”
IthoughtofwhatIhadwrittenaboutgoingtobed.IrealizedIfeltguilty.Guiltythat,despitehiskindness,Ihadnotbeenabletogivemyselftomyhusband.“No,”Ilied.“Nothing.”
Iwonderedwhathemighthavedonedifferentlyformetowanttotakehiminmyarms,tolethimloveme?Flowers?Chocolates?Doesheneedtomakeromanticovertureseverytimehe’dliketohavesex,asifitwerethefirsttime?Irealizedhowclosedtheavenuesofseductionaretohim.Hecannotevenplaythefirstsongwedancedtoatourwedding,orre-createthemealweenjoyedthefirsttimeweateouttogether,becauseIdon’trememberwhattheyare.Andinanycase,Iamhiswife;heshouldnothavetoseduceme,asifwehavejustmet,everytimehewantsustohavesex.
ButisthereeveratimewhenIlethimmakelovetome,orperhaps,even,wanttomakelovetohim?DoIeverwakeandknowenoughfordesiretoexist,unforced?
“Idon’tevenrememberBen,”Isaid.“Ihadnoideawhohewasthismorning.”
Henodded.“You’dliketo?”
Ialmostlaughed.“Ofcourse!”Isaid.“Iwanttoremembermypast.IwanttoknowwhoIam.WhoImarried.It’sallpartofthesamething—”
“Ofcourse,”hesaid.Hepaused,thenleanedhiselbowsonthedeskandclaspedhishandsinfrontofhisface,asifthinkingcarefullyaboutwhattosay,orhowtosayit.“Whatyou’vetoldmeisencouraging.Itsuggeststhatthememoriesaren’tlostcompletely.Theproblemisnotoneofstoragebutofaccess.”
Ithoughtforamoment,thensaid,“Youmeanmymemoriesarethere,Ijustcan’tgettothem?”
Hesmiled.“Ifyoulike,”hesaid.“Yes.”
Ifeltfrustrated.Eager.“SohowdoIremembermore?”
Heleanedbackandlookedinthefileinfrontofhim.“Lastweek,”hesaid,“onthedayIgaveyouyourjournal.DidyouwritethatIshowedyouapictureofyourchildhoodhome?Igaveittoyou,Ithink.”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Idid.”
“Youseemedtoremembermuchmore,havingseenthatphoto,thanwhenIaskedyouabouttheplacewhereyouusedtolivewithoutshowingyouapictureofitfirst.”Hepaused.“Which,again,isn’tsurprising.ButI’dliketoseewhathappensifIshowyoupicturesfromtheperiodyoudefinitelydon’tremember.Iwanttoseeifanythingcomesbacktoyouthen.”
Iwashesitant,unsureofwherethisavenuemightlead,butcertainitwasaroadIhadnochoicebuttotake.
“Okay,”Isaid.
“Good!We’lllookatjustonepicturetoday.”Hetookaphotographfromthebackofthefileandthenwalkedaroundthedesktositnexttome.“Beforewelook,doyourememberanythingofyourwedding?”
Ialreadyknewtherewasnothingthere;asfarasIwasconcerned,mymarriagetothemanIhadwokenupwiththismorninghadsimplynothappened.
“No,”Isaid.“Nothing.”
“You’resure?”
Inodded.“Yes.”
Heputthephotographonthedeskinfrontofme.“Yougotmarriedhere,”hesaid,tappingit.Itwasofachurch.Small,withalowroofandatinyspire.Totallyunfamiliar.
“Anything?”
Iclosedmyeyesandtriedtoemptymymind.Avisionofwater.Myfriend.Atiledfloor,blackandwhite.Nothingelse.
“No.Idon’tremembereverhavingseenitbefore.”
Helookeddisappointed.“You’resure?”
Iclosedmyeyesagain.Blackness.Itriedtothinkofmyweddingday,triedtoimagineBen,me,inasuitandaweddingdress,standingonthegrassinfrontofthechurch,butnothingcame.Nomemory.Sadnessroseinme.Likeanybride,Imusthavespentweeksplanningmywedding,choosingmydressandwaitinganxiouslyforthealterations,bookingahairdresser,thinkingaboutmymakeup.Iimaginedmyselfagonizingoverthemenu,choosingthehymns,selectingtheflowers,allthetimehopingthatthedaywouldliveuptomyimpossibleexpectations.AndnowIhavenowayofknowingwhetheritdid.Ithasallbeentakenfromme,everytraceerased.EverythingapartfromthemanImarried.
“No,”Isaid.“There’snothing.”
Heputthephotographaway.“Accordingtothenotestakenduringyourinitialtreatment,youweremarriedinManchester,”hesaid.“ThechurchiscalledSaintMark’s.Thatwasarecentphotograph—it’stheonlyoneIcouldget—butIimagineitlooksprettymuchthesamenowasitdidthen.”
“Therearenophotographsofourwedding,”Isaid.Itwasbothaquestionandastatement.
“No.Theywerelost.Inafireatyourhome,apparently.”
Inodded.Hearinghimsayitcementeditsomehow,madeitseemmorereal.ItwasalmostasifthefacthewasadoctorgavehiswordsanauthoritythatBen’sdidnothave.
“WhendidIgetmarried?”Isaid.
“Itwouldhavebeeninthemid-eighties.”
“Beforemyaccident—”Isaid.
Dr.Nashlookeduncomfortable.IwonderedifIhadeverspokentohimabouttheaccidentthatleftmewithnomemory.
“Youknowaboutwhatcausedyouramnesia?”hesaid.
“Yes,”Isaid.“IspoketoBen.Theotherday.Hetoldmeeverything.Iwroteitinmyjournal.”
Henodded.“Howdoyoufeelaboutit?”
“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.ThetruthwasthatIhadnomemoryoftheaccident,andsoitdidnotseemreal.AllIhadwereitseffects.Thewayithadleftme.“IfeellikeIoughttohatethepersonthatdidthistome,”Isaid.“Especiallyasthey’veneverbeencaught,neverbeenpunishedforleavingmelikethis.Forruiningmylife.ButtheoddthingisIdon’t,really.Ican’t.Ican’timaginethem,orpicturewhattheylooklike.It’sliketheydon’tevenexist.”
Helookeddisappointed.“Isthatwhatyouthink?”hesaid.“Thatyourlifeisruined?”
“Yes,”Isaidafterafewmoments.“Yes.That’swhatIthink.”Hewassilent.“Isn’tit?”
Idon’tknowwhatIexpectedhimtodo,orsay.IsupposepartofmewantedhimtotellmehowwrongIam,totryandconvincemethatmylifeisworthliving.Buthedidn’t.Hejustlookedstraightatme.Inoticedhowstrikinghiseyeswere.Blue,fleckedwithgray.
“I’msorry,Christine,”hesaid.“I’msorry.ButI’mdoingeverythingIcan,andIthinkIcanhelpyou.Ireallydo.Youhavetobelievethat.”
“Ido,”Isaid.“Ido.”
Heputhishandontopofmine,whereitlayonthedeskbetweenus.Itfeltheavy.Warm.Hesqueezedmyfingers,andforasecondIfeltembarrassed,forhim,andalsoforme,butthenIlookedintohisface,attheexpressionofsadnessIsawthere,andrealizedthathisactionwasthatofayoungmancomfortinganolderwoman.Nothingmore.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ineedtousethebathroom.”
WhenIreturned,hehadpouredcoffeeandwesatonoppositesidesofthedesk,sippingatourdrinks.Heseemedreluctanttomakeeyecontact,insteadleafingthroughthepapersonhisdesk,shufflingawkwardly.Atfirst,Ithoughthewasembarrassedaboutsqueezingmyhand,butthenhelookedupandsaid,“Christine.Iwantedtoaskyousomething.Twothings,really.”Inodded.“First,I’vedecidedtowriteupyourcase.It’sprettyunusualinthefield,andIthinkitwouldbereallybeneficialtogetthedetailsoutthereinthewiderscientificcommunity.Doyoumind?”
Ilookedatthejournals,stackedinhaphazardpilesontheshelvesaroundtheoffice.Isthishowheintendedtofurtherhiscareer,ormakeitmoresecure?IsthatwhyIamhere?Foramoment,IconsideredtellinghimI’dratherhedidn’tusemystory,butintheendIsimplyshookmyheadandsaid,“No.It’sfine.”
Hesmiled.“Good.Thankyou.Now,Ihaveaquestion.Moreofasortofidea,really.SomethingI’dliketotry.Wouldyoumind?”
“What’syouridea?”Isaid.Ifeltnervousbutrelievedhewasfinallyabouttotellmewhatwasonhismind.
“Well,”hesaid.“Accordingtoyourfiles,afteryouandBenweremarried,youcontinuedtolivetogetherinthehouseinEastLondonthatyoushared.”Hepaused.Outofnowherecameavoicethatmusthavebeenmymother’s.Livinginsin—atut,ashakeofherheadthatsaideverything.“Andthen,afterayearorso,youmovedtoanotherhouse.Youstayedthereprettymuchuntilyouwerehospitalized.”Hepaused.“It’squitenearwhereyoulivenow.”Ibegantounderstandwhathemightbesuggesting.“Ithoughtwecouldleavenowandvisititonthewayhome.Whatdoyouthink?”
WhatdidIthink?Ididnotknow.Itwasanalmostunanswerablequestion.Iknewitwasasensiblethingtodo,thatitmighthelpmeinsomeundefinablewaythatneitherofuscouldyetunderstand,butstillIwasreluctant.Itwasasifmypastsuddenlyfeltdangerous.Aplaceitmightbeunwisetovisit.
“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.
“Youlivedthereforanumberofyears,”hesaid.
“Iknow,but—”
“Wecanjustgoandlookatit.Wedon’thavetogoinside.”
“Goinside?”Isaid.“How—?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“I’vewrittentothecouplewholivetherenow.We’vespokenonthephone.Theysaidthatifitmighthelpthey’dbemorethanhappytoletyouhavealookaround.”
Iwassurprisedbythis.“Really?”Isaid.
Helookedslightlyaway—quickly,butenoughforittoregisterasembarrassment.Iwonderedwhathemightbehiding.“Yes,”hesaid,andthen,“Idon’tgotothismuchtroubleforallmypatients.”Isaidnothing.Hesmiled.“Ireallythinkitmighthelp,Christine.”
WhatelsecouldIdo?
OnthewaythereIhadintendedtowriteinmyjournal,butthejourneywasnotlongandIhadbarelyfinishedreadingthelastentrywhenweparkedoutsideahouse.Iclosedthebookandlookedup.Thehousewassimilartotheonewe’dleftthatmorning—theonethatIhadtoremindmyselfIliveinnow—withitsredbrickandpaintedwoodworkandthesamebaywindowandwell-tendedgarden.Ifanything,thishouselookedbigger,andawindowintheroofsuggestedaloftconversionthatwedidnothave.Ifoundithardtounderstandwhywe’dleftthisplacetomovewhatmustbeonlyacoupleofmilesawaytoanalmostidenticalhouse.Afteramoment,Irealized:memories.Memoriesofabettertime,beforemyaccident,whenwewerehappy,livinganormallife.Benwouldhavehadthem,evenifIdidnot.
Ifeltsuddenlypositivethatthehousewouldrevealthingstome.Revealmypast.
“Iwanttogoin,”Isaid.
Ipause,there.Iwanttowritetherest,butitisimportant—tooimportanttoberushed—andBenwillbehomeverysoon.Heislatealready;theskyisdark,thestreetechoingtothesoundsofslammeddoorsaspeoplearrivehomefromwork.Carsslowoutsidethehouse—soononeofthemwillbeBen’s.ItisbetterifIfinishnow,ifIputmybookaway,hideitsafelyinthecloset.
Iwillcontinuelater.
***
IwasreplacingthelidoftheshoeboxwhenIheardBen’skeyinthelock.Hecalledoutwhenhecameintothehouse,andItoldhimIwouldbedowninamoment.ThoughIhavenoreasontopretendIhavenotbeenlookinginthecloset,Icloseditsdoorsoftly,thenwenttoseemyhusband.
Theeveningwasfractured.Myjournalcalledtome.Asweate,IwonderedifIcouldwriteinitbeforewashingup;asIwashedup,IwonderedifIshouldfeignaheadacheandwritewhenIfinished.Butthen,afterIhadtidiedinthekitchen,Bensaidhehadalittleworktodoandwentintohisoffice.Isighed,relieved,andtoldhimIwouldgotobed.
That’swhereIamnow.IcanhearBen—thetaptaptapofhiskeyboard—andIadmitthesoundiscomforting.IhavereadwhatIwrotebeforeBengothomeandcannowonceagainpicturemyselfasIwasthisafternoon:sittingoutsideahouseinwhichIoncelived.Icantakeupmystory.
Ithappenedinthekitchen.
Awoman—Amanda—hadansweredthedoorbell’sinsistentbuzz,greetingDr.Nashwithahandshakeandmewithalookthathoveredbetweenpityandfascination.“YoumustbeChristine,”she’dsaid,tiltingherheadtoonesideandholdingouthermanicuredhand.“Docomein!”
Sheclosedthedoorbehindus.Shewaswearingacreamblouse,goldjewelry.Sheintroducedherselfandsaid,“Youstayaslongasyoulike,okay?Aslongasyouneed.Yes?”
Inoddedandlookedaround.Wewerestandinginabright,carpetedhallway.Thesunstreamedthroughtheglasspanelsinthewindowtopickoutavaseofredtulipsthatsatonasidetable.Thesilencewaslonganduncomfortable.“It’salovelyhouse,”Amandasaid,eventually,andforamomentIfeltasifDr.NashandIwereprospectivepurchasersandshearealestateagentkeentonegotiateadeal.“Weboughtitabouttenyearsago.Wejustadoreit.It’ssobright.Doyouwanttogointothelivingroom?”
Wefollowedherintothelounge.Theroomwassparse,tasteful.Ifeltnothing,notevenadullsenseoffamiliarity;itcouldhavebeenanyroominanyhouseinanycity.
“Thankyousomuchforlettinguslookaround,”saidDr.Nash.
“Oh,nonsense!”shesaid,withapeculiarsnort.Iimaginedherridinghorsesorarrangingflowers.
“Haveyoudonealotofdecoratingsinceyouwerehere?”hesaid.
“Oh,some,”shesaid.“Bitsandpieces.”
Ilookedaroundatthesandedfloorboardsandwhitewalls,atthecreamsofa,themodernartprintsthathungonthewall.IthoughtofthehouseIhadleftthismorning;itcouldnothavelookedmoredifferent.
“Doyourememberhowitlookedwhenyoumovedin?”saidDr.Nash.
Shesighed.“Onlyvaguely,I’mafraid.Itwascarpeted.Akindofbiscuitcolor,Ithink.Andtherewaswallpaper.Sortofstriped,ifIremember.”Itriedtopicturetheroomasshe’ddescribedit.Nothingcame.“Therewasafireplacewehadremoved,too.Iwishwehadn’t,now.Itwasanoriginalfeature.”
“Christine?”saidDr.Nash.“Anything?”WhenIshookmyheadheturnedtoAmanda.“Doyouthinkwecouldlookaroundtherestofthehouse?”
Wewentupstairs.Thereweretwobedrooms.“Gilesworksfromhomeagooddeal,”shesaidaswewentintheoneatthefrontofthehouse.Itwasdominatedbyadesk,filingcabinets,andbooks.“Ithinkthepreviousownersmusthaveusedthisastheirbedroom.”Shelookedatme,butIsaidnothing.“It’salittlebiggerthantheotherroom,butGilescan’tsleepinhere.Becauseofthetraffic.”Therewasapause.“He’sanarchitect.”Again,Isaidnothing.“It’squiteacoincidence,”shecontinued,“becausethemanweboughtthehouseoffwasalsoanarchitect.Wemethimwhenwecamebytolookattheplace.Theygotonquitewell.Ithinkweknockedhimdownbyafewthousandjustbecauseoftheconnection.”Anotherpause.Iwonderedifshewasexpectingtobecongratulated.“Gilesissettinguphisownpractice.”
Anarchitect,Ithought.Notateacher,likeBen.Thesecan’thavebeenthepeoplethathehadsoldthehouseto.Itriedtoimaginetheroomwithabedinsteadoftheglass-toppeddesk,carpetandwallpaperreplacingthestrippedboardsandwhitewalls.
Dr.Nashturnedtofaceme.“Anything?”
Ishookmyhead.“No.Nothing.Idon’trememberanything.”
Welookedintheotherbedroom,thebathroom.Nothingcametome,andsowewentdownstairs,intothekitchen.“Wouldyoulikeacupoftea?”saidAmanda.“It’sreallynotaproblem.It’smadealready.”
“No,thankyou,”Isaid.Theroomwasharsh.Hard-edged.Theapplianceswerechromeandwhite,andthecountertoplookedlikepouredconcrete.Abowloflimesprovidedtheonlycolor.“Ithinkweoughttoleavesoon,”Isaid.
“Ofcourse,”saidAmanda.Herbreezyefficiencyseemedtohavevanished,replacedbyalookofdisappointment.Ifeltguilty;shehadobviouslyhopedthatavisittoherhomewouldbethemiraclethatcuredme.“CouldIhaveaglassofwater?”Isaid.
Shebrightenedimmediately.“Ofcourse!”shesaid.“Letmegetyouone!”Shehandedmeaglassanditwasthen,asItookitfromher,thatIsawit.
AmandaandDr.Nashhadbothdisappeared.Iwasalone.Onthecountertop,Isawanuncookedfish,wetandglistening,lyingonanovalplate.Iheardavoice.Aman’svoice.ItwasBen’svoice,Ithought,butyounger,somehow.“Whitewine?”itsaid.“Orred?”—andIturnedandsawhimcomingintoakitchen.Itwasthesamekitchen—theoneIwasstandinginwithDr.NashandAmanda—butithaddifferent-coloredpaintonthewalls.Benwasholdingabottleofwineineachhand,anditwasthesameBenbutslimmer,withlessgrayinhishair,andhehadamustache.Hewasnaked,andhispeniswassemierect,bobbingcomicallyashewalked.Hisskinwassmooth,tautoverthemusclesofhisarmsandchest,andIfeltthesharptugoflust.Isawmyselfgasp,butIwaslaughing.
“White,Ithink?”hesaid,andhelaughedwithme,andthenheputbothbottlesdownonthetableandcameovertowhereIstood.Hisarmsencircledme,andthenIwasclosingmyeyes,andmymouthopened,asifinvoluntarily,andIwaskissinghim,andheme,andIcouldfeelhispenispressingintomycrotchandmyhandmovingtowardit.And,evenasIwaskissinghim,Iwasthinking,Imustrememberthis,howthisfeels.Imustputthisinmybook.ThisiswhatIwanttowrite.
Ifellintohimthen,pressingmybodyagainsthis,andhishandsbegantotearatmydress,gropingforthezipper.“Stopit!”Isaid.“Don’t—”ButeventhoughIwassayingno,askinghimtostop,IfeltasthoughIwantedhimmorethanIhadeverwantedanyonebefore.“Upstairs,”Isaid,“quick,”andthenwewereleavingthekitchen,tearingatourclothesaswewent,andheadinguptothebedroomwiththegraycarpetandbluepatternedwallpaper,andallthetimeIwasthinking,Yes,thisiswhatIoughttobewritingaboutinmynextnovel,thisisthefeelingIwanttocapture.
Istumbled.Thesoundofbreakingglass,andtheimageinfrontofmevanished.Itwasasifthereeloffilmhadrunthrough,theimagesonthescreenreplacedwithaflickeringlightandtheshadowsofdustmotes.Iopenedmyeyes.
Iwasstillthere,inthatkitchen,butnowitwasDr.Nashstandinginfrontofme,andAmandaalittlewaypasthim,andtheywerebothlookingatme,concernedandanxious.IrealizedIhaddroppedtheglass.
“Christine,”saidDr.Nash.“Christine.Areyouokay?”
Ididnotanswer.Ididnotknowwhattofeel.Itwasthefirsttime—asfarasIknew—Ihadeverrememberedmyhusband.
Iclosedmyeyesandtriedtowillthevisionback.Itriedtoseethefish,thewine,myhusband,withamustache,naked,hispenisbobbing,butnothingwouldcome.Thememoryhadgone,evaporatedasifithadneverexisted,orhadbeenburnedawaybythepresent.
“Yes,”Isaid.“I’mfine.I—”
“What’swrong?”saidAmanda.“Areyouallright?”
“Irememberedsomething,”Isaid.IsawAmanda’shandsflytohermouth,herexpressionchangetooneofdelight.
“Really?”shesaid.“That’swonderful!What?Whatdidyouremember?”
“Please—”saidDr.Nash.Hesteppedforward,takingmyarm.Brokenglasscrunchedathisfeet.
“Myhusband,”Isaid.“Here.Irememberedmyhusband—”
Amanda’sexpressionfell.Isthatall?sheseemedtobesaying.
“Dr.Nash?”Isaid.“IrememberedBen!”Ibegantoshake.
“Good,”saidDr.Nash.“Good!That’sexcellent!”
Together,theyledmetothelivingroom.Isatonthesofa.Amandahandedmeamugofhottea,acookieonaplate.Shedoesnotunderstand,Ithought.Shecannot.IhaverememberedBen.Me,whenIwasyoung.Thetwoofus,together.Iknowwewereinlove.Inolongerhavetotakehiswordforit.Itisimportant.Farmoreimportantthanshecaneverknow.
Ifeltexcited,allthewayhome.Litwithnervousenergy.Ilookedattheworldoutside—thestrange,mysterious,unfamiliarworld—andinit,Ididnotseethreat,butpossibility.Dr.Nashtoldmehethoughtwewerereallygettingsomewhere.Heseemedexcited.Thisisgood,hekeptsaying.Thisisgood.Iwasn’tsurewhetherhemeantitwasgoodformeorforhim,forhiscareer.Hesaidhe’dliketoarrangeascanand,almostwithoutthinking,Iagreed.Hegavemeacellphone,too,tellingmeitusedtobelongtohisgirlfriend.ItlookeddifferentfromtheoneBenhadgivenme.Itwassmaller,andthecasingflippedopentorevealakeypadandAspare,hesaid.Youcanringmeanytime.Anytimeit’simportant.Andkeepitwithyou.I’llcallyouonittoremindyouaboutyourjournal.Thatwashoursago.NowIrealizehegaveittomesothathecanphonemewithoutBenknowing.He’devensaidasmuch.IrangtheotherdayandBenanswered.Itmightgetawkward.Thiswillmakethingseasier.Itookitwithoutquestion.
IhaverememberedBen.RememberedthatIlovedhim.Hewillbehome,soon.Perhapslater,whenwegotobed,Iwillmakeamendsforlastnight’sneglect.Ifeelalive.Buzzingwithpotential.
Tuesday,November13
Itistheafternoon.SoonBenwillbehomefromanotherdayatwork.Isitwiththisjournalinfrontofme.Aman—Dr.Nash—calledmeatlunchtimeandtoldmewheretofindit.Iwassittinginthelivingroomwhenherang,andatfirstdidnotbelievethatheknewwhoIwas.Lookintheshoeboxinthecloset,he’dsaideventually.You’llfindabook.Ihadnotbelievedhim,buthehadstayedonthelinewhileIlooked,andhewasright.Myjournalwasthere,wrappedintissue.Ilifteditoutasifitwerefragile,andthen,onceIhadsaidgood-byetoDr.Nash,Ikneltbytheclosetandreadit.Everyword.
Iwasnervous,thoughIdidnotknowwhy.Thejournalfeltforbidden,dangerous,thoughthiswasperhapsonlybecauseofthecarewithwhichI’dhiddenit.Iglanceduprepeatedlyfromitspagestocheckthetime,evencloseditquicklyandputitbackinitstissuewhentherewasthesoundofacaroutsidethehouse.ButnowIamcalm.Iamwritingthisinthewindowofthebedroom,inthebay.Itfeelsfamiliarhere,somehow,asifthisisaplacewhereIsitoften.Icanseedownthestreet:inonedirection,toarowoftalltreesbehindwhichaparkcanbeglimpsed;intheother,toarowofhousesandanother,busier,road.Irealizethat,thoughImaychoosetokeepmyjournalsecretfromBen,nothingterriblewouldhappenifheweretofindit.Heismyhusband.Icantrusthim.
IreadagainoftheexcitementIfeltonthewayhomeyesterday.Ithasdisappeared.NowIfeelcontent.Still.Carspass.Occasionallysomeonewalksby—aman,whistling,orayoungmothertakingherchildtotheparkandthen,later,awayfromit.Inthedistance,aplane,comingintoland,seemsalmosttobestationary.
Thehousesoppositeareempty,thestreetquietapartfromthewhistlingmanandthebarkofanunhappydog.Thecommotionofthemorning,withitssymphonyofclosingdoorsandsingsonggood-byesandrevvedengines,hasdisappeared.Ifeelaloneintheworld.
Itbeginstorain.Largedropletsspatterthewindowinfrontofmyface,hangforamoment,andthen,joinedbyothers,begintheirslowslidedownthepane.Iputmyhanduptothecoldglass.
Somuchseparatesmefromtherestoftheworld.
IreadofvisitingthehomeIhadsharedwithmyhusband.Wasitreallyonlyyesterdaythosewordswerewritten?Theydonotfeelasiftheybelongtome.IreadofthedayIhadremembered,too.Ofkissingmyhusband—inthehouseweboughttogether,solongago—andwhenIclosemyeyes,Icanseeitagain.Itisdimatfirst,unfocused,butthentheimageshimmersandresolves,snappingtosharpnesswithanalmostoverwhelmingintensity.Myhusband,tearingatmyclothes.Ben,holdingme,hiskissesbecomingmoreurgent,deeper.Irememberweneitheratethefishnordrankthewine;instead,whenwehadfinishedmakinglove,westayedinbedforaslongaswecould,ourlegsentwined,myheadonhischest,hishandstrokingmyhair,semendryingonmystomach.Weweresilent.Happinesssurroundeduslikeacloud.
“Iloveyou,”hesaid.Hewaswhispering,asifhehadneversaidthosewordsbefore,and,thoughhemusthavedonesomanytimes,theysoundednew.Forbiddenanddangerous.
Ilookedupathim,atthestubbleonhischin,thefleshofhislips,andtheoutlineofhisnoseabovethem.“Iloveyoutoo,”Isaid,whisperingintohischestasifthewordswerefragile.Hesqueezedmybodytohis,then,andkissedmesoftly.Thetopofmyhead,mybrow.Iclosedmyeyesandhekissedmyeyelids,barelybrushingthemwithhislips.Ifeltsafe,athome.Ifeltasifhere,againsthisbody,wastheonlyplaceinwhichIbelonged.TheonlyplaceIhadeverwantedtobe.Welayinsilenceforawhile,holdingeachother,ourskinmerging,ourbreathingsynchronized.Ifeltasifsilencemightallowthemomenttolastforever,whichwouldstillnotbeenough.
Benbrokethespell.“Ihavetoleave,”hesaid,andIopenedmyeyesandtookhishandinmine.Itfeltwarm.Soft.Ibroughtittomymouthandkissedit.Thetasteofglass,andearth.
“Already?”Isaid.
Hekissedmeagain.“Yes.It’slaterthanyouthink.I’llmissmytrain.”
Ifeltmybodyplunge.Separationseemedunthinkable.Unbearable.“Stayabitlonger?”Isaid.“Getthenextone?”
Helaughed.“Ican’t,Chris,”hesaid.“Youknowthat.”
Ikissedhimagain.“Iknow,”Isaid.“Iknow.”
Ishoweredafterheleft.Itookmytime,soapingmyselfslowly,feelingthewateronmyskinasifitwereanewsensation.Inthebedroom,Isprayedmyselfwithperfumeandputonmynightdressandarobe,andthenIwentdownstairs,intothediningroom.
Itwasdark.Iturnedonthelight.Onthetableinfrontofmewasatypewriter,threadedwithblankpaper,andnexttoitashallowstackofpages,turnedfacedown.Isatdown,infrontofthemachine.Ibegantotype.ChapterTwo.
Ipausedthen.Icouldnotthinkwhattowritenext,howtobegin.Isighed,restingmyfingersonthekeyboard.Itfeltnaturalbeneathme,coolandsmooth,contouredtomyfingertips.Iclosedmyeyesandtypedagain.
Myfingersdancedacrossthekeys,automatically,almostwithoutthought.WhenIopenedmyeyes,Ihadtypedasinglesentence.
Lizzydidnotknowwhatshehaddone,orhowitcouldbeundone.
Ilookedatthesentence.Solid.Sittingthere,onthepage.
Nonsense,Ithought.Ifeltangry.IknewIcoulddobetter.Ihaddonesobefore,twosummerspreviously,whenthewordshadflownoutofme,scatteringmystoryontothepagelikeconfetti.Butnow?Nowsomethingwaswrong.Languagehadbecomesolid,stiff.Hard.
Itookapencilanddrewalinethroughthesentence.Ifeltalittlebetterwithitscoredout,butnowIhadnothingagain;nowheretostart.
IstoodupandlitacigarettefromthepackthatBenhadleftonthetable.Idrewthesmokedeepintomylungs,heldit,exhaled.Foramoment,Iwisheditwasweed,wonderedwhereIcouldgetsomefrom,fornexttime.Ipouredmyselfadrink—neatvodkaintoawhiskeytumbler—andtookamouthful.Itwouldhavetodo.Writer’sblock,Ithought.HowdidIbecomesuchafuckingcliché?
Lasttime.HowdidIdoitlasttime?Iwentovertothebookcasesthatlinedthewallofthediningroomand,withthecigarettedanglingbetweenmylips,tookdownabookfromthetopshelf.Theremustbeclueshere.Surely?
Iputthevodkadownandturnedthebookoverinmyhands.Irestedmyfingertipsonthecover,asifthebookweredelicate,andbrushedthemgentlyoverthetitle.FortheMorningBirds,itsaid.ChristineLucas.Iopenedthecoverandflickedthroughthepages.
Theimagevanished.Myeyesopened.TheroomIwasinlookeddrabandgray,butmybreathingwasragged.IdimlyregisteredthesurprisethatIhadoncesmoked,butitwasreplacedbysomethingelse.Wasittrue?HadIwrittenanovel?Haditbeenpublished?Istoodup;myjournalslidfrommylap.Ifso,Ihadbeensomeone,someonewithalife,withgoalsandambitionsandachievements.Irandownthestairs.
Wasittrue?Benhadsaidnothingtomethismorning.Nothingaboutbeingawriter.Thismorning,IhadreadofourtriptoParliamentHill.There,hehadtoldmeIhadbeenworkingasasecretarywhenIhadmyaccident.
Iscannedthebookshelvesinthelivingroom.Dictionaries.Anatlas.Aguidetodo-it-yourself.Afewnovels,hardcoverand,fromtheircondition,Iguessedunread.Butnothingbyme.NothingtosuggestIhadhadanovelpublished.Ispunaround,half-crazy.Itmustbehere,Ithought.Itmust.Butthenanotherthoughtstruckme.Perhapsmyvisionwasnotmemorybutinvention.Perhaps,withoutatruehistorytoholdandponder,mymindhadcreatedoneofitsown.PerhapsmysubconsciousdecidedthatIwasawriterbecausethatiswhatIalwayswantedtobe.
Iranbackupstairs.Theshelvesintheofficewerefilledwithboxfilesandcomputermanuals,andIhadseennobooksineitherbedroomasIexploredthehousethatmorning.Istood,foramoment,thensawthecomputerinfrontofme,silentanddark.Iknewwhattodo,thoughIdidnotknowhowIknew.Iswitcheditonanditwhirredintolifebeneaththedesk,thescreenlightingupamomentlater.Aswellofmusicfromtherattlingspeakerbythesideofthescreen,andthenanimageappeared.AphotographofBenandme,bothsmiling.Acrossthemiddleofourfaces,therewasabox.USERNAME,itsaid,andbeneathittherewasanother.PASSWORD.
Inmyvision,Iwastouch-typing,myfingersdancingoverthekeysasifpoweredbyinstinct.IpositionedtheflashingcursorintheboxmarkedUSERNAMEandheldmyhandsabovethekeyboard.Wasittrue?HadIlearnedtotype?Iletmyfingersrestontheraisedletters.Theymoved,effortlessly,mylittlefingersseekingthekeysoverwhichtheybelonged,therestfallingintoplacebesidethem.Iclosedmyeyesand,withoutthinking,begantotype,listeningonlytothesoundofmybreathingandtheplasticclatterofthekeys.WhenIhadfinished,IlookedatwhatIhaddone,atwhatwaswritteninthebox.Iexpectednonsense,butwhatIsawshockedme.
Thequickbrownfoxjumpsoverthelazydog.
Istaredatthescreen.Itwastrue.Icouldtouch-type.Maybemyvisionwasnotinventionbutmemory.
MaybeIhadwrittenanovel.
Iranintothebedroom.Itdidnotmakesense.Foramoment,IhadthealmostoverwhelmingfeelingthatIwasgoingmad.Thenovelseemedtoexistandnotexistatthesametime,toberealandalsototallyimaginary.Icouldremembernothingofit,nothingaboutitsplotorcharacters,noteventhereasonIhadgivenititstitle,yetstillitfeltreal,asifitbeatwithinmelikeaheart.
AndwhyhadBennottoldme?Notkeptacopyondisplay?Ipicturedit,hiddeninthehouse,wrappedintissue,storedinaboxintheloftorthecellar.Why?
Anexplanationcametome.BenhadtoldmeIhadbeenworkingasasecretary.PerhapsthatwaswhyIcouldtype:theonlyreason.
Idugoneofthephonesoutofmybag,notcaringwhichone,hardlyevencaringwhoIcalled.Myhusbandormydoctor?Bothseemedequallyalientome.IflippeditopenandscrolledthroughthemenuuntilIsawanameIrecognized,thenpressedtheCALLbutton.
“Dr.Nash?”Isaid,whenthecallwasanswered.“It’sChristine.”Hebegantosaysomething,butIinterruptedhim.“Listen.DidIeverwriteanything?”
“Sorry?”hesaid.Hesoundedconfused,andforamomentIhadthesenseIhaddonesomethingterriblywrong.IwonderedwhetherheevenknewwhoIwas,butthenhesaid,“Christine?”
IrepeatedwhatIhadsaid.“Ijustrememberedsomething.ThatIwaswritingsomething,yearsago,whenIfirstknewBen,Ithink.Anovel.DidIeverwriteanovel?”
HedidnotseemtounderstandwhatImeant.“Anovel?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Iseemtorememberwantingtobeawriter,whenIwaslittle.IjustwonderedwhetherIeverwroteanything.BentoldmeIworkedasasecretary,butIwasjustthinking—”
“Hehasn’ttoldyou?”hesaidthen.“Youwereworkingonyoursecondnovelwhenyoulostyourmemory.Yourfirstwaspublished.Itwasasuccess.Iwouldn’tsayitwasabestseller,butitwascertainlyasuccess.”
Thewordsspuninoneachother.Anovel.Asuccess.Published.Itwastrue,mymemoryhadbeenreal.Ididnotknowwhattosay.Whattothink.
Isaidgood-bye,thencameupstairstowritethis.
***
Thebedsideclockreadstenthirty.IimagineBenwillcometobedsoon,butstillIsithereontheedgeofthebed,writing.Ispoketohimafterdinner.Ihadspenttheafternoonfretful,pacingfromoneroomtoanother,lookingateverythingasifforthefirsttime,wonderingwhyhewouldsothoroughlyremoveevidenceofeventhismodestsuccess?Itdidnotmakesense.Washeashamed?Embarrassed?HadIwrittenabouthim,ourlifetogether?Orwasthereasonsomethingworse?SomethingdarkerIcouldnotyetsee?
Bythetimehegothome,Ihadresolvedtoaskhimdirectly,butnow?Nowthatdidnotseempossible.ItfeltlikeIwouldbeaccusinghimoflying.
IspokeascasuallyasIcould.“Ben?”Isaid.“WhatdidIdoforaliving?”Helookedupfromthenewspaper.“DidIhaveajob?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Youworkedasasecretaryforawhile.Justafterweweremarried.”
Itriedtokeepmyvoiceeven.“Really?IhavethefeelingIusedtowanttowrite.”
Hefoldedhispagestogether,givingmehisfullattention.
“Afeeling?”
“Yes.Idefinitelyrememberlovingbooksasachild.AndIseemtohaveavaguememoryofwantingtobeawriter.”Heheldouthishandacrossthedinnertableandtookmine.Hiseyesseemedsad.Disappointed.Whatashame,theyseemedtosay.Badluck.Idon’tsupposeyoueverwillnow.“Areyousure?”Ibegan.“Iseemtoremember—”
Heinterruptedme.“Christine,”hesaid.“Please.You’reimaginingthings…”
Fortherestoftheevening,Iwassilent,hearingonlythethoughtsthatechoedinmyhead.Whywouldhedothat?WhywouldhepretendIhadneverwrittenaword?Why?Iwatchedhim,asleeponthesofa,snoringsoftly.WhyhadInottoldhimthatIknewIhadwrittenanovel?DidIreallytrusthimsolittle?Ihadremembereduslyingineachother’sarms,murmuringourloveforeachotherastheskygrewdarker.Howhadwegonefromthattothis?
ButthenIbegantoimaginewhatwouldhappenifIdidstumbleuponacopyofmynovelinacupboardoratthebackofahighshelf.Whatwoulditsaytome,otherthanLookhowfaryouhavefallen.Lookwhatyoucoulddo,beforeacaronanicyroadtookitallfromyou,leavingyouworsethanuseless.
Itwouldnotbeahappymoment.Isawmyselfbecominghysterical—muchmoresothanthisafternoon,whenatleasttherealizationwasgradual,triggeredbyalonged-formemory—screaming,crying.Theeffectmightbedevastating.
NowonderBenmightwanttohideitfromme.Ipicturehimnow,removingallthecopies,burningtheminthemetalbarbecueonthebackporch,beforedecidingwhattotellme.Howbesttoreinventmypasttomakeittolerable.WhatIneededtobelievefortheremainderofmyyears.
Butthatisovernow.Iknowthetruth.Myowntruth,oneIhavenotbeentoldbuthaveremembered.Anditiswrittennow,etchedinthisjournalratherthanmymemory,butpermanentnevertheless
IknowthatthebookIamwriting—mysecond,Irealizewithpride—maybedangerous,aswellasnecessary.Itisnotfiction.Itmayrevealthingsbestleftundiscovered.Secretsthatoughtnottoseethelightofday.
Butstillmypenmovesacrossthepage.
Wednesday,November14
Thismorning,IaskedBenifhe’devergrownamustache.Iwasstillfeelingconfused,unsureofwhatwastrueandwhatwasnot.Ihadwokenearlyand,unlikepreviousdays,hadnotthoughtthatIwasstillachild.Ihadfeltadult.Sexual.ThequestioninmymindwasnotWhyamIinbedwithaman?but,instead,Whoishe?andWhatdidwedo?Inthebathroom,Ilookedatmyreflectionwithhorror,butthepicturesarounditseemedtoresonatewithtruth.Isawtheman’sname—Ben—anditwasfamiliarsomehow.Myage,mymarriage,thesefactsseemedtobethingsIwasbeingremindedof,nottoldaboutforthefirsttime.Buried,butnotdeeply.
Dr.NashcalledmealmostassoonasBenleftforwork.Heremindedmeaboutmyjournalandthen—oncehehadtoldmethathewouldbepickingmeuplatertotakemeformyscan—Ireadit.TherewereafewthingsinitIcouldperhapsrecall,andmaybewholepassagesIcouldrememberwriting.Itwasasifsomeresidueofmemoryhadsurvivedthenight.
PerhapsthatwaswhyIhadtobesurethethingscontainedwithinitweretrue.IcalledBen.
“Ben,”Isaid,oncehe’dtoldmehewasn’tbusy.“Didyoueverhaveamustache?”
“That’sanoddquestion!”hesaid.Iheardtheclinkofaspoonagainstacupandpicturedhimspooningsugarintohiscoffee,anewspaperspreadinfrontofhim.Ifeltawkward.Unsurehowmuchtosay.
“Ijust—”Ibegan.“Ihadamemory.Ithink.”
Silence.“Amemory?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Ithinkso.”MymindflashedonthethingsIhadwrittenabouttheotherday—hismustache,hisnakedbody,hiserection—andthoseIhadrememberedyesterday.Thetwoofusinbed.Kissing.Briefly,theywereilluminated,beforesinkingbackintothedepths.SuddenlyIfeltafraid.“Ijustseemtorememberyouwithamustache.”
Helaughed,andIheardhimputdownhisdrink.Ifeltsolidgroundbegintoslipaway.MaybeeverythingIhadwrittenwasalie.Iamanovelist,afterall,Ithought.OrIusedtobe.
Thefutilityofmylogichitme.Iusedtowritefiction,thereforemyassertionthatIhadbeenanovelistmightbeoneofthosefictions.Inwhichcase,Ihadnotwrittenfiction.Myheadspun.
Ithadfelttrue,though.Itoldmyselfthat.PlusIcouldtouch-type.OrIhadwrittenthatIcould,atleast..
“Didyou?”Iasked,desperate.“It’sjust…it’simportant…”
“Let’sthink,”hesaid.Iimaginedhimclosinghiseyes,bitinghisbottomlipinaparodyofconcentration.“IsupposeImighthavedone,once,”hesaid.“Verybriefly.Itwasyearsago.Iforget…”Apause,then,“Yes.Actually,yes.IthinkIprobablydid.Foraweekorso.Alongtimeago.”
“Thankyou,”Isaid,relieved.ThegroundonwhichIstoodfeltalittlemoresecure.
“Youokay?”heasked,andIsaidthatIwas.
Dr.Nashpickedmeupatmidday.He’dtoldmetohavesomelunchfirst,butIwasn’thungry.Nervous,Isuppose.“We’remeetingacolleagueofmine,”hesaidinthecar.“Dr.Paxton.”Isaidnothing.“He’sanexpertinthefieldoffunctionalimagingofpatientswithproblemslikeyours.We’vebeenworkingtogether.”
“Okay,”Isaid,andnowwesatinhiscar,stationaryinstucktraffic.“DidIcallyouyesterday?”Iasked.HesaidthatIhad.
“Youreadyourjournal?”
“Mostofit.Iskippedbits.It’salreadyquitelong.”
Heseemedinterested.“Whatsectionsdidyouskip?”
Ithoughtforamoment.“Therearepartsthatseemfamiliartome.Isupposetheyfeelasifthey’rejustremindingmeofthingsIalreadyknow.Alreadyremember…”
“That’sgood.”Heglancedatme.“Verygood.”
Ifeltaglowofpleasure.“SowhatdidIcallabout?Yesterday?”
“Youwantedtoknowifyou’dreallywrittenanovel,”hesaid.
“AndhadI?”Isaid.“HaveI?”
Heturnedbacktome.Hewassmiling.“Yes,”hesaid.“Yes,youhave.”
Thetrafficmovedagainandwepulledaway.Ifeltrelief.IknewwhatIhadwrittenwastrue.Irelaxedintothejourney.
Dr.PaxtonwasolderthanIexpected.Hewaswearingatweedjacket,andwhitehairsprouteduncheckedfromhisearsandnose.Helookedasthoughheoughttohaveretired.
“WelcometotheVincentHallImagingCenter,”hesaidonceDr.Nashhadintroducedus,andthen,withouttakinghiseyesoffmine,hewinkedandshookmyhand.“Don’tworry,”headded.“It’snotasgrandasitsounds.Here,comein.Letmeshowyouaround.”
Wemadeourwayintothebuilding.“We’reattachedtoboththehospitalandtheuniversity,here,”hesaidaswewentthroughthemainentrance.“Whichcanbebothablessingandacurse.”Ididnotknowwhathemeantandwaitedforhimtoelaborate,buthesaidnothing.Ismiled.
“Really?”Isaid.Hewastryingtohelpme.Iwantedtobepolite.
“Everyonewantsustodoeverything.”Helaughed.“Noonewantstopayusforanyofit.”
Wewalkedintoawaitingroom.Itwasdottedwithemptychairs,copiesofthesamemagazinesBenhadleftformeathome—RadioTimes,Hello!,nowjoinedbyCountryLifeandMarieClaire—anddiscardedplasticcups.Itlookedliketherehadrecentlybeenapartythateveryonehadleftinahurry.Dr.Paxtonpausedatanotherdoor.“Wouldyouliketoseethecontrolroom?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Please.”
“FunctionalMRIisafairlynewtechnique,”hesaid,oncewe’dgonein.“HaveyouheardofMRI?Magneticresonanceimaging?”
Wewerestandinginasmallroom,litonlybytheghostlyglowfromabankofcomputermonitors.Onewallwastakenupbyawindow,beyondwhichwasanotherroom,dominatedbyalargecylindricalmachine,abedprotrudingfromitlikeatongue.Ibegantofeelafraid.Iknewnothingofthismachine.Withoutmemory,howcouldI?
“No,”Isaid.
Hesmiled.“I’msorry.MRIisafairlystandardprocedure.It’salittleliketakinganXraythroughthebody.Herewe’reusingsomeofthesametechniquesbutactuallylookingathowthebrainworks.Atfunction.”
Dr.Nashspokethen—thefirsttimeinawhilehehaddoneso—andhisvoicesoundedsmall,almosttimid.IwonderedwhetherhewasinaweofDr.Paxton,evendesperatetoimpresshim.
“Ifsomeonehasabraintumor,thenweneedtoscantheirheadtofindoutwherethetumoris,whatpartofthebrainisaffected.That’slookingatstructure.WhatfunctionalMRIallowsustoseeiswhichpartofthebrainyouusewhenyoudocertaintasks.Wewanttoseehowyourbrainprocessesmemory.”
“Whichpartslightup,asitwere,”saidPaxton.“Wherethejuicesareflowing.”
“Thatwillhelp?”Iasked.
“Wehopeitwillhelpustoidentifywherethedamageis,”saidDr.Nash.“What’sgonewrong.What’snotworkingproperly.”
“Andthatwillhelpmetogetmymemoryback?”
Hepaused,andthensaid,“Wehopeso.”
Itookoffmyweddingringandmyearringsandputtheminaplastictray.“You’llneedtoleaveyourbaginhere,too,”saidDr.Paxton,andthenheaskedmeifIhadanythingelsepierced.“You’dbesurprised,mydear,”hesaidwhenIshookmyhead.“Now,she’sabitofanoisyoldbeast.You’llneedthese.”Hehandedmesomeyellowearplugs.“Ready?”
Ihesitated.“Idon’tknow.”Fearwasbeginningtocreepoverme.Theroomseemedtoshrinkanddarken,andthroughtheglassthescanneritselfloomed.IhadthesenseIhadseenitbefore,oronejustlikeit.“I’mnotsureaboutthis,”Isaid.
Dr.Nashcameovertomethen.Heplacedhishandonmyarm.
“It’scompletelypainless,”hesaid.“Justalittlenoisy.”
“It’ssafe?”
“Perfectly.I’llbehere,justonthissideoftheglass.We’llbeabletoseeyouallthewaythrough.”
Imusthavestilllookedunsure,becausethenDr.Paxtonadded,“Don’tworry.You’reinsafehands,mydear.Nothingwillgowrong.”Ilookedathim,andhesmiledandsaid,“Youmightwanttothinkofyourmemoriesasbeinglostsomewhereinyourmind.Allwe’redoingwiththismachineistryingtofindoutwheretheyare.”
Itwascold,despitetheblankettheyhadwrappedaroundme,anddark,exceptforaredlightblinkingintheroomandamirrorhungfromaframeacoupleofinchesabovemyhead,angledtoreflecttheimageofacomputerscreenthatsatsomewhereelse.Aswellastheearplugs,Iwaswearingasetofheadphones,throughwhichtheysaidtheywouldtalktome,butfornowtheyweresilent.Icouldhearnothingbutadistanthum,thesoundofmybreathing,hardandheavy,thedullthudofmyheartbeat.
Inmyrighthand,Iclutchedaplasticbulbfilledwithair.“Squeezeit,ifyouneedtotellusanything,”Dr.Paxtonhadsaid.“Wewon’tbeabletohearyouifyouspeak.”Icaresseditsrubberysurfaceandwaited.Iwantedtoclosemyeyes,buttheyhadtoldmetokeepthemopen,tolookatthescreen.Foamwedgeskeptmyheadperfectlystill;IcouldnothavemovedevenifI’dwantedto.Theblanketoverme,likeashroud.
Amomentofstillness,andthenaclick.SoloudthatIstartled,despitetheearplugs,andfollowedbyanother,andathird.Adeepnoise,fromwithinthemachine,ormyhead.Icouldn’ttell.Alumberingbeast,waking,themomentofsilencebeforetheattack.Iclutchedtherubberbulb,determinedthatIwouldnotsqueezeit,andthenanoise,likeanalarmoradrill,overandoveragain,impossiblyloud,soloudthatthewholeofmybodyshookwitheachnewshock.Iclosedmyeyes.
Avoiceinmyear.“Christine,”itsaid.“Canyouopenyoureyes,please?”Theycouldseeme,then,somehow.“Don’tworry,it’sallfine.”
Fine?Ithought.Whatdotheyknowaboutfine?Whatdotheyknowaboutwhatit’sliketobeme,lyinghere,inacityIdonotremember,withpeopleI’venevermet?Iamfloating,Ithought,completelywithoutanchor,atthemercyofthewind.
Adifferentvoice.Dr.Nash’s.“Canyoulookatthepictures?Thinkwhattheyare,sayit,butonlytoyourself.Don’tsayanythingoutloud.”
Iopenedmyeyes.Aboveme,inthelittlemirror,weredrawings,oneaftertheother,whiteonblack.Aman.Aladder.Achair.Ahammer.Inamedeachoneasitcame,andthenthescreenflashedthewordsTHANKYOU!NOWRELAX!andIsaidthattomyself,too,tokeepmyselfbusy,wonderingatthesametimehowanyonecouldrelaxinthebellyofamachinelikethis.
MoreinstructionsflashedonthescreenRECALLAPASTEVENT,itsaid,andthenbeneathitflashedthewordsAPARTY.
Iclosedmyeyes.
ItriedtothinkofthepartyIhadrememberedasBenandIwatchedthefireworks.Itriedtopicturemyselfontheroofnexttomyfriend,tohearthenoiseofthepartybeneathus,totastethefireworksontheair.
Imagescame,buttheydidnotseemreal.IcouldtellIwasnotrememberingbutinventingthem.
ItriedtoseeKeith,torememberhimignoringme,butnothingwouldcome.Thosememorieswerelostagaintome.Buried,asifforever,thoughnowatleastIknowthattheyexist,thattheyareinthere,somewhere,lockedaway.
Mymindturnedtochildhoodparties.Birthdays,withmymotherandauntandmycousinLucy.Twister.Musicalchairs.Musicalstatues.Mymotherwithbagsofcandytowrapupasprizes.Peanutbutterandjellysandwicheswiththecrustsremoved.
Irememberedawhitedresswithrufflesatthesleeves,ruffledsocks,blackshoes.Myhairisstillblond,andIamsittingatatableinfrontofacake,withcandles.Itakeadeepbreath,leanforward,blow.Smokerisesintheair
Memoriesofanotherpartycrowdedinthen.Isawmyselfathome,lookingoutofmybedroomwindow.Iamnaked,aboutseventeen.Therearetrestletablesoutinthestreet,arrangedinlongrows,loadedwithtraysofsandwiches,jugsoficedtea.Flagsareeverywhere,buntinghangsfromeverywindow.Blue.Red.White.
Therearechildreninfancydress—pirates,wizards,Vikings—andtheadultsaretryingtoorganizethemintoteamsforanegg-and-spoonrace.IcanseemymotherontheothersideofthestreetfasteningacapearoundMatthewSoper’sneckand,justbelowmywindow,myfathersitsinadeckchairwithaglassofjuice.
“Comebacktobed,”saysavoice.Iturnaround.DaveSopersitsinmysinglebed,underneathmyposterofTheSlits.Thewhitesheetistwistedaroundhim,spatteredwithblood.Ihadnottoldhimitwasmyfirsttime.
“No,”Isay.“Getup!Youhavetogetdressedbeforemyparentscomeback!”
Helaughs,thoughnotunkindly.“Comeon!”
Ipullonmyjeans.“No,”Isay,reachingforaT-shirt.“Getup.Please?”
Helooksdisappointed.Ididn’tthinkthiswouldhappen—whichdoesnotmeanIdidn’twantitto—andnowIwouldliketobealone.Itisnotabouthimatall.
“Okay,”hesays,standingup.Hisbodylookspaleandskinny,hispenisalmostabsurd.Ilookawayashedresses,outofthewindow.Myworldhaschanged,Ithink.Ihavecrossedaline,andIcannotgoback.“Bye,then,”hesays,butIdon’tspeak.Idonotlookbackuntilhehasleft.
Avoiceinmyearbroughtmebacktothepresent.“Good.Morepicturesnow,Christine,”saidDr.Paxton.“Justlookateachoneandtellyourselfwhat,orwho,itis.Okay?Ready?”
Iswallowedhard.Whatwouldtheyshowme?Ithought.Who?Howbadcoulditbe?
Yes,Ithoughttomyself,andwebegan.
Thefirstphotographwasblack-and-white.Achild—agirl,four,fiveyearsold—inthearmsofawoman.Thegirlwaspointingtosomething,andtheywerebothlaughing,andinthebackground,slightlyoutoffocus,wasafencewithatigerrestingontheothersideofit.Amother,Ithoughttomyself.Adaughter.Atazoo.Andthen,withashockofrecognition,Ilookedatthechild’sfaceandrealizedthatthelittlegirlwasme,themothermyown.Breathcaughtinmythroat.Icouldnotrememberevergoingtoazoo,yetherewewere,herewasevidencethatwehad.Me,Isaidsilently,rememberingwhatIhadbeentold.Mother.Istaredatthescreen,tryingtoburnherimageintomymemory,butthepicturefadedandwasreplacedbyanother,alsoofmymother,nowolderyetnotseemingoldenoughtoneedthewalkingstickonwhichsheisleaning.Shewassmilingbutlookedexhausted,hereyessunkdeepinherthinface.Mymother,Ithoughtagain,andotherwordscame,unbidden:inpain.Iclosedmyeyesinvoluntarily,hadtoforcethemopenagain.Ibegantogripthebulbinmyhand.
Theimagescamequicklythen,andIrecognizedonlyafew.OnewasofthefriendIhadseeninmymemory,and,withathrill,Iknewheralmoststraightaway.ShelookedasIhadimaginedher,dressedinoldbluejeansandaT-shirt,smoking,herredhairlooseanduntidy.Anotherpictureshowedherwithherhaircutshortanddyedblack,andapairofsunglassespushedhighonherhead.Itwasfollowedbyaphotographofmyfather—thewayhelookedwhenIwasalittlegirl,smiling,happy,readinganewspaperinourfrontroom—andthenoneofmeandBen,standingwithanothercoupleIdidn’trecognize.
Otherphotoswereofstrangers.Ablackwomaninanurse’suniform;anotherwomandressedinasuit,sittinginfrontofabookcase,peeringwithagraveexpressionoverthetopofherhalf-moonglasses.Amanwithgingerhairandaroundface;anotherwithabeard.Achild,sixorseven—aboyeatinganicecreamandthen,later,thesameboy,sittingatadesk,drawing.Agroupofpeople,arrangedloosely,lookingatthecamera.Aman,attractive,hishairblackandslightlylongish,withapairofdark-rimmedglassesframingnarrowedeyesandascarrunningdownthesideofhisface.Theywentonandon,thesephotographs,andastheydid,Ilookedatthemallandtriedtoplacethem,torememberhow—orevenwhether—theywerewovenintothetapestryofmylife.IdidasIhadbeenasked.Iwasgood,andyetIfeltmyselfbegintopanic.Thewhirofthemachineseemedtoriseinpitchandvolumeuntilitbecameanalarm,awarning,andmystomachclenched.Icouldnotbreathe,andIclosedmyeyes,andtheweightoftheblanketbegantopressdownonme,heavyasamarbleslab,sothatitfeltlikeIwasdrowning.
Isqueezedmyrighthand,butitballeditselfintoafist,closingonnothing.Nailsbitintoflesh;Ihaddroppedthebulb.Icalledout,awordlesscry.
“Christine,”cameavoiceinmyear.“Christine.”
Icouldnottellwhoitwas,orwhattheywantedmetodo,andIcriedoutagain,andbegankickingtheblanketoffmybody.
“Christine!”
Loudernow,andthenthesirennoisewhirredtoahalt,adoorcrashedopen,andtherewerevoicesintheroom,andhandsonme,onmyarmsandlegs,andacrossmychest,andIopenedmyeyes.
“It’sokay,”saidDr.Nashinmyear.“You’reokay.I’mhere.”
Oncethey’dcalmedmedownwithreassurancesthateverythingwasfine—andgivenmebackmyhandbag,myearrings,andmyweddingring—Dr.NashandIwenttoacoffeebar.Itwasalongthecorridor,small,withorangeplasticchairsandyellowingFormica-toppedtables.Traysoftiredpastriesandsandwichessatwiltingintheharshlight.Ihadnomoneyinmypurse,butIletDr.Nashbuymeacupofcoffeeandapieceofcarrotcakeandthenselectedaseatbythewindowwhilehepaid.Outsidewassunny,theshadowslonginthecourtyardofgrass.Purpleflowersdottedthelawn.
Dr.Nashscrapedhischairunderthetable.Heseemedmuchmorerelaxed,nowthatthetwoofuswerealonetogether.“Thereyougo,”hesaid,settingthetrayinfrontofme.“Hopethat’sokay.”
Isawthathehadselectedteaforhimself;thebagstillfloatedinthesyrupyliquidasheaddedsugarfromthebowlinthecenterofthetable.Itookasipofmydrinkandgrimaced.Itwasbitterandtoohot.
“It’sfine,”Isaid.“Thankyou.”
“I’msorry,”hesaidafteramoment.Atfirst,Ithoughthewastalkingaboutthecoffee.“Ihadnoideathatyouwouldfinditsodistressinginthere.”
“It’sveryclaustrophobic,”Isaid.“Andnoisy.”
“Yes,ofcourse.”
“Idroppedtheemergencybutton.”
Hesaidnothing,butinsteadstirredhisdrink.Hefishedtheteabagoutanddepositeditonthetray.Hetookasip
“Whathappened?”Isaid.
“Difficulttosay.Youpanicked.It’snotthatuncommon.Itisn’tcomfortableinthere,asyousaid.”
Ilookeddownatmysliceofcake.Untouched.Dry.“Thephotographs.Whowerethey?Wheredidyougetthem?”
“Theywereamixture.SomeofthemIgotfromyourmedicalfiles.Benhaddonatedthem,yearsago.Iaskedyoutobringacouplefromhomeforthepurposesofthisexercise—yousaidthey’dbeenarrangedaroundyourmirror.SomeIprovided—ofpeopleyou’venevermet.Whatwecallcontrols.Wemixedthemalluptogether.Someoftheimageswerepeopleyouknewataveryyoungage,peopleyoushould,ormight,remember.Family.Friendsfromschool.Therestwerepeoplefromtheeraofyourlifethatyoudefinitelycan’tremember.Dr.PaxtonandIaretryingtofindoutwhetherthere’sadifferenceinthewayyouattempttoaccessmemoriesfromthesedifferentperiods.Thestrongestreactionwastoyourhusband,ofcourse,butyoureactedtoothers.Eventhoughyoudon’trememberthepeoplefromyourpast,thepatternsofneuralexcitationaredefinitelythere.”
“Whowasthewomanwithredhair?”Isaid.
Hesmiled.“Anoldfriend,perhaps?”
“Doyouknowhername?”
“I’mafraidIdon’t.Thephotoswereinyourfile.Theyweren’tlabeled.”
Inodded.Anoldfriend.Iknewthat,ofcourse—itwashernameIsowanted.
“YousaidthatIreactedtothepictures,though?”
“Someofthem,yes.”
“That’sgood?”
“We’llneedtolookattheresultsinmoredetailbeforewereallyknowwhatconclusionswecandraw.Thisworkisverynew,”hesaid.“Experimental.”
“Isee.”Icutoffacornerofthecarrotcake.It,too,wasbitter;theicingtoosweet.Wesatinsilenceforawhile.Iofferedhimmycakeandhedeclined,pattinghisstomach.“Havetowatchthis!”hesaid,eventhoughIcouldseenoreasonforhimtoworryyet.Hisstomachwasmostlyflat,thoughitlookedtobethesortthatwoulddevelopapaunch.Fornow,though,hewasyoung,andagehadhardlytouchedhim.
Ithoughtofmyownbody.Iamnotfat,notevenoverweight,yetstillitsurprisesme.WhenIsit,ittakesadifferentshapefromtheoneIamexpecting.Mybuttockssag,mythighsrubtogetherasIcrossthem.Ileanforwardtoreachformymugandmybreastsshiftinmybra,asifremindingmethattheyexist.Ishowerandfeelaslightwobblingoftheskinundermyarms,barelyperceptible.ThereismoreofmethanIthink;ItakeupmorespacethanIrealize.Iamnotalittlegirl,compact,myskintightonmybones;notevenateenager,mybodybeginningtolaydownitsfat.
Ilookedattheuneatencakeandwonderedwhatwillhappeninthefuture.PerhapsIwillcontinuetoexpand.Iwillgrowpudgyandthenfat,bloatingupanduplikeapartyballoon.OrelseIwillstaythesamesizeasIamnow,nevergettingusedtoit,insteadwatchingasthelinesonmyfacedeepenandtheskinonmyhandsgrowsasthinasthatofanonion,andIturnintoanoldwoman,stagebystage,inthebathroommirror.
Dr.Nashlookeddowntoscratchthetopofhishead.ThroughhishairIcouldseehisscalp,moreobviousinacircleatthecrown.Hewon’thavenoticedthatyet,Ithought,butonedayhewill.Hewillseeaphotographofhimselftakenfrombehind,orsurprisehimselfinachangingroom,orhishairdresserwillmakeacomment,orhisgirlfriend.Agecatchesusallout,Ithoughtashelookedup.Indifferentways.
“Oh,”hesaid,withacheerinessthatsoundedforced.“Ibroughtyousomething.Agift.Well,notreallyagift,justsomethingyoumightliketohave.”Hereacheddownandretrievedhisbriefcasefromthefloor.“You’veprobablyalreadygotacopy,”hesaid,openingit.Hetookoutapackage.“Hereyougo.”
IknewwhatitwasevenasItookit.Whatelsecoulditbe?Itfeltheavyinmyhand.Hehadwrappeditinapaddedenvelope,sealeditwithtape.Mynamewaswritteninheavyblackmarkerpen.CHRISTINE“It’syournovel,”hesaid.“Theoneyouwrote.”
Ididnotknowwhattofeel.Evidence,Ithought.ProofthatwhatIhadwrittenwastrue,shouldIneedittomorrow.
Insidetheenvelopewasasinglecopyofabook.Itookitout.Itwasapaperback,notnew.Therewasacoffeeringonthefrontandtheedgesofthepageswereyellowedwithage.IwonderedifDr.Nashhadgivenmehisowncopy,whetheritwasevenstillinprint.AsIheldit,IsawmyselfagainasIhadtheotherday;younger,muchyounger,reachingforthisnovelinanefforttofindawayintothenext.SomehowIknewithadn’tworked—thesecondnovelhadneverbeencompleted.
“Thankyou,”Isaid.“Thankyou.”
Hesmiled.“Don’tmentionit.”
Iputitunderneathmycoat,where,allthewayhome,itbeatlikeaheart.
***
AssoonasIgotbacktothehouse,Ilookedatmynovel,butonlyquickly.IwantedtowriteasmuchasIcouldrememberinmyjournalbeforeBencamehome,butonceI’dfinishedandputitaway,IhurriedbackdownstairstolookproperlyatwhatIhadbeengiven.
Iturnedthebookover.Onthecoverwasapasteldrawingofadesk,uponwhichsatatypewriter.Acrowwasperchedonitscarriage,itsheadcockedtooneside,almostasifitwerereadingthepaperthreadedthere.Abovethecrowwaswrittenmyname,andabovethat,thetitle.
FORTHEMORNINGBIRDS,itsaidCHRISTINELUCAS
MyhandsbegantoshakeasIopenedthebook.Insidewasatitlepage,adedication.Formyfather—andthen,Imissyou.
Iclosedmyeyes.Aflutteringofmemory.Isawmyfather,lyinginabedunderbrightwhitelights,hisskintranslucent,filmedwithsweatsothathealmostshone.Isawatubeinhisarm,abagofclearliquidhungfromanIVstand,acardboardtrayandatubofpills.Anurse,checkinghispulse,hisbloodpressure,andhenotwakingup.Mymother,sittingontheothersideofhisbed,tryingnottocrywhileItriedtoforcethetearstocome.
Asmellcamethen.Cutflowersandlow,dirtyearth.Sweetandsickly.Isawthedaywecrematedhim.Mewearingblack—whichIsomehowknowisnotunusual—butthistimewithoutmakeup.Mymother,sittingnexttomygrandmother.Thecurtainsopen,thecoffinslidesaway,andIcry,picturingmyfatherturningtodust.Mymother,squeezingmyhand,andthenwegohomeanddrinkcheap,fizzywineandeatsandwichesasthesungoesdownandshedissolvesinthehalf-light.
Isighed.Theimagedisappeared,andIopenedmyeyes.Mynovel,infrontofme.
Iturnedtothetitlepage,theopeningline.Itwasthen,Ihadwritten,withtheenginewhiningandherrightfootpressedhardagainsttheacceleratorpedal,thatsheletgoofthewheelandclosedhereyes.Sheknewwhatwouldhappen.Sheknewwhereitwouldlead.Shealwayshad.
Iflickedtothemiddleofthenovel.Ireadaparagraphthere,andthenonefromneartheend.
IhadwrittenaboutawomancalledLou,aman—herhusband,Iguessed—calledGeorge,andthenovelseemedtoberootedinawar.Ifeltdisappointed.Idon’tknowwhatIhadbeenhopingfor—autobiography,perhaps?—butitseemedanyanswersthisnovelcouldgivemewouldbelimited.
Still,IthoughtasIturneditovertolookatthebackcover,Ihadatleastwrittenit,gotitpublished.
Wheretheremighthavebeenanauthorphotograph,therewasnone.Instead,therewasashortbiography.
ChristineLucaswasbornin1960,inthenorthofEngland,itsaid.ShemajoredinEnglishatUniversityCollegeLondon,andhasnowsettledinthatcity.Thisisherfirstnovel.
Ismiledtomyself,feelingaswellofhappinessandpride.Ididthis.Iwantedtoreadit,tounlockitssecrets,butatthesametimeIdidnot.Iwasworriedtherealitymighttakemyhappinessaway.EitherIwouldlikethenovelandfeelsadthatIwouldneverwriteanother,orIwouldnot,andfeelfrustratedthatIneverdevelopedmytalent.Icouldnotsaywhichwasmorelikely,butIknewthatoneday,unabletoresistthepullofmyonlyachievement,Iwouldfindout.Iwouldmakethatdiscovery.
Butnottoday.TodayIhadsomethingelsetodiscover,somethingfarworsethansadness,moredamagingthanmerefrustration.Somethingthatmightripmeapart.
Itriedtoslipthebookbackintheenvelope.Therewassomethingelseinthere.Anote,foldedintofour,theedgescrisp.Dr.Nashhadwrittenonit:Ithoughtthismightinterestyou!
Iunfoldedthepaper.Acrossthetop,he’dwrittenStandard,1986.Beneathitwasacopyofanewspaperarticle,nexttoaphotograph.IlookedatthepageforasecondortwobeforeIrealizedthatthearticlewasareviewofmynovelandthepicturewasofme.
IshookasIheldthepage.Ididn’tknowwhy.Thiswasanartifactfromyearsago;goodorbad,whateveritseffectshadbeen,theywerelonggone.Itwashistorynow,itsripplesvanishedcompletely.Butitwasimportanttome.Howwasmyworkreceived,allthoseyearsago?HadIbeensuccessful?
Iscannedthearticle,hopingtounderstanditstonebeforebeingforcedtoanalyzethespecifics.Wordsjumpedoutatme.Positive,mostly.Studied.Perceptive.Skilled.Humanity.Brutal.
Ilookedatthephotograph.Black-and-white,itshowedmesittingatadesk,mybodyangledtowardthecamera.Iamholdingmyselfawkwardly.Somethingismakingmeuncomfortable,andIwonderedifitwasthepersonbehindthecameraorthepositionIamsittingin.Despitethis,Iamsmiling.Myhairislongandloose,andalthoughthephotographisblack-and-white,itseemsdarkerthanitisnow,asifIhavedyeditblack,oritisdamp.Behindme,therearepatiodoors,andthroughthem,justvisibleinthecorneroftheframe,isaleaflesstree.Thereisacaptionbeneaththephotograph.ChristineLucas,atherNorthLondonhome
IrealizeditmustbethehouseIhadvisitedwithDr.Nash.Forasecond,Ihadanalmostoverwhelmingdesiretogobackthere,totakethisphotographwithmeandconvincemyselfthatyes,itwastrue;Ihadexisted,then.Ithadbeenme.
ButIknewthatalready,ofcourse.ThoughIcouldn’trememberitanymore,Iknewthatthere,standinginthekitchen,IhadrememberedBen.Benandhisbobbingerection.
Ismiledandtouchedthephotograph,runningmyfingertipsoverit,lookingforhiddencluesasablindmanmight.Itracedtheedgeofmyhair,ranmyfingersovermyface.Inthephotograph,Ilookuncomfortable,butalsoradiantinsomeway.ItisasifIamkeepingasecret,holdingitlikeacharm.Mynovelhasbeenpublished,yes,butthereissomethingelse,somethingmorethanthat.
Ilookedclosely.IcouldseetheswellofmybreastsintheloosedressIamwearing,thewayIamholdingonearmacrossmystomach.Amemorybubblesupfromnowhere—me,sittingforthepicture,thephotographerinfrontofmebehindhistripod,thejournalistwithwhomIhavejustdiscussedmyworkhoveringinthekitchen.Sheyellsin,askinghowit’sgoing,andbothofusreplywithacheery“Fine!”andlaugh.“Notlongnow,”hesays,changinghisfilm.ThejournalisthaslitacigaretteandyellstoasknotifImindbutwhetherwehaveanashtray.Ifeelannoyed,butonlyslightly.Thetruthis,Iamyearningforacigarettemyself,butIhavegivenup,eversinceIfoundoutthat—
Ilookedatthepictureagain,andIknew.Init,Iampregnant.
Mymindstoppedforamoment,andthenbegantorace.Ittrippedoveritself,caughtonthesharpedgesoftherealization,thefactthatnotonlyhadIbeencarryingababyasIsatinthediningroomandhadmypicturetaken,butIhadknownit,washappyaboutit.
Itdidnotmakesense.Whathadhappened?Thechildoughttobe—howoldnow?Eighteen?Nineteen?Twenty?
Butthereisnochild,Ithought.Whereismyson?
Ifeltmyworldtipagain.Thatword:son.Ihadthoughtit,saidittomyselfwithcertainty.Somehow,fromsomewheredeepwithinme,IknewthatthechildIhadbeencarryingwasaboy.
Igrippedtheedgeofthechairtotryandsteadymyself,andasIdid,anotherwordbubbledtothesurfaceandexploded.Adam.Ifeltmyworldslipoutofonegrooveandintoanother.
Ihadhadthechild.WecalledhimAdam
Istoodupandthepackagecontainingthenovelskiddedtothefloor.Mymindracedlikeawhirringenginethathasatlastcaught,energyricochetedwithinmeasifdesperateforrelease.Hewasabsentfromthescrapbookinthelivingroom.Iknewthat.IwouldhaverememberedseeingapictureofmyownchildasIleafedthroughitthismorning.IwouldhaveaskedBenwhohewas.Iwouldhavewrittenaboutitinmyjournal.Icrammedtheclippingbackintotheenvelopealongwiththebookandranupstairs.Inthebathroom,Istoodinfrontofthemirror.Ididnotevenglanceatmyfacebutlookedaroundit,atthepicturesofthepast,thephotographsthatImustusetoconstructmyselfwhenIdon’thavememory.
MeandBen.Me,alone,andBen,alone.Thetwoofuswithanothercouple,older,whoItaketobehisparents.Me,muchyounger,wearingascarf,pettingadog,smilinghappily.ButthereisnoAdam.Nobaby,notoddler.Nophotostakenonhisfirstdayofschool,oratsportsday,oronholiday.Nopicturesofhimbuildingcastlesinthesand.Nothing.
Itdidnotmakesense.Surelythesearepicturesthateveryparenttakesandnonediscards?
Theymustbehere,Ithought.Iliftedpicturesuptoseeiftherewereotherstapedbeneaththem,layersofhistoryoverlainlikestrata.Therewasnothing.Nothingbutthepalebluetilesonthewall,thesmoothglassofthemirror.Ablank.
Adam.Thenamespuninmyhead.Myeyesclosedandmorememorieshit,eachonestrikingviolently,shimmeringforamomentbeforedisappearing,triggeringthenext.IsawAdam,hisblondhairthatIknewwouldonedayturnbrown,theSpidermanT-shirtthatheinsistedonwearinguntilitwasfartoosmallforhimandhadtobethrownout.Isawhiminastroller,sleeping,andrememberedthinkingthathewasthemostperfectbaby,themostperfectthing,Ihadeverseen.Isawhimridingabluebike—aplastictricycle—andsomehowknewthatwehadboughtitforhimonhisbirthday,andthathewouldrideiteverywhere.Isawhiminapark,hisheadhunchedoverhandlebars,grinningasheflewdown
Isnappedbacktothepresent,tothebathroominwhichIstood,butclosedmyeyesagain.Iwantedtorememberhimatschool,orasateenager,ortopicturehimwithmeorhisfather.ButIcouldnot.WhenItriedtoorganizemymemories,theyflutteredandvanished,likeafeathercaughtonthewindthatchangesdirectionwheneverahandsnatchesatit.Instead,Isawhimholdingadrippingicecream,thenwithlicoriceoverhisface,thensleepinginthebackseatofacar.AllIcoulddowaswatchasthesememoriescameandthenwent,justasquickly.
Ittookallmystrengthnottotearatthephotosinfrontofme.Iwantedtoripthemfromthewall,lookingforevidenceofmyson.Instead,asiffearingthatanymovementatallmightresultinmylimbsbetrayingme,Istoodperfectlystillinfrontofthemirror,everymuscleinmybodytensed.
Nophotographsonthemantelpiece.Noteenagebedroomwithpostersofpopstarsonthewall.NoT-shirtsinthelaundryoramongthepilesofironing.Notatteredsneakersinthecupboardunderthestairs.Evenifhehadlefthome,therewouldstillbesomeevidenceofhisexistence,surely?Sometrace?
Butno,heisn’tinthishouse.Withachill,Irealizeditwasasifhedidn’texist,andneverhad.
Idon’tknowhowlongIstoodthereinthebathroom,lookingathisabsence.Tenminutes?Twenty?Anhour?Atsomepoint,Iheardakeyinthefrontdoor,theswooshasBenwipedhisfeetonthemat.Ididnotmove.Hewentintothekitchen,thenthediningroom,andthencalledupstairs,askingifIwasallright.Hesoundedanxious,hisvoicehadanervousflutingtoitthatIhadnotheardthismorning,butIonlymumbledthatyes,yesIwas.Iheardhimgointothelivingroom,thetelevisionflickon.
Timestopped.Mymindemptiedofeverything.Everythingexcepttheneedtoknowwhathadhappenedtomyson,balancedperfectlywithadreadatwhatImightfindout.
Ihidmynovelintheclosetandwentdownstairs.
Istoodoutsidethelivingroomdoor.Itriedtoslowdownmybreathingbutcouldnot;itcameinhotgasps.IdidnotknowwhattosaytoBen:howIcouldtellhimthatIknewaboutAdam?Hewouldaskmehow,andwhatwouldIsaythen?
Itdidn’tmatter,though.Nothingdid.Nothingotherthanknowingaboutmyson.Iclosedmyeyesand,whenIfeltascalmasIthoughtIwouldeverfeel,gentlypushedthedooropen.Ifeltitslideagainsttheroughcarpet.
Bendidnothearme.Hewassittingonthesofa,watchingtelevision,aplatebalancedonhislap,halfacookieonit.Ifeltawaveofanger.Helookedsorelaxedandhappy,asmileplayedacrosshismouth.Hebegantolaugh.Iwantedtorushover,tograbhimandshoutuntilhetoldmeeverything,toldmewhyhehadkeptmynovelfromme,whyhehadhiddenevidenceofmyson.IwantedtodemandhegivebacktomeeverythingthatIhadlost.
ButIknewthatwoulddonogood.Instead,Icoughed.Atiny,delicatecough.AcoughthatsaidIdon’twanttodisturbyou,but..
Hesawmeandsmiled.“Darling!”hesaid.“Thereyouare!”
Isteppedintotheroom.“Ben,”Isaid.Myvoicewasstrained.Itsoundedalientome.“Ben?Ineedtotalktoyou.”
Hisfacemeltedintoanxiety.Hestoodupandcametowardme,theplateslidingtothefloor.“Whatisit,love?Areyouallright?”
“No,”Isaid.HestoppedacoupleoffeetfromwhereIstood.Heheldouthisarmsformetofallinto,butIdidnot.
“Whatever’swrong?”
Ilookedatmyhusband,athisface.Heappearedtobeincontrol,asifhehadbeenherebefore,wasusedtothesemomentsofhysteria.
Icouldgonolongerwithoutsayingthenameofmyson.“Where’sAdam?”Isaid.Thewordscameoutinagasp.“Whereishe?”
Ben’sexpressionchanged.Surprise?Orshock?Heswallowed.
“Tellme!”Isaid.
Hetookmeinhisarms.Iwantedtopushhimaway,butdidnot.“Christine,”hesaid.“Please.Calmdown.Icanexplaineverything.Okay?”
Iwantedtotellhimthatno,thingsweren’tokayatall,butIsaidnothing.Ihidmyfacefromhim,buryingitinthefoldsofhisshirt.
Ibegantoshake.“Tellme,”Isaid.“Please,tellmenow.”
Wesatonthesofa.Meatoneend.Himattheother.ItwasascloseasIwantedustobe.
We’dbeentalking.Forminutes.Hours.Icouldn’ttell.Ididn’twanthimtospeak,tosayitagain,buthedid.
“Adamisdead.”
Ifeltmyselfclench.Tightasamollusk.Hiswords,sharpasrazorwire.
Ithoughtoftheflyonthewindshieldonthewayhomefrommygrandmother’shouse.
Hespokeagain.“Christine,love.I’msosorry.”
Ifeltangry.Angrywithhim.Bastard,Ithought,eventhoughIknewitwasn’thisfault.
Iforcedmyselftospeak.“How?”
Hesighed.“Adamwasinthearmy.”
Iwentnumb.Everythingreceded,untilIwasleftwithpain,andnothingelse.Pain.Reducedtoasinglepoint.
AsonIdidnotevenknowthatIhad,andhehadbecomeasoldier.Athoughtranthroughme.Absurd.Whatwillmymotherthink?
Benspokeagain,instaccatobursts.“HewasaRoyalMarine.HewasstationedinAfghanistan.Hewaskilled.Lastyear.”
Iswallowed.Mythroat,dry.
“Why?”Isaid,andthen,“How?”
“Christine—”
“Iwanttoknow,”Isaid.“Ineedtoknow.”
Hereachedacrosstotakemyhand,andIlethim,thoughIwasrelievedwhenhemovednocloseronthesofa.
“Youdon’twanttoknoweverything,surely?”
Myangersurged.Icouldn’thelpit.Angerandpanic.“Hewasmyson!”
Helookedaway,towardthewindow.
“Hewastravelinginanarmoredvehicle,”hesaid.Hespokeslowly,almostwhispering.“Theywereescortingtroops.Therewasabomb,ontheroadside.Onesoldiersurvived.Adamandoneotherdidn’t.”
Iclosedmyeyes,andmyvoicedroppedtoawhisper,too.“Didhediestraightaway?Didhesuffer?”
Bensighed.“No,”hesaid,afteramoment.“Hedidn’tsuffer.Theythinkitwouldhavebeenveryquick.”
Ilookedacrosstowherehesat.Hedidnotlookatme.
You’relying,Ithought.
IsawAdam,bleedingtodeathbyaroadside,andpushedthethoughtout,focusinginsteadonnothing,onblankness.
Mymindbegantospin.Questions.QuestionsthatIdarednotaskincasetheanswerskilledme.Whatwashelikeasaboy,ateenager,aman?Wereweclose?Didweargue?Washehappy?WasIagoodmother?
And,Howdidthelittleboywhohadriddenaplastictricycleendupbeingkilledontheothersideoftheworld?
“WhatwashedoinginAfghanistan?”Isaid.“Whythere?”
Bentoldmewewereatwar.Awaragainstterror,hesaid,thoughIdon’tknowwhatthatmeans.Hesaidtherewasanattack,anawfulattack,inAmerica.Thousandswerekilled.
“AndnowmyboyendsupdeadinAfghanistan?”Isaid.“Idon’tunderstand…”
“It’scomplicated,”hesaid.“Healwayswantedtojointhearmy.Hethoughthewasdoinghisduty.”
“Hisduty?Didyouthinkthatwaswhathewasdoing?Hisduty?DidI?Whydidn’tyoupersuadehimtodosomethingelse?Anything?”
“Christine,itwaswhathewanted.”
Foranawfulmoment,Ialmostlaughed.“Togethimselfkilled?Isthatwhathewanted?Why?Ineverevenknewhim.”
Benwassilent.Hesqueezedmyhand,andasingletearrolleddownmyface,hotasacid,andthenanother,andthenmore.Iwipedthemaway,frightenedthattostarttocrywouldbenevertostop
Ifeltmymindbegintoclosedown,toemptyitself,toretreatintonothingness.“Ineverevenknewhim,”Isaid.
Later,Benbroughtdownaboxandputitonthecoffeetableinfrontofus.
“Ikeeptheseupstairs,”hesaid.“Forsafety.”
Fromwhat?Ithought.Theboxwasgray,madeofmetal.Thekindofboxinwhichonemightkeepmoneyorimportantdocuments.
Whateveritcontainedmustbedangerous.Iimaginedwildanimals,scorpionsandsnakes,hungryrats,venomoustoads.Oraninvisiblevirus,somethingradioactive.
“Forsafety?”Isaid.
Hesighed.“Therearesomethingsitwouldn’tbegoodforyoutostumbleonwhenyou’rebyyourself.Somethingsthatit’sbetterifIexplaintoyou.”
Hesatnexttomeandopenedthebox.Icouldseenothinginsidebutpaper.
“ThisisAdamasababy,”hesaid,takingoutahandfulofphotographsandhandingonetome.
Itwasapictureofme,onastreet.Iamwalkingtowardthecamera,withababy—Adam—strappedtomychestinapouch.Hisbodyisfacingmine,butheislookingoverhisshoulderatwhoeveristakingthepicture,thesmileonhisfaceatoothlessapproximationofmyown
“Youtookthis?”
Bennodded.Ilookedatitagain.Itwastorn,itsedgesstained,thecolorsfadingasifitwereslowlybleachingtowhite.
Me.Ababy.Itdidnotseemreal.ItriedtotellmyselfIwasamother.
“When?”Isaid.
Benlookedovermyshoulder.“Hewouldhavebeenaboutsixmonthsold,then,”hesaid.“So,let’ssee.Thatmustbeabout1987.”
Iwouldhavebeentwenty-seven.Alifetimeago.
Myson’slifetime.
“Whenwasheborn?”
Hedughishandintotheboxagain,passedmeaslipofpaper.“January,”hesaid.Itwasyellow,brittle.Abirthcertificate.Ireaditinsilence.Hisnamewasthere.Adam.
“AdamWheeler,”Isaid,outloud.TomyselfasmuchastoBen.
“Wheelerismylastname,”hesaid.“Wedecidedheshouldhavemyname.”
“Ofcourse,”Isaid.Ibroughtthepaperuptomyface.Itfelttoolighttobeavesselforsomuchmeaning.Iwantedtobreatheitin,forittobecomepartofme.
“Here,”saidBen.Hetookthepaperfrommeandfoldedit.“Therearemorepictures,”hesaid.“Doyouwanttoseethem?”
Hehandedmeafewmorephotographs.
“Wedon’thavethatmany,”hesaid,asIlookedatthem.“Alotwerelost.”
Hemadeitsoundasiftheyhadbeenleftontrainsorgiventostrangersforsafekeeping.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Iremember.Wehadafire.”Isaiditwithoutthinking.
Helookedatmeoddly,hiseyesnarrowed,pinchedtight.
“Youremember?”hesaid.
SuddenlyIwasn’tsure.HadhetoldmeaboutthefirethismorningorwasIrememberinghimtellingmetheotherday?OrwasitjustthatIhadreaditinmyjournalafterbreakfast?
“Well,youtoldmeaboutit.”
“Idid?”hesaid.
“Yes.”
“When?”
Whenwasit?Haditbeenthatmorning,ordaysago?Ithoughtofmyjournal,rememberedreadingitafterhe’dgonetowork.He’dtoldmeaboutthefireaswesatonParliamentHill.
Icouldhavetoldhimaboutmyjournalthen,butsomethingheldmeback.HeseemedlessthanhappythatIhadrememberedsomething.“Beforeyouleftforwork?”Isaid.“Whenwelookedthroughthescrapbook.Youmusthave,Isuppose.”
Hefrowned.Itfeltterribletobelyingtohim,butIdidnotfeelabletocopewithmorerevelations.“HowwouldIknowotherwise?”
Helookeddirectlyatme.“Isupposeso.”
Ipausedforamoment,lookingatthehandfulofphotographsinmyhand.Theywerepitifullyfew,andIcouldseethattheboxdidnotcontainmanymore.WeretheyreallyallIwouldeverhavetodescribemyson’slife?
“Howdidthefirestart?”Isaid.
Theclockonthemantelpiecechimed.“Itwasyearsago.Inouroldhouse.Theonewelivedinbeforewecamehere.”IwonderedifhemeanttheoneI’dbeento.“Welostalotofthings.Books,papers.Thatkindofstuff.”
“Buthowdiditstart?”Isaid.
Foramoment,hesaidnothing.Hismouthbegantoopenandclose,andthenhesaid,“Itwasanaccident.Justanaccident.”
Iwonderedwhathewasnottellingme.HadIleftacigaretteburning,ortheironpluggedin,orapottoboildry?IimaginedmyselfinthekitchenIhadstoodinthedaybeforeyesterday,withitsconcretecountertopandwhiteappliances,butyearsago.Isawmyselfstandingoverasizzlingfryer,shakingthewirebasketthatcontainedtheslicedpotatoesthatIwascooking,watchingastheyfloatedtothesurfacebeforerollingandsinkingbackundertheoil.Isawmyselfhearthephonering,wipemyhandsontheapronIhadtiedaroundmywaist,gointothehall.
Whatthen?HadtheoilburstintoflamesasItookthecall,orhadIwanderedbackintothelivingroom,oruptothebathroom,withnorecollectionofeverhavingbeguntocookdinner?
Idon’tknow,canneverknow.ButitwaskindofBentotellmethatithadbeenanaccident.Domesticityhassomanydangersforsomeonewithoutamemory,andanotherhusbandmighthavepointedoutmymistakesanddeficits,mighthavebeenunabletoresisttakingthemoralhighground.Itouchedhisarm,andhesmiled.
Ithumbedthroughthehandfulofphotographs.TherewasoneofAdamwearingaplasticcowboyhatandayellowbandanna,aimingaplasticrifleatthepersonwiththecamera,andinanotherhewasafewyearsolder;hisfacethinner,hishairbeginningtodarken.Hewaswearingashirt,buttonedtotheneck,andachild’stie.
“Thatwastakenatschool,”saidBen.“Anofficialportrait.”Hepointedtothephotographandlaughed.“Look.It’ssuchashame.Thepicture’sruined!”
Theelasticofthetiewasvisible,nottuckedunderthecollar.Iranmyhandsoverthepicture.Itwasn’truined,Ithought.Itwasperfect.
Itriedtoremembermyson,triedtoseemyselfkneelinginfrontofhimwithanelasticatedtie,orcombinghishair,orwipingdriedbloodfromagrazedknee.
Nothingcame.Theboyinthephotographsharedafullnessofmouthwithme,andhadeyesthatresembled,vaguely,mymother’s,butotherwisehecouldhavebeenastranger.
Bentookoutanotherpictureandgaveittome.Init,Adamwasalittleolder—maybeseven.“Doyouthinkhelookslikeme?”hesaid.
Hewasholdingafootball,dressedinshortsandawhiteT-shirt.Hishairwasshort,spikedwithsweat.“Alittle,”Isaid.“Perhaps.”
Bensmiled,andtogetherwecontinuedlookingatthephotographs.TheyweremostlyofmeandAdam,theoccasionaloneofhimalone;Benmusthavetakenthemajority.Inafew,hewaswithfriends,acoupleshowedhimataparty,wearingapiratecostume,carryingacardboardsword.Inone,heheldasmallblackdog.
Therewasaletter,tuckedamongthepictures.ItwasaddressedtoSantaClausandwritteninbluecrayon.Thejerkylettersdancedacrossthepage.Hewantedabike,hesaid,orapuppy,andpromisedtobegood.Itwassigned,andhehadaddedhisage.Four.
Idonotknowwhy,butasIreadit,myworldseemedtocollapse.Griefexplodedinmychestlikeagrenade.Ihadbeenfeelingcalm—nothappy,notevenresigned,butcalm—andthatserenityvanished,asifvaporized.Beneathit,Iwasraw.
“I’msorry,”Isaid,handingthebundlebacktoBen.“Ican’t.Notnow.”
Hehuggedme.Ifeltnauseariseinmythroat,butswalloweditdown.Hetoldmenottoworry,toldmeIwouldbefine,remindedmethathewashereforme,thathealwayswouldbe.Iclungtohim,andwesatthere,rockingtogether.Ifeltnumb,totallyremovedfromtheroominwhichwesat.Iwatchedhimgetmeaglassofwater,watchedasheclosedtheboxofphotographs.Iwassobbing.Icouldseethathewasupset,too,yetalreadyhisexpressionseemedtingedwithsomethingelse.Resignation,itcouldhavebeen,oracceptance,butnotshock.
Withashudder,Irealizedthathehasdoneallthisbefore.Hisgriefisnotnew.Ithashadthetimetobeddownwithinhim,tobecomepartofhisfoundations,ratherthansomethingthatrocksthem.
Itisonlymygriefthatisfresh,everyday.
Imadeanexcuse.Icameupstairs,tothebedroom.Backtothecloset.Iwroteon.
***
Thesesnatchedmoments.Kneelinginfrontoftheclosetorleaningonthebed.Writing.Iamfeverish.Itfloodsoutofme,almostwithoutthought.Pagesandpages.Iamhereagainnow,whileBenthinksIamresting.Icannotstop.Iwanttowritedowneverything.
IwonderifthisiswhatitwaslikewhenIwrotemynovel,thispouringontothepage.Orhadthatbeenslower,moreconsidered?IwishIcouldremember.
AfterIwentdownstairs,Imadeusbothacupoftea.AsIstirredinthemilk,IthoughtofhowmanytimesImusthavemademealsforAdam,pureeingvegetables,mixingjuice.ItooktheteabacktoBen.“WasIagoodmother?”Isaid,handingittohim.
“Christine—”
“Ihavetoknow,”Isaid.“Imean,howdidIcope?Withachild?HemusthavebeenverylittlewhenI—”
“—hadyouraccident?”heinterrupted.“Hewastwo.Youwereawonderfulmother,though.Untilthen.Afterward,well—”
Hestoppedtalking,lettingtherestofthesentencedisappear,andturnedaway.Iwonderedwhatitwashewasleavingunsaid,whathe’dthoughtbetteroftellingme.
Iknewenoughtofillinsomeoftheblanks,though.Imightnotbeabletorememberthattime,butIcanimagineit.IcanseemyselfbeingremindedeverydaythatIwasmarriedandamother,beingtoldthatmyhusbandandsonwerecomingtovisitme.IcanimaginemyselfgreetingthembotheverydayasifIhadneverseenthembefore,slightlyfrostily,perhaps,orsimplybewildered.Icanseethepainwemusthavebeenin.Allofus.
“It’sokay,”Isaid.“Iunderstand.”
“Youcouldn’tlookafteryourself.Youweretooillformetolookafteryouathome.Youcouldn’tbeleftalone,evenforafewminutes.Youwouldforgetwhatyouweredoing.Youusedtowanderoff.Iwasworriedyoumightrunyourselfabathandleavethewaterrunning,ortryandcookyourselfsomefoodandforgetyou’dstartedit.Itwastoomuchforme.SoIstayedathomeandlookedafterAdam.Mymotherhelped.Buteveryeveningwewouldcomeandseeyou,and—”
Itookhishand.
“Sorry,”hesaid.“Ijustfindithard,thinkingofthattime.”
“Iknow,”Isaid.“Iknow.Howaboutmymother,though?Didshehelp?Didsheenjoybeingagrandmother?”Henoddedandlookedabouttospeak.“She’sdead,isn’tshe?”Isaid.
Hetookmyhand.“Shediedafewyearsago.I’msorry.”
Ihadbeenright.Ifeltmymindbegintoclosedown,asifitcouldnotprocessanymoregrief,anymoreofthisscrambledpast,butIknewIwouldwakeuptomorrowandremembernoneofthis.
WhatcouldIwriteinmyjournalthatwouldgetmethroughtomorrow,thenextday,theoneafterthat?
Animagefloatedinfrontofme.Awomanwithredhair.Adaminthearmy.Anamecame,unbidden.WhatwillClairethink?
Andthereitwas.ThenameofmyfriendClaire.
“AndClaire?”Isaid.“Myfriend,Claire.Isshestillalive?”
“Claire?”saidBen.Helookedpuzzledforalongmoment,andthenhisfacechanged.“YourememberClaire?”
Heseemedsurprised.Iremindedmyselfthat—accordingtomyjournal,atleast—ithadbeenafewdayssinceIhadtoldhimIhadrememberedheratthepartyontheroof.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Wewerefriends.Whathappenedtoher?”
Benlookedatme,sadly,andforamomentIfroze.Hespokeslowly,buthisnewswasnotasbadasIfeared.“Shemovedaway,”hesaid.“Yearsago.Mustbenearlytwentyyears,Ithink.Justafewyearsafterwegotmarried,infact.”
“Whereto?”
“NewZealand.”
“Areweintouch?”
“Youwereforawhile,butno.Notanymore.”
Itdoesn’tseempossible.Mybestfriend,Ihadwritten,afterrememberingheronParliamentHill,andIhadfeltthesamesensationofclosenesswhenIhadthoughtofhertoday.Otherwise,whywouldIcarewhatshethought?
“Weargued?”
Hehesitated,andagainIsensedacalculation,anadjustment.Irealizedthat,ofcourse,Benknowswhatwillupsetme.HehashadyearstolearnwhatIwillfindacceptableandwhatisdangerousgroundforustotread.Afterall,thisisnotthefirsttimehehashadthisconversation.Hehashadtheopportunitytopractice,tolearnhowtonavigateroutesthatwillnotripthroughthelandscapeofmylifeandsendmetumblingsomewhereelse.
“No,”hesaid.“Idon’tthinkso.Youdidn’targue.Ornotthatyouevertoldmeanyway.Ithinkyoujustdriftedapart,andthenClairemetsomeone,andshemarriedhim,andtheymovedaway.”
Animagecamethen.ClaireandIjokingthatwewouldnevermarry.“Marriageisforlosers!”shewassayingassheraisedabottleofredwinetoherlips,andIwasagreeing,thoughatthesametimeknewthatonedayIwouldbeherbridesmaid,andshemine,andwewouldsitinhotelrooms,dressedinorganza,sippingchampagnefromaflutewhilesomeonedidourhair.
Ifeltasuddenflushoflove.ThoughIhavebarelyrememberedanyofourtime,ourlife,together—andtomorroweventhatwillbegone—Isensedsomehowthatwewerestillconnected,thatforawhileshehadmeanteverythingtome.
“Didwegotothewedding?”Isaid.
“Yes.”Henodded,openingtheboxonhislapanddiggingthroughit.“Thereareacoupleofphotoshere.”
Theywereweddingpictures,thoughnotformalshots;thesewereblurredanddark,takenbyanamateur.ByBen,Iguessed.Iapproachedthefirstonecautiously.
ShewasasIhadimaginedher.Tall,thin.Morebeautiful,ifanything.Shewasstandingonaclifftop,herdressdiaphanous,blowinginthebreeze,thesunsettingovertheseabehindher.Iputthepicturedownandlookedthroughtherest.Insomeshewaswithherhusband—amanIdidn’trecognize—andinothersIhadjoinedthem,dressedinpalebluesilk,lookingonlyslightlylessbeautiful.Itwastrue;Ihadbeenabridesmaid.
“Arethereanyofourwedding?”Isaid.
Heshookhishead.“Theywereinaseparatealbum,”hesaid.“Itwaslost.”
Ofcourse.Thefire.
Ihandedthephotosbacktohim.IfeltlikeIwaslookingatanotherlife,notmyown.Idesperatelywantedtogetupstairs,towriteaboutwhatIhaddiscovered.
“I’mtired,”Isaid.“Ineedtorest.”
“Ofcourse,”hesaid.Heheldouthishand.“Here.”Hetookthebundleofphotographsfrommeandputthembackinthebox.
“I’llkeepthesesafe,”hesaid,closingthelid,andIcameupheretomyjournal,andwrotethis.
***
Midnight.Iaminbed.Alone.Tryingtomakesenseofallthathashappenedtoday.AllthatIhavelearned.Idon’tknowwhetherIcan.
Idecidedtotakeabathbeforedinner.Ilockedthebathroomdoorbehindmeandlookedquicklyatthepicturesarrangedaroundthemirror,nowseeingonlywhatwasmissing.Iturnedonthehottap.
MostdaysIrealizeIdon’trememberAdamatall,yettodayhehadcometomeafterIsawjustonepicture.ArethesephotographsselectedsotheywillanchormeinmyselfwithoutremindingmeofwhatIhavelost?
Theroombegantofillwithhotsteam.Icouldhearmyhusbanddownstairs.Hehadturnedontheradioandthesoundofjazzfloateduptome,hazyandindistinct.Beneathit,Icouldheartherhythmicsliceofaknifeonaboard.Hewouldbechoppingcarrots,onions,peppers.Makingdinner,asifthiswereanormalday.
Forhim,itisanormalday,Irealized.Iamfilledwithgrief,butnothe.
Idon’tblamehimfornottellingme,everyday,aboutAdam,mymother,Claire.Inhisposition,Iwoulddothesame.Thesethingsarepainful,andifIcangoawholedaywithoutrememberingthem,thenIamsparedthesorrowandhethepainofcausingit.Howtemptingitmustbeforhimtokeepquiet,andhowdifficultlifemustbeforhim,knowingthatIcarrythesejaggedshardsofmemorywithmealways,everywhere,liketinybombs,andatanymomentonemightpiercethesurfaceandforcemetogothroughthepainasifforthefirsttime,takinghimwithme.
Iundressedslowly,foldedmyclothes,placedthemonthechairbythesideofthebath.Naked,Istoodinfrontofthemirrorandlookedatmyalienbody.Iforcedmyselftolookatthewrinklesinmyskin,atmysaggingbreasts.Idonotknowmyself,Ithought.Irecognizeneithermybodynormypast
Isteppedclosertothemirror.Theywerethere,acrossmystomach,onmybuttocksandbreasts.Thin,silverystreaks,thejaggedscarsofhistory.Ihadnotseenthembefore,becauseIhadnotlookedforthem.Ipicturedmyselfchartingtheirgrowth,willingthemtodisappearasmybodyexpanded.NowIamgladtheyarethere;areminder.
Myreflectionbegantodisappearinthemist.Iamlucky,Ithought.LuckytohaveBen,tohavesomeonetolookafterme,here,inwhatismyhome,evenifIdon’trememberitassuch.Iamnottheonlyonesuffering.HehasbeenthroughwhatIhave,today,butwillgotobedknowingthattomorrowhemighthavetodoitallagain.Anotherhusbandmighthavefeltunabletocope,orunwilling.Anotherhusbandmighthaveleftme.Istaredintomyownface,asiftryingtoburntheimageintomybrain,toleaveitnearthesurfacesothatwhenIwakeuptomorrowitwillnotbesoalientome,soshocking.Whenithadcompletelyvanished,Iturnedawayfrommyselfandsteppedintothewater.Ifellasleep.
Ididnotdream—ordidnotthinkIhad—butwhenIwoke,Iwasconfused.Iwasinadifferentbathroom,thewaterstillwarm,atappingonthedoor.Iopenedmyeyesandrecognizednothing.Themirrorwasplainandunadorned,boltedtowhitetilesratherthanblue.Ashowercurtainhungfromarailaboveme,twoglasseswerefacedownonashelfabovethesink,andabidetsatnexttothetoiletbowl.
Iheardavoice.“I’mcoming,”itsaid,andIrealizeditwasmine.Isatupinthebathandlookedovertothebolteddoor.Twodressinggownshungoffhooksontheoppositewall,bothwhite,matching,monogrammedwiththelettersRGH.Istoodup.
“Comeon!”cameavoicefromoutsidethedoor.ItsoundedlikeBen,butatthesametimenotBen.Itbecamesingsong.“Comeon!Comeon,comeon,comeon!”
“Whoisit?”Isaid,butitdidnotstop.Isteppedoutofthebath.Thefloorwastiled,blackandwhitediagonals.Itwaswet;Ifeltmyselfslip,myfeet,mylegsgivingway.Icrashedtothefloor,pullingtheshowercurtaindownontopofme.MyheadhitthesinkasIfell.Icriedout,“Helpme!”
Iwokeforreal,then,withanother,differentvoicecallingme.“Christine!Chris!Areyouokay?”itsaid,andwithreliefIrealizeditwasBenandIhadbeendreaming.Iopenedmyeyes.Iwaslyinginabath,myclothesfoldedonachairbesideme,picturesofmylifetapedtothepalebluetilesabovethesink.
“Yes,”Isaid.“I’mfine.Ijusthadabaddream.”
Igotup,atedinner,thenwenttobed.Iwantedtowrite,togetdownallIhadlearnedbeforeitdisappeared.Iwasn’tsureIwouldhavetimetodosobeforeBencametobed.
ButwhatcouldIdo?Ihavespentsolongtodaywriting,Ithought.Surelyhewillbesuspicious,willwonderwhatIhavebeendoing,upstairs,alone.IhavebeentellinghimIamtired,thatIneedtorest,andhehasbelievedme.
IcannotsayIdon’tfeelguilty.Ihaveheardhim,creepingaroundthehouse,openingandclosingdoorssoftlysoasnottowakeme,whileIhavebeenhunchedovermyjournal,writingfuriously.ButIhavenochoice.Ihavetorecordthesethings.Todososeemsalmostmoreimportantthananything,becauseotherwiseIwilllosethemforever.Imustmakemyexcusesandreturntomybook
“IthinkI’llsleepinthespareroomtonight,”I’dsaid.“I’mupset.Youunderstand?”
He’dsaidyes,toldmethathewouldcheckonmeinthemorningtomakesurethatIwasallrightbeforehewenttowork,thenkissedmegoodnight.Ihearhimnow,switchingoffthetelevision,turningthekeyinthefrontdoor.Lockingusin.Itwoulddonogoodformetowander,Isuppose.Notinmycondition.
Icannotbelievethatinafewmoments,whenIfallasleep,Iwillforgetaboutmysonalloveragain.Thememoriesofhimhadseemed—stillseem—soreal,sovivid.AndIhadrememberedhimevenafterdozinginthebath.Itdoesnotseempossiblethatalongersleepwilleraseeverything,yetBenandDr.Nashtellmethatthisisexactlywhatwillhappen.
DoIdarehopethattheyarewrong?Iamrememberingmoreeachday,wakingknowingmoreofwhoIam.Perhapsthingsaregoingwell,writinginthisjournalisbringingmymemoriestothesurface.
PerhapstodayisthedayIwillonedaylookbackonandrecognizeasabreakthrough.Itispossible.
Iamtirednow.Iwillstopwritingsoon,andthenhidemyjournal,turnoffthelight.Sleep.PraythattomorrowImaywakeandremembermyson.
Thursday,November15
Iwasinthebathroom.Ididn’tknowhowlongI’dbeenstandingthere.Justlooking.AllthosepicturesofmeandBensmilinghappilytogether,whenthereshouldhavebeenthreeofus.Istaredatthem,unmoving,asifIthoughtthatmightmakeAdam’simageemerge,willedintobeing.Butitdidnot.Heremainedinvisible.
Ihadwokenwithnomemoryofhim.Noneatall.Istillbelievedmotherhoodtobesomethingthatsatinthefuture,gleaminganddisquieting.EvenafterIhadseenmyownmiddle-agedface,learnedthatIwasawife,oldenoughtosoonbehavinggrandchildren—evenafterthosefactshadsentmereeling—IwasunpreparedforthejournalthatDr.Nashtoldme,whenhecalled,thatIkeptinthecloset.IdidnotimaginethatIwoulddiscoverthatIamamother,too.ThatIhavehadachild.
Iheldthejournalinmyhand.AssoonasIreadit,Iknewittobetrue.Ihadhadason.Ifeltit,almostasifhewerestillwithme,insidemypores.Ireaditoverandoveragain,tryingtofixitinmymind.
AndthenIreadon,anddiscoveredthatheisdead.Itdidnotseemreal.Didnotseempossible.Myheartresistedtheknowledge,triedtorejectitevenasIknewitwastrue.Nauseahitme.Bileroseinmythroat,andasIswalloweditdown,theroombegantoswim.Foramoment,Ifeltmyselfbegintofallforwardtothefloor.ThejournalslidfrommylapandIstifledascreamofpain.Istoodup,propellingmyselfoutofthebedroom.
Iwentintothebathroom,tolookagainatthepicturesinwhichheoughttobe.Ifeltdesperate,didnotknowwhatIwasgoingtodowhenBencamehome.Iimaginedhimcomingin,kissingme,makingdinner;Ithoughtofuseatingittogether.Andthenwewouldwatchtelevision,orwhateveritisthatwedomostevenings,andallthetimeIwouldhavetopretendthatIdidn’tknowIhadlostason.Andthenwewouldgotobed,together,andafterthat—
ItseemedmorethanIcouldbear.Icouldn’tstopmyself.Ididn’treallyknowwhatIwasdoing.Ibegantoclawatthepictures,ripping,pulling.Itseemedtotakenotimeatall,andthentheyweregone.Scatteredonthebathroomfloor.Floatinginthewaterinthetoiletbowl.
Igrabbedthisjournalandputitinmybag.Mypursewasempty,andsoItookoneofthetwotwenty-poundnotesthatIhadreadwerehiddenbehindtheclockonthemantelpieceandranoutofthehouse.IdidnotknowwhereIwasgoing.IwantedtoseeDr.Nash,buthadnoideawherehewas,orhowIcouldgetthereevenifIdid.Ifelthelpless.Alone.AndsoIran.
Onthestreet,Iturnedleft,towardthepark.Itwasasunnyafternoon.Theorangelightreflectedofftheparkedcarsandthepoolsofwaterleftbythemorning’sstorm,butitwascold.Mybreathmistedaroundme.Ipulledmycoattight,myscarfovermyears,andhurriedon.Leavesfellfromthetrees,blewinthewind,piledagainstthegutterinabrownmush.
Isteppedoffthecurb.Thesoundofbrakes.Acarcrunchedtoahalt.Aman’svoice,muffled,frombehindglass.
Getoutoftheway!itsaid.Stupidfuckingbitch!
Ilookedup.Iwasinthemiddleoftheroad,astalledcarinfrontofme,itsdriverscreamingwithfury.Ihadavision—myself,metalonbone,crumpling,buckling,andthensliding,upandoverthehoodofthecar,orunderit,tolie,atangledmess,theendofaruinedlife.
Coulditreallybethatsimple?Wouldasecondcollisionendwhatwasstartedbythefirst,allthoseyearsago?IfeelasifIhavealreadybeendeadfortwentyyears,butisthatwhereallthishastolead,eventually?
Whowouldmissme?Myhusband.Adoctor,perhaps,thoughtohimIamonlyapatient.Butthereisnooneelse.Canmycirclehavedrawnsotight?Didmyfriendsabandonme,onebyone?HowquicklyIwouldbeforgotten,wereItodie.
Ilookedatthemaninthecar.He,orsomeonelikehim,didthistome.Robbedmeofeverything.Robbedmeevenofmyself.Yettherehewas,stillliving.
Notyet,Ithought.Notyet.Howevermylifewastoend,Ididnotwantittobelikethis.IthoughtofthenovelIhadwritten,thechildIhadraised,eventhefireworkspartywithmybestfriendallthoseyearsago.Istillhavememoriestounearth.Thingstodiscover.Myowntruthtofind.
Imouthed“Sorry,”andranon,overtheroad,throughagateandintothepark.
Therewasahut,inthemiddleofthegrass.Acafé.Iwentinandboughtmyselfcoffeeandthensatononeofthebenches,warmingmyhandsontheStyrofoamcup.Oppositewasaplayground.Aslide,swings,acarousel.Asmallboysatonaseatshapedlikealadybug,whichwasfixedtothegroundbyaheavyspring.Iwatchedhimrockhimselfbackandforth,anicecreaminonehand,despitethecold.
Mymindflashedonavisionofmyselfandanotheryounggirlinthepark.Isawthetwoofus,climbingstairstoawoodencagefromwherewewouldglidetothegroundonametalslide.Howhighithadfelt,allthoseyearsago,yetlookingattheplaygroundnow,IsawthatitmusthavebeenonlyalittlehigherthanIamtall.Wewouldmuddyourdressesandbetoldoffbyourmothers,andskiphome,clutchingbagsofcandyorpotatochips.
Wasthismemory?Orinvention?
Iwatchedtheboy.Hewasalone.Theparkseemedempty.Justthetwoofus,inthecold,underaskyroofedwithadarkcloud.Itookamouthfulofmycoffee.
“Hey!”saidtheboy.“Hey!Lady!”
Ilookedup,thendownatmyhands.
“Hey!”heshoutedmoreloudly.“Lady!Youhelp!Youspinme!”
Hegotupandwentovertothecarousel.“Youspinme!”hesaid.Hetriedtopushthemetalcontraption,butdespitetheeffortevidentinhisfaceitbarelymoved.Hegaveup,lookingdisappointed.“Please?”hesaid.
“You’llbeokay,”Icalled.Itookasipofmycoffee.Iwouldwaithere,Idecided,untilhismothercamebackfromwherevershewas.Iwouldkeepaneyeonhim.
Heclimbedontothecarousel,shiftinghimselfuntilhestoodrightinitscenter.“Youspinme!”hesaidagain.Hisvoicewaslower.Pleading.IwishedIhadnotcomehere,couldmakehimgoaway.Ifeltremovedfromtheworld.Unnatural.Dangerous.IthoughtofthephotosIhadrippedoffthewallandleftscatteredinthebathroom.Ihadcomehereforpeace.Notthis.
Ilookedattheboy.Hehadmoved,wastryingonceagaintopushhimselfaround,hislegsbarelyreachingthegroundfromwherehestoodonthecarousel’splatform.Helookedsofragile.Helpless.Iwentovertohim.
“Youpushme!”hesaid.Iputmycoffeeonthegroundandgrinned.
“Holdtight!”Isaid.Iheavedmyweightagainstthebar.Itwassurprisinglyheavy,butIfeltitbegintogive,andwalkedaroundwithitsothatitgainedspeed.“Herewego!”Isaid.Isatontheedgeoftheplatform.
Hegrinnedexcitedly,clutchingthemetalbarwithhishandsasthoughwewerespinningfarmorequicklythanwewere.Hishandslookedcold,almostblue.Hewaswearingagreencoatthatlookedfartoothin,apairofjeans,turnedupattheankle.Iwonderedwhohadsenthimoutwithoutgloves,orascarf,orahat.
“Where’syourmummy?”Isaid.Heshrugged.“Yourdaddy?”
“Dunno,”hesaid.“MummysaysDaddy’sgone.Shesayshedoesn’tloveusnomore.”
Ilookedathim.Hehadsaiditwithnosenseofpain,ordisappointment.Forhimitwasasimplestatementoffact.Foramomentthecarouselfeltperfectlystill,theworldspinningaroundthetwoofusratherthanuswithinit.
“Ibetyourmummylovesyou,though?”Isaid.
Hewassilentforafewseconds.“Sometimes,”hesaid.
“Butsometimesshedoesn’t?”
Hepaused.“Idon’tthinkso.”Ifeltathuddinginmychest,asifsomethingwasturningover.Orwaking.“Shesaysnot.Sometimes.”
“That’sashame,”Isaid.IwatchedthebenchIhadbeensittingoncometowardus,thenrecede.Wespun,againandagain.
“What’syourname?”
“Alfie,”hesaid.Wewereslowingdown,theworldcomingtoahaltbehindhishead.MyfeetconnectedwiththegroundandIkickedoff,spinningusagain.Isaidhisname,asiftomyself.Alfie.
“Mummysayssometimesshe’dbebetteroffifIlivedsomewhereelse,”hesaid.
Itriedtokeepsmiling,myvoicecheery.“Ibetshe’sjokingthough?”
Heshrugged.
Mywholebodytensed.Isawmyselfaskinghimifhewouldliketocomewithme.Home.Tolive.Iimaginedhowhisfacewouldbrighten,evenashesaidhewasn’tsupposedtogoanywherewithstrangers.ButI’mnotastranger,Iwouldsay.Iwouldlifthimup—hewouldbeheavyandsmellsweet,likechocolate—andtogetherwewouldgointothecafé.Whatjuicedoyouwant?Iwouldsay,andhewouldaskforapple.Iwouldbuyhimadrink,andsomecandy,too,andwewouldleavethepark.Hewouldbeholdingmyhandaswewalkedbackhome,backtothehouseIsharedwithmyhusband,andthatnightIwouldcuthismeatforhimandmashhispotatoes,andthen,oncehewasinhispajamas,Iwouldreadhimastorybeforetuckingthecoversunderhissleepingbodyandkissinghimsoftlyonthetopofhishead.Andtomorrow—
Tomorrow?Ihavenotomorrow,Ithought.JustasIhadnoyesterday.
“Mummy!”hecalledout.Foramoment,Ithoughthewastalkingtome,butheleapedoffthecarouselandrantowardthecafé.
“Alfie!”Icalledout,butthenIsawawomanwalkingover,clutchingaplasticcupineachhand.
Shecroucheddownashereachedher.“Y’allright,Tiger?”shesaidasheranintoherarms,andshelookedup,pasthim,atme.Hereyeswerenarrowed,herfacesethard.I’vedonenothingwrong!Iwantedtoshout.Leavemealone!
ButIdidn’t.InsteadIlookedtheotherwayandthen,onceshehadledAlfieaway,Igotoffthecarousel.Theskywasdarkeningnow,turningtoaninkyblue.Isatonabench.Ididn’tknowwhattimeitwas,orhowlongI’dbeenout.IknewonlythatIcouldn’tgohome,notyet.Icouldn’tfaceBen.Icouldn’tfacehavingtopretendIknewnothingaboutAdam,thatIhadnoideaI’dhadachild.Foramoment,Iwantedtotellhimeverything.Aboutmyjournal,Dr.Nash.Everything.ButIpushedthethoughtfrommymind.Ididnotwanttogohome,buthadnowhereelsetogo.
Istoodandbegantowalkastheskyturnedblack.
Thehousewasindarkness.IdidnotknowwhattoexpectwhenIpushedopenthefrontdoor.Benwouldbemissingme;hehadsaidhewouldbehomebyfive.Ipicturedhimpacingupanddownthelivingroom—forsomereason,eventhoughIhadnotseenhimsmokethismorning,myimaginationaddedalitcigarettetothisscene—ormaybehewasout,drivingthestreets,lookingforme.Iimaginedteamsofpoliceandvolunteersoutthere,goingfromdoortodoorwithaphotocopiedpictureofme,andfeltguilty.Itriedtotellmyselfthat,eventhoughIhadnomemory,Iwasnotachild,Iwasnotamissingperson,notyet,butstillIwentintothehousereadytomakeanapology.
Icalledout.“Ben?”Therewasnoanswer,butIfelt,ratherthanheard,movement.Acreakofafloorboard,somewhereaboveme,analmostimperceptibleshiftintheequilibriumofthehouse.Icalledout,again,louderthistime.“Ben?”
“Christine?”cameavoice.Itsoundedweak,crackedopen.
“Ben,”Isaid.“Ben,it’sme.I’mhere.”
Heappearedaboveme,standingatthetopofthestairs.Helookedasthoughhe’dbeensleeping.Hewasstillwearingtheclotheshe’dputonthatmorningtogotowork,butnowhisshirtwascreasedandhungloosefromhistrousers,andhishairstoodoutinalldirections,emphasizinghislookofshockwithanalmostcomicalhintofelectricity.
Hestartedtocomedownthestairs.“Chris,you’rehome!”
“I…Ihadtogetsomeair,”Isaid.
“ThankGod,”hesaid.HecameovertowhereIstoodandtookmyhand.Hegrippedit,asiftoshakeit,ortomakesureitwasreal,butdidnotmoveit.“ThankGod!”
Helookedatme,hiseyeswide,glowing.Theyglistenedinthedimlightasthoughhe’dbeencrying.Howmuchhelovesme,Ithought.Myfeelingofguiltintensified.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ididn’tmeanto—”
Heinterruptedme.“Oh,let’snotworryaboutthat,shallwe?”
Hebroughtmyhandtohislips.Hisexpressionchanged,becameoneofpleasure,ofhappiness.Alltracesofanxietydisappeared.Hekissedme.
“But—”
“You’reback,now.That’sthemainthing.”Heflickedonthelightandthensmoothedhishairintoasemblanceoforder.“Right!”hesaid,tuckinginhisshirt.“Whatsayyougoandfreshenup?AndthenIthoughtwecouldgoout?Whatdoyouthink?”
“Idon’tthinkso,”Isaid.“I—”
“Oh,Christine.Weshould!Youlooklikeyouneedcheeringup!”
“But,Ben,Idon’tfeellikeit.”
“Please?”hesaid.Hetookmyhandagain,squeezingitgently.“Itwouldmeanalottome.”Hetookmyotherhandandbroughtthembothtogether,betweenhis.“Idon’tknowifItoldyouthismorning.It’smybirthdaytoday.”
WhatcouldIdo?Ididnotwanttogoout.Butthen,Ididnotwanttodoanything.ItoldhimIwoulddoasheasked,wouldfreshenup,andthenseehowIfelt.Iwentupstairs.Hismoodhaddisturbedme.Hehadseemedsoconcerned,but,assoonasIappearedsafeandwell,thatconcernevaporated.Didhereallylovemesomuch?TrustmesomuchthatallhecaredaboutwasthatIwassafe,notwhereIhadbeen?
Iwentintothebathroom.Perhapshehadn’tseenthephotosscatteredalloverthefloor,genuinelybelievedIhadbeenoutforawalk.Therewasstilltimeformetocovermytracks.Tohidemyangerandmygrief.
Ilockedthedoorbehindme.Ipulledthecordandturnedonthelight.Thefloorhadbeensweptclean.There,arrangedaroundthemirrorasiftheyhadneverbeenmoved,werethephotographs,everyoneperfectlyrestored.
ItoldBenIwouldbereadyinhalfanhour.Isatinthebedroomand,asquicklyasIcould,wrotethis.
Friday,November16
Idonotknowwhathappenedafterthat.WhatdidIdoafterBentoldmethatitwashisbirthday?AfterIwentupstairsanddiscoveredthephotographs,replacedjustastheyhadbeenbeforeIrippedthemdown?Idon’tknow.PerhapsIshoweredandgotchanged,maybewewentout,forameal,tothemovies.Icannotsay.Ididnotwriteitdownanddonotremember,despiteitbeingonlyafewhoursago.UnlessIaskBen,itislostcompletely.IfeellikeIamgoingmad.
Thismorning,intheearlyhours,Iwokewithhimlyingnexttome.Astranger,again.Theroomwasdark,silent.Ilay,rigidwithfear,notknowingwho,orwhere,Iwas.Icouldthinkonlyofrunning,ofescape,butcouldnotmove.Mymindfeltscoopedout,hollow,butthenwordsfloatedtothesurface.Ben.Husband.Memory.Accident.Death.Son.
Adam.
Theyhunginfrontofme,inandoutoffocus.Icouldnotconnectthem.Didnotknowwhattheymeant.Theywhirledinmymind,echoing,amantra,andthenthedreamcamebacktome,thedreamthatmusthavewokenmeup.
Iwasinaroom,inabed.Inmyarmswasabody,aman.Helayontopofme,heavy,hisbackbroad.Ifeltpeculiar,odd,myheadtoolight,mybodytooheavy;theroomrockedbeneathme,andwhenIopenedmyeyes,itsceilingwouldnotswimintofocus.
Icouldnottellwhothemanwas—hisheadwastooclosetomineformetoseehisface—butIcouldfeeleverything,eventhehairsonhischest,roughagainstmynakedbreasts.Therewasatasteonmytongue,furry,sweet.Hewaskissingme.Hewastoorough;Iwantedhimtostop,butsaidnothing.“Iloveyou,”hesaid,murmuring,hiswordslostinmyhair,thesideofmyneck.IknewIwantedtospeak—thoughIdidnotknowwhatIwantedtosay—butIcouldnotunderstandhowtodoso.Mymouthdidnotseemconnectedtomybrain,andsoIlaythereashekissedmeandspokeintomyhair.IrememberedhowIhadbothwantedhimandwantedhimtostop,howIhadtoldmyself,ashebegantokissme,thatwewouldnothavesex,buthishandhadmoveddownthecurveofmybacktomybuttocksandIhadletit.Andagain,ashehadliftedmyblouseandputhishandbeneathit,Ithought,This,thisisasfarasIwillletyougo.Iwillnotstopyou,notnow,becauseIamenjoyingthis.Becauseyourhandfeelswarmonmybreast,becausemybodyisrespondingwithtinyshuddersofpleasure.Because,forthefirsttime,Ifeellikeawoman.ButIwillnothavesexwithyou.Nottonight.Thisisasfaraswewillgo,thisfarandnofurther.Andthenhehadtakenoffmyblouseandunhookedmybra,anditwasnothishandonmybreastbuthismouth,andstillIthoughtIwouldstophim,soon.Theword“no”hadevenbeguntoform,cementeditselfinmymind,butbythetimeIhadspokenit,hewaspushingmebacktowardthebedandslidingdownmyunderwear,andithadturnedintosomethingelse,intoamoanofsomethingthatIdimlyrecognizedaspleasure.
Ifeltsomethingbetweenmyknees.Itwashard.“Iloveyou,”hesaidagain,andIrealizeditwashisknee,thathewasforcingmylegsapartwithoneofhisown.Ididnotwanttolethim,butatthesametimeknewthatsomehowIoughtto,thatIhadleftittoolate,watchedmychancestosaysomething,tostopthis,disappearonebyone.AndnowIhadnochoice.Ihadwanteditthen,asheunzippedhistrousersandsteppedclumsilyoutofhisunderwear,andsoImuststillwantitnow,nowthatIambeneathhisbody.
Itriedtorelax.Hearchedupandmoaned—alow,startlingnoisethatstarteddeepwithinhim—andIsawhisface.Ididn’trecognizeit,notinmydream,butnowIknewit.Ben.“Iloveyou,”hesaid,andIknewthatIshouldsaysomething,thathewasmyhusband,eventhoughIfeltIhadmethimforthefirsttimejustthatmorning.Icouldstophim.Icouldtrusthimtostophimself.
“Ben,I—”
Hesilencedmewithhiswetmouth,andIfelthimtearintome.Pain,orpleasure.Icouldnottellwhereoneendedandtheotherbegan.Iclungtohisback,moistwithsweat,andtriedtoopenmyselftohim,triedfirsttoenjoywhatwashappening,andthen,whenIfoundIcouldnot,triedtoignoreit.Iaskedforthis,Ithought,atthesametimeasIneveraskedforthis.Isitpossibletobothwantandnotwantsomethingatthesametime?Fordesiretoridewithfear?
Iclosedmyeyes.Isawaface.Astranger,withdarkhair,abeard.Ascardownhischeek.Helookedfamiliar,yetIhadnoideafromwhere.AsIwatchedhim,hissmiledisappeared,andthatwaswhenIcriedout,inmydream.ThatwasthemomentIwokeuptofindmyselfinastill,quietbed,withBenlyingnexttomeandnoideawhereIwas.
Igotoutofbed.Tousethebathroom?Toescape?IdidnotknowwhereIwasgoing,whatIwoulddo.IfIhadsomehowknownofitsexistence,Iwouldhaveopenedtheclosetdoor,asquietlyasIcould,andliftedouttheshoeboxthatcontainedmyjournal,butIdidnot.Andso,Iwentdownstairs.Thefrontdoorwaslocked,themoonlightbluethroughthefrostedglass.IrealizedIwasnaked.
Isatonthebottomofthestairs.Thesunrose,thehallturnedfrombluetoburnedorange.Nothingmadesense;thedreamleastofall.Itfelttooreal,andIhadwokeninthesamebedroomIhaddreamedmyselfin,nexttoamanIwasnotexpectingtosee.
Andnow,nowIhavereadmyjournalafterDr.Nashcalledme,athoughtforms.Mightithavebeenamemory?AmemoryIhadretainedfromthepreviousnight?
Idonotknow.Ifso,thenitisasignofprogress,Isuppose.ButalsoitmeansBenforcedhimselfonmeand,worse,ashedidso,Isawanimageofabeardedstranger,ascarrunningdownhisface.Ofallpossiblememories,thisseemsacruelonetoretain.
Butperhapsitmeansnothing.Itwasjustadream.Justanightmare.Benlovesmeandthebeardedstrangerdoesnotexist.
ButhowcanIeverknowforsure?
Later,IsawDr.Nash.Weweresittingatatrafficlight,Dr.Nashtappinghisfingersontherimofthesteeringwheel,notquiteintimetothemusicthatplayedfromthestereo—popthatIneitherrecognizednorenjoyed—whileIstaredahead.I’dcalledhimthismorning,almostassoonasIhadfinishedreadingmyjournal,finishedwritingaboutthedreamthatmighthavebeenamemory.Ihadtospeaktosomeone—thenewsthatIwasamotherhadfeltlikeatinyripinmylife,whichnowthreatenedtosnag,tearingitapart—andhe’dsuggestedwemoveournextmeetingtotoday.Heaskedmetobringmyjournal.Ihadn’ttoldhimwhatwaswrong,intendingtowaituntilwewereinhisoffices,butnowdidn’tknowwhetherIcould.
Thelightchanged.Hestoppedtappingandwejerkedbackintomotion.“Whydoesn’tBentellmeaboutAdam?”Iheardmyselfsay.“Idon’tunderstand.Why?”
Heglancedatmebutsaidnothing.Wedrovealittlefarther.Aplasticdogsatinthebackwindowofthecarinfrontofus,itsheadbobbingcomically,andbeyonditIcouldseetheblondhairofatoddler.IthoughtofAlfie.
Dr.Nashcoughed.“Tellmewhathappened.”
Itwastrue,then.PartofmewashopinghewouldaskmewhatIwastalkingabout,butassoonasIhadsaid“Adam,”Ihadrealizedhowfutilethathopehadbeen,howmisguided.Adamfeelsreal.Heexists,withinme,withinmyconsciousness,takingupspaceinawaythatnooneelsedoes.NotBen,orDr.Nash.Notevenmyself.
Ifeltangry.Hehadknownallalong.
“Andyou,”Isaid.“Yougavememynovel.Sowhydidn’tyoutellmeaboutAdam?”
“Christine,”hesaid.“Tellmewhathappened.”
Istaredoutofthefrontwindow.“Ihadamemory,”Isaid.
Heglancedacrossatme.“Really?”Ididn’tsayanything.“Christine,”hesaid.“I’mtryingtohelp.”
Itoldhim.“Itwastheotherday,”Isaid.“Afteryou’dgivenmemynovel.Ilookedatthephotographthatyou’dputwithitand,suddenly,Irememberedthedayitwastaken.Ican’tsaywhy.Itjustcametome.AndIrememberedthatI’dbeenpregnant.”
Hesaidnothing.
“Youknewabouthim?”Isaid.“AboutAdam?”
Hespokeslowly.“Yes,”hesaid.“Idid.It’sinyourfile.Hewasacoupleofyearsoldwhenyoulostyourmemory.”Hepaused.“Plus,we’vespokenabouthimbefore.”
Ifeltmyselfgocold.Ishivered,despitethewarmthinthecar.Iknewitwaspossible,evenprobable,thatIhadrememberedAdambefore,butthisbaretruth—thatIhadgonethroughallthisbeforeandwouldthereforegothroughitallagain—shookme.
Hemusthavesensedmysurprise.
“Afewweeksago,”hesaid,“youtoldmeyou’dseenachild,outinthestreet.Alittleboy.Atfirstyouhadtheoverwhelmingsensethatyouknewhim,thathewaslostbutwascominghome,toyourhouse,andyouwerehismother.Thenitcamebacktoyou.YoutoldBen,andhetoldyouaboutAdam.Laterthatdayyoutoldme.”
Irememberednothingofthis.Iremindedmyselfthathewasnottalkingaboutastranger,butaboutme.
“Butyouhaven’ttoldmeabouthimsince?”
Hesighed.“No—”
Withoutwarning,IrememberedwhatIhadreadthismorning,oftheimagestheyhadshownmeasIlayinthescanner.
“Therewerepicturesofhim!”Isaid.“WhenIhadmyscan!Therewerepictures…”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Fromyourfile…”
“Butyoudidn’tmentionhim!Why?Idon’tunderstand.”
“Christine,youmustacceptthatIcan’tbegineverysessionbytellingyouallthethingsIknowbutyoudon’t.Plus,inthiscase,Idecideditwouldn’tnecessarilybenefityou.”
“Benefitme?”
“No.Iknewitwouldbeveryupsettingforyoutoknowthatyouhadachildandhaveforgottenhim.”
Wewerepullingintoanundergroundparkinglot.Thesoftdaylightfaded,replacedbyharshfluorescenceandthesmellofgasolineandconcrete.Iwonderedwhatelsehemightfeelitunethicaltotellme,whatothertimebombsIamcarryinginmyhead,primedandticking,readytoexplode.
“Therearen’tanymore—?”Isaid.
“No,”heinterrupted.“YouonlyhadAdam.Hewasyouronlychild.”
Thepasttense.ThenDr.Nashknewhewasdead,too.Ididnotwanttoask,butknewthatImust.
“Youknowhewaskilled?”
Hestoppedthecarandturnedofftheengine.Theparkinglotwasdim,litonlybypoolsoffluorescentlight,andsilent.Iheardnothingbuttheoccasionaldoorslamming,therattleofanelevator.Foramoment,Ithoughttherewasstillachance.MaybeIwaswrong.Adamwasalive.Mymindlitwiththeidea.AdamhadfeltrealtomeassoonasIreadabouthimthismorning,yetstillhisdeathdidnot.Itriedtopictureit,ortorememberhowitmusthavefelttobegiventhenewsthathehadbeenkilled,yetIcouldnot.Itdidnotseemright.Griefshouldsurelyoverwhelmme.Everydaywouldbefilledwithconstantpain,withlonging,withtheknowledgethatpartofmehasdiedandIwillneverbewholeagain.Surelymyloveformysonwouldbestrongenoughformetoremembermyloss.Ifhereallyweredead,thensurelymygriefwouldbestrongerthanmyamnesia.
IrealizedIdidnotbelievemyhusband.Ididnotbelievemysonwasdead.Foramoment,myhappinesshung,balancing,butthenDr.Nashspoke.
“Yes,”hesaid.“Iknow.”
Excitementdischargedwithinmelikeatinyexplosion,turnedtoitsopposite.Somethingworsethandisappointment.Moredestructive,shotthroughwithpain
“How…?”wasallIcouldsay.
HetoldmethesamestoryasBen.Adam,inthearmy.Aroadsidebomb.Ilistened,determinedtofindthestrengthnottocry.Whenhehadfinished,therewasapause,amomentofstillness,beforeheputhishandonmine.
“Christine,”hesaidsoftly.“I’msosorry.”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Ilookedathim.Hewasleaningtowardme.Ilookeddownathishand,coveringmine,crisscrossedwithtinyscratches.Isawhimathome,later.Playingwithakitten,perhapsasmalldog.Livinganormallife.
“MyhusbanddoesnottellmeaboutAdam,”Isaid.“Hekeepsallofthephotographsofhimlockedawayinametalbox.Formyownprotection.”Dr.Nashsaidnothing.“Whywouldhedothat?”
Helookedoutofthewindow.IsawthewordCUNTsprayedontothewallinfrontofus.“Letmeaskyouthesamequestion.Whydoyouthinkhewoulddothat?”
Ithought.IthoughtofallthereasonsIcould.Sothathecancontrolme.Havepoweroverme.Sothathecandenymethisonethingthatmightmakemefeelcomplete.IrealizedIdidn’tbelieveanyofthoseweretrue.Iwasleftonlywiththemundanefact.“Isupposeit’seasierforhim.Nottotellme,ifIdon’tremember.”
“Whyisiteasierforhim?”
“BecauseIfinditsoupsetting?Itmustbeahorriblethingtohavetodo,totellmeeverydaythatnotonlyhaveIhadachildbutthathehasdied.Andinsuchahorribleway.”
“Anyotherreasons,doyouthink?”
Iwassilent,andthenrealized.“Well,itmustbehardforhimtoo.HewasAdam’sfatherand,well…”Ithoughthowhemustbemanaginghisowngrief,aswellasmine.
“Thisisdifficultforyou,Christine,”Dr.Nashsaid.“ButyoumusttrytorememberthatitisdifficultforBen,too.Moredifficult,insomeways.Helovesyouverymuch,Iexpect,and—”
“—andyetIdon’tevenrememberheexists.”
“True,”hesaid.
Isighed.“Imusthavelovedhim,once.Afterall,Imarriedhim.”Hesaidnothing.IthoughtofthestrangerIhadwokenupwiththatmorning,ofthephotosofourlivestogetherIhadseen,ofthedream—orthememory—Ihadhadinthemiddleofthenight.IthoughtofAdam,andofAlfie,ofwhatIhaddone,orthoughtaboutdoing.Apanicroseinme.Ifelttrapped,asthoughtherewasnowayout,mymindskitteringfromonethingtoanother,searchingforfreedomandrelease.
Ben,Ithoughttomyself.IcanclingtoBen.Heisstrong.
“Whatamess,”Isaid.“Ijustfeeloverwhelmed.”
Heturnedbacktofaceme.“IwishIcoulddosomethingtomakethiseasierforyou.”
Helookedasthoughhereallymeantit,asthoughhewoulddoanythinghecouldtohelpme.Therewasatendernessinhiseyes,inthewayherestedhishandonmine,andthere,inthedimhalf-lightoftheundergroundparkinglot,IfoundmyselfwonderingwhatwouldhappenifIputmyhandonhis,ormovedmyheadslightlyforward,holdinghisgaze,openingmymouthasIdidso,justatouch.Wouldhe,too,leanforward?Wouldhetrytokissme?WouldIlethim,ifhedid?
Orwouldhethinkmeridiculous?Absurd?ImayhavewokenthismorningthinkingIaminmytwenties,butIamnot.Iamalmostfifty.Nearlyoldenoughtobehismother.Andso,instead,Ilookedathim.Hesatperfectlystill,lookingatme.Heseemedstrong.Strongenoughtohelpme.Togetmethrough.
Iopenedmymouthtospeak,withoutknowingwhatIwasgoingtosay,butthemuffledringingofatelephoneinterruptedme.Dr.Nashdidn’tmove,otherthantotakehishandaway,andIrealizedthephonemustbeoneofmine.
Iretrievedtheringingphonefrommybag.Itwasnottheonethatflippedopenbuttheonemyhusbandhasgivenme.BEN,itsaidonthescreen.
WhenIsawhisname,IrealizedhowunfairIwasbeing.Hewasbereaved,too.Andhehadtolivewithit,everyday,withoutbeingabletospeaktomeaboutit,withoutbeingabletocometohiswifeforsupport.
Andhedidallthatforlove.
AndherewasI,sittinginaparkinglotwithamanhebarelyknewexisted.IthoughtofthephotosIhadseenthatmorning,inthescrapbook.MeandBen,overandoveragain.Smiling.Happy.Inlove.IfIweretogohomeandlookatthemnow,Imightonlyseeinthemthethingthatwasmissing.Adam.Buttheyarethesamepictures,andinthemwelookateachotherasifnooneelseintheworldexists.
Wehadbeeninlove;itwasobvious.
“I’llcallhimback,later,”Isaid.Iputthephonebackinmybag.Iwilltellhimtonight,Ithought.Aboutmyjournal.Dr.Nash.Everything.
Dr.Nashcoughed.“Weshouldgouptotheoffice.Makeastart?”
“Ofcourse,”Isaid.Ididnotlookathim.
***
IbegantowritethatinthecarasDr.Nashdrovemehome.Muchofitisbarelylegible,ahastyscrawl.Dr.NashsaidnothingasIwrote,butIsawhimglancingatmeasIsearchedfortherightwordorabetterphrase.Iwonderedwhathewasthinking—beforewelefthisoffice,hehadaskedmetoconsenttohimdiscussingmycaseataconferencehehadbeeninvitedtoattend.“InGeneva,”hesaid,unabletodisguiseaflashofpride.Isaidyes,andIimaginedhewouldsoonaskmeifhecouldtakeaphotocopyofmyjournal.Forresearch.
Whenwearrivedbackatthehouse,hesaidgood-bye,adding,“I’msurprisedyouwantedtowriteyourbookinthecar.Youseemvery…determined.Isupposeyoudon’twanttomissanythingout.”
Iknowwhathemeant,though.Hemeantfrantic.Desperate.Desperatetogeteverythingdown.
Andheisright.Iamdetermined.OnceIgotin,Ifinishedtheentryatthediningtableandclosedmyjournalandputitbackinitshidingplacebeforeslowlyundressing.Benhadleftmeamessageonthephone.Let’sgoouttonight,he’dsaid.Fordinner.It’sFriday…
IsteppedoutofthenavybluetrousersIhadfoundintheclosetthatmorning.IpeeledoffthepaleblueblousethatIhaddecidedmatchedthembest.Iwasbewildered.IhadgivenDr.Nashmyjournalduringoursession—he’daskedifhecouldreaditandI’dsaidyes.Thiswasbeforehe’dmentionedhisinvitetoGeneva,andIwondernowifthat’swhyheasked.“Thisisexcellent!”he’dsaidwhenhefinished.“Reallygood.You’rerememberinglotsofthings,Christine.Lotsofmemoriesarecomingback.There’snoreasonthatwon’tcontinue.Youshouldfeelveryencouraged…”
ButIdidnotfeelencouraged.Ifeltconfused.HadIflirtedwithhim,orhewithme?Itwashishandonmine,butIhadlethimputitthere,andlethimkeepit.“Youshouldcontinuetowrite,”hesaid,whenhegavemethejournalback,andItoldhimthatIwould.
Now,inmybedroom,ItriedtoconvincemyselfIhaddonenothingwrong.Istillfeltguilty.BecauseIhadenjoyedit.Theattention,thefeelingofconnection.Foramoment,inthemiddleofeverythingelsethatwasgoingon,therehadbeenatinypinprickofjoy.Ihadfeltattractive.Desirable.
Iwenttomyunderweardrawer.There,tuckedattheback,Ifoundapairofblacksilkpanties,andamatchingbra.Iputthemon—theseclothesthatIknowmustbemineeventhoughtheydonotfeelasthoughtheyare—allthetimethinkingofmyjournalhiddenwithinthecloset.WhatwouldBenthink,ifhefoundit?IfhereadallthatIhadwritten,allthatIhadfelt?Wouldheunderstand?
Istoodinfrontofthemirror.Hewould,Itoldmyself.Hemust.Iexaminedmybodywithmyeyesandmyhands.Iexploredit,ranmyfingersoveritscontoursandundulationsasifitweresomethingnew,agift.Somethingtobelearnedfromscratch.
ThoughIknewthatDr.Nashhadnotbeenflirtingwithme,forthatbriefspaceinwhichIthoughthewas,Ihadnotfeltold.Ihadfeltalive.
IdonotknowhowlongIstoodthere.Formetimestretches,isalmostmeaningless.Yearshaveslippedthroughme,leavingnotrace.Minutesdonotexist.Ionlyhadthechimeoftheclockdownstairstoshowmethattimewaspassingatall.Ilookedatmybody,attheweightinmybuttocksandonmyhips,thedarkhairsonmylegs,undermyarms.Ifoundarazorinthebathroomandsoapedmylegs,thendrewthecoldbladeacrossmyskin.Imusthavedonethisbefore,Ithought,countlesstimes,yetstillitseemedanoddthingtobedoing,faintlyridiculous.Inickedtheskinonmycalf—atinystabofpainandthenaredplushwelled,quiveringbeforeitbegantotrickledownmyleg.Istemmeditwithafinger,smearingthebloodliketreacle,broughtittomylips.Thetasteofsoapandwarmmetal.Itdidnotclot.Iletitbleeddownmyskin,newlysmooth,thenmoppeditwithadamptissue.
Backinthebedroom,Iputonstockingsandatightblackdress.Iselectedagoldnecklacefromtheboxonthedresser,apairofmatchingearrings.Isatatthedresserandputonmakeup,andcurledandgelledmyhair.Isprayedperfumeonmywristsandbehindmyears.AndallthetimeIdidthis,amemorywasfloatingthroughme.Isawmyselfrollingonstockings,snappinghomethefastenersonagarterbelt,hookingupabra,butitwasadifferentme,inadifferentroom.Theroomwasquiet.Musicplayed,butsoftly,andinthedistanceIcouldhearvoices,doorsopeningandclosing,thefaintbuzzoftraffic.Ifeltcalmandhappy.Iturnedtothemirror,examinedmyfaceintheglowofthecandlelight.Notbad,Ithought.Notbadatall.
Thememorywasjustoutofreach.Itshimmered,underthesurface,andwhileIcouldseedetails,snatchedimages,moments,itlaytoodeepformetofollowwhereitled.Isawachampagnebottleonabedsidetable.Twoglasses.Abouquetofflowersonthebed,acard.IsawthatIwasinahotelroom,alone,waitingforthemanIloved.Iheardaknock,sawmyselfstandup,walktowardthedoor,butthenitended,asifIhadbeenwatchingtelevisionand,suddenly,theaerialhadbeendisconnected.Ilookedupandsawmyselfbackinmyownhome.EventhoughthewomanIsawinthemirrorwasastranger—andwiththemakeupandgelledhairthatunfamiliaritywasevenmorepronouncedthanitmustusuallybe—Ifeltready.Forwhat,Icouldnotsay,butIfeltready.Iwentdownstairstowaitformyhusband,themanImarried,themanIloved.
Love,Iremindmyself.ThemanIlove
Iheardhiskeyinthelock,thedoorpushedopen,feetbeingwipedonthemat.Awhistle?Orwasthatthesoundofmybreathing,hardandheavy?
Avoice.“Christine?Christine,areyouallright?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“I’minhere.”
Acough,thesoundofhisjacketbeinghungup,abriefcasebeingputdown.
Hecalledupstairs.“Everythingokay?”hesaid.“Iphonedyouearlier.Ileftamessage.”
Thecreakofthestairs.Foramoment,Ithoughthewasgoingstraightup,tothebathroomorhisstudy,withoutcomingintoseemefirst,andIfeltfoolish,ridiculoustobedressedasIwas,wearingsomeoneelse’sclothes,waitingformyhusbandofwhoknowshowmanyyears.IwishedIcouldpeelofftheoutfit,scrapeawaythemakeup,andtransformmyselfbackintothewomanIam,butIheardagruntasheleveredashoeoff,andthentheother,andIrealizedhewassittingdowntoputonhisslippers.Thestaircreakedagain,andhecameintotheroom.
“Darling—”hebegan,andhestopped.Hiseyestraveledovermyface,downmybody,backuptomeetmine.Icouldnottellwhathethought.
“Wow,”hesaid.“Youlook—”Heshookhishead.
“Ifoundtheseclothes,”Isaid.“IthoughtIwoulddressupalittle.It’sFridaynightafterall.Theweekend.”
“Yes,”hesaid,stillstandinginthedoorway.“Yes.But…”
“Doyouwanttogooutsomewhere?”
Istoodupthen,andwentovertohim.“Kissme,”Isaid,and,thoughIhadn’texactlyplannedit,itfeltliketherightthingtodo,andsoIputmyarmsaroundhisneck.Hesmelledofsoap,andsweat,andwork.Sweet,likecrayons.Amemoryfloatedthroughme—kneelingonthefloorwithAdam,drawing—butitdidnotstick.
“Kissme,”Isaidagain.Hishandscircledmywaist.
Ourlipsmet.Brushing,atfirst.Akissgood-nightorgood-bye,akissforbeinginpublic,akissforyourmother.Ididn’treleasemyarms,andhekissedmeagain.Thesame.
“Kissme,Ben,”Isaid.“Properly.”
“Ben,”Isaidlater.“Arewehappy?”
Weweresittinginarestaurant,onewe’dbeentobefore,hesaid,thoughIhadnoidea,ofcourse.FramedphotographsofpeoplewhoIassumedwereminorcelebritiesdottedthewalls;anovengapedattheback,awaitingpizza.Ipickedattheplateofmeloninfrontofme.Icouldn’trememberorderingit.
“Imean,”Icontinued.“We’vebeenmarried…howlong?”
“Let’ssee,”hesaid.“Twenty-twoyears.”Itsoundedanimpossiblylongtime.IthoughtofthevisionI’dhadasIgotreadythisafternoon.Flowersinahotelroom.Icanonlyhavebeenwaitingforhim.
“Arewehappy?”
Heputdownhisforkandsippedatthedrywhitewinehe’dordered.Afamilyarrivedandtooktheirseatsatthetablenexttous.Elderlyparents,adaughterinhertwenties.Benspoke.
“We’reinlove,ifthat’swhatyoumean.Icertainlyloveyou.”
Andthereitwas;mycuetotellhimthatIlovedhim,too.MenalwayssayIloveyouasaquestion.
WhatcouldIsay,though?Heisastranger.Lovedoesn’thappeninthespaceoftwenty-fourhours,nomatterhowmuchImightoncehavelikedtobelievethatitdoes.
“Iknowyoudon’tloveme,”hesaid.Ilookedathim,shockedforamoment.“Don’tworry.Iunderstandthesituationyou’rein.We’rein.Youdon’tremember,butwewereinlove,once.Totally,utterly.Likeinthestories,youknow?RomeoandJuliet,allthatcrap.”Hetriedtolaugh,butinsteadlookedawkward.“Ilovedyouandyoulovedme.Wewerehappy,Christine.Veryhappy.”
“Untilmyaccident.”
Heflinchedattheword.HadIsaidtoomuch?I’dreadmyjournalbutwasittodayhe’dtoldmeaboutthehit-and-run?Ididn’tknowbut,still,accidentwouldhavebeenareasonableguesstomakeforanyoneinmysituation.Idecidednottoworryaboutit.
“Yes,”hesaidsadly.“Untilthen.Wewerehappy.”
“Andnow?”
“Now?Iwishthingscouldbedifferent,butI’mnotunhappy,Chris.Iloveyou.Iwouldn’twantanyoneelse.”
Howaboutme?Ithought.AmIunhappy?
Ilookedacrossatthetablenexttous.Thefatherwasholdingapairofglassestohiseyes,squintingatthelaminatedmenu,whilehiswifearrangedtheirdaughter’shatandremovedherscarf.Thegirlsatwithouthelping,lookingatnothing,hermouthslightlyopen.Herrighthandtwitchedunderthetable.Athinstringofsalivahungfromherchin.Herfathernoticedmewatching,andIlookedaway,backtomyhusband,tooquicklytomakeitseemasifIhadn’tbeenstaring.Theymustbeusedtothat—topeoplelookingaway,amomenttoolate.
Isighed.“IwishIcouldrememberwhathappened.”
“Whathappened?”hesaid.“Why?”
Ithoughtofalltheothermemoriesthathadcometome.Theyhadbeenbrief,transitory.Theyweregonenow.Vanished.ButIhadwrittenthemdown;Iknewtheyhadexisted—stilldidexist,somewhere.Theywerejustlost.
Ifeltsurethattheremustbeakey,amemorythatwouldunlockalltheothers.
“IjustthinkthatifIcouldremembermyaccident,thenmaybeIcouldrememberotherthings,too.Noteverything,maybe,butenough.Ourwedding,forexample,ourhoneymoon.Ican’tevenrememberthat.”Isippedmywine.Ihadnearlysaidourson’snamebeforerememberingthatBendidnotknowIhadreadabouthim.“JusttowakeupandrememberwhoIamwouldbesomething.”
Benlockedhisfingers,restinghischinonhisballedfist.“Thedoctorssaidthatwouldn’thappen.”
“Buttheydon’tknow,dothey?Surely?Theycouldbewrong?”
“Idoubtit.”
Iputdownmyglass.Hewaswrong.Hethoughtallwaslost,thatmypasthadvanishedcompletely.MaybethiswasthetimetotellhimaboutthesnatchedmomentsIstillhad,aboutDr.Nash.Myjournal.Everything.
“ButIamrememberingthings,occasionally,”Isaid.Helookedsurprised.“Ithinkthingsarecomingbacktome,inflashes.”
Heunlacedhishands.“Really?Whatthings?”
“Oh,itdepends.Sometimesnothingverymuch.Justoddfeelings,sensations.Visions.Abitlikedreams,buttheyseemtoorealformetobemakingthemup.”Hesaidnothing.“Theymustbememories.”
Iwaited,expectinghimtoaskmemore,towantmetotellhimeverythingIhadseen,aswellashowIevenknewwhatmemoriesIhadexperienced.
Buthedidnotspeak.Hecontinuedlookingatmesadly.IthoughtofthememoriesIhadwrittenabout,theoneinwhichhehadofferedmewineinthekitchenofourfirsthome.“Ihadavisionofyou,”Isaid.“Muchyounger…”
“WhatwasIdoing?”hesaid.
“Notmuch,”Ireplied.“Juststandinginthekitchen.”Ithoughtofthegirl,hermotherandfather,sittingafewfeetaway.Myvoicedroppedtoawhisper.“Kissingme.”
Hesmiledthen.
“IthoughtthatifIamcapableofhavingonememory,thenmaybeIamcapableofhavinglots—”
Hereachedacrossthetableandtookmyhand.“Butthethingis,tomorrowyouwon’trememberthatmemory.That’stheproblem.Youhavenofoundationonwhichtobuild.”
Isighed.Whathewassayingistrue;Ican’tkeepwritingdowneverythingthathappenstomefortherestofmylife,notifIalsohavetoreaditeveryday.
Ilookedacrossatthefamilynexttous.Thegirlspoonedminestroneclumsilyintohermouth,soakingtheclothbibthathermotherhadtuckedaroundherneck.Icouldseetheirlives,broken,trappedbytheroleofcaregivers,aroletheyhadexpectedtobefreeofyearsbefore.
Wearethesame,Ithought.Ineedtobespoon-fed,too.And,Irealized,ratherlikethemandtheirchild,Benlovesmeinawaythatcanneverbereciprocated.
Andyet,maybe,weweredifferent.Maybewestillhadhope.
“Doyouwantmetogetbetter?”Isaid.
Helookedsurprised.“Christine,”hesaid.“Please…”
“MaybeiftherewassomeoneIcouldsee?Adoctor?”
“We’vetriedbefore—”
“Butmaybeit’sworthtryingagain?Thingsareimprovingallthetime.Maybethere’sanewtreatment?”
Hesqueezedmyhand.“Christine,thereisn’t.Believeme.We’vetriedeverything.”
“What?”Isaid.“Whathavewetried?”
“Chris,please.Don’t—”
“Whathavewetried?”Isaid.“What?”
“Everything,”hesaid.“Everything.Youdon’tknowwhatitwaslike.”Helookeduncomfortable.Hiseyesdartedleftandrightasifheexpectedablowanddidn’tknowfromwhatdirectionitmightcome.Icouldhaveletthequestiongothen,butIdidn’t.
“What,Ben?Ineedtoknow.Whatwasitlike?”
Hesaidnothing.
“Tellme!”
Heliftedhisheadandswallowedhard.Helookedterrified,hisfacered,hiseyeswide.“Youwereinacoma,”hesaid.“Everyonethoughtyouweregoingtodie.Butnotme.Iknewyouwerestrong,thatyou’dmakeitthrough.Iknewyou’dgetbetter.Andthen,oneday,thehospitalcalledmeandsaidyou’dwokenup.Theythoughtitwasamiracle,butIknewitwasn’t.Itwasyou,myChris,comingbacktome.Youweredazed.Confused.Youdidn’tknowwhereyouwere,andcouldn’trememberanythingabouttheaccident,butyourecognizedme,andyourmother,thoughyoudidn’treallyknowwhowewere.Theysaidnottoworry,thatmemorylosswasnormalaftersuchsevereinjuries,thatitwouldpass.Butthen—”Heshrugged,lookeddowntothenapkinheheldinhishands.Foramoment,Ithoughthewasn’tgoingtocontinue.
“Thenwhat?”
“Well,youseemedtogetworse.IwentinonedayandyouhadnoideawhoIwas.YoupresumedIwasadoctor.Andthenyouforgotwhoyouwere,too.Youcouldn’trememberyourname,whatyearyouwereborn.Anything.Theyrealizedthatyouhadstoppedformingnewmemories,too.Theydidtests,scans.Everything.Butitwasnogood.Theysaidyouraccidenthaddamagedyourmemory.Thatitwouldbepermanent.Thattherewasnocure,nothingtheycoulddo.”
“Nothing?Theydidn’tdoanything?”
“No.Theysaidyourmemorywouldeithercomebackoritwouldn’t,andthatthelongeryouwentwithoutitcomingbackthelesslikelyitwasthatitwould.TheytoldmethatallIcoulddowaslookafteryou.Andthat’swhatI’vebeentryingtodo.”Hetookbothmyhandsinhis,strokingmyfingers,brushingthehardbandofmyweddingring.
Heleanedforwardsothathisheadwasonlyinchesfrommine.“Iloveyou,”hewhispered,butIcouldn’treply,andweatetherestofourmealinnear-silence.Icouldfeelaresentmentgrowingwithinme.Ananger.HeseemedsodeterminedthatIcouldnotbehelped.Soadamant.SuddenlyIdidnotfeelsoinclinedtotellhimaboutmyjournalorDr.Nash.Iwantedtokeepmysecretsforalittlelonger.IfelttheyweretheonlythingIhadthatIcouldsaywasmine.
Wecamehome.BenmadehimselfcoffeeandIwenttothebathroom.ThereIwroteasmuchasIcouldofthedaysofar,thentookoffmyclothesandmakeup.Iputonmydressinggown.Anotherdaywasending.SoonIwillsleep,andmybrainwillbegintodeleteeverything.TomorrowIwillgothroughitallagain.
IrealizedIdonothaveambition.Icannot.AllIwantistofeelnormal.Tolivelikeeverybodyelse,withexperiencebuildingonexperience,eachdayshapingthenext.Iwanttogrow,tolearnthings,andfromthings.There,inthebathroom,Ithoughtofmyoldage.Itriedtoimaginewhatitwillbelike.WillIstillwakeup,inmyseventiesoreighties,thinkingmyselftobeatthebeginningofmylife?WillIwakewithnoideathatmybonesareold,myjointsstiffandheavy?IcannotimaginehowIwillcopewhenIdiscoverthatmylifeisbehindme,hasalreadyhappened,andIhavenothingtoshowforit.Notreasurehouseofrecollection,nowealthofexperience,noaccumulatedwisdomtopasson.Whatarewe,ifnotanaccumulationofourmemories?HowwillIfeelwhenIlookinamirrorandseethereflectionofmygrandmother?Idonotknow,butIcannotallowmyselftothinkofthatnow.
IheardBengointothebedroom.IrealizedIwouldnotbeabletoreplacemyjournalinthecloset,andsoputitonthechairnexttothebath,undermydiscardedclothes.Iwillmoveitlater,Ithought,onceheisasleep.Iswitchedoffthelightandwentintothebedroom.
Bensatinbed,watchingme.Isaidnothingbutclimbedinnexttohim.Irealizedhewasnaked.“Iloveyou,Christine,”hesaid,andhebegantokissme,myneck,mycheek,mylips.Hisbreathwashotandhadthebiteofgarlic.Ididnotwanthimtokissme,butdidnotpushhimaway.Ihaveaskedforthis,Ithought.Bywearingthatstupiddress,byputtingonthemakeupandperfume,byaskinghimtokissmebeforewewentout.
Iturnedtofacehimand,thoughIdidnotwantto,kissedhimback.Itriedtoimaginethetwoofusinthehousewehadjustboughttogether,tearingatourclothesonthewaytothebedroom,ouruncookedlunchspoilinginthekitchen.ItoldmyselfthatImusthavelovedhimthen—orelsewhywouldIhavemarriedhim?—andsothereisnoreasonwhyIshouldn’tlovehimnow.ItoldmyselfthatwhatIwasdoingwasimportant,anexpressionofloveandofgratitude,andwhenhishandmovedtomybreast,Ididn’tstophimbuttoldmyselfitwasnatural,normal.NeitherdidIstophimwhenheslippedhishandbetweenmylegsandcuppedme,andonlyIknewthatlater,muchlater,whenIbegantomoansoftly,itwasn’tbecauseofwhathewasdoing.Itwasn’tpleasureatall,itwasfear,becauseofwhatIsawwhenIclosedmyeyes.
Me,inahotelroom.ThesameoneIhadseenasIgotreadyearlierthatevening.Iseethecandles,thechampagne,theflowers.Iheartheknockatthedoor,seemyselfputdowntheglassIhavebeendrinkingfrom,standuptoopenit.Ifeelexcitement,anticipation,theairisheavywithpromise.Sexandredemption.Ireachout,takethehandleofthedoor,coldandhard.Ibreathedeeply.Finallythingswillbeallright
Ahole,then.Ablankinmymemory.Thedoor,opening,swingingtowardme,butIcannotseewhoisbehindit.There,inbedwithmyhusband,panicslammedintome,fromnowhere.“Ben!”Icriedout,buthedidnotstop,didnotevenseemtohearme.“Ben!”Isaidagain.Iclosedmyeyesandclungtohim.Ispiraledbackintothepast.
Heisintheroom.Behindme.Thisman,howdarehe?Itwistaroundbutseenothing.Pain,searing.Apressureonmythroat.Icannotbreathe.Heisnotmyhusband,notBen,butstillhishandsareonme,allover,hishandsandhisflesh,coveringme.Itrytobreathe,butcannot.Mybody,shuddering,pulped,turnstonothing,toashandair.Water,inmylungs.Iopenmyeyesandseenothingbutcrimson.Iamgoingtodie,here,inthishotelroom.DearGod,Ithink.Ineverwantedthis.Ineveraskedforthis.Someonemusthelpme.Someonemustcome.Ihavemadeaterriblemistake,yes,butIdonotdeservethispunishment.Idonotdeservetodie.
Ifeelmyselfdisappear.IwanttoseeAdam.Iwanttoseemyhusband.Buttheyarenothere.Nooneisherebutmeandthisman,thismanwhohashishandsaroundmythroat.
Iamsliding,down,down.Towardblackness.Imustnotsleep.Imustnotsleep.I.Must.Not.Sleep.
Thememoryended,suddenly,leavingaterrible,emptyvoid.Myeyesflickedopen.Iwasbackinmyownhome,inbed,myhusbandinsideme.“Ben!”Icriedout,butitwastoolate.Withtiny,muffledgrunts,heejaculated.Iclungtohim,holdinghimastightasIcould,andthen,afteramoment,hekissedmyneckandtoldmeagainthathelovedme,andthensaid,“Chris,you’recrying…”
Thesobscame,uncontrollable.“What’swrong?”hesaid.“DidIhurtyou?”
WhatcouldIsaytohim?Ishookasmymindtriedtoprocesswhatithadseen.Ahotelroomfullofflowers.Champagneandcandles.Astrangerwithhishandsaroundmyneck.
WhatcouldIsay?AllIcoulddowascryharder,andpushhimaway,andthenwait.Waituntilheslept,andIcouldcreepoutofbedandwriteitalldown.
Saturday—2:07a.m.
Icannotsleep.Benisupstairs,backinbed,andIamwritingthisinthekitchen.HethinksIamdrinkingacupofcocoathathehasjustmadeforme.HethinksIwillcomebacktobedsoon.
Iwill,butfirstImustwriteagain.
Thehouseisquietanddarknow,butearliereverythingseemedalive.Amplified.IhadhiddenmyjournalintheclosetandcreptbackintobedafterwritingaboutwhatIhadseenaswemadelove,butstillfeltrestless.Icouldhearthetickingoftheclockdownstairs,itschimesasitmarkedthehours,Ben’sgentlesnores.Icouldfeelthepressoftheduvetcoveronmychest,seenothingbuttheglowofthealarmclockbymyside.Iturnedonmybackandclosedmyeyes.AllIcouldseewasmyself,withhandsclampedtightaroundmythroatsothatIcouldnotbreathe.AllIcouldhearwasmyownvoice,echoing.Iamgoingtodie.
Ithoughtofmyjournal.Wouldithelptowritemore?Toreaditagain?CouldIreallytakeitfromitshidingplacewithoutwakingBen?
Helay,barelyvisibleintheshadows.Youarelyingtome,IthoughtBecauseheis.Lyingaboutmynovel,aboutAdam.AndnowIfeelcertainheislyingabouthowIcametobehere,trappedlikethis.
Iwantedtoshakehimawake.Iwantedtoscream,Why?WhyareyoutellingmeIwasknockedoverbyacaronanicyroad?Iwonderwhatheisprotectingmefrom.Howbadthetruthmightbe.
Andwhatelseisthere,thatIdonotknow?
Mythoughtsturnedfrommyjournaltothemetalbox,theoneinwhichBenkeepsthephotosofAdam.Maybetherewillbemoreanswersinthere,Ithought.MaybeIwillfindthetruth.
Idecidedtogetoutofbed.IfoldedtheduvetbacksothatIdidn’twakemyhusband.Igrabbedmyjournalfromitshidingplaceandcrept,barefoot,ontothelanding.Thehousefeltdifferent,now,sheenedinthebluishmoonlight.Frozen,andstill.
Ipulledthebedroomdoorclosedbehindme,asoftscrapeofwoodoncarpet,asubtleclickasitfastenedshut.There,onthelanding,IskimmedthroughwhatIhadwritten.IreadaboutBentellingmeIwashitbyacar.IreadabouthimdenyingIhadwrittenanovel.Ireadaboutourson.
IhadtoseeaphotographofAdam.ButwherewouldIlook?“Ikeeptheseupstairs,”hehadsaid.“Forsafety.”Iknewthat.Ihadwrittenitdown.Butwhere,exactly?Thesparebedroom?Theoffice?HowwouldIbegintolookforsomethingIcouldnotrecalleverseeingbefore?
IputthejournalbackwhereIhadfounditandwentintotheoffice,closingthatdoorbehindme,too.Moonlightshonethroughthewindow,castingagrayishglowaroundtheroom.Ididnotdaretoswitchonthelight,couldnotriskBenfindingmeinthere,searching.HewouldaskmewhatIwaslookingfor,andIhadnothingtotellhim,noreasontogiveforbeinginthere.Therewouldbetoomanyquestionstoanswer.
Theboxwasmetal,Ihadwritten,andgray.Ilookedonthedesk,first.Atinycomputer,withanimpossiblyflatscreen,pensandpencilsinamug,papersarrangedintidypiles,aceramicpaperweightintheshapeofaseahorse.Abovethedeskwasawall-planner,dottedwithcoloredstickers,circles,andstars.Underthedeskwasaleatherbriefcaseandawastepaperbasket,bothempty,andnexttoitafilingcabinet.
Ilookedtherefirst.Ipulledoutthetopdrawerslowly,quietly.Itwasfullofpapers,infileslabeledHOME,WORK,FINANCE.Iflickedpastthebinders.Behindthemwasaplasticbottleofpills,thoughIcouldn’tmakeoutthenameinthesemidarkness.Theseconddrawerwasfullofstationery—boxes,padsofpaper,pens—andIcloseditgentlybeforecrouchingdowntoopenthebottomdrawer.
Ablanket,oratowel;itwasdifficulttotellinthedimlight.Iraisedonecorner,feltbeneath,touchedcoldmetal.Ilifteditout.Underneathwasthemetalbox,largerthanIhadimaginedit,sobigitalmostfilledthedrawer.ImaneuveredmyhandsarounditandrealizeditwasheavierthanIexpected,too,andIalmostdroppeditasIlifteditoutandputitonthefloor.
Theboxsatinfrontofme.Foramoment,IdidnotknowwhatIwantedtodo,whetherIevenwantedtoopenit.Whatnewshocksmightitcontain?Likememoryitself,itmightholdtruthsthatIcouldnotevenbegintoconceiveof.Unimagineddreamsandunexpectedhorrors.Iwasafraid.But,Irealized,thesetruthsareallIhave.Theyaremypast.Theyarewhatmakesmehuman.Withoutthem,Iamnothing.Nothingbutananimal.
Ibreatheddeeply,closingmyeyesasIdid,andbegantoliftthelid.
Itmovedalittlewaybutnofarther.Itrieditagain,thinkingitwasjammed,andthenoncemore,beforeIrealized.Itwaslocked.Benhadlockedit.
Itriedtoremaincalm,butanangercamethen,unbidden.Whowashetohavelockedthisboxofmemories?Tokeepmefromwhatwasmine?
Thekeywouldbenear,Iwassureofit.Ilookedinthedrawer.Iopenedoutthetowelandshookitloose.Istoodup,tippedthepensandpencilsoutofthemugonthedesk,andlookedinthere.Nothing.
Desperate,IsearchedtheotherdrawersaswellasIcouldinthehalf-light.Icouldfindnokey,andrealizeditmightbeanywhere.Anywhereatall.Isanktomyknees.
Asound,then.Acreak,soquietIthoughtitmightbemyownbody.Butthenanothernoise.Breathing.Orasigh.
Avoice.Ben’s.“Christine?”itsaid,andthen,louder,“Christine!”
Whattodo?Iwassittingthere,inhisoffice,withthemetalboxthatBenthoughtIhadnomemoryofonthefloorinfrontofme.Ibegantopanic.Adooropened,thelandinglightflickedon,illuminatingthecrackaroundthedoor.Hewascoming.
Imovedquickly.Iputtheboxbackand,sacrificingsilenceforspeed,slammedthedrawerclosed.
“Christine?”hesaidagain.Footstepsonthelanding.“Christine,love?It’sme.Ben.”Ishovedthepensandpencilsbackinthemugonthedeskandthensanktothefloor.Thedoorbegantoopen.
IdidnotknowwhatIwasabouttodountilIdidit.Ireactedinstinctively,fromalevellowerthangut.
“Helpme!”Isaidasheappearedattheopendoor.Hewassilhouettedagainstthelightonthelanding,andforamomentIreallydidfeeltheterrorthatIwasaffecting.“Please!Helpme!”
Heswitchedonthelightandcametowardme.“Christine!What’swrong?”hesaid.Hebegantocrouchdown.
Iskirtedback,awayfromhim,untilIwaspressedagainstthewallunderthewindow.“Whoareyou?”Isaid.IfoundIhadbeguntocry,toshakehysterically.Iclawedatthewallbehindme,clutchedatthecurtainthathungabovemeasiftryingtopullmyselfupright.Benstayedwherehewas,ontheothersideoftheroom.Heheldouthishandtome,asifIwasdangerous,awildanimal.
“It’sme,”hesaid.“Yourhusband.”
“Mywhat?”Isaid,andthen,“What’shappeningtome?”
“Youhaveamnesia,”hesaid.“We’vebeenmarriedforyears.”Andthen,ashemademethecupofcocoathatstillsitsinfrontofme,Ilethimtellme,fromscratch,whatIalreadyknew.
Sunday,November18
ThathappenedintheearlyhoursofSaturdaymorning.TodayisSunday.Midday,orthereabouts.Awholedayhasgoneunrecorded.Twenty-fourhours,lost.Twenty-fourhoursspentbelievingeverythingBentoldme.BelievingthatIhaveneverwrittenanovel,neverhadason.Believingitwasanaccidentthatrobbedmeofmypast.
Maybe,unliketoday,Dr.Nashdidnotcall,andIdidnotfindthisjournal.OrperhapshedidbutIchosenottoreadit.Ifeelachill.Whatwouldhappenifonedayhedecidesnevertocallagain?Iwouldneverfindit,neverreadit,neverevenknowitexisted.Iwouldnotknowmypast.
Itwouldbeunthinkable.Iknowthatnow.MyhusbandistellingmeoneversionofhowIcametohavenomemory,myfeelingsanother.IwonderifIhaveeveraskedDr.Nashwhathappened.EvenifIhave,canIbelievewhathesays?TheonlytruthIhaveiswhatiswritteninthisjournal.
Writtenbyme.Imustrememberthat.Writtenbyme.
Ithinkbacktothismorning.Irememberthesunslammedthroughthecurtains,wakingmesuddenly.MyeyesflickedopenonanunfamiliarsceneandIwasconfused.Yet,thoughparticulareventsdidnotcometome,Ihadthesenseoflookingbackonawealthofhistory,notjustafewshortyears.AndIknew,howeverdimly,thatthathistorycontainedachildofmyown.InthatfractionofasecondbeforeIwasfullyconscious,IknewthatIwasamother.ThatIhadborneachild,thatminewasnolongertheonlybodythatIhadadutytonurtureandprotect.
Iturnedover,awareofanotherbodyinthebed,anarmdrapedovermywaist.Ididnotfeelalarmed,butsecure.Happy.Iwokemorefullyandtheimagesandfeelingsbegantocoalesceintotruthandmemory.FirstIsawmylittleboy,heardmyselfcallinghisname—Adam—andsawhimrunningtowardme.AndthenIrememberedmyhusband.Hisname.Ifeltdeeplyinlove.Ismiled.
Thefeelingofpeacedidnotlast.Ilookedoveratthemannexttome,andhisfacewasnottheoneIexpectedtosee.Amomentlater,IrealizedthatIdidnotrecognizetheroominwhichIhadslept,couldnotremembergettingthere.Andthen,finally,IunderstoodthatIcouldremembernothingclearly.Thosebrief,disconnectedsnatcheshadnotbeenrepresentativeofmymemoriesbuttheirsumtotal.
Benexplainedittome,ofcourse.Orpartsofit,atleast.Andthisjournalexplainedtherest,onceDr.NashphonedmeandIfoundit.Ididnothavetimetoreaditall—Ihadcalleddown,feigningaheadache,andthenlistenedfortheslightestmovementdownstairs,worriedthatBenmightcomeupatanymomentwithanaspirinandaglassofwater—andskimmedoverwholepassages.ButIreadenough.ThejournaltoldmewhoIam,howIcametobehere,whatIhave,andwhatIhavelost.Ittoldmethatallisnotlost.Thatmymemoriesarecomingback,howeverslowly.Dr.Nashtoldmeso,onthedaythatIwatchedhimreadmyjournal.You’rerememberinglotsofthings,Christine,he’dsaid.There’snoreasonthatwon’tcontinue.Andthejournaltoldmethatthehit-and-runwasalie,thatsomewhere,hiddendeep,IcanrememberwhathappenedtomeonthenightIlostmymemory.Thatitdidnotinvolveacarandicyroadsbutchampagneandflowersandaknockonthedoorofahotelroom.
AndnowIhaveaname.ThenameofthepersonIhadexpectedtoseewhenIopenedmyeyesthismorningwasnotBen.
Ed.IwokeexpectingtobelyingnexttosomeonecalledEd.
Atthetime,Ididnotknowwhohewas,thisEd.Ithoughtperhapshewasnobody,itwasanameIinvented,pluckedfromnowhere.Orperhapshewasanoldlover,aone-nightstandthatIhavenotquiteforgotten.ButnowIhavereadthisjournal.IhavelearnedthatIwasassaultedinahotelroom.AndsoIknowwhothisEdis.
Heisthemanwhowaswaitingontheothersideofthedoorthatnight.Themanwhoattackedme.Themanwhostolemylife.
Thisevening,Itestedmyhusband.Ididnotwantto,didnotevenplanto,butIhadspentthewholedayworrying.Whyhadheliedtome?Why?Anddoeshelietomeeveryday?Isthereonlyoneversionofthepastthathetellsme,orseveral?Ineedtotrusthim,Ithought.Ihavenooneelse.
Wewereeatinglamb;acheapjoint,fatty,andovercooked.Iwaspushingthesamemouthfularoundmyplate,dippingitingravy,bringingittomymouth,puttingitdownagain.“HowdidIgettobelikethis?”Iasked.Ihadtriedtosummonupthevisionofthehotelroom,butithadremainedelusive,justoutofreach.Inaway,Iwasglad.
Benlookedupfromhisownplate,hiseyeswidewithsurprise.“Christine,”hesaid.“Darling.Idon’t—”
“Please,”Iinterruptedhim.“Ineedtoknow.”
Heputhisknifeandforkdown.“Verywell,”hesaid.
“Ineedyoutotellmeeverything,”Isaid.“Everything.”
Helookedatme,hiseyesnarrow.“You’resure?”
“Yes,”Isaid.Ihesitated,butthenIdecidedtosayit.“Somepeoplemightthinkitwouldbebetternottotellmeallthedetails.Especiallyiftheywereupsetting.ButIdon’tthinkthat.Ithinkyoushouldtellmeeverything,sothatIcandecideformyselfwhattofeel.Doyouunderstand?”
“Chris,”hesaid.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Ilookedaway.Myeyesrestedonthephotographofthetwoofusthatsatonthesideboard.“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“IknowIwasn’talwayslikethis.AndnowIam.Sosomethingmusthavehappened.Somethingbad.I’mjustsayingthatIknowthat.Iknowitmusthavebeensomethingawful.Butevenso,Iwanttoknowwhat.Ihavetoknowwhatitwas.Whathappenedtome.Don’tlietome,Ben,”Isaid.“Please.”
Hereachedacrossthetableandtookmyhand.“Darling.Iwouldneverdothat.”
Andthenhebegan.“ItwasDecember,”hesaid.“Icyroads…”andIlistened,withamountingsenseofdread,ashetoldmeaboutthecaraccident.Whenhehadfinished,hepickeduphisknifeandforkandcarriedoneating.
“You’resure?”Isaid.“You’resureitwasanaccident?”
Hesighed.“Why?”
Itriedtocalculatehowmuchtosay.IdidnotwanttorevealthatIwaswritingagain,keepingajournal,butwantedtobeashonestasIcould.
“EarliertodayIgotanoddfeeling,”Isaid.“Almostlikeamemory.SomehowitfeltlikeithadsomethingtodowithwhyI’mlikethis.”
“Whatsortoffeeling?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Amemory?”
“Sortof.”
“Well,didyourememberspecificthingsaboutwhathappened?”
Ithoughtofthehotelroom,thecandles,theflowers.ThefeelingthattheyhadnotbeenfromBen,thatitwasnothimIhadopenedthedoortointhatroom.Ithought,too,ofthefeelingthatIcouldnotbreathe.“Whatsortofthing?”Isaid.
“Anydetails,really.Thetypeofcarthathityou?Evenjustthecolor?Whetheryousawwhowasdrivingit?”
Iwantedtoscreamathim,WhyareyouaskingmetobelieveIwashitbyacar?Canitreallybethatitisaneasierstorytobelievethanwhateverdidhappen?
Aneasierstorytohear,Ithought,oraneasieronetotell?
IwonderedwhathewoulddoifIwastosay,Actually,no.Idon’tevenrememberbeinghitbyacar.Irememberbeinginahotelroom,waitingforsomeonewhowasn’tyou.
“No,”Isaid.“Notreally.Itwasmorejustageneralimpression.”
“Ageneralimpression?”hesaid.“Whatdoyoumean,‘ageneralimpression’?”
Hehadraisedhisvoice,soundedalmostangry.IwasnolongersureIwantedtocontinuethediscussion.
“Nothing,”Isaid.“Itwasnothing.Justanoddfeeling,asifsomethingreallybadwerehappening,andafeelingofpain.ButIdon’trememberanydetails.”
Heseemedtorelax.“It’sprobablynothing,”hesaid.“Justthemindplayingtricksonyou.Trytojustignoreit.”
Ignoreit?Ithought.Howcouldheaskmetodothat?Washefrightenedofmerememberingthetruth?
Itispossible,Isuppose.HehasalreadytoldmetodaythatIwashitbyacar.Hecannotenjoythethoughtofbeingexposedasaliar,evenfortherestoftheonedaythatIcouldholdontothememory.Particularlyifheislyingformybenefit.IcanseehowbelievingIwashitbyacarwouldbeeasierforbothofus.ButhowwillIeverfindoutwhatreallyhappened?
AndwhoIhadbeenwaitingfor,inthatroom?
“Okay,”Isaid,becausewhatelsecouldIsay?“You’reprobablyright.”Wewentbacktoourlamb,nowcold.Anotherthoughtcamethen.Terrible,brutalWhatifheisright?Itwasahit-and-run?Whatifmymindhadinventedthehotelroom,theattack?Itmightallbeinvention.Imagination,notmemory.Wasitpossiblethat,unabletocomprehendthesimplefactofanaccidentonanicyroad,Ihadmadeitallup?
Ifso,thenmymemoryisnotworking.Thingsarenotcomingbacktome.Iamnotgettingbetteratall,butgoingmad
Ifoundmybagandupendeditoverthebed.Thingstumbledout.Mycoinpurse,myfloraldiary,alipstick,apowdercompact,sometissues.Amobilephone,andthenanother.Apacketofmints.Someloosecoins.Ayellowsquareofpaper.
Isatonthebed,searchingthroughthedetritus.Ifishedoutthetinydiaryfirst,andthoughtIwasinluckwhenIsawDr.Nash’snamescrawledinblackinkattheback,butthenIsawthatthenumberbeneathithadthewordOfficenexttoitinbrackets.ItwasSunday.Hewouldn’tbethere.
Theyellowpaperwasgummedalongoneedge,withdustandhairstickingtoit,butotherwiseblank.Iwasbeginningtowonderwhatonearthhadmademethink,evenforamoment,thatDr.Nashwouldhavegivenmehispersonalnumber,whenIrememberedreadingthathehadwrittenhisnumbersinthefrontofmyjournal.Callmeifyougetconfused,he’dsaid.
Ifoundit,thenpickedupbothphones.IcouldnotrememberwhichoneDr.Nashhadgivenme.ThelargerofthetwoIcheckedquickly,seeingthateverycallwasfrom,orto,Ben.Thesecond—theonethatflippedopen—hadhardlybeenused.WhyhadDr.Nashgivenittome,Ithought,ifnotforthis?WhatamInow,ifnotconfused?Iopeneditanddialedhisnumber,thenpressedCALL
Silence,forafewmoments,andthenabuzzyring,interruptedbyavoice.
“Hello?”hesaid.Hesoundedsleepy,thoughitwasn’tlate.“Whoisthis?”
“Dr.Nash,”Isaid,whispering.IcouldhearBendownstairswhereIhadlefthim,watchingsomekindoftalentshowonthetelevision.Singing,laughter,sprinkledwithpunchesofapplause.“It’sChristine.”
Therewasapause.Amentalreadjustment.
“Oh.Okay.How—”
Ifeltanunexpectedplungeofdisappointment.Hedidnotsoundpleasedtobehearingfromme.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Igotyournumberfromthefrontofmyjournal.”
“Ofcourse,”hesaid.“Ofcourse.Howareyou?”Isaidnothing.“Iseverythingokay?”
“I’msorry,”Isaid.Thewordsfelloutofme,oneafteranother.“Ineedtoseeyou.Now.Ortomorrow.Yes.Tomorrow.Ihadamemory.Lastnight.Iwroteitdown.Ahotelroom.Someoneknockedonthedoor.Icouldn’tbreathe.I…Dr.Nash?”
“Christine,”hesaid.“Slowdown.Whathappened?”
Itookabreath.“Ihadamemory.I’msureithassomethingtodowithwhyIcan’trememberanything.Butitdoesn’tmakesense.BensaysIwashitbyacar.”
Iheardmovement,asifhewasadjustinghisposition,andanothervoice.Awoman’s.“It’snothing,”hesaidquietly,andhemutteredsomethingIcouldn’tquitehear.
“Dr.Nash?”Isaid.“Dr.Nash?WasIhitbyacar?”
“Ican’treallytalkrightnow,”hesaid,andIheardthewoman’svoiceagain,loudernow,complaining.Ifeltsomethingstirwithinme.Anger,orpanic
“Please!”Isaid.Thewordhissedoutofme.
Silence,atfirst,andthenhisvoiceagain,nowwithauthority.“I’msorry,”hesaid.“I’malittlebusy.Haveyouwrittenitdown?”
Ididn’tanswer.Busy.Ithoughtofhimandhisgirlfriend,wonderedwhatitwasthatI’dinterrupted.Hespokeagain.“Whatyou’veremembered—isitwritteninyourjournal?Makesureyouwriteitdown.”
“Okay,”Isaid.“But—”
Heinterrupted.“We’lltalktomorrow.I’llcallyou.Onthisnumber?Ipromise.”
Relief,mixedwithsomethingelse.Somethingunexpected.Hardtodefine.Happiness?Delight?
No.Itwasmorethanthat.Partanxiety,partcertainty,suffusedwiththetinythrillofpleasuretocome.IstillfeelitasIwritethis,anhourorsolater,butnowknowitforwhatitis.SomethingIdon’tknowthatIhaveeverfeltbefore.Anticipation.
Butanticipationofwhat?ThathewilltellmewhatIneedtoknow,thathewillconfirmthatmymemoriesarebeginningtotricklebacktome,thatmytreatmentisworking?Orisitmore?
IthinkofhowImusthavefeltashetouchedmeintheparkinglot,whatImusthavebeenthinkingtoignoreacallfrommyhusband.Perhapsthetruthismoresimple.I’mlookingforwardtotalkingtohim.
“Yes,”Ihadsaidwhenhetoldmehewouldcall.“Yes.Please.”Butbythenthelinewasalreadydead.Ithoughtofthewoman’svoice,realizedtheyhadbeeninbed.
Idismissthethoughtfrommymind.Tochaseitwouldbetogotrulymad.
Monday,November19
Thecaféwasbusy.Oneofachain.Everythingwasgreen,orbrown,anddisposable,though—accordingtothepostersthatdottedthecarpetedwalls—inanenvironmentallyfriendlyway.Idrankmycoffeeoutofapapercup,dauntinglyhuge,asDr.NashsettledhimselfintothearmchairoppositetheoneintowhichIhadsunk.
ItwasthefirsttimeI’dhadthechancetolookathimproperly;orthefirsttimetodayatleast,whichamountstothesamething.Hehadcalled—onthephonethatflipsopen—notlongafterIhadclearedawaytheremainsofmybreakfast,andthenpickedmeupanhourorsolater,afterIhadreadmostofmyjournal.Istaredoutofthewindowaswedrovetothecoffeeshop.Iwasfeelingconfused.Desperatelyso.Thismorning,whenIwoke—eventhoughIcouldnotbecertainIknewmyownname—IknewsomehowthatIwasbothanadultandamother,althoughIhadnoinklingthatIwasmiddle-agedandmysonwasdead.Mydaysofarhadbeenbrutallydisorienting,oneshockafteranother—thebathroommirror,thescrapbook,andthen,later,thisjournal—culminatinginthebeliefthatIdonottrustmyhusband.Ihadfeltdisinclinedtoexamineanythingelsetooclosely.
Now,though,IcouldseethatDr.NashwasyoungerthanIhadexpected,andthoughIhadwrittenthathedidnotneedtoworryaboutwatchinghisweight,IcouldseethatthisdidnotmeanhewasasskinnyasIhadsupposed.Hehadasolidnesstohim,emphasizedbythetoo-largejacketthathungfromhisshouldersandoutofwhichhissurprisinglyhairyforearmspokedinfrequently.
“Howareyoufeelingtoday?”hesaid,oncesettled.
Ishrugged.“I’mnotsure.Confused,Isuppose.”
Henodded.“Goon.”
IpushedawaythecookiethatDr.NashhadgivenmethoughIhadn’taskedforit.“Well,IwokeupkindofknowingthatIwasanadult.Ididn’trealizeIwasmarried,butIwasn’texactlysurprisedthattherewassomebodyinbedwithme.”
“That’sgood,though—”hebegan.
Iinterrupted.“ButyesterdayIwrotethatIwokeupandknewIhadahusband…”
“You’restillwritinginyourbook,then?”hesaid,andInodded.“Didyoubringittoday?”
Ihad.Itwasinmybag.ButtherewerethingsinitIdidnotwanthimtoread,didnotwantanyoneto.Personalthings.Myhistory.TheonlyhistoryIhave.
ThingsIhadwrittenabouthim.
“Iforgot,”Ilied.Icouldnottellifhewasdisappointed.
“Okay,”hesaid.“Itdoesn’tmatter.Icanseeitmustbefrustratingthatonedayyouremembersomethingandthenextitseemstobegoneagain.Butit’sstillprogress.Generallyyou’rerememberingmorethanyouwere.”
Iwonderedifwhathe’dsaidwasstilltrue.Inthefirstfewentriesofthisjournal,Ihadwrittenofrememberingmychildhood,myparents,apartywithmybestfriend.Ihadseenmyhusbandwhenwewereyoungandfirstinlove;myself,writinganovel.Butsincethen?LatelyIhavebeenseeingonlythesonIhavelostandtheattackthatleftmelikethis.Thingsitmightalmostbebetterformetoforget.
“YousaidyouwereworriedaboutBen?Whathe’ssayingaboutthecauseofyouramnesia?”
Iswallowed.WhatIhadwrittenyesterdayhadseemeddistant,removed.Almostfictional.Acaraccident.Violenceinahotelbedroom.Neitherhadseemedlikeanythingtodowithme.YetIhadnochoicebuttobelievethatIhadwrittenthetruth.ThatBenhadreallyliedtomeabouthowIendeduplikethis.
“Goon…”hesaid.
ItoldhimwhatI’dwrittendown,startingwithBen’sstoryabouttheaccidentandfinishingwithmyrecollectionofthehotelroom,thoughImentionedneitherthesexwe’dbeeninthemiddleofwhenthememoryofthehotelroomcametome,northeromance—theflowers,thecandlesandchampagne—ithadcontained.
IwatchedhimasIspoke.Heoccasionallymurmuredanencouragementandevenscratchedhischinandnarrowedhiseyesatonepoint,thoughtheexpressionwasmorethoughtfulthansurprised.
“Youknewthis,didn’tyou?”IsaidwhenI’dfinished.“Youknewallofthisalready?”
Heputdownhisdrink.“Notexactly,no.Iknewthatitwasn’tacaraccidentthatcausedyourproblems,althoughsincereadingyourjournaltheotherdayInowknowthatBenhasbeentellingyouthatitwas.Ialsoknewthatyoumusthavebeenstayinginahotelonthenightofyour…ofyour…onthenightyoulostyourmemory.Buttheotherdetailsyoumentionedarenew.AndasfarasIknow,thisisthefirsttimeyou’veactuallyrememberedanythingyourself.Thisisgoodnews,Christine.”
Goodnews?IwonderedifhethoughtIshouldbepleased.“Soit’strue?”Isaid.“Itwasn’tacaraccident?”
Hepaused,thensaid,“No.Noitwasn’t.”
“Butwhydidn’tyoutellmeBenwaslying?Whenyoureadmyjournal?Whydidn’tyoutellmethetruth?”
“BecauseBenmusthavehisreasons,”hesaid.“Anditdidn’tfeelrighttotellyouhewaslying.Notthen.”
“Soyouliedtome,too?”
“No,”hesaid.“I’veneverliedtoyou.Inevertoldyouitwasacaraccident.”
IthoughtofwhatIhadreadthismorning.“Buttheotherday,”Isaid.“Inyouroffice.Wetalkedaboutit…”Heshookhishead.
“Iwasn’ttalkingaboutanaccident,”hesaid.“YousaidthatBenhadtoldyouhowithadhappened,soIthoughtyouknewthetruth.Ihadn’treadyourjournalthen,don’tforget.Wemusthavegotourselvesmixedup…”
Icouldseehowitmighthappen.Bothofusskirtingaroundanissuewedidn’twanttomentionbyname.
“Sowhatdidhappen?”Isaid.“Inthathotelroom?WhatwasIdoingthere?”
“Idon’tknoweverything,”hesaid.
“Thentellmewhatyoudoknow,”Isaid.Thewordsemergedangrily,butitwastoolatetosnatchthemback.Iwatchedashebrushedanonexistentcrumbfromhistrousers.
“You’recertainyouwanttoknow?”hesaid.Ifeltlikehewasgivingmeonefinalchance.Youcanstillwalkaway,heseemedtobesaying.YoucangoonwithyourlifewithoutknowingwhatIamabouttotellyou.
Buthewaswrong.Icouldn’t.Withoutthetruth,Iamlivinglessthanhalfalife.
“Yes,”Isaid.
Hisvoicewasslow.Faltering.Hebegansentencesonlytoabortthemafewwordslater.Thestorywasaspiral,asifcirclingaroundsomethingawful,somethingbetterleftunsaid.SomethingthatmadeamockeryoftheidlechatIimaginethecaféismoreusedto.
“It’strue.Youwereattacked.Itwas…”Hepaused.“Well,itwasprettybad.Youwerediscoveredwandering.Confused.Youweren’tcarryinganyidentificationatall,andhadnomemoryofwhoyouwereorwhathadhappened.Therewereheadinjuries.Thepoliceinitiallythoughtyouhadbeenmugged.”Anotherpause.“Youwerefoundwrappedinablanket,coveredinblood.”
Ifeltmyselfgocold.“Whofoundme?”Isaid.
“I’mnotsure…”
“Ben?”
“No.NotBen,no.Astranger.Whoeveritwascalmedyoudown.Calledanambulance.Youwereadmittedtoahospital,ofcourse.Therewassomeinternalbleedingandyouneededemergencysurgery.”
“ButhowdidtheyknowwhoIwas?”
Foranawfulmoment,Ithoughtperhapstheyhadneverdiscoveredmyidentity.Perhapseverything,anentirehistory,evenmyname,wasgiventomethedayIwasdiscovered.EvenAdam.
Dr.Nashspoke.“Itwasn’tdifficult,”hesaid.“You’dcheckedintothehotelunderyourownname.AndBenhadalreadycontactedthepolicetoreportyouasmissing.Evenbeforeyouwerefound.”
Ithoughtofthemanwhohadknockedonthedoorofthatroom,themanIhadbeenwaitingfor.
“Bendidn’tknowwhereIwas?”
“No,”hesaid.“Apparentlyhehadnoidea.”
“OrwhoIwaswith?Whodidthistome?”
“No,”hesaid.“Nobodywaseverarrested.Therewasverylittleevidencetoworkwith,andofcourseyoucouldn’treallyhelpthepolicewiththeirinvestigations.Itwasassumedthatwhoeverattackedyouremovedeverythingfromthehotelroomandthenleftyouandfled.Noonesawanyonegoin,orleave.Apparentlythehotelwasbusythatnight—somekindoffunctioninoneoftheballrooms,lotsofpeoplecomingandgoing.Youwereprobablyunconsciousforsometimeaftertheattack.Itwasthemiddleofthenightwhenyouwentdownstairsandleftthehotel.Noonesawyougo.”
Isighed.Irealizedthepolicewouldhaveclosedthecaseyearsago.Toeveryonebutme—eventoBen—thiswasoldnews,ancienthistory.Iwillneverknowwhodidthistome,andwhy.NotunlessIremember.
“Whathappenedthen?”Isaid.“AfterIwastakentothehospital?”
“Theoperationwassuccessful,butthereweresecondaryeffects.Therewasdifficultyinstabilizingyouaftersurgery.Yourbloodpressureinparticular.”Hepaused.“Youlapsedintoacomaforawhile.”
“Acoma?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Itwastouchandgo,but,well,youwerelucky.Youwereintherightplaceandtheytreatedyourconditionaggressively.Youcamearound.Butthenitbecameapparentthatyourmemorywasgone.Atfirsttheythoughtitmightbetemporary.Acombinationoftheheadinjuryandanoxia.Itwasareasonableassumption—”
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Anoxia?”Ihadstumbledovertheword.
“Sorry,”hesaid.“Oxygendeprivation.”
Ifeltmyheadbegintoswim.Everythingstartedtoshrinkanddistort,asthoughitweregettingsmaller,ormebigger.Iheardmyselfspeak.“Oxygendeprivation?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Youhadsymptomsofaseverelackofoxygentothebrain.Consistentwithcarbondioxidepoisoning—thoughtherewasnootherevidenceforthis—orstrangulation.Thereweremarksonyourneckthatsuggestedthis.Butthemostlikelyexplanationwasthoughttobenear-drowning.”HepausedasIabsorbedwhathewastellingme.“Didyourememberanythingaboutalmostdrowning?”
Iclosedmyeyes.Isawnothingbutacardonapillow,uponwhichIsawthewordsIloveyou.Ishookmyhead.
“Yourecovered,butyourmemorydidnotimprove.Youstayedinthehospitalforacoupleofweeks.Intheintensivecareunitatfirst,andthenthegeneralward.Whenyouwerewellenoughtobemoved,youweretransportedbacktoLondon.”
BacktoLondon.Ofcourse.Iwasfoundnearahotel;Imusthavebeenawayfromhome.Iaskedwhereitwas.
“InBrighton,”hesaid.“Doyouhaveanyideawhyyoumighthavebeenthere?Anyconnectiontothatarea?”
Itriedtothinkofholidays,butnothingcame.
“No,”Isaid.“None.NonethatIknowof,anyway.”
“Itmighthelptogothere,atsomepoint.Toseeifyouremember?”
Ifeltmyselfgocold.Ishookmyhead.
Henodded.“Okay.Well,therecouldbeanynumberofreasonswhyyou’dbethere,ofcourse.”
Yes,Ithought.Butonlyonethatincorporatedflickeringcandlesandbunchesofrosesbutdidn’tincludemyhusband.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Ofcourse.”Iwonderedifeitherofuswasgoingtomentiontheword“affair,”andhowBenmusthavefeltwhenherealizedwhereIhadbeen,andwhy.
Itstruckmethen.ThereasonBenhadnotgivenmetherealexplanationformyamnesia.Whywouldhewanttoremindmethatonce,howeverbriefly,Ihadchosenanothermanoverhim?Ifeltachill.Ihadchosensomeoneovermyhusband,andlookatthepriceIhadpaid.
“Whathappenedthen?”Isaid.“DidImovebackinwithBen?”
Heshookhishead.“No,no,”hesaid.“Youwerestillveryill.Youhadtostayinthehospital.”
“Forhowlong?”
“Youwereinthegeneralwardatfirst.Forafewmonths.”
“Andthen?”
“Youweremoved,”hesaid.Hehesitated—IthoughtIwouldhavetoaskhimtocontinue—andthensaid,“toapsychiatricward.”
Thewordshookme.“Apsychiatricward?”Iimaginedfearfulplaces,fullofcrazypeople,howling,deranged.Icouldnotimaginemyselfthere.
“Yes.”
“Butwhy?Whythere?”
Hespokesoftly,buthistonebetrayedannoyance.Ifeltsuddenlyconvincedwehadbeenthroughallthisbefore,perhapsmanytimes,presumablybeforeIhadbeguntokeepmyjournal.“Itwasmoresecure,”hesaid.“Youhadmadeareasonablerecoveryfromyourphysicalinjuriesbynow,butyourmemoryproblemswereattheirworst.Youdidn’tknowwhoyouwere,orwhere.Youwereexhibitingsymptomsofparanoia,claimingthedoctorswereconspiringagainstyou.Youkepttryingtoescape.”Hewaited.“Youwerebecomingincreasinglyunmanageable.Youweremovedforyourownsafety,aswellasthesafetyofothers.”
“Ofothers?”
“Youoccasionallylashedout.”
Itriedtoimaginewhatitmusthavebeenlike.Ipicturedsomeonewakingupeveryday,confused,notsurewhotheywere,orwhere,orwhythey’dbeenputinahospital.Askingforanswersandnotgettingthem.Beingsurroundedbypeoplewhoknewmoreaboutthemthantheydidthemselves.Itmusthavebeenhell
Irememberedthatweweretalkingaboutme.
“Andthen?”
Hedidnotanswer.Isawhiseyesgoupandhelookedpastme,towardthedoor,asifhewerewatchingit,waiting.Buttherewasnoonethere,itdidnotopen,nooneleftorcamein.Iwonderedifhewasactuallydreamingofescape.
“Dr.Nash,”Isaid.“Whathappenedthen?”
“Youstayedthereforawhile,”hesaid.Hisvoicewasalmostawhispernow.Hehastoldmethisbefore,Ithought,butthistimeheknowsIwillwriteitdownandcarryitwithmeformorethanafewhours.
“Howlong?”
Hesaidnothing.Iaskedhimagain.“Howlong?”
Helookedupatme,hisfaceamixtureofsadnessandpain.“Sevenyears.”
Hepaid,andweleftthecoffeeshop.Ifeltnumb.IdonotknowwhatIwasexpecting,whereIthoughtIhadlivedouttheworstofmyillness,butIdidnotthinkitwouldbethere.Notinthemiddleofallthatpain.
Aswewalked,Dr.Nashturnedtome.“Christine,”hesaid.“Ihaveasuggestion.”Inoticedhowcasuallyhespoke,asifhewasaskingwhichflavoricecreamIwouldprefer.Acasualnessthatcanonlybeaffected.
“Goon,”Isaid.
“Ithinkitmightbehelpfulforyoutovisitthewardthatyouwereadmittedto,”hesaid.“Theplaceyouspentallthattime.”
Myreactionwasinstant.Automatic.“No!”Isaid.“Why?”
“You’reexperiencingmemory,”hesaid.“Thinkofwhathappenedwhenwewenttovisityouroldhouse.”Inodded.“Yourememberedsomethingthen.Ithinkitmighthappenagain.Wemighttriggermore.”
“But—”
“Youdon’thaveto.But…look.I’llbehonest.I’vealreadymadethearrangementswiththem.They’dbehappytowelcomeyou.Us.Anytime.Ionlyhavetocalltoletthemknowwe’reonourway.I’dcomewithyou.Ifyoufeeldistressedoruncomfortablewecanleave.It’llbefine.Ipromise.”
“Youthinkitmighthelpmetogetbetter?Really?”
“Idon’tknow,”hesaid.“Butitmight.”
“When?Whendoyouwanttogo?”
Hestoppedwalking.Irealizedthecarwewerestandingnexttomustbehis.
“Today,”hesaid.“Ithinkweshouldgotoday.”Andthenhesaidsomethingodd.“Wedon’thavetimetolose.”
***
Ididn’thavetogo.Dr.Nashdidn’tforcemetoagreetothetrip.But,thoughIcan’trememberdoingso—can’tremembermuchatall,infact—Imusthavesaidyes.
Thejourneywasnotlong,andweweresilent.Icouldthinkofnothing.Nothingtosay,nothingtofeel.Mymindwasempty.Scoopedout.Itookmyjournaloutofmybag—notcaringthatIhadtoldDr.NashIdidn’thaveitwithme—andwrotethatlastentryinit.Iwantedtorecordeverydetailofourconversation.Ididitsilently,almostwithoutthinking,andwedidnotspeakasheparkedthecar,noraswewalkedthroughtheantisepticcorridorswiththeirsmellofstalecoffeeandfreshpaint.Peoplewerewheeledpastusongurneys,attachedtoIVs.Posterspeeledoffthewalls.Overheadlightsflickeredandbuzzed.IcouldthinkonlyofthesevenyearsIhadspentthere.Itfeltlikea
Wecametoastopoutsideadoubledoor.FisherWard.Dr.Nashpressedabuttononanintercommountedonthewall,thenmumbledsomethingintoit.Heiswrong,Ithoughtasthedoorswungopen.Ididnotsurvivethatattack.TheChristineLucaswhoopenedthathotelroomdoorisdead.
Anotherdoubledoor.“Youokay,Christine?”hesaidasthefirstclosedbehindus,sealingusin.Isaidnothing.“Thisisasecureunit.”Iwashitwithasuddenconvictionthatthedoorbehindmewasclosingforever,thatIwouldnotbeleaving.
Iswallowed.“Isee,”Isaid.Theinnerdoorbegantoopen.IdidnotknowwhatIwouldseebeyondit,couldnotbelieveIhadeverbeenherebefore.
“Ready?”hesaid.
Alongcorridor.Thereweredoorsoffeachside,andaswewalkedIcouldseethattheyopenedintoglass-windowedrooms.Ineachwasabed—somemade,someunmade,someoccupied,mostnot.“Thepatientsheresufferfromavarietyofproblems,”saidDr.Nash.“Manyshowschizoaffectivesymptoms,buttherearethosewithbipolarity,acuteanxiety,depression.”
Ilookedinonewindow.Agirlwassittingonthebed,naked,staringatthetelevision.Inanother,amansatonhishaunches,rocking,hisarmswrappedaroundhiskneesasiftoshieldhimselffromthecold.
“Aretheylockedin?”Isaid.
“Thepatientsherehavebeencommitted.They’reherefortheirowngood,butagainsttheirwishes.”
“Theirowngood?”
“Yes.They’readangereithertothemselvesortoothers.Theyneedtobekeptsecure.”
Wecarriedonwalking.AwomanlookedupasIpassedherroom,andthoughoureyesmadecontact,hersbetrayednoexpression.Insteadsheslappedherself,stilllookingatme,andwhenIwinced,shediditagain.Avisionflittedthroughme—visitingazooasachild,watchingatigerpaceupanddownhiscage—butIpusheditawayandcarriedon,resolvingtolookneitherleftnorright.
“Whydidtheybringmehere?”Isaid.
“Beforeyouwerehere,youwereinthegeneralmedicalward.Inabed,justlikeeverybodyelse.Youwouldspendsomeweekendsathome,withBen.Butyoubecamemoreandmoredifficulttomanage.”
“Difficult?”
“Youwouldwanderoff.Benhadtostartlockingthedoorstothehouse.Youbecamehystericalacoupleoftimes,convincedthathehadhurtyou,thatyouwerebeinglockedinagainstyourwill.Forawhileyouwereokaywhenyougotbacktotheward,butthenyoustarteddemonstratingsimilarbehaviorsthere,too.”
“Sotheyhadtofindawayoflockingmein,”Isaid.Wehadreachedanursingstation.Amaninauniformsatbehindadesk,enteringsomethingonacomputer.Helookedupasweapproachedandsaidthedoctorwouldbewithussoon.Heinvitedustotakeaseat.Iscannedhisface—thecrookednose,thegold-studearring—hopingsomethingwouldigniteaglimmeroffamiliarity.Nothing.Thewardseemedutterlyforeign.
“Yes,”saidDr.Nash.“You’dgonemissing,once.Forsomethinglikefourandahalfhours.Youwerepickedupbythepolice,downbyoneofthecanals.Dressedonlyinpajamasandagown.Benhadtocollectyoufromthestation.Youwouldn’tgowithanyofthenurses.Theyhadnochoice.”
Hetoldmethat,rightaway,Benbegantocampaigntohavememoved.“Hefeltthatapsychiatricwardwasnotthebestplaceforyou.Hewasright,really.Youweren’tdangerous,eithertoyourselfortoothers.It’sevenpossiblethatbeingsurroundedbythosewhoweremoreillthanyouwasmakingyouworse.Hewrotetothedoctors,theheadofthehospital,yourMP.Butnothingwasavailable.
“Andthen,”hesaid,“aresidentialcenterforpeoplewithchronicbraininjuriesopened.Helobbiedhard,andyouwereassessed,andthoughttobesuitable,thoughfundingwasanissue.Benhadhadtotakeabreakfromworktolookafteryouandcouldn’taffordtofundithimself,buthewouldn’ttakenoforananswer.Apparentlyhethreatenedtogotothepresswithyourstory.Thereweremeetingsandappealsandsoon,buteventuallyhewassuccessful,andyouwereacceptedasapatient,withthestateagreeingtopayforyourstayforaslongasyouwereill.Youweremovedthereabouttenyearsago.”
Ithoughtofmyhusband,triedtoimaginehimwritingletters,campaigning,threatening.Itdidnotseempossible.ThemanIhadmetthatmorningseemedhumble,deferential.Notweak,exactly,butaccepting.Hedidnotseemlikethekindofpersontomakewaves.
Iamnottheonlyone,Ithought,whosepersonalityhaschangedbecauseofmyinjury.
“Thehomewasfairlysmall,”saidDr.Nash.“Afewroomsinarehabcenter.Thereweren’tmanyotherresidents.Lotsofpeopletohelplookafteryou.Youhadalittlemoreindependencethere.Youweresafe.Youmadeimprovements.”
“ButIwasn’twithBen?”
“No.Helivedathome.Heneededtocarryonworking,andhecouldn’tdothatandlookafteryou.Hedecided—”
Amemoryflashedthroughme,tearingmesuddenlybackintothepast.Everythingwasslightlyoutoffocusandhadahazearoundit,andtheimagesweresobrightIalmostwantedtolookaway.Isawmyself,walkingthroughthesesamecorridors,beingledbacktowardaroomthatIdimlyunderstoodwasmine.Iamwearingslippers,abluegownwithtiesuptheback.Thewomanwithmeisblack,wearingauniform.“Hereyougo,hon,”shesaystome.“Lookwho’sheretoseeyou!”Sheletsgoofmyhandandguidesmetowardthebed.
Agroupofstrangersaresittingaroundit,watchingme.Iseeamanwithdarkhairandawomanwearingaberet,butIcannotmakeouttheirfaces.Iaminthewrongroom,Iwanttosay.There’sbeenamistake.ButIsaynothing.
Achild—fourorfiveyearsold—standsup.Hehadbeensittingontheedgeofthebed.Hecomestowardme,running,andhesaysMummyandIseethatheistalkingtome,andonlythendoIrealizewhoheis.Adam.Icrouchdownandherunsintomyarms,andIholdhimandkissthetopofhishead,andthenIstand.“Whoareyou?”Isaytothegrouparoundthebed.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Themanlookssuddenlysad;thewomanwiththeberetstandsandsays,“Chris.Chrissy.It’sme.YouknowwhoIam,don’tyou?”andthencomestowardmeandIseethatsheiscrying.
“No,”Isay.“No!Getout!Getout!”andIturntoleavetheroomandthereisanotherwomanthere—standingbehindme—andIdon’tknowwhosheis,orhowshegotthere,andIbegintocry.Ibegintosinktothefloor,butthechildisthere,holdingontomyknees,andIdon’tknowwhoheis,buthekeepscallingmeMummy,sayingitoverandoveragain.Mummy.Mummy.Mummy,andIdon’tknowwhy,orwhoheis,orwhyheisholdingme…
Ahandtouchedmyarm.Iflinchedasifstung.Avoice.“Christine?Areyouokay?Dr.Wilsonishere.”
Iopenedmyeyes,lookedaround.Awomanwearingawhitecoatstoodinfrontofus.“Dr.Nash,”shesaid.Sheshookhishand,andthenturnedtome.“Christine?”
“Yes,”Isaid.
“Pleasedtomeetyou,”shesaid.“I’mHilaryWilson.”Itookherhand.Shewasalittleolderthanme;herhairwasbeginningtoturngray,andapairofhalf-moonglassesdangledaroundherneckonagoldchain.“Howd’youdo?”shesaid,andfromnowhereIfeltcertainIhadmetherbefore.Shenoddeddownthecorridor.“Shallwe?”
Herofficewaslarge,linedwithbooks,piledwithboxesofspillingpapers.Shesatbehindadeskandindicatedtwochairsoppositeit,intowhichDr.NashandIsank.Iwatchedhertakeafilefromthepileonherdeskandopenit.“Now,mydear,”shesaid.“Let’shavealook.”
Herimagefroze.Iknewher.IhadseenherpictureasIlayinthescanner,and,thoughIhadn’trecognizeditatthetime,Ididnow.Ihadbeenherebefore.Manytimes.SittingwhereIamnow,inthischairoronelikeit,watchinghermakingnotesinafileasshepeeredthroughtheglasseshelddelicatelytohereyes.
“I’vemetyoubefore…”Isaid.“Iremember…”Dr.Nashlookedoveratme,thenbackatDr.Wilson.
“Yes,”shesaid.“Yesyouhave.Thoughnotthatoften.”Sheexplainedthatshe’donlyjuststartedworkingherewhenImovedoutandthatatfirstIwasn’tevenonhercaseload.“It’scertainlymostencouragingthatyourememberme,though,”shesaid.“It’sbeenalongtimesinceyouwereresidenthere.”Dr.NashleanedforwardandsaiditmighthelpmetoseetheroominwhichI’dlived.Shenoddedandsquintedatthefile,then,afteraminute,saidshedidn’tknowwhichitwas.“It’spossiblethatyoumovedaroundafairoldbitinanycase,”shesaid.“Manyofthepatientsdo.Couldweaskyourhusband?Accordingtothefile,heandyoursonvisitedyoualmosteveryday.”
IhadreadaboutAdamthismorningandfeltaflashofhappinessatthementionofhisname,andreliefthatI’dseenalittleofhimgrowingup,butshookmyhead.“No,”Isaid.“I’drathernotcallBen.”
Dr.Wilsondidnotargue.“AfriendofyoursnamedClaireseemedtobesomethingofaregular,too.Howabouther?”
Ishookmyhead.“We’renotintouch.”
“Ah,”shesaid.“Whatapity.Butnevermind.Icantellyoualittlebitofwhatlifewaslikeherebackthen.”Sheglancedathernotes,thenclaspedherhandstogether.“Yourtreatmentwasmostlyhandledbyaconsultantpsychiatrist.Youunderwentsessionsofhypnosis,butI’mafraidanysuccesswaslimitedandunsustained.”Shereadfurther.“Youdidn’treceiveagreatdealofmedication.Asedative,occasionally,thoughthatwasmoretohelpyousleep—itcangetquitenoisyinhere,asI’msureyoucanunderstand,”shesaid
IrecalledthehowlingI’dimaginedearlier,wonderingifthatmighthaveoncebeenme.“WhatwasIlike?”Isaid.“WasIhappy?”
Shesmiled.“Generally,yes.Youwerewellliked.Youseemedtomakefriendswithoneofthenursesinparticular.”
“Whatwashername?”
Shescannedhernotes.“I’mafraiditdoesn’tsay.Youplayedalotofsolitaire.”
“Solitaire?”
“Acardgame.PerhapsDr.Nashcanexplainlater?”Shelookedup.“Accordingtothenotes,youwereoccasionallyviolent,”shesaid.“Don’tbealarmed.It’snotunusualincaseslikethis.Peoplewhohavesufferedsevereheadtraumawilloftenexhibitviolenttendencies,particularlywhentherehasbeendamagetothepartofthebrainthatallowsself-restraint.Plus,patientswithamnesiasuchasyoursoftenhaveatendencytodosomethingwecallconfabulation.Thingsaroundthemdonotseemtomakesense,andsotheyfeelcompelledtoinventdetails.Aboutthemselvesandotherpeoplearoundthem,orabouttheirhistory,whathashappenedtothem.It’sthoughttobeduetothedesiretofillgapsinthememory.Understandable,inaway.Butitcanoftenleadtoviolentbehaviorwhentheamnesiac’sfantasyiscontradicted.Lifemusthavebeenverydisorientingforyou.Particularlywhenyouhadvisitors.”
Visitors.SuddenlyIwasafraidImighthavehitmyson.
“WhatdidIdo?”
“Youoccasionallylashedoutatsomeofthestaff,”shesaid.
“ButnotatAdam?Myson?”
“Notaccordingtothesenotes,no.”Isighed,notentirelyrelieved.“Wehavesomepagesfromasortofdiarythatyouwerekeeping,”shesaid.“Mightitbehelpfulforyoutotakealookatthem?Youmightunderstandyourconfusionbetter.”
Thisfeltdangerous.IglancedatDr.Nash,andhenodded.ShepushedasheetofbluepaperovertomeandItookit,atfirstfrightenedtoevenlookatit
WhenIdid,Isawthatitwascoveredinanunrulyscrawl.Atthetop,theletterswerewellformed,andkeptneatlywithintheprintedlinesthatranacrossthepage,buttowardthebottom,theywerelargeandmessy,inchestall,justafewwordsacross.ThoughdreadingwhatImightsee,Ibegantoread.
8:15a.m.,readthefirstentry.Ihavewokenup.Benishere.Directlyunderneath,Ihadwritten,8:17a.m.Ignorethatlastentry.Itwaswrittenbysomeoneelse,andunderneaththat,8:20IamawakeNOW.BeforeIwasnot.Benishere.
Myeyesflickedfurtherdownthepage.9:45Ihavejustwokenup,FORTHEVERYFIRSTTIME,andthen,afewlineslater,10:07NOWIamdefinitelyawake.Alltheseentriesarealie.IamawakeNOW.
Ilookedup.“Thiswasreallyme?”Isaid.
“Yes.Foralongtimeitseemedthatyouwereinaperpetualstateoffeelingthatyouhadjustwokenupfromaverylong,verydeepsleep.Lookhere.”Dr.Wilsonpointedatthepageinfrontofme,andbeganquotingentriesfromit.“Ihavebeenasleepforever.ItwaslikebeingDEAD.Ihaveonlyjustwokenup.Icanseeagain,forthefirsttime.Theyapparentlyencouragedyoutowritedownwhatyouwerefeeling,inanefforttogetyoutorememberwhathadhappenedbefore,butI’mafraidyoujustbecameconvincedthatalltheprecedingentrieshadbeenwrittenbysomeoneelse.Youbegantothinkpeopleherewereconductingexperimentsonyou,keepingyouagainstyourwill.”
Ilookedatthepageagain.Thewholesheetwasfilledwithalmostidenticalentries,eachjustafewminutesapart.Ifeltmyselfgocold.
“WasIreallythisbad?”Isaid.Mywordsseemedtoechoinmyhead.
“Forawhile,yes,”saidDr.Nash.“Yournotesindicatethatyouretainedmemoryforonlyafewseconds.Sometimesaminuteortwo.Thattimehasgraduallylengthenedovertheyears.”
IcouldnotbelieveIhadwrittenthis.Itseemedtobetheworkofsomeonewhosemindwascompletelyfractured.Exploded.Isawthewordsagain.ItwaslikebeingDEAD.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ican’t—”
Dr.Wilsontookthesheetfromme.“Iunderstand,Christine.It’supsetting.I—”
Panichitmethen.Istoodup,buttheroombegantospin.“Iwanttoleave,”Isaid.“Thisisn’tme.Itcan’thavebeenme,I—Iwouldneverhitpeople.Iwouldnever.Ijust—”
Dr.Nashstood,too,andthenDr.Wilson.Shesteppedforward,collidingwithherdesk,whichsentpapersflying.Aphotographspilledtothefloor.“DearGod—”Isaid,andshelookeddown,thencrouchedtocoveritwithanothersheet.ButIhadseenenough.
“Wasthatme?”Isaid,myvoicerisingtoascream.“Wasthatme?”
Thephotographwasoftheheadofayoungwoman.Herhairhadbeenpulledbackfromherface.Atfirst,itlookedasthoughshewaswearingaHalloweenmask.Oneeyewasopenandlookedatthecamera,theotherwasclosedbyahuge,purplebruise,andbothlipswereswollen,pink,laceratedwithcuts.Hercheeksweredistended,givingherwholefaceagrotesqueappearance.Ithoughtofpulpedfruit.Ofplums,rottenandbursting.
“Wasthatme?”Iscreamed,eventhough,despitetheswollen,distortedface,Icouldseethatitwas.
Mymemorysplitsthere,fracturedintwo.Partofmewascalm,quiet.Serene.ItwatchedastheotherpartofmethrashedandscreamedandhadtoberestrainedbyDr.NashandDr.Wilson.Youreallyoughttobehave,itseemedtobesaying.Thisisembarrassing.
Buttheotherpartwasstronger.Ithadtakenover,becometherealme.Ishoutedout,againandagain,andturnedandranforthedoor.Dr.Nashcameafterme.Itoreitopenandran,thoughwhereIcouldgoIdidnotknow.Animageofbolteddoors.Alarms.Aman,chasingme.Myson,crying.Ihavedonethisbefore,Ithought.Ihavedoneallthisbefore.
Mymemoryblanks.
Theymusthavecalmedmedownsomehow,persuadedmetogowithDr.Nash;thenextthingIcanrememberisbeinginhiscar,sittingnexttohimashedrove.Theskywasbeginningtocloudover,thestreetslookedgray,somehowflattenedout.Hewastalking,butIcouldnotconcentrate.Itwasasifmymindhadtripped,fallenbackintosomethingelse,andnowcouldnotcatchup.Ilookedoutofthewindows,attheshoppersandthedog-walkers,atthepeoplewiththeirstrollersandtheirbicycles,andIwonderedwhetherthis—thissearchfortruth—wasreallywhatIwanted.Yes,itmighthelpmetoimprove,buthowmuchcanIhopetogain?Idon’texpectthatIwilleverwakeupknowingeverything,asnormalpeopledo,knowingwhatIdidthedaybefore,whatplansIhaveforthedaythatfollows,whatcircuitousroutehasledmetohereandnow,tothepersonIam.ThebestIcanhopeforisthat,oneday,lookinginthemirrorwillnotbeatotalshock,thatIwillrememberImarriedamancalledBenandlostasoncalledAdam,thatI
Buteventhatmuchseemsunattainable.IthoughtofwhatIhadseeninFisherWard.Madnessandpain.Mindsthathadbeenshattered.Iamclosertothat,Ithought,thanIamtorecovery.PerhapsitwouldbebestifIlearnedtolivewithmycondition,afterall.IcouldtellDr.NashIdonotwanttoseehimagainandIcouldburnmyjournal,buryingthetruthsIhavealreadylearned,hidingthemasthoroughlyasthoseIdonotyetknow.Iwouldberunningawayfrommypast,butIwouldhavenoregrets—injustafewhours,Iwouldnotevenknowthateithermyjournalormydoctorhadeverexisted—andthen.Howeasythatwouldbe,Ithought.Somucheasierthanthis.
IthoughtofthepictureI’dseen.Theimagewasburnedintome.Whodidthattome?Why?IrememberedthememoryI’dhadofthehotelroom.Itwasstillthere,justunderthesurface,justoutofreach.IhadreadthismorningthatIhadreasontobelieveIhadbeenhavinganaffair,butnowrealizedthat—evenifthatweretrue—Ididn’tknowwhoithadbeenwith.AllIhadwasasinglename,rememberedasIwokejustafewdaysago,withnopromiseofeverrememberingmore,evenifIwantedto.
Dr.Nashwasstilltalking.Ihadnoideawhatabout,andinterruptedhim.“AmIgettingbetter?”Isaid.
Aheartbeat,duringwhichIthoughthehadnoanswer,thenhesaid,“Doyouthinkyouare?”
DidI?Icouldn’tsay.“Idon’tknow.Yes.Isupposeso.Icanrememberthingsfrommypast,sometimes.Flashesofmemory.TheycometomewhenIreadmyjournal.Theyfeelreal.IrememberClaire.Adam.Mymother.Butthey’relikethreadsIcan’tkeepholdof.BalloonsthatfloatintotheskybeforeIcancatchthem.Ican’tremembermywedding.Ican’trememberAdam’sfirststeps,hisfirstword.Ican’trememberhimstartingatschool,hisgraduation.Anything.Idon’tevenknowifIwasthere.MaybeBendecidedtherewasnopointintakingme.”Itookabreath.“Ican’tevenrememberlearninghewasdead.Orburyinghim.”Ibegantocry.“IfeellikeI’mgoingcrazy.SometimesIdon’teventhinkthathe’sdead.Canyoubelievethat?SometimesIthinkthatBen’slyingtomeaboutthat,aswellaseverythingelse.”
“Everythingelse?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Mynovel.Theattack.ThereasonIhavenomemory.Everything.”
“Butwhydoyouthinkhewoulddothat?”
Athoughtcametome.“BecauseIwashavinganaffair?”Isaid.“BecauseIwasunfaithfultohim?”
“Christine,”hesaid.“That’sunlikely,don’tyouthink?”
Isaidnothing.Hewasright,ofcourse.DeepdownIdidnotbelieveBen’sliescouldreallybeaprotractedrevengeforsomethingthathadhappenedyearsandyearsago.Theexplanationwaslikelytobesomethingmuchmoremundane.
“Youknow,”saidDr.Nash,“Ithinkyouaregettingbetter.You’rerememberingthings.Muchmoreoftenthanwhenwefirstmet.Thesesnatchesofmemory?They’redefinitelyasignofprogress.Theymean—”
Iturnedtohim.“Progress?Youcallthisprogress?”Iwasalmostshoutingnow,angerspilledoutofmeasifIcouldnolongercontainit.“Ifthat’swhatitis,thenIdon’tknowifIwantit.”Thetearswerefloodingnow,uncontrollable.“Idon’twantit!”
Iclosedmyeyesandabandonedmyselftomygrief.Itfeltbetter,somehow,tobehelpless.Ididnotfeelashamed.Dr.Nashwastalkingtome,tellingmefirstnottobeupset,thatthingswouldbeallright,andthentocalmdown.Iignoredhim.Icouldnotcalmdown,anddidnotwantto.
Hestoppedthecar.Switchedofftheengine.Iopenedmyeyes.Wehadleftthemainroad,andinfrontofmewasapark.ThroughtheblurofmytearsIcouldseeagroupofboys—teenagers,Isuppose—playingsoccer,withtwopilesofcoatsforgoalposts.Ithadbeguntorain,buttheydidnotstop.Dr.Nashturnedtofaceme.
“Christine,”hesaid.“I’msorry.Perhapstodaywasamistake.Idon’tknow.Ithoughtwemighttriggerothermemories.Iwaswrong.Inanycase,youshouldn’t’veseenthatpicture…”
“Idon’tevenknowifitwasthepicture,”Isaid.Ihadstoppedsobbingnow,butmyfacewaswet;Icouldfeelagreat,loopingmassofmucusescapingfrommynose.“Doyouhaveatissue?”Iasked.Hereachedacrossmeandbegantolookintheglovecompartment.“Itwaseverything,”Iwenton.“Seeingthosepeople,imaginingthatI’dbeenlikethat,once.Andthediary.Ican’tbelievethatwasme,writingthat.Ican’tbelieveIwasthatill.”
Hehandedmeatissue.“Butyou’renotanymore,”hesaid.Itookthetissuefromhimandblewmynose.
“Maybeit’sworse,”Isaidquietly.“I’dwrittenthatitwaslikebeingdead.Butthis?Thisisworse.Thisislikedyingeveryday.Overandover.Ineedtogetbetter,”Isaid.“Ican’timaginegoingonlikethisformuchlonger.IknowI’llgotosleeptonight,andthentomorrowIwillwakeupandnotknowanythingagain,andthenextday,andthedayafterthat,forever.Ican’timagineit.Ican’tfaceit.It’snotlife,it’sjustanexistence,jumpingfromonemomenttothenextwithnoideaofthepast,andnoplanforthefuture.It’showIimagineanimalsmustbe.TheworstthingisthatIdon’tevenknowwhatIdon’tknow.Theremightbelotsofthings,waitingtohurtme.ThingsIhaven’tevendreamedaboutyet.”
Heputhishandonmine.Ifellintohim,knowingwhathewoulddo,whathemustdo,andhedid.Heopenedhisarmsandheldme,andIlethimembraceme.“It’sokay,”hesaid.“It’sokay.”IcouldfeelhischestundermycheekandIbreathed,inhalinghisscent,freshlaundryand,faintly,somethingelse.Sweatandsex.HishandwasonmybackandIfeltitmove,feltittouchmyhair,myhead,lightlyatfirst,butthenmorefirmlyasIsobbedagain.“It’llbeallright,”hesaid,whispering,andIclosedmyeyes.
“Ijustwanttorememberwhathappened,”Isaid.“OnthenightIwasattacked.SomehowIfeelthatifIcouldonlyrememberthat,thenIwouldremembereverything.”
Hespokesoftly.“There’snoevidencethat’sthecase.Noreason—”
“Butit’swhatIthink,”Isaid.“Iknowit,somehow.”
Hesqueezedme.Gently,almostsogentlythatIcouldnotfeelit.Ifelthisbody,hardagainstmine,andbreathedindeeply,andasIdidso,IthoughtofanothertimewhenIwasbeingheld.Anothermemory.Myeyesareclosed,justthesame,andmybodyisbeingpressedupagainstthatofanother,thoughthisisdifferent.Idonotwanttobeheldbythisman.Heishurtingme.Iamstruggling,tryingtogetaway,butheisstrongandpullsmetohim.Hespeaks.Bitch,hesays.Slut,andthoughIwanttoarguewithhim,IdonotMyfaceispressedagainsthisshirt,and,justlikewithDr.Nash,Iamcrying,screaming.Iopenmyeyesandseethebluefabricofhisshirt,adoor,adressingtablewiththreemirrorsandapicture—apaintingofabird—aboveit.Icanseehisarm,strong,muscled,aveinrunningdownitslength.Letmego!Isay,andthenIamspinningandfalling—orthefloorisrisingtomeetme,Icannottell.Hegrabsahandfulofmyhairanddragsmetowardthedoor.Itwistmyheadtoseehisface.
Itistherethatmemoryfailsmeagain.ThoughIrememberlookingathisface,IcannotrememberwhatIsaw.Itisfeatureless,ablank.Asifunabletocopewiththisvacuum,mymindcyclesthroughfacesIknow,throughabsurdimpossibilities.IseeDr.Nash.Dr.Wilson.ThereceptionistatFisherWard.Myfather.Ben.Ievenseemyownface,laughingasIraiseafisttostrike.
Please,Icry,pleasedon’t.Butmymany-facedattackerhitsanyway,andItasteblood.Hedragsmealongthefloor,andthenIaminthebathroom,onthecoldtiles,blackandwhite.Thefloorisdampwithcondensation,theroomsmellsoforangeblossom,andIrememberhowIhadbeenlookingforwardtobathing,tomakingmyselfbeautiful,thinkingthatmaybeIwouldstillbeinthebathwhenhearrived,andthenhecouldjoinme,andwewouldmakelove,makingwavesinthesoapywater,soakingthefloor,ourclothes,everything.Becausefinally,afterallthesemonthsofdoubt,ithasbecomecleartome.Ilovethisman.Finally,Iknowit.Ilovehim.
Myheadslamsintothefloor.Once,twice,athirdtime.Myvisionblursanddoubles,thenreturns.Abuzzinginmyears,andheshoutssomething,butIcan’thearwhat.Itechoes,asiftherearetwoofhim,bothholdingme,bothtwistingmyarm,bothgrabbinghandfulsofmyhairastheykneelonmyback.Ibeghimtoleavemealone,andtherearetwoofme,too.Iswallow.Blood.
Myheadjerksback.Panic.Iamonmyknees.Iseewater,bubbles,alreadythinning.Itrytospeakbutcannot.Hishandisaroundmythroat,andIcannotbreathe.Iampitchedforward,down,down,soquickthatIthinkIwillneverstop,andthenmyheadisinthewater.Orangeblossominmythroat.
Iheardavoice.“Christine!”itsaid.“Christine!Stop!”Iopenedmyeyes.Somehow,Iwasoutofthecar.Iwasrunning.Acrossthepark,asfastasIcould,andrunningaftermewasDr.Nash.
Wesatonabench.Itwasconcrete,crossedwithwoodenslats.Onewasmissing,andtheremaindersaggedbeneathus.Ifeltthesunagainstthebackofmyneck,sawitslongshadowsontheground.Theboyswerestillplayingsoccer,thoughthegamemustbefinishingnow;someweredriftingoff,otherstalked,oneofthepilesofjacketshadbeenremoved,leavingthegoalunmarked.Dr.Nashhadaskedmewhathadhappened.
“Irememberedsomething,”Isaid.
“Aboutthenightyouwereattacked?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Howdidyouknow?”
“Youwerescreaming,”hesaid.“Youkeptsaying,‘Getoffme,’overandover.”
“ItwaslikeIwasthere,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”
“Please,don’tapologize.Doyouwanttotellmewhatyousaw?”
ThetruthwasIdidnot.Ifeltasifsomeancientinstinctwastellingmethatthiswasamemorybestkepttomyself.ButIneededhishelp,knewIcouldtrusthim.Itoldhimeverything.
WhenIhadfinished,hewassilentforamoment,thensaid,“Anythingelse?”
“No,”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Youdon’trememberwhathelookedlike?Themanwhoattackedyou?”
“No.Ican’tseethatatall.”
“Orhisname?”
“No,”Isaid.“Nothing.”Ihesitated.“Doyouthinkitmighthelptoknowwhodidthistome?Toseehim?Rememberhim?”
“Christine,there’snorealevidencetosuggestthatrememberingtheattackwouldhelp.”
“Butitmight?”
“Itseemstobeoneofyourmostdeeplyrepressedmemories—”
“Soitmight?”
Hewassilent,thensaid,“I’vesuggesteditbefore,butitmighthelptogobackthere…”
“No,”Isaid.“No.Don’tevensayit.”
“Wecangotogether.You’dbefine.Ipromise.Ifyouwerethereagain…BackinBrighton—”
“No.”
“—youmightrememberthen—”
“No!Please?”
“—itmighthelp?”
Ilookeddownatmyhandsfoldedinmylap.
“Ican’tgobackthere,”Isaid.“Ijustcan’t.”
Hesighed.“Okay,”hesaid.“Maybewe’lltalkaboutitagain?”
“No,”Iwhispered.“Ican’t.”
“Okay,”hesaid.“Okay.”
Hesmiledbutseemeddisappointed.Ifelteagertogivehimsomething,tohavehimnotgiveuponme.“Dr.Nash?”Isaid.
“Yes?”
“TheotherdayIwrotethatsomethinghadcometome.Perhapsit’srelevant.Idon’tknow.”
Heturnedtofaceme.
“Goon.”Ourkneestouched.Neitherofusdrewaway.
“WhenIwoke,”Isaid,“IkindofknewthatIwasinbedwithaman.Irememberedaname.Butitwasn’tBen’sname.IwonderedifitwasthenameofthepersonI’dbeenhavingtheaffairwith.Theonewhoattackedme.”
“It’spossible,”hesaid.“Itmighthavebeenthebeginningoftherepressedmemoryemerging.Whatwasthename?”
SuddenlyIdidnotwanttotellhim,tosayitoutloud.IfeltthatbydoingsoIwouldbemakingitreal,conjuringmyattackerbackintoexistence.Iclosedmyeyes.
“Ed,”Iwhispered.“IimaginedwakingupwithsomeonecalledEd.”
Silence.Aheartbeatthatseemedtolastforever.
“Christine,”hesaid.“That’smyname.I’mEd.EdNash.”
Mymindracedforamoment.Myfirstthoughtwasthathehadattackedme.“What?”Isaid,panicking.
“That’smyname.I’vetoldyouthatbefore.Maybeyou’veneverwrittenitdown.MynameisEdmund.Ed.”
Irealizeditcouldnothavebeenhim.Hewouldbarelyhavebeenborn.
“But—”
“You’repossiblyconfabulating,”hesaid.“LikeDr.Wilsonexplained?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“I—”
“Ormaybeyouwereattackedbysomeonewiththesamename?”
Hesmiledawkwardlyashesaidit,makinglightofthesituation,butindoingsorevealedhehadalreadyworkedoutwhatonlylater—afterhehaddrivenmehome,infact—occurredtome.Ihadwokenthatmorninghappy.HappytobeinbedwithsomeonecalledEd.Butitwasnotamemory.Itwasafantasy.WakingwiththismancalledEdwasnotsomethingIhaddoneinthepastbut—eventhoughmyconscious,wakingminddidnotknowwhohewas—somethingIwantedtodointhefuture.IwanttosleepwithDr.Nash.
Andnow,accidentally,inadvertently,Ihavetoldhim.IhaverevealedthewayImustfeelabouthim.Hewasprofessional,ofcourse.Webothpretendedtoattachnosignificancetowhathadhappened,andsorevealedjusthowmuchsignificancetherewas.Wewalkedbacktothecarandhedrovemehome.Wechattedabouttrivialities.Theweather.Ben.Therearefewthingswecantalkabout;therearewholearenasofexperiencefromwhichIamutterlyexcluded.Atonepoint,hesaid,“We’regoingtothetheatertonight,”andInotedhiscarefuluseoftheplural.Don’tworry,Iwantedtosay.Iknowmyplace.ButIsaidnothing.Ididnotwanthimtothinkofmeasbitter.
Hetoldmehewouldcallmetomorrow.“Ifyou’resureyouwanttocontinue?”
IknowthatIcannotstopnow.NotuntilIhavelearnedthetruth.Iowemyselfthat;otherwise,Iamlivingonlyhalfalife.“Yes,”Isaid.“Ido.”Inanycase,Ineedhimtoremindmetowriteinmyjournal.
“Okay,”hesaid.“Good.NexttimeIthinkweshouldvisitsomewhereelsefromyourpast.”HelookedtowhereIsat.“Don’tworry.Notthere.IthinkweshouldgotothecarehomeyouweremovedtowhenyouleftFisherWard.It’scalledWaringHouse.”Isaidnothing.“It’snottoofarfromwhereyoulive.ShallIcallthem?”
Ithoughtforamoment,wonderingwhatgooditmightdo,butthenrealizedtherewerenootheroptions,andanythingisbetterthannothing.
Isaid,“Yes.Yes.Callthem.”
Tuesday,November20
Itismorning.BenhassuggestedthatIcleanthewindows.“I’vewrittenitontheboard,”hesaid,ashegotintohiscar.“Inthekitchen.”
Ilooked.Washwindowshehadwritten,addingatentativequestionmark.IwonderedifhethoughtImightnothavetime,wonderedwhathethoughtIdidallday.HedoesnotknowInowspendhoursreadingmyjournal,andsometimeshoursmorewritinginit.HedoesnotknowtherearedayswhenIseeDr.Nash.
IwonderwhatIdidbeforemydaysweretakenuplikethis.DidIreallyspendallmytimewatchingtelevision,orgoingforwalks,ordoingchores?DidIspendhourafterhoursittinginanarmchair,listeningtothetickingoftheclock,wonderinghowtolive?
Washwindows.PossiblysomedaysIreadthingslikethatandfeelresentful,seeingitasanefforttocontrolmylife,buttodayIvieweditwithaffection,asnothingmoresinisterthanthedesiretokeepmeoccupied.Ismiledtomyselfbut,evenasIdid,Ithoughthowdifficultitmustbetolivewithme.HemustgotoextraordinarylengthstomakesureIamsafe,andevensomustworryconstantlythatIwillgetconfused,willwanderoff,orworse.Irememberedreadingaboutthefirethathaddestroyedmostofourpast,theoneBenhasnevertoldmethatIstarted,eventhoughImusthavedoneso.Isawanimage—aburningdoor,almostinvisibleinthethicksmoke,asofa,melting,turningtowax—thathovered,justoutofreach,butrefusedtoresolveitselfintoamemory,andremainedahalf-imagineddream.ButBenhasforgivenmeforthat,Ithought,justashemusthaveforgivenmeforsomuchmore.Ilookedoutofthekitchenwindow,andthroughthereflectionofmyownfaceIsawthemowedlawn,thetidyborders,theshed,thefences.IrealizedthatBenmusthaveknownthatIwashavinganaffair—certainlyonceI’dbeendiscoveredinBrighton,evenifnotbefore.Howmuchstrengthitmusthavetakentolookafterme—onceIhadlostmymemory—evenwiththeknowledgethatIhadbeenawayfromhome,intendingtofucksomeoneelse,whenithadhappened.IthoughtofwhatIhadseen,ofthediaryIhadwritten.Mymindhadbeenfractured.Destroyed.Yetstillhehadstoodbyme,whereanothermanmighthavetoldmethatIdeservedeverything,leftmetorot.
Iturnedawayfromthewindowandlookedunderthesink.Cleaningmaterials.Soap.Cartonsofpowders,plasticspray-bottles.TherewasaredplasticbucketandIfilledthiswithhotwater,addingasquirtofsoapandatinydropofvinegar.HowhaveIrepaidhim?Ithought.Itookaspongeandbegantosoapthewindow,beginningatthetop,workingdown.IhavebeensneakingaroundLondon,seeingdoctors,havingscans,visitingouroldhomesandtheplacesIwastreatedaftermyaccident,allwithouttellinghim.Andwhy?BecauseIdon’ttrusthim?Becausehehasmadethedecisiontoprotectmefromthetruth,tokeepmylifeassimpleandeasyaspossible?Iwatchedthesoapywaterrunintinyrivulets,poolingatthebottom,andthentookanotherclothandpolishedthewindowtoashine.
NowIknowthetruthisevenworse.ThismorningIhadwokenwithanalmostoverwhelmingsenseofguilt,thewordsYoushouldbeashamedofyourselfspinninginmyhead.You’llbesorry.AtfirstI’dthoughtIhadwokenwithamanwhowasnotmyhusbandanditwasonlylaterIdiscoveredthetruth.ThatIhavebetrayedhim.Twice.Thefirsttimeyearsago,withamanwhowouldeventuallytakeeverythingfromme,andnowIhavedoneitagain,withmyheartifnothingelse.Ihavedevelopedaridiculous,childishcrushonadoctorwhoistryingtohelpme,tryingtocomfortme.AdoctorwhoIcannotevenbegintopicturenow,cannotrememberevenhavingmetbefore,butwhoIknowismuchyoungerthanme,hasagirlfriend.AndnowIhavetoldhimhowIfeel!Accidentally,yes,butstillIhavetoldhim.Ifeelmorethanguilty.Ifeelstupid.Icannotevenbegintoimaginewhatmusthavebroughtmetothispoint.Iampathetic.
There,asIcleanedtheglass,Imadeadecision.EvenifBendoesnotsharemybeliefthatmytreatmentwillwork,Icannotbelievehewoulddenymetheopportunitytoseeformyself.NotifitwaswhatIwanted.Iamanadult;heisnotamonster;surelyIcantrusthimwiththetruth?Isluicedthewaterdownthesinkandrefilledthebucket.Iwilltellmyhusband.Tonight.Whenhegetshome.Thiscannotgoon.Icontinuedtocleanthewindows.
***
Iwrotethatanhourago,butnowIamnotsosure.IthinkaboutAdam.Ihavereadaboutthephotographsinthemetalbox,yetstilltherearenopicturesofhimondisplay.None.Ican’tbelieveBen—anyone—couldloseasonandthenremovealltracesofhimfromhishome.Itdoesnotseemright,doesnotseempossible.CanItrustamanwhocandothat?IrememberedreadingaboutthedaywesatonParliamentHillwhenIhadaskedhimstraight.Hehadlied.Iflickbackthroughmyjournalnowandreaditagain.Weneverhadchildren?Isaid,andhehadreplied,No.Nowedidn’t.Canhereallyhavedonethatjusttoprotectme?Canhereallyfeelthatisthebestthingtodo?Totellmenothing,otherthanwhathemust,whatisconvenient?
Whatever’squickest,too.Hemustbesoboredwithtellingmethesamethingoverandoveragain,everyday.Itoccurstomethatthereasonheshortensexplanationsandchangesstoriesisnottodowithmeatall.Perhapsit’ssothathedoesn’tdrivehimselfcrazywiththeconstantrepetition.
IfeellikeIamgoingmad.Everythingisfluid,everythingshifts.Ithinkonething,andthen,amomentlater,theopposite.Ibelieveeverythingmyhusbandsays,andthenIbelievenothing.Itrusthim,andthenIdon’t.Nothingfeelsreal,everythinginvented.Evenmyself.
IwishIknewonethingforcertain.OnesinglethingthatIhavenothadtobetold,aboutwhichIdonotneedtobereminded.
IwishIknewwhoIwaswith,thatdayinBrighton.IwishIknewwhodidthistome.
***
Later.IhavejustfinishedspeakingtoDr.Nash.Iwasdozinginthelivingroomwhenthephonerang,thetelevisionwason,thesoundturneddown.Foramoment,IcouldnottellwhereIwas,whetherIwasasleeporawake.IthoughtIheardvoices,gettinglouder.Irealizedonewasmine,andtheothersoundedlikeBen.Buthewassaying,Youfuckingbitch,andworse.Iscreamedathim,inangerandtheninfear.Adoorslammed,thethudofafist,breakingglass.ItwasthenIrealizedIwasdreaming.
Iopenedmyeyes.Achippedmugofcoldcoffeesatonthetableinfrontofme,aphonebuzzednervouslynexttoit.Theonethatflipsopen.Ipickeditup
ItwasDr.Nash.Heintroducedhimself,thoughhisvoicehadsoundedfamiliaranyway.HeaskedmeifIwasokay.ItoldhimIwas,andthatI’dreadmyjournal.
“Youknowwhatwetalkedaboutyesterday?”hesaid.
Ifeltaflashofshock.Horror.Hehaddecidedtotacklethingsthen.Ifeltabubbleofhope—perhapshereallyhadfeltthesamewayIhad,thesameconfusedmixofdesireandfear—butitdidnotlast.“Aboutgoingtotheplacewhereyoulivedafteryoulefttheward?”hesaid.“WaringHouse?”
Isaid,“Yes.”
“Well,Icalledthemthismorning.It’sallfine.Wecangoandvisit.Theysaidprettymuchanytimeweliked.”Thefuture.Againitseemedalmostirrelevanttome.“I’mprettybusyoverthenextcoupleofdays,”hesaid.“WecouldgoonThursday?”
“Thatseemsfine,”Isaid.Itdidnotseemtomattertomewhenwewent.Iwasnotoptimisticitwouldhelpinanycase.
“Good,”hesaid.“WellI’llcallyou.”
Iwasabouttosaygood-byewhenIrememberedwhatIhadbeenwritingbeforeIdozed.Irealizedthatmysleepcouldnothavebeendeep,orelseIwouldhaveforgotteneverything.
“Dr.Nash?”Isaid.“CanItalktoyouaboutsomething?”
“Yes?”
“AboutBen?”
“Ofcourse.”
“Well,it’sjustthatI’mconfused.Hedoesn’ttellmeaboutthings.Importantthings.Adam.Mynovel.Andheliesaboutotherthings.Hetellsmeitwasanaccidentthatcausedmetobelikethis.”
“Okay,”hesaid.Hepausedforamoment,thensaid,“Whydoyouthinkhedoesthis?”Heemphasizedtheyouratherthanthewhy.
Ithoughtforasecond.“Hedoesn’tknowI’mwritingthingsdown.Hedoesn’tknowIknowanydifferent.Isupposeit’seasierforhim.”
“Justhim?”
“No.Isupposeit’seasierforme,too.Orhethinksitis.Butitisn’t.ItjustmeansIdon’tevenknowifIcantrusthim.”
“Christine,we’reconstantlychangingfacts,rewritinghistorytomakethingseasier,tomakethemfitinwithourpreferredversionofevents.Wedoitautomatically.Weinventmemories.Withoutthinking.Ifwetellourselvesoftenenoughthatsomethinghappened,westarttobelieveit,andthenwecanactuallyrememberit.Isn’tthatwhatBen’sdoing?”
“Isuppose,”Isaid.“ButIfeellikehe’stakingadvantageofme.Advantageofmyillness.HethinkshecanrewritehistoryinanywaythathelikesandIwillneverknow,neverbeanythewiser.ButIdoknow.Iknowexactlywhathe’sdoing.AndsoIdon’ttrusthim.Intheendhe’spushingmeaway,Dr.Nash.Ruiningeverything.”
“So,”hesaid.“Whatdoyouthinkyoucandoaboutit?”
Iknewtheansweralready.IhavereadwhatIwrotethismorning,overandover.AbouthowIshouldtrusthim.AbouthowIdon’t.Intheend,allIcouldthinkwas:Thiscannotgoon.
“IhavetotellhimIamwritingmyjournal,”Isaid.“IhavetotellhimIhavebeenseeingyou.”
Hesaidnothingforamoment.Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.Disapproval?Butwhenhespoke,hesaid,“Ithinkyoumightberight.”
Relieffloodedme.“Youagree?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“I’vebeenthinkingforacoupleofdaysitmightbewise.IhadnoideathatBen’sversionofthepastwouldbesodifferentfromwhatyou’restartingtoremember.Noideahowupsettingthatmightbe.Butitalsooccurstomethatwe’reonlyreallygettinghalfthepicturenow.Fromwhatyou’vesaid,moreandmoreofyourrepressedmemoriesarebeginningtoemerge.ItmightbehelpfulforyoutotalkwithBen.Aboutthepast.Itmighthelpthatprocess.”
“Youthinkso?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“IthinkperhapskeepingourworkfromBenwasamistake.Plus,IspoketothestaffatWaringHousetoday.Iwantedtogetanideaofwhatthingswerelikethere.Ispoketoawomanwhoyoubecamecloseto.Oneofthestaff.HernameisNicole.Shetoldmethatshe’sonlyrecentlyreturnedtoworkthere,butshewassohappywhenshefoundoutthatyou’dgonebacktoliveathome.ShesaidnoonecouldhavelovedyoumorethanBen.Hecametoseeyouprettymucheveryday.Shesaidhewouldsitwithyou,inyourroom,orthegardens.Andhetriedsohardtobecheerful,despiteeverything.Theyallgottoknowhimverywell.Theylookedforwardtohimcoming.”Hepausedforamoment.“Whydon’tyousuggestBencomewithuswhenwegoandvisit?”Anotherpause.“Iprobablyoughttomeethim,anyway.”
“You’venevermet?”
“No,”hesaid.“WeonlyspokebrieflyonthephonewhenIfirstapproachedhimaboutmeetingyou.Itdidn’tgotoowell…”
Itstruckmethen.ThatwasthereasonhewassuggestingIinviteBen.Hewantedtomeethim,finally.Hewantstobringeverythingintotheopen,tomakesurethattheawkwardnessofyesterdaycanneverberepeated.
“Okay,”Isaid.“Ifyouthinkso.”
Hesaidthathedid.Hewaitedforalongtime,andthenhesaid,“Christine?Yousaidyou’dreadyourjournal?”
“Yes,”Isaid.Hewaitedagain.
“Ididn’tcallthismorning.Ididn’ttellyouwhereitwas.”
Irealizeditwastrue.Ihadgonetotheclosetmyselfand,thoughIdidnotknowwhatIwouldfindinsideit,Ifoundtheshoeboxandopeneditalmostwithoutthinking.Ihadfounditmyself.AsifIhadremembereditwouldbethere
“That’sexcellent,”hesaid.
***
Iamwritingthisinbed.Itislate,butBenisinhisoffice,acrossthelanding.Icanhearhimwork,theclatterofthekeyboard,theclickofthemouse.Icanhearanoccasionalsigh,thecreakofhischair.Iimaginehimsquintingatthescreen,deepinconcentration.ItrustthatIwillhearhimswitchoffhismachineinreadinessforbed,thatIwillhavetimetohidemyjournalwhenhedoes.Now,despitewhatIthoughtthismorningandagreedwithDr.Nash,IamcertainthatIdon’twantmyhusbandtofindoutwhatIhavebeenwriting.
Italkedtohimthisevening,aswesatinthediningroom.“CanIaskyouaquestion?”Isaid,andthen,whenhelookedup,“Whydidweneverhavechildren?”IsupposeIwastestinghim.Iwilledhimtotellmethetruth,tocontradictmyassertion.
“Itneverseemedtobetherighttime,”hesaid.“Andthenitwastoolate.”
Ipushedmyplateoffoodtotheside.Iwasdisappointed.Hehadgothomelate,calledoutmynameashecamein,askedmehowIwas.“Whereareyou?”he’dsaid.Ithadsoundedlikeanaccusation.
IshoutedthatIwasinthekitchen.Iwaspreparingdinner,choppingonionstofryintheoliveoilIwasheatingonthestove.Hestoodinthedoorway,asifhesitanttoentertheroom.Helookedtired.Unhappy.“Areyouokay?”Isaid.
Hesawtheknifeinmyhand.“Whatareyoudoing?”
“Justcookingdinner,”Isaid.Ismiled,buthedidnotreciprocate.“Ithoughtwecouldhaveanomelet.Ifoundsomeeggsinthefridge,andsomemushrooms.Dowehaveanypotatoes?Icouldn’tfindanyanywhere,I—”
“Ihadplannedforustohaveporkchops,”hesaid.“Iboughtsome.Yesterday.Ithoughtwecouldhavethose.”
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“I—”
“Butno.Anomeletisfine.Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”
Icouldfeeltheconversationslipping,downintoaplaceIdidn’twantittogo.Hewasstaringatthechoppingboard,abovewhichmyhandhovered,clutchingtheknife.
“No,”Isaid.Ilaughed,buthedidnotlaughwithme.“Itdoesn’tmatter.Ididn’trealize.Icanalways—”
“You’vechoppedtheonionsnow,”hesaid.Hiswordswereflat.Astatementoffact,unadorned.
“Iknow,but…Wecouldstillhavethechops?”
“Whateveryouthink,”hesaid.Heturnedaround,togointothediningroom.“I’llsetthetable.”Ididnotanswer.IdidnotknowwhatitwasthatIhaddone,ifanything.Iwentbacktotheonions.
Nowwesatoppositeeachother.Wehadeateninnear-silence.Ihadaskedhimifeverythingwasokay,buthehadshruggedandsaidthatitwas.“It’sbeenalongday,”wasallhewouldtellme,addingnothingbut“atwork,”whenIlookedformore.Discussionwaschokedoffbeforeithadreallybegun,andIthoughtbetteroftellinghimaboutmyjournalandDr.Nash.Ipickedatmyfood,triednottoworry—afterall,Itoldmyself,heisentitledtohavebaddays,too—butanxietygnawedatme.Icouldfeeltheopportunitytospeakslippingaway,anddidnotknowwhetherIwouldwaketomorrowwiththesameconvictionthatitwastherightthingtodo.Eventually,Icouldbearitnolonger.“Butdidwewantchildren?”Isaid.
Hesighed.“Christine,dowehaveto?”
“I’msorry,”Isaid.Istilldidn’tknowwhatIwasgoingtosay,ifanything.Itmighthavebeenbettertojustletitgo.ButIrealizedIcouldnotdothat.“It’sjustthattheoddestthinghappenedtoday,”Isaid.Iwastryingtoinjectlevityintomyvoice,abreezinessIdidnotfeel.“IjustthoughtI’drememberedsomething.”
“Something?”
“Yes.Oh,Idon’tknow…”
“Goon,”hesaid.Heleanedforward,suddenlyeager.“Whatdidyouremember?”
Myeyesfixedonthewallbehindhim.Apicturehungthere,aphotograph.Petalsofaflower,closeupbutblack-and-white,withbeadsofwaterstillclingingtothem.Itlookedcheap,Ithought.Asifitbelongedinadepartmentstore,notsomeone’shome.
“Irememberedhavingababy.”
Hesatbackinhischair.Hiseyeswidened,andthenclosedcompletely.Hetookabreath,lettingitoutinalongsigh.
“Isittrue?”Isaid.“Didwehaveababy?”Ifheliesnow,Ithought,thenIdon’tknowwhatIwilldo.Arguewithhim,Isuppose.Tellhimeverythinginoneuncontrolled,catastrophicoutpouring.Heopenedhiseyesandlookedintomine.
“Yes,”hesaid.“It’strue.”
HetoldmeaboutAdam,andrelieffloodedme.Relief,buttingedwithpain.Allthoseyears,lostforever.AllthosemomentsthatIhavenomemoryof,thatIcannevergetback.Ifeltlongingstirwithinme,feltitgrow,sobigthatIfeltitmightengulfme.BentoldmeaboutAdam’sbirth,hischildhood,hislife.Wherehe’dgonetoschool,the
Ifoundmyselfclosingmyeyesashespoke.Imagesfloatedthroughme—imagesofAdam,andme,andBen—butIcouldn’tsaywhethertheywerememoriesorimaginings.Whenhefinished,IopenedmyeyesandforamomentwasshockedatwhoIsawsittinginfrontofme,athowoldhehadbecome,howunliketheyoungfatherIhadbeenimagining.“Buttherearenophotographsofhim,”Isaid.“Anywhere.”
Helookeduncomfortable.“Iknow,”hesaid.“Yougetupset.”
“Upset?”
Hesaidnothing.PerhapshedidnothavethestrengthtotellmeaboutAdam’sdeath.Helookeddefeated,somehow.Drained.IfeltguiltyforwhatIwasdoingtohim,whatIdidtohim,everyday
“It’sokay,”Isaid.“Iknowhe’sdead.”
Helookedsurprised.Hesitant.“You…know?”
“Yes,”Isaid.Iwasabouttotellhimaboutmyjournal,thathehadtoldmeeverythingbefore,butIdidnot.Hismoodstillseemedfragile,theairtense.Itcouldwait.“Ijustfeelit,”Isaid.
“Thatmakessense.I’vetoldyouaboutitbefore.”
Itwastrue,ofcourse.Hehad.JustashehadtoldmeaboutAdam’slifebefore.Andyet,Irealized,onestoryfeltrealandtheotherdidnot.IrealizedthatIdidnotbelievethatmysonwasdead.
“Tellmeagain,”Isaid.
Hetoldmeaboutthewar,theroadsidebomb.Ilistened,ascalmlyasIcould.HetalkedaboutAdam’sfuneral,toldmeaboutthesalvoofshotsthathadbeenfiredoverthecoffin,theUnionJackthatwasdrapedoverit.Itriedtopushmymindtowardmemories,evenonesasdifficult—ashorrific—asthat.Nothingwouldcome.
“Iwanttogothere,”Isaid.“Iwanttoseehisgrave.”
“Chris,”hesaid.“I’mnotsure…”
Irealizedthat,withoutmemory,Iwouldhavetoseeevidencethathewasdead,orelseforevercarryaroundthehopethathewasnot.“Iwantto,”Isaid.“Ihaveto.”
Istillthoughthemightsayno.Mighttellmehedidn’tthinkitwasagoodidea,thatitmightupsetmefartoomuch.WhatwouldIdothen?HowcouldIforcehim?
Buthedidnot.“We’llgoontheweekend,”hesaid.“Ipromise.”
Reliefmixedwithterror,leavingmenumb.
Wetidiedawaythedinnerplates.Istoodatthesink,dippingthedisheshepassedtomeintohot,soapywater,scrubbingthem,passingthembacktohimtobedried,allthetimeavoidingmyreflectioninthewindow.IforcedmyselftothinkofAdam’sfuneral,imaginedmyselfstandingonthegrassonanovercastday,nexttoamoundofearth,lookingatacoffinsuspendedovertheholeintheground.Itriedtoimaginethevolleyofshots,thelonebugler,playing,aswe—hisfamily,hisfriends—sobbedinsilence.
ButIcouldnot.ItwasnotlongagoandyetIsawnothing.ItriedtoimaginehowImusthavefelt.IwouldhavewokenupthatmorningwithoutanyknowledgethatIwasevenamother;BenmusthavefirsthadtoconvincemethatIhadason,andthenthatweweretospendthatveryafternoonburyinghim.Iimaginenothorrorbutnumbness,disbelief.Unreality.Thereisonlysomuchthatamindcantakeandsurelynonecancopewiththat,certainlynotmine.Ipicturedmyselfbeingtoldwhattowear,ledfromthehousetoawaitingcar,settledinthebackseat.PerhapsIwonderedwhosefuneralwewerereallygoingtoaswedrove.Possiblyitfeltlikemine
IlookedatBen’sreflectioninthewindow.Hewouldhavehadtocopewithallthat,atatimewhenhisowngriefwasatitsmostacute.Itmighthavebeenkinder,forallofus,ifhehadnottakenmetothefuneralatall.Withachill,Iwonderedifthatwaswhathehadreallydone.
IstilldidnotknowwhethertotellhimaboutDr.Nash.Helookedtiredagain,now,almostdepressed.HesmiledonlywhenIcaughthisgazeandsmiledathim.Perhapslater,Ithought,thoughwhethertheremightbeabettertimeIdidnotknow.IcouldnothelpbutfeelIwastoblameforhismood,eitherthroughsomethingIhaddoneorsomethingIhadnot.IrealizedhowmuchIreallycaredforthisman.IcouldnotsaywhetherIlovedhim—andstillcan’t—butthatisbecauseIdon’treallyknowwhatloveis.Despitethenebulous,shimmeringmemoryIhaveofhim,IfeelloveforAdam,aninstincttoprotecthim,thedesiretogivehimeverything,thefeelingthatheispartofmeandwithouthimIamincomplete.Formymother,too,whenmymindseesher,Ifeeladifferentlove.Amorecomplexbond,withcaveatsandreservations.NotoneIfullyunderstand.ButBen?Ifindhimattractive.Itrusthim—despitethelieshehastoldme,Iknowthathehasonlymybestinterestsatheart—butcanIsayIlovehim,whenIamonlydistantlyawareofhavingknownhimformorethanafewhours?
Ididnotknow.ButIwantedhimtobehappy,and,onsomelevel,IunderstoodthatIwantedtobethepersontomakehimso.Imustmakemoreeffort,Idecided.Takecontrol.Thisjournalcouldbeatooltoimprovebothourlives,notjustmine.
Iwasabouttoaskhowhewaswhenithappened.Imusthaveletgooftheplatebeforehehadgrippedit;itclatteredtothefloor—accompaniedbyBen’smutteredShit!—andshatteredintohundredsoftinypieces.“Sorry!”Isaid,butBendidnotlookatme.Hesanktothefloor,cursingunderhisbreath.“I’lldothat,”Isaid,butheignoredmeandinsteadbegansnatchingatthelargerchunks,collectingtheminhisrighthand.
“I’msorry,”Isaidagain.“I’msoclumsy!”
Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.Forgiveness,Isuppose,orthereassurancethatitwasn’timportant.But,instead,Bensaid,“Fuck!”Hedroppedtheremainsoftheplateandbegantosuckthethumbofhislefthand.Dropletsofbloodspatteredthelinoleum.
“Areyouokay?”Isaid.
Helookedupatme.“Yes,yes.Icutmyself,that’sall.Stupidfucking…”
“Letmesee.”
“It’snothing,”hesaid.Hestoodup
“Letmesee,”Isaidagain.Ireachedforhishand.“I’llgoandgetaBand-Aid.Dowe—?”
“Forfuck’ssake!”hesaid,battingmyhandaway.“Justleaveit!Okay?”
Iwasstunned.Icouldseethecutwasdeep;bloodwelledatitsedgeandraninathinlinedownhiswrist.Ididnotknowwhattodo,whattosay.Hehadnotshouted,exactly,butneitherhadhemadeanyattempttohidehisannoyance.Wefacedeachother,inlimbo,balancedontheedgeofanargument,eachwaitingfortheothertospeak,bothunsurewhathadhappened,howmuchsignificancethemomenthadheld.
Icouldnotstandit.“I’msorry,”Isaid,eventhoughpartofmeresentedit.
Hisfacesoftened.“It’sokay.I’msorrytoo.”Hepaused.“Ijustfeeltense,Ithink.It’sbeenaverylongday.”
Itookapapertowelandhandedittohim.“Youshouldcleanyourselfup.”
Hetookitfromme.“Thanks,”hesaid,dabbingthebloodonhiswristandfingers.“I’lljustgoupstairs.Takeashower.”Hebentforward,kissedme.“Okay?”
Heturnedandlefttheroom.
Iheardthebathroomdoorclose,atapturnon.Theboilernexttomefiredtolife.Igatheredtherestofthepiecesoftheplateandputtheminthegarbage,wrappingtheminpaperfirst,thensweptupthetinierfragmentsbeforefinallysponginguptheblood.WhenIhadfinished,Iwentintothelivingroom
Theflip-topphonewasringing,muffledbymybag.Itookitout.Dr.Nash.
TheTVwasstillon.Aboveme,IcouldhearthecreakoffloorboardsasBenmovedfromroomtoroomupstairs.Ididnotwanthimtohearme,talkingonaphonehedoesnotknowIhave.Iwhispered,“Hello?”
“Christine,”camethevoice.“It’sEd.Dr.Nash.Canyouspeak?”
Whilethisafternoonhehadsoundedcalm,almostreflective,nowhisvoicewasurgent.Ibegantofeelafraid.
“Yes,”Isaid,loweringmyvoicestillfurther.“Whatisit?”
“Listen,”hesaid.“HaveyouspokentoBenyet?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Sortof.Why?What’swrong?”
“Didyoutellhimaboutyourjournal?Aboutme?DidyouinvitehimtoWaringHouse?”
“No,”Isaid.“Iwasaboutto.He’supstairs,I—What’swrong?”
“I’msorry,”hesaid.“It’sprobablynothingtoworryabout.It’sjustthatsomeonefromWaringHousejustcalledme.ThewomanIspoketothismorning?Nicole?Shewantedtogivemeaphonenumber.ShesaidthatyourfriendClairehasapparentlycalledthere,wantingtotalktoyou.Shelefthernumber.”
Ifeltmyselftense.Iheardthetoiletflushandthesoundofwaterinthesink.“Idon’tunderstand,”Isaid.“Recently?”
“No,”hesaid.“ItwasacoupleofweeksafteryoulefttogoandlivewithBen.Whenyouweren’tthereshetookBen’snumber,but,well,theysaidshecalledagainlaterandsaidshecouldn’tgetthroughtohim.Sheaskedthemifthey’dgiveheryouraddress.Theycouldn’tdothat,ofcourse,butsaidthatshecouldleavehernumberwiththem,incaseyouorBenevercalled.Nicolefoundanoteinyourfileafterwespokethismorning,andsherangbacktogivethenumbertome.”
Ididn’tunderstand.“Butwhydidn’ttheyjustmailittome?OrtoBen?”
“Well,Nicolesaidtheydid.Buttheyneverheardbackfromeitherofyou.”Hepaused.
“Benhandlesallthemail,”Isaid.“Hepicksitupinthemorning.Well,hedidtoday,anyway…”
“HasBengivenyouClaire’snumber?”
“No,”Isaid.“No.Hesaidwehaven’tbeenintouchforyears.Shemovedaway,notlongafterwegotmarried.NewZealand.”
“Okay,”hesaid,andthen,“Christine?Youtoldmethatbefore,and…well…it’snotaninternationalnumber.”
Ifeltabillowingsenseofdread,thoughstillIcouldnotsaywhy.
“So,shemovedback?”
“NicolesaidthatClaireusedtovisityouallthetimeatWaringHouse.ShewastherealmostasmuchasBenwas.Nicoleneverheardanythingabouthermovingaway.NottoNewZealand.Notanywhere.”
Itfeltasthougheverythingwassuddenlytakingoff,thingsweremovingtoofastformetokeepupwiththem.IcouldhearBen,upstairs.Thewaterhadstoppedrunningnow,theboilerwassilentTheremustbearationalexplanation,Ithought.Therehastobe.IfeltthatallIhadtodowastoslowthingsdownsothatIcouldcatchup,couldworkoutwhatitwas.Iwantedhimtostoptalking,toundothethingshehadsaid,buthedidnot.
“There’ssomethingelse,”saidNash.“I’msorry,Christine,butNicoleaskedmehowyouweredoing,andItoldher.ShesaidshewassurprisedthatyouwerebacklivingwithBen.Iaskedwhy.”
“Okay,”Iheardmyselfsay.“Goon.”
“I’msorry,Christine,butlisten.ShesaidthatyouandBenweredivorced.”
Theroomtipped.Igrippedthearmofthechairtosteadymyself.Itdidnotmakesense.Onthetelevision,ablondwomanwasscreamingatanolderman,tellinghimshehatedhim.Iwantedtoscream,too.
“What?”Isaid.
“ShesaidthatyouandBenwereseparated.Benleftyou.AyearorsoafteryoumovedtoWaringHouse.”
“Separated?”Isaid.Itfeltasiftheroomwasreceding,becomingvanishinglysmall.Disappearing.“You’resure?”
“Yes.Apparently.That’swhatshesaid.ShesaidshefeltitmighthavehadsomethingtodowithClaire.Shewouldn’tsayanythingelse.”
“Claire?”Isaid.
“Yes,”hesaid.Eventhroughmyownconfusion,Icouldhearhowdifficulthewasfindingthisconversation,thehesitancyinhisvoice,theslowpickingthroughpossibilitiestodecidethebestthingtosay.“Idon’tknowwhyBenisn’ttellingyoueverything,”hesaid.“Ididthinkhebelievedhewasdoingtherightthing.Protectingyou.Butnow?Idon’tknow.TonottellyouthatClaireisstilllocal?Tonotmentionyourdivorce?Idon’tknow.Itdoesn’tseemright,butIsupposehemusthavehisreasons.”Isaidnothing.“IthoughtmaybeyoushouldspeaktoClaire.Shemighthavesomeanswers.ShemighteventalktoBen.Idon’tknow.”Anotherpause.“Christine?Doyouhaveapen?Doyouwantthenumber?”
Iswallowedhard.“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes,please.”
Ireachedforacornerofthenewspaperonthecoffeetable,andthepenthatwasnexttoit,andwrotedownthenumberthathegaveme.Iheardtheboltonthebathroomdoorslideopen,Bencomeontothelanding.
“Christine?”saidDr.Nash.“I’llcallyoutomorrow.Don’tsayanythingtoBen.Notuntilwe’vefiguredoutwhat’sgoingon.Okay?”
Iheardmyselfagree,saygood-bye.HetoldmenottoforgettowriteinthisjournalbeforeIwenttosleep.IwroteClairenexttothenumber,stillnotknowingwhatIwasgoingtodo.Itoreitoffandputitinmybag.
IsaidnothingwhenBencamedownstairs,nothingashesatonthesofaacrossfromme.Ifixedmyeyesonthetelevision.Adocumentaryaboutwildlife.Theinhabitantsoftheoceanfloor.Aremote-controlledsubmersiblecraftwasexploringanunderwatertrenchwithjerkytwitches.Twolampsshoneintoplacesthathadneverknownlightbefore.Ghostsinthedeep.
IwantedtoaskhimifIwasstillintouchwithClaire,butdidnotwanttohearanotherlie.Agiantsquidhunginthegloom,driftinginthegentlecurrent.Thiscreaturehasneverbeencapturedonfilmbefore,saidthevoice-overtotheaccompanimentofelectronicmusic.
“Areyouallright?”hesaid.Inodded,withouttakingmyeyesoffthescreen.
Hestoodup.“Ihaveworktodo,”hesaid.“Upstairs.I’llcometobedsoon.”
Ilookedathim,then.Ididnotknowwhohewas.
“Yes,”Isaid.“I’llseeyoulater.”
Wednesday,November21
Ihavespentallmorningreadingthisjournal.Evenso,Ihavenotreaditall.SomepagesIhaveskimmedover,othersIhavereadagainandagain,tryingtobelievethem.AndnowIaminthebedroom,sittinginthebay,writingmore.
Ihavethephoneinmylap.WhydoesitfeelsodifficulttodialClaire’snumber?Neuronalimpulses,muscularcontractions.Thatisallitwilltake.Nothingcomplicated.Nothingdifficult.Yetitfeelssomucheasiertotakeupapenandwriteaboutitinstead.
Thismorning,Iwentintothekitchen.Mylife,Ithought,isbuiltonquicksand.Itshiftsfromonedaytothenext.ThingsIthinkIknowarewrong,thingsIamcertainof,factsaboutmylife,myself,belongtoyearsago.AllthehistoryIhavereadslikefiction.Dr.Nash,Ben.Adam,andnowClaire.Theyexist,butasshadowsinthedark.Asstrangers,theycrisscrossmylife,connecting,disconnecting.Elusive,ethereal.Likeghosts.
Andnotjustthem.Everything.Itisallinvented.Conjuredfromnothing.Iamdesperateforsolidground,forsomethingreal,somethingthatwillnotvanishasIsleep.Ineedtoanchormyself.
Iclickedopenthelidofthegarbagepail.Awarmthrosefromit—theheatofdecompositionanddecay—anditsmelled,faintly.Thesweet,sicksmellofrottingfood.Icouldseeanewspaper,thecrosswordpartfilledin,asolitaryteabagsoakingitbrown.Iheldmybreathandkneltdownonthefloor.
Insidethenewspaperwereshardsofporcelain,crumbs,afinewhitedust,andunderneathitaplasticbag,knottedclosed.Ifisheditout,thinkingofdirtydiapers,decidedtotearitopenlaterifIhadto.Beneathit,therewerepotatopeelingsandanear-emptyplasticbottlethatwasleakingketchup.Ipushedbothaside.
Eggshells—fourorfive—andahandfulofpaperyonionskin.Theremainsofade-seededredpepper,alargemushroom,half-rotten.
Satisfied,Ireplacedthethingsinthebinandclosedit.Itwastrue.Lastnight,wehadeatenanomelet.Aplatehadbeensmashed.Ilookedinthefridge.Twoporkchopslayinapolystyrenetray.Inthehallway,Ben’sslipperssatatthebottomofthestairs.Everythingwasthere,exactlyasIhaddescribeditinmyjournallastnight.Ihadn’tinventedit.Itwasalltrue.
AndthatmeantthenumberwasClaire’s.Dr.Nashhadreallycalledme.BenandIhadbeendivorced.
IwanttocallDr.Nashnow.Iwanttoaskhimwhattodo,or,better,toaskhimtodoitforme.ButforhowlongcanIbeavisitorinmyownlife?Passive?Ineedtotakecontrol.ThethoughtcrossesmymindthatImightneverseeDr.Nashagain—notnowthatIhavetoldhimofmyfeelings,mycrush—butIdon’tletittakeroot.Eitherway,IneedtospeaktoClairemyself.
ButwhatwillIsay?Thereseemstobesomuchforustotalkabout,andyetsolittle.Somuchhistorybetweenus,butnoneofitknowntome.
IthinkofwhatDr.NashhadtoldmeaboutwhyBenandIseparated.SomethingtodowithClaire.
Itallmakessense.Yearsago,whenIneededhimmostbutunderstoodhimleast,myhusbanddivorcedme,andnowwearebacktogetherheistellingmethatmybestfriendmovedtotheothersideoftheworldbeforeanyofthishappened
IsthatwhyIcan’tcallher?BecauseIamafraidthatshemighthavemoretohidethanIhaveevenbeguntoimagine?IsthatwhyBenseemslessthankeenformetoremembermore?Isthatevenwhyhehasbeensuggestingthatanyattemptsattreatmentarefutile,sothatIwillneverbeabletolinkmemorytomemoryandknowwhathasbeenhappening?
Icannotimaginehewoulddothat.Nobodywould.Itisaridiculousthing.IthinkofwhatDr.Nashtoldmeaboutmytimeinthehospital.Youwereclaimingthedoctorswereconspiringagainstyou,hesaid.Exhibitingsymptomsofparanoia.
IwonderifthatiswhatIamdoingagainnow.
Suddenlyamemoryfloodsme.Itstrikesalmostviolently,risingupfromtheemptinessofmypasttosendmetumblingback,butthenjustasquicklydisappears.Claireandme,anotherparty.“Christ,”sheissaying.“It’ssoannoying!YouknowwhatIthinkiswrong?Everyone’ssobloodyhunguponsex.It’sjustanimalscopulating,y’know?Nomatterhowmuchwetryanddancearounditanddressitupassomethingelse.That’sallitis.”
IsitpossiblethatwithmestuckinmyownhellClaireandBenhavesoughtsolaceineachother?
Ilookdown.Thephoneliesdeadinmylap.IhavenoideawhereBenreallygoeswhenheleaveseverymorning,orwherehemightstopoffonthewayhome.Itmightbeanywhere.AndIhavenoopportunitytobuildsuspiciononsuspicion,tolinkonefacttoanother.EvenifonedayIweretodiscoverClaireandBeninbed,thenextIwouldforgetwhatIhadseen.Iamtheperfectpersononwhomtocheat.Perhapstheyarestillseeingeachother.PerhapsIhavealreadydiscoveredthem,andforgotten.
Ithinkthis,andyet,somehow,Idon’tthinkthis.ItrustBen,andyetIdon’t.It’sperfectlypossibletoholdtwoopposingpointsofviewinthemindatonce,oscillatingbetweenthem.
Butwhywouldhelie?Hejustthinkshe’sdoingtherightthing.Ikeeptellingmyselfthat.He’sprotectingyou.Keepingfromyouthethingsthatyoudon’tneedtoknow.
Idialedthenumber,ofcourse.TherewasnowayIcouldhavenotdoneso.Itrang,forawhile,andthentherewasaclick,andavoice.“Hi,”itsaid.“Pleaseleaveamessage.”
Iknewthevoiceatonce.ItwasClaire’s.Unmistakable.
Ileftheramessage.Pleasecallme,Isaid.It’sChristine
Iwentdownstairs.IhaddoneallIcoulddo.
***
Iwaited.Foranhourthatturnedintotwo.Ispentthetimewritinginmyjournal,andwhenshedidnotcall,Imadeasandwichandateitinthelivingroom.WhileIwasinthekitchen—wipingdownthecountertop,sweepingcrumbsintomypalm,preparingtoemptythemintothesink—thedoorbellrang.Thenoisestartledme.Iputdownthesponge,driedmyhandsontheteatowelthathungfromthehandleoftheoven,andwenttoseewhoitwas.
ThroughthefrostedglassIcouldseetheoutlineofaman.Notuniformed;hewaswearingwhatlookedlikeasuit,atie.Ben?Ithought,beforerealizinghewouldstillbeatwork.Iopenedthedoor.
ItwasDr.Nash.Iknew,partlybecauseitcouldbenooneelse,butpartlybecause—thoughwhenIreadabouthimthismorning,Icouldnotpicturehim,andthoughmyhusbandhadremainedunfamiliartomeevenonceIhadbeentoldwhohewas—Irecognizedhim.Hishairwasshort,parted,histielooseanduntidy,asweatersatbeneathajacketwithwhichitclashed.
Hemusthaveseenthelookofsurpriseonmyface.“Christine?”hesaid.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes.”Ididnotopenthedoormorethanafraction.
“It’sme.Ed.EdNash.Dr.Nash?”
“Iknow,”Isaid.“I…”
“Didyoureadyourjournal?”
“Yes,but…”
“Areyouokay?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“I’mfine.”
Heloweredhisvoice.“IsBenhome?”
“No.No,he’snot.It’sjust,well.Iwasn’texpectingyou.Didwehaveameetingarranged?”
Heheldbackforamoment,afractionofasecond,enoughtodisrupttherhythmofourexchange.Wehadnot,Iknewthat.OratleastIhadnotwrittenofone.
“Yes,”hesaid.“Didyounotwriteitdown?”
Ihadn’t,butIsaidnothing.WestoodacrossthethresholdofthehousethatIstilldonotthinkofasmyhome,lookingateachother.“CanIcomein?”heasked.
Ididnotansweratfirst.Iwasn’tsureIwantedtoinvitehimin.Itseemedwrongsomehow.Abetrayal.
Butofwhat?Ben’strust?Ididnotknowhowmuchthatmatteredtomeanymore.Notafterhislies.LiesthatIhadspentmostofmymorningreading.
“Yes,”Isaid.Iopenedthedoor.Henoddedashesteppedintothehouse,glancingleftandrightashedid.ItookhiscoatandhungitonthecoatracknexttoarainslickerthatIguessedmustbemine.“Inthere,”Isaid,pointingtothelivingroom,andhewentin
Imadeusbothadrink,gavehistohim,satoppositewithmine.Hedidnotspeak,andItookaslowsip,waitingashedidthesame.Heputhiscupdownonthecoffeetablebetweenus.
“Youdon’trememberaskingmetocomeover?”hesaid.
“No,”Isaid.“When?”
Hesaiditthen,anditchilledme.“Thismorning.WhenIrangtotellyouwheretofindyourjournal.”
Icouldremembernothingofhimcallingthatmorning,andstillcan’t,evennowhehasgone.
IthoughtofotherthingsIhadwrittenof.AplateofmelonIcouldn’trememberordering.AcookieIhadn’taskedfor.
“Idon’tremember,”Isaid.Apanicbegantorisewithinme.
Concernflashedonhisface.“Haveyousleptatalltoday?Anythingmorethanaquickdoze?”
“No,”Isaid,“no.Notatall.Ijustcan’tremember.Whenwasit?When?”
“Christine,”hesaid.“Calmdown.It’sprobablynothing.”
“Butwhatif—Idon’t—”
“Christine,please.Itdoesn’tmeananything.Youjustforgot,that’sall.Everyoneforgetsthingssometimes.”
“Butwholeconversations?Itmusthaveonlybeenacoupleofhoursago!”
“Yes,”hesaid.Hespokesoftly,tryingtocalmme,butdidnotmovefromwherehesat.“Butyouhavebeenthroughalotlately.Yourmemoryhasalwaysbeenvariable.Forgettingonethingdoesn’tmeanthatyou’redeteriorating,thatyouwon’tgetbetteragain.Okay?”Inodded,tryingtobelievehim,desperateto.“YouaskedmeherebecauseyouwantedtospeaktoClaire,butweren’tsureyoucould.AndyouwantedmetospeaktoBenonyourbehalf.”
“Idid?”
“Yes.Yousaidyoudidn’tthinkyoucoulddoityourself.”
Ilookedathim,thoughtofallthethingsIhadwritten.IrealizedIdidn’tbelievehim.Imusthavefoundmyjournalmyself.Ihadnotaskedhimheretoday.IdidnotwanthimtotalktoBen.WhywouldI,whenIhaddecidedtosaynothingtoBenmyself,yet?AndwhywouldItellhimIneededhimheretohelpmespeaktoClaire,whenIhadalreadyphonedhermyselfandleftamessage?
He’slying.Iwonderedwhatotherreasonshemighthaveforcoming.Whathemightnotfeelabletotellme.
Ihavenomemory,butIamnotstupid.“Whyareyoureallyhere?”Isaid.Heshiftedinhischair.PossiblyhejustwantedtoseeinsidetheplacewhereIlive.Orpossiblytoseeme,onemoretime,beforeIspeaktoBen.“AreyouworriedthatBenwon’tletmeseeyouafterItellhimaboutus?”
Anotherthoughtcomes.Perhapsheisnotwritingaresearchpaperatall.Perhapshehasotherreasonsforwantingtospendsomuchofhistimewithme.Ipushitfrommymind.
“No,”hesaid.“That’snotitatall.Icamebecauseyouaskedmeto.Besides,you’vedecidednottotellBenthatyou’reseeingme.Notuntilyou’vespokentoClaire.Remember?”
Ishookmyhead.Ididnotremember.Ididnotknowwhathewastalkingabout.
“Claireisfuckingmyhusband,”Isaid.
Helookedshocked.“Christine,”hesaid.“I—”
“He’streatingmelikeI’mstupid,”Isaid.“Lyingtomeaboutanythingandeverything.Well,I’mnotstupid.”
“Iknowyou’renotstupid,”hesaid.“ButIdon’tthink—”
“They’vebeenfuckingforyears,”Isaid.“Itexplainseverything.Whyhetellsmeshemovedaway.WhyIhaven’tseenhereventhoughshe’ssupposedlymybestfriend.”
“Christine,”hesaid.“You’renotthinkingstraight.”Hecameandsatbesidemeonthesofa.“Benlovesyou.Iknow.I’vespokentohim,whenIwantedtopersuadehimtoletmeseeyou.Hewastotallyloyal.Totally.Hetoldmethathe’dlostyouonceanddidn’twanttoloseyouagain.Thathe’dwatchedyousufferwheneverpeoplehadtriedtotreatyouandwouldn’tseeyouinpainanymore.Helovesyou.It’sobvious.He’stryingtoprotectyou.Fromthetruth,Isuppose.”
IthoughtofwhatIhadreadthismorning.Ofthedivorce.“Butheleftme.Tobewithher.”
“Christine,”hesaid.“You’renotthinking.Ifthatwastrue,whywouldhebringyouback?Backhere?HewouldhavejustleftyouinWaringHouse.Buthehasn’t.Helooksafteryou.Everyday.”
Ifeltmyselfcollapse,foldinginonmyself.IfeltasifIunderstoodhiswords,yetatthesametimedidn’t.Ifeltthewarmthhisbodygaveoff,sawthekindnessinhiseyes.HesmiledasIlookedathim.Heseemedtobecomebigger,untilhisbodywasallIcouldsee,hisbreathingallIcouldhear.Hespoke,butIdidnothearwhathesaid.Iheardonlyoneword.Love.
Ididn’tintendtodowhatIdid.Ididn’tplanit.Ithappenedsuddenly,mylifeshiftinglikeastucklidthatfinallygives.Inamoment,allIcouldfeelweremylipsonhis,myarmsaroundhisneck.HishairwasdampandIneitherunderstoodnorcaredwhy.Iwantedtospeak,totellhimwhatIfelt,butIdidnot,becausetodosowouldhavebeentostopkissinghim,toendthemomentthatIwantedtogoonforever.Ifeltlikeawoman,finally.Incontrol.ThoughImusthavedoneso,Icanremember—havewrittenabout—noothertimewhenIhavekissedanyonebutmyhusband;itmightaswellhavebeenthefirst.
Idon’tknowforhowlongitlasted.Idon’tevenknowhowithappened,howIwentfromsittingthere,onthesofanexttohim,diminished,sosmallthatIfeltImightdisappear,tokissinghim.Idon’trememberwillingit,whichisnottosayIdon’trememberwantingit.Idon’trememberitbeginning.IrememberonlythatIwentfromonestatetoanother,withnothinginbetween,withnoopportunityforconsciousthought,nodecision.
Hedidnotpushmeawayroughly.Hewasgentle.Hegavemethat,atleast.HedidnotinsultmebyaskingmewhatIwasdoing,muchlesswhatIthoughtIwasdoing.Hesimplyremovedfirsthislipsfrommine,thenmyhandsfromwheretheyhadcometorestonhisshoulders,and,softly,said,“No.”
Iwasstunned.AtwhatIhaddone?Orhisreactiontoit?Icannotsay.Itfeltonlythat,foramoment,IhadbeensomewhereelseandanewChristinehadsteppedin,takenmeovercompletely,andthenvanished.Iwasnothorrified,though.Notevendisappointed.Iwasglad.Gladthat,becauseofher,somethinghadhappened.
Helookedatme.“I’msorry,”hesaid,andIcouldnottellwhathefelt.Anger?Pity?Regret?Anyofthosethingsmightbepossible.PerhapstheexpressionIsawwasamixtureofallthree.Hewasstillholdingmyhandsandheputthembackinmylap,thenletthemgo.“I’msorry,Christine,”hesaidagain.
Ididnotknowwhattosay.Whattodo.Iwassilent,abouttoapologizemyself,andthenIsaid,“Ed.Iloveyou.”
Heclosedhiseyes.“Christine,”hebegan,“I—”
“Please,”Isaid.“Don’t.Don’ttellmeyouhaven’tfeltittoo.”Hefrowned.“Youknowyouloveme.”
“Christine,”hesaid.“Please,you’re…you’re…”
“What?”Isaid.“Crazy?”
“No.Confused.You’reconfused.”
Ilaughed.“‘Confused’?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Youdon’tloveme.Yourememberwetalkedaboutconfabulation?It’squitecommonwithpeoplewho—”
“Oh,”Isaid.“Iknow.Iremember.Withpeoplewhohavenomemory.Isthatwhatyouthinkthisis?”
“It’spossible.Perfectlypossible.”
Ihatedhimthen.Hethoughthekneweverything,knewmebetterthanIdidmyself.Allhereallyknewwasmycondition.
“I’mnotstupid,”Isaid.
“Iknow.Iknowthat,Christine.Idon’tthinkyouare.Ijustthink—”
“Youmustloveme.”
Hesighed.Iwasfrustratinghimnow.Wearinghispatiencethin.
“Whyelsehaveyoubeencomingheresomuch?DrivingmearoundLondon.Doyoudothatwithallyourpatients?”
“Yes,”hebegan,then,“well,no.Notexactly.”
“Thenwhy?”
“I’vebeentryingtohelpyou,”hesaid.
“Isthatall?”
Apause,thenhesaid,“Well,no.I’vebeenwritingapaper,too.Ascientificpaper—”
“Studyingme?”
“Well,sortof,”hesaid.Itriedtopushwhathewassayingfrommymind.
“Butyoudidn’ttellmethatBenandIwereseparated,”Isaid.“Why?Whydidn’tyoudothat?”
“Ididn’tknow!”hesaid.“Nootherreason.Itwasn’tinyourfileandBendidn’ttellme.Ididn’tknow!”Iwassilent.Hemoved,asiftotakemyhandsagain,thenstopped,scratchinghisforeheadinstead.“Iwouldhavetoldyou.IfI’dknown.”
“Wouldyou?”Isaid.“LikeyoutoldmeaboutAdam?”
Helookedhurt.“Christine,please.”
“Whydidyoukeephimfromme?”Isaid.“You’reasbadasBen!”
“Jesus,Christine,”hesaid.“We’vebeenthroughthis.IdidwhatIthoughtwasbest.Benwasn’ttellingyouaboutAdam.Icouldn’ttellyou.Itwouldn’tberight.Itwouldn’thavebeenethical.”
Ilaughed.Ahollow,snortinglaugh.“Ethical?Whatisethicalaboutkeepinghimfromme?”
“ItwasdowntoBentodecidewhethertotellyouaboutAdam.Notme.Isuggestedyoukeepajournal,though.Sothatyoucouldwritedownwhatyou’dlearned.Ithoughtthatwasforthebest.”
“Howabouttheattack,then?YouwerequitehappyformetogoalongthinkingI’dbeeninvolvedinahit-and-runaccident!”
“Christine,no.No,Iwasn’t.Bentoldyouthat.Ididn’tknowthat’swhathewassayingtoyou.HowcouldI?”
IthoughtofwhatIhadseen.Orangeblossom–scentedbathsandhandsaroundmythroat.ThefeelingthatIcouldnotbreathe.Themanwhosefaceremainedamystery.Ibegantocry.“Thenwhydidyoutellmeatall?”Isaid.
Hespokekindlybutstilldidnottouchme.“Ididn’t,”hesaid.“Ididn’ttellyouthatyouwereattacked.That,yourememberedyourself.”Hewasright,ofcourse.Ifeltangry.“Christine,I—”
“Iwantyoutoleave,”Isaid.“Please.”Iwascryingsolidlynow,yetfeltcuriouslyalive.Ididnotknowwhathadjusthappened,couldbarelyevenrememberwhathadbeensaid,butitfeltasifsomeawfulthinghadlifted,somedamwithinmefinallyburst.
“Please,”Isaid.“Pleasego.”
Iexpectedhimtoargue.Tobegmetolethimstay.Ialmostwantedhimto.Buthedidnot.“Ifyou’resure?”hesaid.
“Yes,”Iwhispered.Iturnedtowardthewindow,determinedtonotlookathimagain.Nottoday,whichformewillmeanthatbytomorrowImightaswellhaveneverseenhimatall.Hestoodup,walkedtothedoor.
“I’llcallyou,”hesaid.“Tomorrow?Yourtreatment.I—”
“Justgo,”Isaid.“Please.”
Hesaidnothingelse.Iheardthedoorclosebehindhim.
Isatthereforawhile.Afewminutes?Hours?Idon’tknow.Myheartraced.Ifeltemptyandalone.EventuallyIwentupstairs.Inthebathroom,Ilookedatthephotos.Myhusband.Ben.WhathaveIdone?Ihavenothing,now.NooneIcantrust.NooneIcanturnto.Mymindraced,outofcontrol.IkeptthinkingofwhatDr.Nashhadsaid.Helovesyou.He’stryingtoprotectyou.
Protectmefromwhat,though?Fromthetruth.Ithoughtthetruthmoreimportantthananything.MaybeIamwrong.
Iwentintothestudy.Benhasliedaboutsomuch.ThereisnothinghehastoldmeIcanbelieve.Nothingatall.
IknewwhatIhadtodo.Ihadtoknow.KnowthatIcouldtrusthim,aboutthisonething.
TheboxwaswhereIhaddescribedit,locked,asIsuspected.Ididnotgetupset.
Ibegantolook.ItoldmyselfIwouldnotstopuntilIfoundthekey.Isearchedtheofficefirst.Theotherdrawers,thedesk.Ididitmethodically.IreplacedeverythingwhereIhadfoundit,andwhenIhadfinished,Iwentintothebedroom.Ilookedinthedrawers,diggingbeneathhisunderwear,thehandkerchiefs,neatlyironed,theundershirtsandT-shirts.Nothing,andnothinginthedrawersIused,either.
Thereweredrawersinthebedsidetables.Iintendedtolookineach,startingwithBen’ssideofthebed.Iopenedthetopdrawerandrootedthroughitscontents—pens,awatchthathadstopped,ablisterpackofpillsIdidnotrecognize—beforeopeningthebottomdrawer.
Atfirst,Ithoughtitwasempty.Icloseditgently,butasIdid,Iheardatinyrattle,metalscrapingonwood.Iopeneditagain,myheartalreadybeatingfast.
Akey.
Isatonthefloorwiththeopenbox.Itwasfull.Photographs,mostly.OfAdam,andme.Somelookedfamiliar—Iguesstheoneshehadshownmebefore—butmanynot.IfoundAdam’sbirthcertificate,theletterhehadwrittentoSantaClaus.Handfulsofphotosofhimasababy—crawling,grinning,towardthecamera;feedingatmybreast;sleeping,wrappedinagreenblanket—andashegrew.Thephotoofhimdressedasacowboy,theschoolphotographs,thetricycle.Theywereallhere,exactlyasIhaddescribedtheminmyjournal.
Iliftedthemalloutandspreadthemacrossthefloor,lookingateachoneasIdid.TherewerephotographsofBenandme,too;oneinwhichweareinfrontoftheHousesofParliament,bothsmiling,butstandingawkwardly,asifneitherofusknowstheotherexists;anotherfromourwedding,aformalshot.Wearestandinginfrontofachurchunderanovercastsky.Welookhappy,ridiculouslyso,andevenmoresoinonethatmusthavebeentakenlater,onourhoneymoon.Weareinarestaurant,smiling,leaninginoverahalf-eatenmeal,ourfacesflushedwithloveandthebiteofthesun.
Reliefbegantofloodme.Istaredatthephotographofthewomansittingtherewithhernewhusband,gazingoutatafutureshecouldnotpredictanddidnotwantto,andthoughtabouthowmuchIsharewithher.Butallofitisphysical.Cellsandtissues.DNA.Ourchemicalsignature.Butnothingelse.Sheisastranger.Thereisnothinglinkinghertome,nomeanstothreadmywaybacktoher.
Yetsheisme,andIamher,andIcouldseethatshewasinlove.WithBen.Themanshehasjustmarried.ThemanIstillwakeupwith,everyday.HedidnotbreakthevowshemadeonthatdayinthetinychurchinManchester.Hehasnotletmedown.Ilookedatthephotographandlovewelledinsidemeagain.
Butstill,Iputitdown,carriedonsearching.IknewwhatIwantedtofind—andwhatIalsodreadedfinding.Theonethingthatwouldprovemyhusbandwasn’tlying,thatwouldgivememypartnerevenif,indoingso,itwoulddenymemyson.
Itwasthere.Atthebottomofthebox,insideanenvelope.Aphotocopyofanewsarticle,folded,itsedgescrisp.Iknewwhatitwas,almostbeforeIopenedit,butstillIshookasIread.ABritishsoldierwhodiedescortingtroopsinHelmandProvince,Afghanistan,hasbeennamedbytheMinistryofDefence.AdamWheeler,itsaid,was19yearsold.BorninLondon..Clippedtoitwasaphotograph.Flowers,arrangedonagrave.Theinscriptionread,ADAMWHEELER.1987–2006.
Thegriefhitmethen,withaforceIdoubtitcaneverhavehadbefore.Idroppedthepaperanddoubledupinpain,toomuchpaineventocry,andemittedanoiselikeahowl,likeawoundedanimal,starving,prayingforitsendtocome.Iclosedmyeyesandsawitthen.Abriefflash.Animage,hanginginfrontofme,shimmering.Amedal,giventomeinablackvelvetbox.Acoffin,aflag.Ilookedawayfromitandprayedthatitwouldneverreturn.TherearememoriesIambetteroffwithout.Thingsbetterlostforever.
Ibegantotidythepapersaway.Ishouldhavetrustedhim,Ithought.Allalong.Ishouldhavebelievedthathewaskeepingthingsfrommeonlybecausetheyaretoopainfultoface,fresh,everyday.Allhewasdoingwastryingtosparemethis.Thisbrutaltruth.Iputthephotographsback,thepapers,justasIhadfoundthem.Ifeltsatisfied.Iputthekeybackinthedrawer,theboxbackinthefilingcabinet.IcanlookwheneverIwant,now.AsoftenasIlike.
TherewasonlyonemorethingIstillhadtodo.IhadtoknowwhyBenhadleftme.AndIhadtoknowwhatIhadbeendoinginBrighton,allthoseyearsago.Ihadtoknowwhohadstolenmylifefromme.Ihadtotryoncemore.
Forthesecondtimetoday,IdialedClaire’snumber.
Static.Silence.Thenatwo-tonering.Shewillnotanswer,Ithought.Shehasnotrespondedtomymessage,afterall.Shehassomethingtohide,somethingtokeepfromme.
Ialmostfeltglad.ThiswasaconversationIwantedtohaveonlyintheory.Icouldnotseehowitcouldbeanythingbutpainful.Ipreparedmyselfforanotheremotionlessinvitationtoleaveamessage.
Aclick.Thenavoice.“Hello?”
ItwasClaire.Iknewitinstantly.Hervoicefeltasfamiliarasmyown.“Hello?”shesaidagain.
Ididnotspeak.Imagesfloodedme,flashing.Isawherface,herhaircutshort,wearingaberet.Laughing.Isawheratawedding—myown,Isuppose,thoughIcannotsay—dressedinemerald,pouringchampagne.Isawherholdingachild,carryinghim,givinghimtomewiththewords“Dinnertime!”Isawhersittingontheedgeofabed,talkingtothefigurelyinginit,andrealizedthefigurewasme.
“Claire?”Isaid.
“Yep,”shesaid.“Hello?Whoisthis?”
Itriedtofocus,toremindmyselfthatwehadbeenbestfriendsonce,nomatterwhathadhappenedintheyearssince.Isawanimageofherlyingonmybed,clutchingabottleofvodka,giggling,tellingmethatmenwerefuckingridiculous
“Claire?”Isaid.“It’sme.Christine.”
Silence.Timestretchedsothatitseemedtolastforever.Atfirst,Ithoughtshewouldnotspeak,thatshehadforgottenwhoIwas,ordidnotwanttospeaktome.Iclosedmyeyes.
“Chrissy!”shesaid.Anexplosion.Iheardherswallow,asifshehadbeeneating.“Chrissy!MyGod.Darling,isthatreallyyou?”
Iopenedmyeyes.Atearhadbegunitsslowtraversedowntheunfamiliarlinesofmyface.
“Claire?”Isaid.“Yes.It’sme.It’sChrissy.”
“Jesus.Fuck,”shesaid,andthenagain,“fuck!”Hervoicewasquiet.“Roger!Rog!It’sChrissy!Onthephone!”Suddenlyloud,shesaid,“Howareyou?Whereareyou?”andthen,“Roger!”
“Oh,I’mathome,”Isaid.
“Home?”
“Yes.”
“WithBen?”
Ifeltsuddenlydefensive.“Yes,”Isaid.“WithBen.Didyougetmymessage?”
Iheardanintakeofbreath.Surprise?Orwasshesmoking?“Yep!”shesaid.“Iwouldhavecalledyoubackbutthisisthelandlineandyoudidn’tleaveanumber.”Shehesitated,andforamomentIwonderediftherewereotherreasonsshehadnotreturnedmycall.Shewenton.“Anyway,howareyou,darling?It’ssogoodtohearyourvoice!”Ididnotknowhowtoanswer,andwhenIdidn’treplyClairesaid,“Whereareyouliving?”
“Idon’tknow,exactly,”Isaid.Ifeltasurgeofpleasure,certainthatherquestionmeantthatshewasnotseeingBen,followedbytherealizationthatshemightbeaskingmesothatIdonotsuspectthetruth.Iwantedsomuchtotrusther—toknowthatBenhadnotleftmebecauseofsomethinghehadfoundinher,somelovetoreplacethatwhichhadbeentakenfromme—becausedoingsomeantthatIcouldtrustmyhusbandaswell.“CrouchEnd?”Isaid.
“Right,”shesaid.“Sohow’sitgoing?How’rethings?”
“Well,youknow?”Isaid.“Ican’trememberafuckingthing.”
Webothlaughed.Itfeltgood,thiseruptionofanemotionthatwasn’tgrief,butitwasshort-lived,followedbysilence.
“Yousoundgood,”shesaid,afterawhile.“Reallygood.”ItoldherIwaswritingagain.“Really?Wow.Super.Whatareyouworkingon?Anovel?”
“No,”Isaid.“It’dbekindofhardtowriteanovelwhenIcan’trememberanythingfromonedaytothenext.”Silence.“I’mjustwritingaboutwhat’shappeningtome.”
“Okay,”shesaid,thennothing.Iwonderedifperhapsshedidnotentirelyunderstandmysituation,andworriedabouthertone.Itsoundedcool.Iwonderedhowthingshadbeenleft,thelasttimewesaweachother.“Sowhatishappeningwithyou?”shesaidthen.
Whattosay?Ihadanurgetoletherseemyjournal,toletherreaditallforherself,butofcourseIcouldnot.Ornotyet,anyway.Thereseemedtobetoomuchtosay,toomuchIwantedtoknow.Mywholelife.
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“It’sdifficult…”
Imusthavesoundedupset,becauseshesaid,“Chrissy,darling.Whatever’swrong?”
“Nothing,”Isaid.“I’mfine.Ijust…”Thesentencepeteredout.
“Darling?”
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.IthoughtofDr.Nash,ofthethingsI’dsaidtohim.CouldIbesurethathewouldn’ttalktoBen?“Ijustfeelconfused.IthinkI’vedonesomethingstupid.”
“Oh,I’msurethat’snottrue.”Anothersilence—acalculation?—andthenshesaid,“Listen.CanIspeaktoBen?”
“He’sout,”Isaid.Ifeltrelievedthatourdiscussionseemedtohavemovedontosomethingconcrete,factual.“Atwork.”
“Right,”saidClaire.Anothersilence.Theconversationfeltsuddenlyabsurd
“Ineedtoseeyou,”Isaid.
“‘Need’?”shesaid.“Not‘want’?”
“No,”Ibegan.“ObviouslyIwant…”
“Relax,Chrissy,”shesaid.“I’mkidding.Iwanttoseeyou,too.I’mdyingto.”
Ifeltrelieved.Ihadhadtheideathatourtalkmightlimptoahalt,endwithapolitegood-byeandavaguepromisetospeakagaininthefuture,andanotheravenueintomypastwouldslamshutforever.
“Thankyou,”Isaid.“Thankyou.”
“Chrissy,”shesaid.“I’vebeenmissingyousomuch.Everyday.EverysingledayI’vebeenwaitingforthisbloodyphonetoring,hopingitwouldbeyou,neverforasecondthinkingitwouldbe.”Shepaused.“How…howisyourmemorynow?Howmuchdoyouknow?”
“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.“Betterthanithasbeen,Ithink.ButIstilldon’tremembermuch.”IthoughtofallthethingsI’dwrittendown,alltheimagesofmeandClaire.“Irememberaparty,”Isaid.“Fireworksonarooftop.Youpainting.Mestudying.Butnothingafterthat,really.”
“Ah!”shesaid.“Thebignight!Jesus,thatseemslikealongtimeago!There’salotIneedtofillyouinon.Alot.”
Iwonderedwhatshemeant,butdidnotaskher.Itcanwait,Ithought.ThereweremoreimportantthingsIneededtoknow.
“Didyouevermoveaway?”Isaid.“Abroad?”
Shelaughed.“Yeah,”shesaid.“Foraboutsixmonths.Imetthisbloke,yearsago.Itwasadisaster.”
“Where?”Isaid.“Wheredidyougo?”
“Barcelona,”shereplied.“Why?”
“Oh,”Isaid.“It’snothing.”Ifeltdefensive,embarrassedtonotknowthesedetailsofmyfriend’slife.“It’sjustsomethingsomeonetoldme.Theysaidyou’dbeentoNewZealand.Theymusthavemadeamistake.”
“NewZealand?”shesaid,laughing.“Nope.Notbeenthere.Ever.”
SoBenhadliedtomeaboutthat,too.Istilldidnotknowwhy,couldnotthinkofareasonhewouldfeeltheneedtoremoveClairefrommylifesothoroughly.Wasitjustlikeeverythingelsehehadliedabout,orchosennottotellme?Wasitformyownbenefit?
ItwassomethingelseIwouldhavetoaskhim,whenwehadtheconversationInowknewwemust.WhenItellhimallthatIknow,andhowIhavefounditout
Wespokesomemore,ourconversationpunctuatedbylonggapsanddesperaterushes.Clairetoldmeshehadmarried,thendivorced,andnowwaslivingwithRoger.“He’sanacademic,”shesaid.“Psychology.Buggerwantsmetomarryhim,whichIshan’tinahurry.ButIlovehim.”
Itfeltgoodtotalktoher,tolistentohervoice.Itseemedeasy,familiar.Almostlikecominghome.Shedemandedlittle,seemingtounderstandthatIhadlittletogive.Eventually,shestoppedandIthoughtshemightbeabouttosaygood-bye.IrealizedthatneitherofushadmentionedAdam.
“So,”shesaidinstead.“TellmeaboutBen.Howlonghaveyoubeen,well…”
“Backtogether?”Isaid.“Idon’tknow.Ididn’tevenknowwe’deverbeenapart.”
“Itriedtocallhim,”shesaid.Ifeltmyselftense,thoughcouldnotsaywhy.
“When?”
“Thisafternoon.Afteryoucalled.Iguessedthathemusthavegivenyoumynumber.Hedidn’tanswer,butthenIonlyhaveanoldworknumber.Theysaidhe’snotthereanymore.”
Ifeltacreepingdread.Ilookedaroundthebedroom,alienandunfamiliar.Ifeltsureshewaslying.
“Doyouspeaktohimoften?”Isaid.
“No.Notlately.”Anewtoneenteredhervoice.Hushed.Ididnotlikeit.“Notforafewyears.”Shehesitated.“I’vebeensoworriedaboutyou.”
Iwasafraid.AfraidthatClairewouldtellBenthatIhadcalledher,beforeIhadachancetospeaktohim.
“Pleasedon’tcallhim,”Isaid.“Pleasedon’ttellhimI’vecalledyou.”
“Chrissy!”shesaid.“Whyevernot?”
“I’djustratheryoudidn’t.”
Shesighedheavily,thensoundedcross.“Look.Whatonearthisgoingon?”
“Ican’texplain,”Isaid.
“Try.”
IcouldnotbringmyselftomentionAdam,butItoldheraboutDr.Nash,andaboutthememoryofthehotelroom,andhowBeninsiststhatIhadacaraccident.“Ithinkhe’snottellingmethetruthbecauseheknowsitwouldupsetme,”Isaid.Shedidnotanswer.“Claire?”Isaid.“WhatmightIhavebeendoinginBrighton?”
Silencestretchedbetweenus.“Chrissy,”shesaid.“Ifyoureallywanttoknow,thenI’lltellyou.OrasmuchasIknow,anyway.Butnotoverthephone.Whenwemeet.Ipromise.”
Thetruth.Ithunginfrontofme,glistening,socloseIcouldalmostreachoutandtakeit.
“Whencanyoucomeover?”Isaid.“Today?Tonight?”
“I’drathernotcometoyou,”shesaid.“Ifyoudon’tmind?”
“Whynot?”
“Ijustthink…well…it’sbetterifwemeetsomewhereelse?Icantakeyouforacoffee?”
Therewasajollityinhervoice,butitseemedforced.False.Iwonderedwhatshewasfrightenedof,butsaid,“Okay.”
“AlexandraPalace?”shesaid.“Isthatallright?YoushouldbeabletogetthereeasilyenoughfromCrouchEnd.”
“Okay,”Isaid.
“Cool.Friday?I’llmeetyouateleven.Isthatokay?”
Itoldheritwas.Itwouldhavetobe.“I’llbefine,”Isaid.ShetoldmewhichbusesIwouldneedandIwrotethedetailsonaslipofpaper.Then,afterwe’dchattedforafewminutesmore,wesaidgood-byeandItookoutmyjournalandbegantowrite.
***
“Ben?”Isaidwhenhegothome.Hewassittinginthearmchairinthelivingroom,readingthenewspaper.Helookedtired,asifhe’dnotsleptwell.“Doyoutrustme?”Isaid.
Helookedup.Hiseyessparkedintolife,litwithlove,butalsosomethingelse.Somethingthatlookedalmostlikefear.Notsurprising,Isuppose;thequestionisusuallyaskedbeforeanadmissionthatsuchtrustismisplaced.Heswepthishairbackfromhisforehead.
“Ofcourse,darling,”hesaid.Hecameoverandperchedonthearmofmychair,takingoneofmyhandsbetweenhis.“Ofcourse.”
IwassuddenlyunsurewhetherIwantedtocontinue.“DoyoutalktoClaire?”
Helookeddownintomyeyes.“Claire?”hesaid.“Yourememberher?”
Ihadforgottenthatuntilrecently—untilthememoryofthefireworksparty,infact—Clairehadnotexistedtomeatall.“Vaguely,”Isaid.
Heglancedaway,towardtheclockonthemantelpiece.
“No,”hesaid.“Ithinkshemovedaway.Yearsago.”
Iwinced,asifwithpain.“Areyousure?”Iasked.Icouldnotbelievehewasstilllyingtome.Itseemedalmostworseofhimtolieaboutthisthanabouteverythingelse.This,surely,wouldbeaneasythingtobehonestabout?ThefactthatClairewasstilllocalwouldcausemenopain,mightevenbesomethingthat—wereItoseeher—wouldhelpmymemorytoimprove.Sowhythedishonesty?Adarkthoughtenteredmyhead—thesameblacksuspicion—butIpusheditaway.
“Areyoupositive?Wheredidshego?”Tellme,Ithought.It’snottoolate.
“Idon’treallyremember,”hesaid.“NewZealand,Ithink.OrAustralia.”
Ifelthopeslipfartheraway,butknewwhatIhadtodo.“You’recertain?”Isaid.Itookagamble.“IhavethisoddmemorythatsheoncetoldmeshewasthinkingofmovingtoBarcelonaforawhile.Yearsandyearsago,itmusthavebeen.”Hesaidnothing.“You’resureitwasn’tthere?”
“Yourememberedthat?”hesaid.“When?”
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“It’sjustafeeling.”
Hesqueezedmyhand.Aconsolation.“It’sprobablyyourimagination.”
“Itfeltveryreal,though.You’recertainitwasn’tBarcelona?”
Hesighed.“No.NotBarcelona.ItwasdefinitelyAustralia.Adelaide,Ithink.I’mnotsure.Itwasalongtimeago.”Heshookhishead.“Claire,”hesaid,smiling.“Ihaven’tthoughtofherforages.Notforyearsandyears.”
Iclosedmyeyes.WhenIopenedthem,hewasgrinningatme.Helookedstupid,almost.Pathetic.Iwantedtoslaphim.“Ben,”Isaid,myvoicelittlemorethanawhisper.“I’vespokentoher.”
Ididnotknowhowhewouldreact.Hedidnothing,almostasifIhadn’tspokenatall,butthenhiseyesflared.
“When?”hesaid.Hisvoicewashardasglass.
IcouldeithertellhimthetruthoradmitthatIhavebeenwritingthestoryofmydays.“Thisafternoon,”Isaid.“Shecalledme.”
“Shecalledyou?”hesaid.“How?Howdidshecallyou?”
Idecidedtolie.“Shesaidyou’dgivenhermynumber.”
“Whatnumber?That’sridiculous!HowcouldI?You’resureitwasher?”
“Shesaidyouspoketogether,occasionally.Untilfairlyrecently.”
Heletgoofmyhandanditdroppedintomylap,adeadweight.Hestoodup,roundingtofaceme.“Shesaidwhat?”
“Shetoldmethatthetwoofyouhadbeenincontact.Upuntilafewyearsago.”
Heleanedinclose.Ismelledcoffeeonhisbreath.“Thiswomanjustphonedyououtoftheblue?You’resureitwasevenher?”
Irolledmyeyes.“Oh,Ben!”Isaid.“Whoelsecouldithavebeen?”Ismiled.Ihadneverthoughtthisconversationmightbeeasy,butitseemedinfusedwithaseriousnessIdidnotlike.
Heshrugged.“Youdon’tknow.Therehavebeenpeoplewhohavetriedtogetholdofyou,inthepast.Thepress.Journalists.Peoplewhohavereadaboutyou,andwhathappened,andwantyoursideofthestory,orevenjusttonosearoundandfindoutjusthowbadyoureallyare,orseehowmuchyou’vechanged.They’vepretendedtobeotherpeoplebefore,justtogetyoutotalk.Therearedoctors.Quackswhothinktheycanhelpyou.Homeopathy.Alternativemedicine.Evenwitchdoctors.”
“Ben,”Isaid.“Shewasmybestfriendforyears.Irecognizedhervoice.”Hisfacesagged,defeated.“Youhavebeenspeakingtoher,haven’tyou?”Inoticedthathewasclenchingandunclenchinghisrighthand,ballingitintoafist,releasingit.“Ben?”Isaidagain.
Helookedup.Hisfacewasred,hiseyesmoist.“Okay,”hesaid.“Okay.IhavespokentoClaire.Sheaskedmetokeepintouchwithher,toletherknowhowyouare.Wespeakeveryfewmonths,justbriefly.”
“Whydidn’tyoutellme?”Hesaidnothing.“Ben.Why?”Silence.“Youjustdecideditwaseasiertokeepherfromme?Topretendshe’dmovedaway?Isthatit?JustlikeyoupretendedI’dneverwrittenanovel?”
“Chris—”hebegan,then,“What—”
“It’snotfair,Ben,”Isaid.“Youhavenorighttokeepthesethingstoyourself.Totellmeliesjustbecauseit’seasierforyou.Noright.”
Hestoodup.“Easierforme?”hesaid,hisvoicerising.“Easierforme?YouthinkItoldyouthatClairelivesabroadbecauseitwaseasierforme?You’rewrong,Christine.Wrong.Noneofthisiseasyforme.Noneofit.Idon’ttellyouyou’vewrittenanovelbecauseIcan’tbeartorememberhowmuchyouwantedtowriteanother,ortoseethepainwhenyourealizeyouneverwill.ItoldyouthatClairelivesabroadbecauseIcan’tstandtohearthepaininyourvoicewhenyourealizethatsheabandonedyouinthatplace.Leftyoutheretorot,likealltheothers.”Hewaitedforareaction.“Didshetellyouthat?”hesaidwhennonecame,andIthought,No,noshedidn’t,and,infact,todayIreadinmyjournalthatsheusedtovisitmeallthetime
Hesaiditagain.“Didshetellyouthat?Thatshestoppedvisitingassoonassherealizedthatfifteenminutesaftersheleftyou’dforgottensheevenexisted?Sure,shemightcallupatChristmastofindouthowyou’redoing,butitwasmewhostoodbyyou,Chris.Mewhovisitedyoueverysingleday.Mewhowasthere,whowaited,prayingforyoutobewellenoughthatIcouldcomeandtakeyouawayfromthere,andbringyouhere,tolivewithme,insafety.Me.Ididn’tlietoyoubecauseitwaseasyforme.Don’tyouevermakethemistakeofthinkingthatIdid.Don’tyouever!”
IrememberedreadingwhatDr.Nashhadtoldme.Ilookedhimintheeye.Exceptyoudidn’t,Ithought.Youdidn’tstandbyme
“Clairesaidyoudivorcedme.”
Hefroze,thensteppedback,asifpunched.Hismouthopened,thenclosed.Itwasalmostcomical.Atlastasinglewordescaped.
“Bitch.”
Hisfacemeltedintofury.Ithoughthewasgoingtohitme,butfoundIdidn’tcare.
“Didyoudivorceme?”Isaid.“Isittrue?”
“Darling—”
Istoodup.“Tellme,”Isaid.“Tellme!”Westood,oppositeeachother.Ididn’tknowwhathewasgoingtodo,didn’tknowwhatIwantedhimtodo.IonlyknewIneededhimtobehonest.Totellmenomorelies.“Ijustwantthetruth.”
Hesteppedforwardandfelltohiskneesinfrontofme,graspingformyhands.“Darling—”
“Didyoudivorceme?Isittrue,Ben?Tellme!”Hisheaddropped,thenhelookedupatme,hiseyeswide,frightened.“Ben!”Ishouted.Hebegantocry.“Ben.ShetoldmeaboutAdam,too.Shetoldmewehadason.Iknowhe’sdead.”
“I’msorry,”hesaid.“I’msosorry.Ithoughtitwasforthebest.”Andthen,throughgentlesobs,hesaidhewouldtellmeeverything.
Thelighthadfadedcompletely,nightreplacingdusk.Benswitchedonalampandwesatinitsrosyglow,oppositeeachother,acrossthediningtable.Therewasapileofphotographsbetweenus,thesameonesIhadlookedatearlier.Ifeignedsurpriseashepassedeachonetome,tellingmeofitsorigins.Helingeredonthephotosofourwedding—tellingmewhatanamazingdayithadbeen,howspecial,explaininghowbeautifulIhadlooked—butthenbegantogetupset.“Ineverstoppedlovingyou,Christine,”hesaid.“Youhavetobelievethat.Itwasyourillness.Youhadtogointothatplace,and,well…Icouldn’t…Icouldn’tbearit.Iwould’vefollowedyou.Iwould’vedoneanythingtogetyouback.Anything.Butthey…theywouldn’t…Icouldn’tseeyou…theysaiditwasforthebest…”
“Who?”Isaid.“Whosaid?”Hewassilent.“Thedoctors?”
Helookedupatme.Hewascrying,hiseyescircledwithred.
“Yes,”hesaid.“Yes.Thedoctors.Theysaiditwasforthebest.Itwastheonlyway…”Hewipedawayatear.“Ididastheytoldme.IwishIhadn’t.IwishI’dfoughtforyou.Iwasweakandstupid.”Hisvoicesoftenedtoawhisper.“Istoppedseeingyou,yes,”hesaid,“butforyourownsake.Eventhoughitnearlykilledme,Ididitforyou,Christine.Youhavetobelieveme.Foryou,andourson.ButIneverdivorcedyou.Notreally.Nothere.”Heleanedoverandtookmyhand,pressingittohisshirt.“Here,we’vealwaysbeenmarried.We’vealwaysbeentogether.”Ifeltwarmcotton,dampwithsweat.Thequickbeatofhisheart.Love.
Ihavebeensofoolish,Ithought.Ihaveallowedmyselftobelievehedidthesethingstohurtme,whenreallyhetellsmehehasdonethemoutoflove.Ishouldnotcondemnhim.InsteadIshouldtrytounderstand.
“Iforgiveyou,”Isaid.
Thursday,November22
Today,whenIwokeup,IopenedmyeyesandsawamansittingonachairintheroominwhichIfoundmyself.Hewassittingperfectlystill.Watchingme.Waiting.
Ididnotpanic.Ididnotknowwhohewas,butIdidnotpanic.Somepartofmeknewthateverythingwasallright.Thathehadarighttobethere.
“Whoareyou?”Isaid.“HowdidIgethere?”Hetoldme.Ifeltnohorror,nodisbelief.Iunderstood.IwenttothebathroomandapproachedmyreflectionasImightalong-forgottenrelative,ortheghostofmymother.Cautious.Curious.Idressed,gettingusedtomybody’snewdimensionsandunexpectedbehaviors,andthenatebreakfast,dimlyawarethat,once,theremighthavebeenthreeplacesatthetable.Ikissedmyhusbandgood-byeanditdidnotfeelwrongtodoso,then,withoutknowingwhy,Iopenedtheshoeboxintheclosetandfoundthisjournal.Iknewstraightawaywhatitwas.Ihadbeenlookingforit.
Thetruthofmysituationnowsitsnearerthesurface.ItispossiblethatonedayIwillwakeupandknowitalready.Thingswillbegintomakesense.Eventhen,Iknow,Iwillneverbenormal.Myhistoryisincomplete.Yearshavevanished,withouttrace.Therearethingsaboutmyself,mypast,thatnoonecantellme.NotDr.Nash—whoknowsmeonlythroughwhatIhavetoldhim,whathehasreadinmyjournal,andwhatiswritteninmyfile—andnotBen,either.ThingsthathappenedbeforeImethim.ThingsthathappenedafterbutthatIchosenottoshare.Secrets.
Butthereisonepersonwhomightknow.Onepersonwhomighttellmetherestofthetruth.WhoIhadbeenseeinginBrighton.Therealreasonmybestfriendvanishedfrommylife.
Ihavereadthisjournal.IknowthattomorrowIwillmeetClaire.
Friday,November23
Iamwritingthisathome.TheplaceIfinallyunderstandasmine,somewhereIbelong.Ihavereadthisjournalthrough,andIhaveseenClaire,andbetweenthemtheyhavetoldmeallIneedtoknow.Clairehaspromisedmethatsheisbackinmylifenowandwillnotleaveagain.Infrontofmeisatattyenvelopewithmynameonit.Anartifact.Onethatcompletesme.Atlastmypastmakessense.
Soon,myhusbandwillbehome,andIamlookingforwardtoseeinghim.Ilovehim.Iknowthatnow.
Iwillgetthisstorydownandthen,together,wewillbeabletomakeeverythingbetter.
ItwasabrightdayasIgotoffthebus.Thelightwassuffusedwiththebluecoolnessofwinter,thegroundwashard.Clairehadtoldmeshewouldwaitatthetopofthehill,bythemainstepsuptothepalace,andsoIfoldedthepieceofpaperonwhichIhadwrittenherdirectionsandbegantoclimbthegentleinclineasitarcedaroundthepark.IttooklongerthanIexpected,and,stillunusedtomybody’slimitations,IhadtorestasInearedthetop.Imusthavebeenfitonce,Ithought.Orfitterthanthis,anyway.IwonderedifIoughttogetsomeexercise.
Theparkopenedouttoanexpanseofmowedgrass,crisscrossedwithtarmac,dottedwithgarbagepailsandwomenwithstrollers.IrealizedIwasnervous.Ididnotknowwhattoexpect.HowcouldI?IntheimagesIhadofClaire,shewaswearingalotofblack.Jeans,T-shirts.Isawherinheavybootsandatrenchcoat.Orelseshewaswearingalongskirt,tie-dyed,madeofsomematerialthatIsupposewouldbedescribedasfloaty.Icouldimagineneithervisionrepresentinghernow—notattheagewehavebecome—buthadnoideawhatmighthavetakentheirplace.
Ilookedatmywatch.Iwasearly.Withoutthinking,ItoldmyselfthatClaireisalwayslate,theninstantlywonderedhowIknew,whatresidueofmemoryhadremindedme.Thereissomuch,Ithought,justunderthesurface.Somanymemories,dartinglikesilveryminnowsinashallowstream.Idecidedtowaitononeofthebenches.
Longshadowsextendedthemselveslazilyacrossthegrass.Overthetrees,rowsofhousesstretchedawayfromme,packedclaustrophobicallyclose.Withastart,IrealizedthatoneofthehousesIcouldseewastheoneinwhichInowlived,lookingindistinguishablefromtheothers.
Iimaginedlightingacigaretteandinhalingananxiouslungful,triedtoresistthetemptationtostandandpace.Ifeltnervous,ridiculouslyso.Yettherewasnoreason.Clairehadbeenmyfriend.Mybestfriend.Therewasnothingtoworryabout.Iwassafe.
PaintwasflakingoffthebenchandIpickedatit,revealingmoreofthedampwoodbeneath.SomeonehadusedthesamemethodtoscratchtwosetsofinitialsnexttowhereIsat,thensurroundedthemwithaheartandaddedthedate.Iclosedmyeyes.WillIevergetusedtotheshockofseeingevidenceoftheyearinwhichIamliving?Ibreathedin:dampgrass,thetangofhotdogs,gasoline.
Ashadowfellacrossmyface,andIopenedmyeyes.Awomanstoodoverme.Tall,withashockofgingerhair,shewaswearingtrousersandasheepskinjacket.Alittleboyheldherhand,aplasticsoccerballinthecrookofhisotherarm.“Sorry,”Isaid,andshuffledalongthebenchtoallowroomforthembothtositbesideme,butasIdid,the
“Chrissy!”shesaid.ThevoicewasClaire’s.Unmistakablyso.“Chrissy,darling!It’sme.”Ilookedfromthechildtoherface.Itwasfurrowedwhereonceitmusthavebeensmooth,hereyeshadadownturntothemthatwasabsentfrommymentalimage,butitwasher.Therewasnodoubt.“Jesus,”shesaid.“I’vebeensoworriedaboutyou.”Shepushedthechildtowardme.“ThisisToby.”
Theboylookedatme.“Goon,”saidClaire.“Sayhello.”Foramoment,Ithoughtshewastalkingtome,butthenhetookastepforward.Ismiled.Myonlythoughtwas,IsthisAdam?eventhoughIknewitcouldnotbe.
“Hello,”Isaid.TobyshuffledhisfeetandmurmuredsomethingIdidn’tcatch,thenturnedtoClaireandsaid,“CanIgoandplaynow?”
“Don’tgooutofsight,though.Yes?”Shestrokedhishairandheranovertothepark.
Istoodupandturnedtofaceher.IdidnotknowifIwouldhavepreferredtoturnandrunmyself,sovastwasthechasmbetweenus,butthensheheldoutherarms.“Chrissy,darling,”shesaid,theplasticbraceletsthathungfromherwristsclatteringintoeachother.“I’vemissedyou.I’vemissedyousofuckingmuch.”Theweightthathadbeenpressingdownonmesomersaulted,lifted,andvanished,andIfell,sobbing,intoherarms.
Forthebriefestofmoments,IfeltasifIkneweverythingabouther,andeverythingaboutmyself,too.Itwasasiftheemptiness,thevoidthatsatatthecenterofmysoul,hadbeenlitwithlightbrighterthanthesun.Ahistory—myhistory—flashedinfrontofme,buttooquicklyformetodoanythingbutsnatchatit.“Irememberyou,”Isaid.“Irememberyou,”andthenitwasgoneandthedarknesssweptinoncemore.
Wesatonthebenchand,foralongtime,silentlywatchedTobyplayingsoccerwithagroupofboys.Ifelthappytobeconnectedwithmyunknownpast,yettherewasanawkwardnessbetweenusthatIcouldnotshake.Aphrasekeptrepeatinginmyhead.SomethingtodowithClaire.
“Howareyou?”Isaid,intheend,andshelaughed.
“Ifeellikehell,”shesaid.Sheopenedherbagandtookoutapacketoftobacco.“Youhaven’tstartedagain,haveyou?”shesaid,offeringittome,andIshookmyhead,awareagainofhowshewassomeoneelsewhoknewsomuchmoreaboutmethanIdidmyself.
“What’swrong?”Isaid.
Shebegantorollhercigarette,noddingtowardherson.“Oh,youknow?TobeshasADHD.Hewasupallnight,and,hence,sowasI.”
“ADHD?”Isaid.
Shesmiled.“Sorry.It’safairlynewphrase,Isuppose.Attentiondeficitandhyperactivitydisorder.WehavetogivehimRitalin,thoughIfuckinghateit.It’stheonlyway.We’vetriedjustabouteverythingelse,andhe’sanabsolutebeastwithoutit.Ahorror.”
Ilookedoverathim,runninginthedistance.Anotherfaulty,fucked-upbraininahealthybody.
“He’sokay,though?”
“Yes,”shesaid,sighing.Shebalancedhercigarettepaperonherkneeandbegansprinklingtobaccoalongitsfold.“He’sjustexhaustingsometimes.It’sliketheterribletwosneverended.”
Ismiled.Iknewwhatshemeant,butonlytheoretically.Ihadnopointofreference,norecollectionofwhatAdammighthavebeenlike,eitheratToby’sage,oryounger.
“Tobyseemsquiteyoung?”Isaid.Shelaughed.
“YoumeanI’mquiteold!”Shelickedthegumofherpaper.“Yes.Ihadhimlate.Prettysureitwasn’tgoingtohappen,sowewerebeingcareless…”
“Oh,”Isaid.“Youmean—?”
Shelaughed.“Iwouldn’tsayhewasanaccident,butlet’sjustsayhewassomethingofashock.”Sheputthecigaretteinhermouth.“DoyourememberAdam?”
Ilookedather.Shehadherheadturnedawayfromme,shieldingherlighterfromthewind,andIcouldnotseeherexpression,ortellwhetherthemovewasdeliberatelyevasive.
“No,”Isaid.“AfewweeksagoIrememberedthatIhadason,andeversinceIwroteaboutitIfeellikeI’vebeencarryingtheknowledgearound,likeaheavyrockinmychest.Butno.Idon’trememberanythingabouthim.”
Shesentacloudofblue-tingedsmokeskyward.“That’sashame,”shesaid.“I’msosorry.Benshowsyoupictures,though?Doesn’tthathelp?”
IweigheduphowmuchIshouldtellher.Theyseemedtohavebeenintouch,tohavebeenfriends,once.Ihadtobecareful,butstill,Ifeltanincreasingneedtospeak,aswellashear,thetruth.
“Hedoesshowmepictures,yes.Thoughhedoesn’thaveanyuparoundthehouse.HesaysIfindthemtooupsetting.Hekeepsthemhidden.”Inearlysaidlockedaway.
Sheseemedsurprised.“Hidden?Really?”
“Yes,”Isaid.“HethinksIwouldfindittooupsettingifIweretostumbleacrossapictureofhim.”
Clairenodded.“Youmightnotrecognizehim?Knowwhoheis?”
“Isupposeso.”
“Iimaginethatmightbetrue,”shesaid.Shehesitated.“Nowthathe’sgone.”
Gone,Ithought.Shesaiditasthoughhehadjustpoppedoutforafewhours,hadtakenhisgirlfriendtothemoviesortoshopforapairofshoes.Iunderstoodit,though.UnderstoodthetacitagreementthatwewouldnottalkaboutAdam’sdeath.Notyet.UnderstoodthatClaireistryingtoprotectme,too.
Isaidnothing.InsteadItriedtoimaginewhatitmusthavebeenlike,tohaveseenmychildeveryday,backwhenthephraseeverydayhadsomemeaning,beforeeverydaybecameseveredfromtheonebeforeit.Itriedtoimaginewakingeverymorningknowingwhohewas,beingabletoplan,tolookforwardtoChristmas,tohisbirthday.
Howridiculous,Ithought.Idon’tevenknowwhenhisbirthdayis
“Wouldn’tyouliketoseehim—?”
Myheartleaped.“Youhavephotographs?”Isaid.“CouldI—”
Shelookedsurprised.“Ofcourse!Loads!Athome.”
“I’dlikeone,”Isaid.
“Yes,”shesaid.“But—”
“Please.It’dmeansomuchtome.”
Sheputherhandonmine.“Ofcourse.I’llbringonenexttime,but—”
Shewasinterruptedbyacryinthedistance.Ilookedacrossthepark.Tobywasrunningtowardus,crying,as,behindhim,thegameofsoccercontinued.
“Fuck,”saidClaireunderherbreath.Shestoodupandcalledout,“Tobes!Toby!Whathappened?”Hekeptrunning.“Shit,”shesaid.“I’lljustgoandsorthimout.”
Shewenttoherson,crouchingdowntoaskwhatwaswrong.Ilookedattheground.Thepathwascarpetedwithmossandtheoddbladeofgrasshadpokedthroughthetarmac,fightingtowardthelight.Ifeltpleased.NotonlythatClairewouldgivemeaphotographofAdam,butthatshehadsaidshewoulddosonexttimewemet.Weweregoingtobeseeingmoreofeachother.Irealizedthateverytimewouldonceagainseemlikethefirst.Theirony:thatIampronetoforgettingthatIhavenomemory.
Irealized,too,thatsomethingaboutthewayshehadspokenofBen—somewistfulness—mademethinkthattheideaofthemhavinganaffairwasridiculous.
Shecameback.
“Everything’sfine,”shesaid.Sheflickedhercigaretteawayandgrounditoutwithherheel.“Slightmisunderstandingoverownershipoftheball.Shallwewalk?”Inodded,andsheturnedtoToby.“Darling!Icecream?”
Hesaidyesandwebegantowalktowardthepalace.TobywasholdingClaire’shand.Theylookedsoalike,Ithought,theireyeslitwiththesamefire.
“Iloveituphere,”saidClaire.“Theviewissoinspiring.Don’tyouthink?”
Ilookedoutatthegrayhouses,dottedwithgreen.“Isuppose.Doyoustillpaint?”
“Hardly,”shesaid.“Idabble.I’vebecomeadabbler.Ourownwallsarechock-fullofmypictures,butnobodyelsehasone.Unfortunately.”
Ismiled.Ididnotmentionmynovel,thoughIwantedtoaskifshe’dreadit,whatshethought.“Whatdoyoudonow,then?”
“IlookafterToby,mostly,”shesaid.“He’shomeschooled.”
“Isee,”Isaid.
“Notthroughchoice,”shereplied.“Noneoftheschoolswilltakehim.Theysayhe’stoodisruptive.Theycan’thandlehim.”
Ilookedathersonashewalkedwithus.Heseemedperfectlycalm,holdinghismother’shand.Heaskedifhecouldhavehisicecream,andClairetoldhimhe’dbeableto,soon.Icouldnotimaginehimbeingdifficult.
“WhatwasAdamlike?”Isaid.
“Asachild?”shesaid.“Hewasagoodboy.Verypolite.Well-behaved,youknow?”
“WasIagoodmother?Washehappy?”
“Oh,Chrissy,”shesaid.“Yes.Yes.Nobodywasmorelovedthanthatboy.Youdon’tremember,doyou?Youhadbeentryingforawhile.Youhadanectopicpregnancy.Youwereworriedyoumightnotbeabletogetpregnantagain,butthenalongcameAdam.Youweresohappy,bothofyou.Andyoulovedbeingpregnant.Ihatedit.Bloatedlikeafuckinghouse,andsuchdreadfulsickness.Frightful.Butitwasdifferentwithyou.Youlovedeverysecondofit.Youglowed,forthewholetimeyouwerecarryinghim.Youlituproomswhenyouwalkedintothem,Chrissy.”
Iclosedmyeyes,evenaswewalked,andtriedfirsttorememberbeingpregnant,andthentoimagineit.Icoulddoneither.IlookedatClaire.
“Andthen?”
“Then?Thebirth.Itwaswonderful.Benwasthere,ofcourse.IgotthereassoonasIcould.”Shestoppedwalkingandturnedtolookatme.“Andyouwereagreatmother,Chrissy.Great.Adamwashappy,andcaredfor,andloved.Nochildcouldhavewishedformore.”
Itriedtoremembermotherhood,myson’schildhood.Nothing.
“AndBen?”
Shepaused,thensaid,“Benwasagreatfather.Always.Helovedthatboy.Hewouldracehomefromworkeveryeveningtoseehim.Whenhesaidhisfirstword,hecalledeveryoneupandtoldthem.Thesamewhenhebegantocrawl,ortookhisfirststep.Assoonashecouldwalk,Benwastakinghimtothepark,withafootball,whatever.AndChristmas!Somanytoys!IthinkthatwasjustabouttheonlythingIeversawyouargueabout—howmanytoysBenwouldbuyforAdam.Youwereworriedhe’dbespoiled.”
Ifeltatwingeofregret,anurgetoapologizeforeverhavingtriedtodenymysonanything.
“Iwouldlethimhaveanythinghewanted,now,”Isaid.“IfonlyIcould.”
Shelookedatmesadly.“Iknow,”shesaid.“Iknow.Butbehappyknowingthathedidn’twantforanythingfromyou,ever.”
Wecarriedonwalking.Avanwasparkedonthefootpath,sellingicecreams,andweturnedtowardit.Tobybegantotugathismother’sarm.Sheleaneddownandgavehimabillfromherpursebeforelettinghimgo.“Chooseonething!”sheshoutedafterhim.“Justone!Andwaitforthechange!”
Iwatchedhimruntothevan.“Claire,”Isaid.“HowoldwasAdamwhenIlostmymemory?”
Shesmiled.“Hemusthavebeenthree.Maybefour,just.”
IfeltIwassteppingintonewterritorynow.Intodanger.ButitwastheplaceIhadtogo.ThetruthIhadtodiscover.“MydoctortoldmeIwasattacked,”Isaid.Shedidnotreply.“InBrighton.WhywasIthere?”
IlookedatClaire,scanningherface.Sheseemedtobemakingadecision,weighingupoptions,decidingwhattodo.“Idon’tknowforsure,”shesaid.“Nobodydoes.”
Shestoppedspeaking,andwebothwatchedTobyforawhile.Hehadhisicecreamnowandwasunwrappingit;alookofdeterminedconcentrationscoredhisface.Silencestretchedinfrontofme.UnlessIsaysomething,Ithought,thiswilllastforever
“Iwashavinganaffair,wasn’tI?”
Therewasnoreaction.Nointakeofbreath,nogaspofdenialorlookofshock.Clairelookedatmesteadily.Calmly.“Yes,”shesaid.“YouwerecheatingonBen.”
Hervoicehadnoemotion.Iwonderedwhatshethoughtofme.Eitherthen,ornow.
“Tellme,”Isaid.
“Okay,”shesaid.“Butlet’ssitdown.I’mjustgaspingforacoffee.”
Wewalkeduptothemainbuilding.
Thecafeteriadoubledasabar.Thechairsweresteel,thetablesplain.Palmtreesweredottedaround,anattemptatatmosphereruinedbythecoldairthatblastedinwheneversomeoneopenedthedoor.Wesatoppositeeachotheracrossatablethatswamwithspilledcoffee,warmingourhandsonourdrinks.
“Whathappened?”Isaidagain.“Ineedtoknow.”
“It’snoteasytosay,”saidClaire.Shespokeslowly,asifpickingherwaythroughadifficultterrain.“IsupposeitstartednotlongafteryouhadAdam.Oncetheinitialexcitementhadwornoff,therewasaperiodwhenthingswereextremelytough.”Shepaused.“It’ssodifficult,isn’tit?Toseewhat’sgoingonwhenyou’reintheabsolutemiddleofsomething?It’sonlywithhindsightwecanseethingsforwhattheyare.”Inoddedbutdidn’tunderstand.HindsightissomethingIdon’thave.Shewenton.“Youcried,awfully.Youworriedyouweren’tbondingwiththebaby.Alltheusualstuff.BenandIdidwhatwecould,andyourmother,whenshewasaround,butitwastough.Andevenwhentheabsoluteworstwasover,youstillfoundithard.Youcouldn’tgetbackintoyourwork.You’dcallmeup,inthemiddleoftheday.Upset.Yousaidyoufeltlikeafailure.Notafailureatmotherhood—youcouldseehowhappyAdamwas—butafailureasawriter.Youthoughtyou’dneverbeabletowriteagain.I’dcomeoverandseeyou,andyou’dbeamess.Crying,theworks.”Iwonderedwhatwascomingnext—howbaditwouldget—thenshesaid,“YouandBenwerearguing,too.Youresentedhim,howeasyhefoundlife.Heofferedtopayforananny,but,well…”
“Well?”
“Yousaidthatwastypicalofhim.Tothrowmoneyattheproblem.Youhadapoint,but…Perhapsyouweren’tbeingterriblyfair.”
Perhapsnot,Ithought.Itstruckmethatbackthenwemusthavehadmoney—moremoneythanwehadafterIlostmymemory,moremoneythanIguesswehavenow.Whatadrainonourresourcesmyillnessmusthavebeen.
Itriedtopicturemyself,arguingwithBen,lookingafterababy,tryingtowrite.Iimaginedbottlesofmilk,orAdamatmybreast.Dirtydiapers.MorningsinwhichgettingbothmyselfandmybabyfedweretheonlyambitionsIcouldreasonablyhaveandafternoonsinwhichIwassoexhaustedtheonlythingIcravedwassleep—sleepthatwasstillhoursaway—andthethoughtoftryingtowritewaspushedfarfrommymind.Icouldseeitall,andfeeltheslow,burningresentment.
Butthat’salltheywere.Imaginings.Irememberednothing.Claire’sstoryfeltlikeithadnothingtodowithmeatall.
“SoIhadanaffair?”
Shelookedup.“Iwasfree.Iwasdoingmypainting,then.IsaidI’dlookafterAdam,twoafternoonsaweek,soyoucouldwrite.Iinsisted.”Shetookmyhandinhers.“Itwasmyfault,Chrissy.Ievensuggestedyougotoacafé.”
“Acafé?”Isaid.
“Ithoughtitwouldbeagoodideaifyougotoutofthehouse.Gaveyourselfspace.Afewhoursaweek,awayfromeverything.Afterafewweeksyouseemedtogetbetter.Youwerehappierinyourself,yousaidyourworkwasgoingwell.Youstartedgoingtothecaféalmosteveryday,takingAdamwhenIcouldn’tlookafterhim.ButthenInoticedthatyouweredressingdifferently,too.Theclassicthing,thoughIdidn’trealizewhatitwasatthetime.Ithoughtitwasjustbecauseyouwerefeelingbetter.Moreconfident.ButthenBencalledme,oneevening.He’dbeendrinking,Ithink.Hesaidyouwerearguing,morethanever,andhedidn’tknowwhattodo.Youwereoffsex,too.Itoldhimitwasprobablyjustbecauseofthebaby,thathewasprobablyworryingunnecessarily.But—”
Iinterrupted.“Iwasseeingsomeone.”
“Iaskedyou.Youdenieditatfirst,butthenItoldyouIwasn’tstupid,andneitherwasBen.Wehadanargument,butafterawhileyoutoldmethetruth.”
Thetruth.Notglamorous,notexciting.Justthebaldfacts.Ihadturnedintoalivingcliché,takentofuckingsomeoneI’dmetinacaféwhilemybestfriendwasbabysittingmychildandmyhusbandwasearningthemoneytopayfortheclothesandunderwearIwaswearingforsomeoneotherthanhim.Ipicturedthefurtivephonecalls,theabortedarrangementswhensomethingunexpectedcameup,and,onthedayswecouldgettogether,thesordid,patheticafternoonsspentinbedwithamanwhohadtemporarilyseemedbetter—moreexciting?attractive?abetterlover?richer?—thanmyhusband.WasthisthemanIhadbeenwaitingforinthathotelroom,themanwhowouldeventuallyattackme,leavemewithnopastandnofuture?
Iclosedmyeyes.Aflashofmemory.Handsgrippingmyhair,aroundmythroat.Myheadunderwater.Gasping,crying.IrememberwhatIwasthinking.Iwanttoseemyson.Onelasttime.Iwanttoseemyhusband.Ishouldneverhavedonethistohim.Ishouldneverhavebetrayedhimwiththisman.IwillneverbeabletotellhimIamsorry.Never.
Iopenedmyeyes.Clairewassqueezingmyhand.“Areyouallright?”shesaid.
“Tellme,”Isaid.
“Idon’tknowwhether—”
“Please,”Isaid.“Tellme.Whowasit?”
Shesighed.“Yousaidyou’dmetsomeoneelsewhowenttothecaféregularly.Hewasnice,yousaid.Attractive.You’dtried,butyouhadn’tbeenabletostopyourself.”
“Whatwashisname?”Isaid.“Whowashe?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Youmust!”Isaid.“Hisnameatleast!Whodidthistome?”
Shelookedintomyeyes.“Chrissy,”shesaid,hervoicecalm,“younevereventoldmehisname.Youjustsaidyou’dmethiminacoffeeshop.Isupposeyoudidn’twantmetoknowanydetails.AnymorethanIhadto,atleast.”
Ifeltanothersliverofhopeslipaway,washeddownstreamintheriver.Iwouldneverknowwhodidthistome.
“Whathappened?”
“ItoldyouthatIthoughtyouwerebeingridiculous.TherewasAdamtothinkabout,aswellasBen.Ithoughtyououghttocallitoff.Stopseeinghim.”
“ButIwouldn’tlisten.”
“No,”shesaid.“Notatfirst.Wefought.Itoldyouthatyouwereputtingmeinanimpossiblesituation.Benwasmyfriend,too.Youwereaskingmetolietohim.”
“Whathappened?Howlongdiditgoonfor?”
Shewassilent,thensaid,“Idon’tknow.Oneday—itmusthavebeenonlyafewweeks—youannouncedthatitwasallover.You’dtoldthismanthatitwasn’tworking,thatyou’dmadeamistake.Yousaidyouweresorry,you’dbeenfoolish.Crazy.”
“Iwaslying?”
“Idon’tknow.Idon’tthinkso.YouandIdidn’tlietoeachother.Wejustdidn’t.”Sheblewacrossthetopofhercoffee.“Afewweekslater,youwerefoundinBrighton,”shesaid.“Ihavenoideawhathappenedinthattime.”
Perhapsitwasthosewords—Ihavenoideawhathappenedinthattime—thatsetitoff,therealizationthatImayneverknowhowIcametobeattacked,butasoundsuddenlyescapedme.Itriedtoclampitdown,butfailed.Somethingbetweenagaspandahowl,itwasthecryofananimalinpain.Tobylookedupfromhiscoloringbook.Everyoneinthecaféturnedtostareatme,atthemadwomanwithnomemory.Clairegrabbedmyarm.
“Chrissy!”shesaid.“What’swrong?”
Iwassobbingnow,mybodyheaving,gaspingforbreath.CryingforalltheyearsthatIhadlost,andforallthosethatIwouldcontinuetolosebetweennowandthedaythatIdied.Cryingbecause,howeverhardithadbeenforhertotellmeabouttheaffair,andmymarriage,andmyson,shewouldhavetodoitallagaintomorrow.Cryingmostly,though,becauseIhadbroughtallthisonmyself.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”
Clairestoodupandcamearoundthetable.Shecrouchedbesideme,herarmaroundmyshoulder,andIrestedmyheadagainsthers.“There,there,”shesaidasIsobbed.“It’sallright,Chrissy,darling.I’mherenow.I’mhere.”
Weleftthecafé.Asifunwillingtobeoutdone,Tobyhadbecomeboisterouslynoisyfollowingmyownoutburst—hethrewhiscoloringbooksonthefloor,alongwithaplasticcupofjuice.Clairecleanedupandthensaid,“Ineedtogetsomeair.Shallwe?”
Nowwesatononeofthebenchesthatoverlookedthepark.Ourkneeswereangledtowardeachother,andClaireheldmyhandsinhers,strokingthemasiftheywerecold.
“DidI—”Ibegan.“DidIhavelotsofaffairs?”
Sheshookherhead.“No.None.Wehadfunatuniversity,youknow?Butnomorethanmost.AndonceyoumetBen,thatstopped.Youwerealwaysfaithfultohim.”
Iwonderedwhathadbeensospecialaboutthemaninthecafé.ClairehadsaidthatI’dtoldherhewasnice.Attractive.Wasthatallitwas?WasIreallysoshallow?
Myhusbandwasbothofthosethings,Ithought.IfonlyI’dbeencontentwithwhatIhad.
“BenknewIwashavinganaffair?”
“Notatfirst.No.Notuntilyouwerefound.Itwasadreadfulshockforhim.Forallofus.Atfirst,itlookedasthoughyoumightnotevenlive.Later,BenaskedmeifIknewwhyyou’dbeeninBrighton.Itoldhim.Ihadto.I’dalreadytoldthepoliceallIknew.IhadnochoicebuttotellBen.”
GuiltpuncturedmeoncemoreasIthoughtofmyhusband,ofthefatherofmyson,tryingtoworkoutwhyhisdyingwifehadturnedupmilesawayfromhome.HowcouldIdothistohim?
“Heforgaveyou,though,”saidClaire.“Heneverhelditagainstyou,ever.Allhecaredaboutwasthatyoulived,andthatyougotbetter.Hewouldhavegiveneverythingforthat.Everything.Nothingelsemattered.”
Ifeltasurgeofloveformyhusband.Real.Unforced.Despiteeverything,hehadtakenmein.Lookedafterme.
“Willyoutalktohim?”Isaid.Shesmiled.
“Ofcourse!Butaboutwhat?”
“He’snottellingmethetruth,”Isaid.“Ornotalways,anyway.He’stryingtoprotectme.HetellsmewhathethinksIcancopewith,whathethinksIwanttohear.”
“Benwouldn’tdothat,”shesaid.“Helovesyou.Healwayshas.”
“Well,heis,”Isaid.“Hedoesn’tknowIknow.Hedoesn’tknowI’mwritingthingsdown.Hedoesn’ttellmeaboutAdam,otherthanwhenIrememberhimandask.Hedoesn’ttellmeheleftme.Hetellsmeyouliveontheothersideoftheworld.Hedoesn’tthinkIcancope.He’sgivenuponme,Claire.Whateverheusedtobelike,he’sgivenuponme.Hedoesn’twantmetoseeadoctorbecausehedoesn’tthinkIwillevergetanybetter,butI’vebeenseeingone,Claire.ADr.Nash.Insecret.Ican’teventellBen.”
Claire’sfacefell.Shelookeddisappointed.Inme,Isuppose.“That’snotgood,”shesaid.“Yououghttotellhim.Helovesyou.Hetrustsyou.”
“Ican’t.Heonlyadmittedtheotherdayhewasstillintouchwithyou.Untilthenhe’dbeensayinghehadn’tspokentoyouinyears.”
Herexpressionofdisapprovalchanged.Forthefirsttime,Icouldseethatshewassurprised.
“Chrissy!”
“It’strue,”Isaid.“Iknowhelovesme.ButIneedhimtobehonestwithme.Abouteverything.Idon’tknowmyownpast.Andonlyhecanhelpme.Ineedhimtohelpme.”
“Thenyoushouldjusttalktohim.Trusthim.”
“ButhowcanI?”Isaid.“Withallthethingshe’sliedtomeabout?HowcanI?”
Shesqueezedmyhandsinhers.“Chrissy,Benlovesyou.Youknowhedoes.Helovesyoumorethanlifeitself.Healwayshas.”
“But—”Ibegan,butsheinterrupted.
“Youhavetotrusthim.Believeme.Youcansorteverythingout,butyouhavetotellhimthetruth.TellhimaboutDr.Nash.Tellhimwhatyou’vebeenwriting.It’stheonlyway.”
Somewhere,deepdown,Iknewshewasright,butstillIcouldnotconvincemyselfIshouldtellBenaboutmyjournal.
“ButhemightwanttoreadwhatI’vewritten.”
Hereyesnarrowed.“There’snothinginthereyouwouldn’twanthimtosee,isthere?”Ididn’treply.“Isthere?Chrissy?”
Ilookedaway.Wedidn’tspeak,andthensheopenedherbag.
“Chrissy,”shesaid.“I’mgoingtogiveyousomething.Bengaveittome,whenhedecidedheneededtoleaveyou.”Shetookoutanenvelopeandhandedittome.Itwascreasedbutstillsealed.“Hetoldmeitexplainedeverything.”Istaredatit.Mynamewaswrittenonthefrontincapitals.“Heaskedmetogiveittoyou,ifIeverthoughtyouwerewellenoughtoreadit.”Ilookedupather,feelingeveryemotionatonce.Excitementandfear.“Ithinkit’stimeyoureadit,”shesaid.
Itookitfromherandputitinmybag.ThoughIdidnotknowwhy,Ididnotwanttoreaditthere,infrontofClaire.PerhapsIwasworriedthatshewouldbeabletoreaditscontentsreflectedinmyface,andtheywouldnolongerbeminetoown.
“Thankyou,”Isaid.Shedidnotsmile.
“Chrissy,”shesaid.Shelookeddown,atherhands.“There’sareasonBentellsyouImovedaway.”Ifeltmyworldbegintochange,thoughinwhatwayIwasnotyetcertain.“Ihavetotellyousomething.Aboutwhywelosttouch.”
Iknewthen.Withouthersayinganything,Iknew.Themissingpieceofthepuzzle,thereasonBenhadleft,thereasonmybestfriendhaddisappearedfrommylifeandmyhusbandhadliedaboutwhythishadhappened.Ihadbeenright.Allalong.Ihadbeenright.
“It’strue,”Isaid.“OhGod.It’strue.You’reseeingBen.You’refuckingmyhusband.”
Shelookedup,horrified.“No!”shesaid.“No!”
Acertaintyovertookme.IwantedtoshoutLiar!Butdidnot.Iwasabouttoaskheragainwhatshewantedtotellmewhenshewipedsomethingfromhereye.Atear?Idon’tknow.
“Notnow,”shewhispered,thenlookedbacktothehandsinherlap.“Butwewereonce.”
OfalltheemotionsImighthaveexpectedtofeel,reliefwasn’tone.Butitwastrue:Ifeltrelieved.Becauseshewasbeinghonest?BecausenowIhadanexplanationforeverything,onethatIcouldbelieve?I’mnotsure.ButtheangerthatImayhavefeltwasnotthere,neitherwasthepain.PerhapsIwashappytofeelatinysparkofjealousy,concreteproofthatIlovedmyhusband.PerhapsIwasjustrelievedthatBenhadaninfidelitytogowithmyown,thatwewereequalnow.Quits.
“Tellme,”Iwhispered.
Shedidnotlookup.“Wewerealwaysclose,”shesaidsoftly.“Thethreeofus,Imean.You.Me.Ben.Buttherehadneverbeenanythingbetweenmeandhim.Youmustbelievethat.Never.”Itoldhertogoon.“AfteryouraccidentItriedtohelpoutinwhateverwayIcould.YoucanimaginehowterriblydifficultitwasforBen.Justonapracticallevelifnothingelse.HavingtolookafterAdam…IdidwhatIcould.Wespentalotoftimetogether.Butwedidn’tsleeptogether.Notthen.Iswear,Chrissy.”
“Sowhen?”Isaid.“Whendidithappen?”
“JustbeforeyouweremovedtoWaringHouse,”shesaid.“Youwereatyourworst.Adamwasbeingdifficult.Thingsweretough.”Shelookedaway.“Benwasdrinking.Nottoomuch,butenough.Hewasn’tcoping.Onenightwegotbackfromvisitingyou.IputAdamtobed.Benwasinthelivingroom,crying.‘Ican’tdoit,’hekeptsaying.‘Ican’tkeepdoingthis.Iloveher,butit’skillingme.’”
Thewindgustedupthehill.Cold.Biting.Ipulledmycoataroundme.
“Isatnexttohim.And…”
Icouldseeitall.Thehandontheshoulder,thenthehug.Themouthsthatfindeachotherthroughthetears,themomentwhenguiltandthecertaintythatthingsmustgonofurthergiveswaytolustandthecertaintythattheycannotstop.
Andthenwhat?Thefucking.Onthesofa?Thefloor?Ididnotwanttoknow.
“And?”
“I’msorry,”shesaid.“Ineverwantedittohappen.Butitdid,and…Ifeltsobad.Sobad.Webothdid.”
“Howlong?”
“What?”
“Howlongdiditgoonfor?”
Shehesitated,thensaid,“Idon’tknow.Notlong.Afewweeks.Weonly…weonlyhadsexafewtimes.Itdidn’tfeelright.Webothfeltsobad,afterward.”
“Whathappened?”Isaid.“Whoendedit?”
Sheshrugged,thenwhispered,“Bothofus.Wetalked.Itcouldn’tgoon.IdecidedIowedittoyou—andBen—tostayawayfromthenon.Itwasguilt,Isuppose.”
Anawfulthoughtoccurredtome.
“Isthatwhenhedecidedtoleaveme?”
“Chrissy,no,”shesaidquickly.“Don’tthinkthat.Hefeltawful,too.Buthedidn’tleaveyoubecauseofme.”
No,Ithought.Perhapsnotdirectly.Butyoumighthaveremindedhimofjusthowmuchhewasmissing.
Ilookedather.Istilldidnotfeelangry.Icouldnot.Perhapsifshehadtoldmethattheywerestillsleepingtogether,Imighthavefeltdifferently.Whatshehadtoldmefeltasthoughitbelongedtoanothertime.Prehistory.Ifoundithardtobelieveithadanythingtodowithmeatall.
Clairelookedup.“Atfirst,IwasintouchwithAdam,butthenBenmusthavetoldhimwhathadhappened.Adamsaidhedidn’twanttoseemeagain.Hetoldmetostayawayfromhim,andfromyou,too.ButIcouldn’t,Chrissy.Ijustcouldn’t.Benhadgivenmetheletter,askedmetokeepaneyeonyou.SoIcarriedonvisiting.AtWaringHouse.Everyfewweeksatfirst,theneverycoupleofmonths.Butitupsetyou.Itupsetyouterribly.IknowIwasbeingselfish,butIcouldn’tjustleaveyouthere.Onyourown.Icarriedoncoming.Justtocheckyouwereallright.”
“AndyoutoldBenhowIwas?”
“No.Weweren’tintouch.”
“Isthatwhyyouhaven’tbeenvisitingmelately?Athome?Becauseyoudon’twanttoseeBen?”
“No.Afewmonthsago,IvisitedWaringHouseandtheytoldmeyou’dleft.You’dgonebacktolivewithBen.IknewBenhadmoved.Iaskedthemtogivemeyouraddressbuttheywouldn’t.Theysaiditwouldbeabreachofconfidentiality.TheysaidtheywouldgiveyoumynumberandthatifIwantedtowritetoyoutheywouldpasstheletterson.”
“Soyouwrote?”
“IaddressedthelettertoBen.ItoldhimIwassorry,thatIregrettedwhathadhappened.Ibeggedhimtoletmeseeyou.”
“Buthetoldyouyoucouldn’t?”
“No.Youwroteback,Chrissy.Yousaidthatyouwerefeelingmuchbetter.Yousaidyouwerehappy,withBen.”Shelookedaway,acrossthepark.“Yousaidyoudidn’twanttoseeme.ThatyourmemorywouldsometimescomebackandwhenitdidyouknewIhadbetrayedyou.”Shewipedatearfromhereye.“Youtoldmenottocomeanywherenearyou,everagain.Thatitwasbetterthatyouforgotmeforever,andthatIforgotyou.”
Ifeltmyselfgocold.ItriedtoimaginetheangerImusthavefelttowritealetterlikethat,butatthesametimerealizedmaybeIhadn’tfeltangryatall.Tome,Clairewouldhardlyhaveexisted,anyfriendshipbetweenusforgotten.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.Icouldnotimaginebeingabletorememberherbetrayal.Benmusthavehelpedmewritetheletter.
Shesmiled.“No.Don’tapologize.Youwereright.ButIdidn’tstophopingyou’dchangeyourmind.Iwantedtoseeyou.Iwantedtotellyouthetruth,toyourface.”Isaidnothing.“I’msosorry,”shesaidthen.“Canyoueverforgiveme?”
Itookherhand.HowcouldIbeangrywithher?OrwithBen?Myconditionhasplacedanimpossibleburdenonusall.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes.Iforgiveyou.”
Weleftsoonafter.Atthebottomoftheslope,sheturnedtofaceme.
“WillIseeyouagain?”shesaid.
Ismiled.“Ihopeso!”
Shelookedrelieved.“I’vemissedyou,Chrissy.You’venoidea.”
Itwastrue.Ididhavenoidea.Butwithher,andthisjournal,therewasachanceIcouldrebuildalifeworthliving.Ithoughtoftheletterinmybag.Amessagefromthepast.Thefinalpieceofthepuzzle.TheanswersIneed.
“I’llseeyousoon,”shesaid.“Earlynextweek.Okay?”
“Okay,”Isaid.Shehuggedme,andmyvoicewaslostinthecurlsofherhair.Shefeltlikemyonlyfriend,theonlypersonIcouldrelyon,alongwithBen.Mysister.Isqueezedherhard.“Thankyoufortellingmethetruth,”Isaid.“Thankyou.Foreverything.Iloveyou.”Whenwepartedandlookedateachother,bothofuswerecrying.
Athome,IsatdowntoreadBen’sletter.Ifeltnervous—wouldittellmewhatIneededtoknow?WouldIfinallyunderstandwhyBenleftme?—butatthesametimeexcited.Ifeltsureitwould.Feltcertainthatwithit,withBenandClaire,IwillhaveeverythingIneed
DarlingChristine,
ThisisthehardestthingIhaveeverhadtodo.AlreadyI’vekickedoffwithacliché,butyouknowI’mnotawriter—thatwasalwaysyou!—soI’msorry,butI’lldomybest.
Bythetimeyoureadthis,you’llknowthatI’vedecidedIhavetoleaveyou.Ican’tbeartowriteit,oreventothinkit,butIhaveto.Ihavetriedsohardtofindanotherway,butIcan’t.Believeme.
YouhavetounderstandthatIloveyou.Ialwayshave.Ialwayswill.Idon’tcarewhathashappened,orwhy.Thisisn’taboutrevenge,oranythinglikethat.Ihaven’tmetanybodyelse.Whenyouwereinthatcoma,Irealizedjusthowmuchapartofmeyouare—IfeltlikeIwasdyingeverytimeIlookedatyou.IrealizedIdidn’tcarewhatyouweredoingthatnightinBrighton,orwhoyouwereseeing.Ijustwantedyoutocomebacktome.
Andthenyoudid,andIwassohappy.YouwillneverknowhowhappyIwas,thedaytheytoldmeyouwereoutofdanger,thatyouwouldn’tdie.Thatyouweren’tgoingtoleaveme.Orus.Adamwasjustlittle,butIthinkheunderstood.
Whenwerealizedyouhadnomemoryofwhathadhappened,Ithoughtitwasagoodthing.Canyoubelievethat?Ifeelashamednow,butIthoughtitwasforthebest.Butthenwerealizedthatyouwereforgettingotherthings,too.Gradually,overtime.Atfirstitwasthenamesofthepeopleinthebedsnexttoyou,thedoctorsandnursestreatingyou.Butyougotworse.Youforgotwhyyouwereinthehospital,whyyouweren’tbeingallowedtocomehomewithme.Youconvincedyourselfthatthedoctorswereexperimentingonyou.WhenItookyouhomeforaweekend,youdidn’trecognizeourstreet,ourhouse.Yourcousincametoseeyouandyouhadnoideawhoshewas.Wetookyoubacktothehospitalandyouhadnoideawhereyouweregoing.
Ithinkthat’swhenthingsstartedtogetdifficult.YoulovedAdamsomuch.Itshoneoutofyoureyeswhenwearrived,andhewouldrunovertoyouandintoyourarms,andyouwouldpickhimup,andknowwhohewas,straightaway.Butthen—I’msorry,Chris,butIhavetotellyouthis—youstartedtobelievethatAdamhadbeentakenawayfromyouwhenhewasababy.Everytimeyousawhim,youthoughtthatitwasthefirsttimesincehewasafewmonthsold.Iwouldaskhimtotellyouwhenhelastsawyou,andhewouldsay,“Yesterday,Mummy,”or“lastweek,”butyoudidn’tbelievehim.“Whathaveyoubeentellinghim?”you’dsay.“It’salie.”Youstartedaccusingmeofkeepingyoulockedthere.YouthoughtanotherwomanwasraisingAdamasherownwhileyouwereinthehospital.
Oneday,Iarrivedandyoudidn’trecognizeme.Youbecamehysterical.YougrabbedAdamwhenIwasn’tlooking,andrantothedoor,torescuehim,Isuppose,buthestartedscreaming.Hedidn’tunderstandwhyyou’ddothat.Itookhimhomeandtriedtoexplain,buthedidn’tunderstand.Hestartedbeingreallyfrightenedofyou.
Itwentonforawhile,butgotworse.Oneday,Icalledthehospital.IaskedthemwhatyouwerelikewhenIwasn’tthere,whenAdamwasn’tthere.“Describeher,rightnow,”Isaid.Theysaidyouwerecalm.Happy.Youweresittinginthechairnexttoyourbed.“What’sshedoing?”Isaid.Theysaidyouweretalkingtooneoftheotherpatients,afriendofyours.Sometimesyouplayedcardstogether.
“Playedcards?”Isaid.Icouldn’tbelieveit.Theysaidyouweregoodatcards.Theyhadtoexplaintherulestoyoueveryday,butthenyoucouldbeatjustaboutanybody.
“Isshehappy?”Isaid.
“Yes,”theysaid.“Yes.She’salwayshappy.”
“Doessherememberme?”Isaid.“Adam?”
“Notunlessyou’rehere,”theysaid.
IthinkIknewthenthatonedayIwouldhavetoleaveyou.I’vefoundyouaplacewhereyoucanliveforaslongasyouneedto.Somewhereyoucanbehappy.Becauseyouwillbehappy,withoutme,withoutAdam.Youwon’tknowus,andsoyouwon’tmissus.
Iloveyousomuch,Chrissy.Youmustunderstandthat.IloveyoumorethanIloveanything.ButIhavetogiveoursonalife,alifehedeserves.Soonhewillbeoldenoughtounderstandwhat’sgoingon.Iwillnotlietohim,Chris.IwillexplainthechoiceIhavemade.Iwilltellhimthatalthoughhemaywanttoseeyouverymuchitwouldbeenormouslyupsettingforhimtodoso.Maybehewillhateme.Blameme.Ihopenot.ButIwanthimtobehappy.AndIwantyoutobehappy,too.Evenifyoucanonlyfindthathappinesswithoutme.
You’vebeeninWaringHouseforawhilenow.Youdon’tpanicanymore.Youhaveasenseofroutine.That’sgood.Andsoit’stimeformetogo.
I’mgoingtogivethislettertoClaire.I’llaskhertokeepitforme,andtoshowittoyouwhenyou’rewellenoughtoreadit,andtounderstandit.Ican’tkeepitmyself,I’lljustbroodoverit,andwon’tbeabletoresistgivingittoyounextweek,ornextmonth,orevennextyear.Toosoon.
IcannotpretendIdonothopethatonedaywecanbetogetheragain.Whenyouarerecovered.Thethreeofus.Afamily.Ihavetobelievethatmighthappen.Ihaveto,orelseIwilldiefromgrief.
Iamnotabandoningyou,Chris.Iwillneverabandonyou.Iloveyoutoomuch.
Believeme,thisistherightthing,theonlythingformetodo.
Don’thateme.Iloveyou.
Ben
X
Ireaditagainnow,andfoldthepaper.Itfeelscrisp,asthoughitmighthavebeenwrittenyesterday,buttheenvelopeintowhichIslipitissoft,itsedgesfrayed,withasweetsmellclingingtoit,likeperfume.HasClairecarrieditwithher,tuckedinacornerofherbag?Or,morelikely,hasshestoreditinadrawerathome,outofsightbutneverquiteforgotten?Foryears,itwaitedfortherighttimetoberead.YearsthatIspentnotknowingwhomyhusbandwas,notevenknowingwhoIwas.YearsinwhichIcouldhaveneverbridgedthegapbetweenus,becauseitwasagapIhadneverknownexisted.
Isliptheenvelopebetweenthepagesofmyjournal.IamcryingasIwritethis,butIdonotfeelunhappy.Iunderstandeverything.Whyheleftme,whyhehasbeenlyingtome.
Becausehehasbeenlyingtome.HehasnottoldmeaboutthenovelIwrote,sothatIwillnotbedevastatedthatIwillneverwriteanother.Hehasbeentellingmemybestfriendmovedaway—toprotectmefromthefactthatthetwoofthembetrayedme.Becausehedidnottrustmetolovethembothfartoomuchtonotforgivethem.HehasbeentellingmethatIwashitbyacar,thatthiswasanaccident,sothatIdon’thavetodealwiththeknowledgethatIwasattackedandwhathappenedtomewastheresultofadeliberateactofferocioushatred.Hehasbeentellingmethatweneverhadchildren,notonlytoprotectmefromrememberingthatmyonlysonisdeadbuttoprotectme,too,fromhavingtodealwithhisdeatheverysingledayofmylife.Andhehasnottoldmethat,afteryearsoftryingtofindawayforourfamilytobetogether,hehadtofacethefactthatwecouldnotbeandtakeoursonandleave,inordertofindhappiness.
Hemusthavethoughtthatourseparationwouldbeforever,whenhewrotethatletter,buthemustalsohavehopedthatitwouldnot,orelsewhywriteit?Whatwashethinking,ashesatthere,inhishome,ourhomeasitmustoncehavebeen,andtookouthispenandbegantotrytoexplaintosomeonehecouldneverexpecttounderstandwhyhefelthehadnooptionbuttoleaveher?Iamnowriter,hesaid,andyethiswordsarebeautifultome,profound.Theyreadasifheistalkingaboutsomeoneelse,andyet,somewhereinsideme,undertheskinandbones,thetissueandblood,Iknowthatheisnot.Heistalkingabout,andto,me.ChristineLucas.Hisbrokenwife.
Butithasnotbeenforever.Whathehopedforhashappened.Somehowmyconditionhasimproved,orelsehefoundseparationfrommeevenharderthanheimagined,andhecamebackforme.
Everythingseemsdifferentnow.TheroomIaminlooksnomorefamiliartomethanitdidthismorningwhenIwokeupandstumbledintoit,tryingtofindthekitchen,desperateforadrinkofwater,desperatetopiecetogetherwhathappenedlastnight.Andyetitnolongerseemsshotthroughwithpainandsadness.ItnolongerseemsemblematicofalifeIcannotconsiderliving.Thetickingoftheclockatmyshoulderisnolongerjustmarkingtime.Itspeakstome.Relax,itsays.Relax,andtakewhatcomes
Ihavebeenwrong.Ihavemadeamistake.AgainandagainandagainIhavemadeit;whoknowshowmanytimes?Myhusbandismyprotector,yes,butalsomylover.AndnowIrealizethatIlovehim.Ihavealwayslovedhim,andifIhavetolearntolovehimagaineveryday,thensobeit.ThatiswhatIwilldo.
Benwillbehomesoon—alreadyIcanfeelhimapproach—andwhenhearrives,Iwilltellhimeverything.IwilltellhimthatIhavemetClaire—andDr.Nash,andevenDr.Paxton—andthatIhavereadhisletter.IwilltellhimthatIunderstandwhyhedidwhathedidbackthen,whyheleftme,andthatIforgivehim.IwilltellhimthatIknowabouttheattack,butthatInolongerneedtoknowwhathappened,nolongercarewhodidthistome.
AndIwilltellhimthatIknowaboutAdam.Iknowwhathappenedtohim,andthoughthethoughtoffacingiteverydaymakesmecoldwithterror,thatiswhatImustdo.Thememoryofoursonmustbeallowedtoexistinthishouse,andinmyheart,too,nomatterhowmuchpainthatcauses.
AndIwilltellhimaboutthisjournal,thatfinallyIamabletogivemyselfanarrative,alife,andIwillshowittohim,ifheaskstoseeit.AndthenIcancontinuetouseit,totellmystory,myautobiography.Tocreatemyselffromnothing.
“Nomoresecrets,”Iwillsaytomyhusband.“None.Iloveyou,Ben,andIalwayswill.Wehavewrongedeachother.Butpleaseforgiveme.IamsorrythatIleftyouallthoseyearsagotobewithsomebodyelse,andIamsorrythatwecanneverknowwhoitwasIwenttoseeinthathotelroom,orwhatIfoundthere.ButpleaseknowthatIamdeterminedtomakethisuptoyounow.”
Andthen,whenthereisnothingelsebetweenusbutlove,wecanbegintofindawaytotrulybetogether.
IhavecalledDr.Nash.“Iwanttoseeyouonemoretime,”Isaid.“Iwantyoutoreadmyjournal.”Ithinkhewassurprised,butheagreed.“When?”hesaid.
“Nextweek,”Isaid.“Comeforitnextweek.”
HesaidhewouldcollectitonTuesday.
PartIII
Today
ITURNTHEPAGE,butthereisnomore.Thestoryendsthere.Ihavebeenreadingforhours.
Iamshaking,canbarelybreathe.IfeelthatIhavenotonlylivedanentirelifeinthelastfewhours,butIhavechanged.IamnotthesamepersonwhometDr.Nashthismorning,whosatdowntoreadthejournal.Ihaveapastnow.Asenseofmyself.IknowwhatIhave,andwhatIhavelost.IrealizeIamcrying.
Iclosethejournal.Iforcemyselftocalmdown,andthepresentbeginstoreassertitself.ThedarkeningroominwhichIsit.ThedrillingIcanstillhearinthestreetoutside.Theemptycoffeecupatmyfeet.
Ilookattheclocknexttomeandthereisajoltofshock.OnlynowdoIrealizethatitisthesameclockastheoneinthejournalthatIhavebeenreading,thatIaminthesamelivingroom,amthesameperson.OnlynowdoIfullyunderstandthatthestoryIhavebeenreadingismine.
Itakemyjournalandmugintothekitchen.There,onthewall,isthesameeraserboardIhadseenthismorning,thesamelistofsuggestionsinneatcapitals,thesamenotethatIhadaddedmyself:Packbagfortonight?
Ilookatit.Somethingaboutittroublesme,butIcan’tworkoutwhy.
IthinkofBen.Howdifficultlifemusthavebeenforhim.Neverknowingwithwhomhewouldwake.NeverbeingcertainhowmuchIwouldremember,howmuchloveIwouldbeabletogivehim.
Butnow?NowIunderstand.NowIknowenoughforusbothtoliveagain.IwonderifIeverhadtheconversationwithhimthatIhadbeenplanning.Imusthave,socertainwasIthatitwastherightthingtodo,butIhavenotwrittenaboutit.Ihavewrittennothingforaweek,infact.PerhapsIgavemyjournaltoDr.NashbeforeIhadtheopportunity.PerhapsIfelttherewasnoneedtowriteinmybooknowthatIhadshareditwithBen.
Iturnbacktothefrontofthejournal.Thereitis,inthesameblueink.Thosethreewords,scratchedontothepagebeneathmyname.
DON’TTRUSTBEN.
Itakeapenandcrossthemout.Backinthelivingroom,Iseethescrapbookonthetable.StilltherearenophotographsofAdam.Stillhedidnotmentionhimtomethismorning.Stillhehadnotshownmewhatisinthemetalbox.
Ithinkofmynovel—FortheMorningBirds—andthenlookatthejournalIamholding.Athoughtcomes,unbidden.WhatifImadeitallup?
Istandup.Ineedevidence.IneedalinkbetweenwhatIhavereadandwhatIamliving,asignthatthepastIhavebeenreadingaboutisnotoneIhaveinvented.
Iputthejournalinmybagandgooutofthelivingroom.Thecoatstandisthere,atthebottomofthestairs,nexttoapairofslippers.IfIgoupstairs,willIfindtheoffice,thefilingcabinet?WillIfindthegraymetalboxinthebottomdrawer,hiddenunderneaththetowel?Willthekeybeinthebottomdrawerbythebed?
And,ifitis,willIfindmyson?
Ihavetoknow.Itakethestairstwoatatime.
TheofficeissmallerthanIimaginedandeventidierthanIexpected,butthecabinetisthere,gunmetal-gray.
Inthebottomdrawerisatowel,andbeneathitabox.Igripit,preparingtoliftitout.Ifeelstupid,convinceditwillbeeitherlockedorempty.
Itisneither.Init,Ifindmynovel.NotthecopyDr.Nashhadgiventome—thereisnocoffeeringonthefront,andthepagesofthislooknew.ItmustbeoneBenhasbeenkeepingallalong.WaitingforthedaywhenIknowenoughtoownitagain.Iwonderwheremycopyis,theonethatDr.Nashgavetome.
Itakethenovelout,andunderneathitisasinglephotograph.MeandBen,smilingatthecamera,thoughwebothlooksad.Itlooksrecent,myfaceistheoneIrecognizefromthemirrorandBenlooksashedidwhenheleftthismorning.Thereisahouseinthebackground.Agraveldriveway,potsofbrightredgeraniums.Ontheback,someonehaswritten,WaringHouse.Itmusthavebeentakenonthedayhecollectedme,tobringmebackhere.
That’sit,though.Therearenootherphotographs.NoneofAdam.NoteventheonesIhavefoundherebeforeanddescribedinmyjournal.
Thereisanexplanation,Itellmyself.Therehastobe.Ilookthroughthepapersthatarepiledonthedesk:magazines,cataloguesadvertisingcomputersoftware,aschooltimetablewithsomesessionshighlightedinyellow.Thereisasealedenvelope—which,onanimpulse,Itake—buttherearenophotographsofAdam.
Igodownstairsandmakemyselfacupoftea.Boilingwater,ateabag.Don’tletitstewtoolong,anddon’tcompressthebagwiththebackofthespoonoryou’llsqueezeouttoomuchtannicacidandtheteawillbebitter.WhydoIrememberthis,yetIdon’tremembergivingbirth?Aphonerings,somewhereinthelivingroom.Iretrieveitfrommybag—nottheonethatflipsopen,buttheonethatmyhusbandgaveme—andanswerit.Ben
“Christine?Areyouokay?Areyouathome?”
“Yes,”Isay.“Yes.Thankyou.”
“Haveyoubeenouttoday?”hesays.Hisvoicesoundsfamiliar,yetsomehowcold.Ithinkbacktothelasttimewespoke.IdonotrememberhimmentioningthatIhadanappointmentwithDr.Nash.Perhapshereallydoesnotknow,Ithink.Orperhapsheistestingme,wonderingwhetherIwilltellhim.Ithinkofthenotewrittennexttotheappointment.Don’ttellBen.ImusthavewrittenthatbeforeIknewIcouldtrusthim.
Iwanttotrusthimnow.Nomorelies.
“Yes,”Isay.“I’vebeentoseeadoctor.”Hedoesn’tspeak.“Ben?”Isay.
“Sorry,yes,”hesays.“Iheard.”Iregisterhislackofsurprise.Sohehadknownthen,knownthatIwasseeingDr.Nash.“I’mintraffic,”hesays.“It’sabittricky.Listen,Ijustwantedtomakesureyou’verememberedtopack?We’regoingaway…”
“Ofcourse,”Isay,andthenIadd,“I’mlookingforwardtoit!”andIrealizeIam.Itwilldousgood,Ithink,togetaway.Itcanbeanotherbeginningforus.
“I’llbehomesoon,”hesays.“Canyoutrytohaveourbagspacked?I’llhelpwhenIgetin,butit’dbebetterifwecansetoffearly.”
“I’lltry,”Isay.
“There’retwobagsinthesparebedroom.Inthecloset.Usethose.”
“Okay.”
“Iloveyou,”hesays,andthen,afteramomenttoolong,amomentinwhichhehasalreadyendedthecall,ItellhimthatIlovehimtoo.
IGOTOthebathroom.Iamawoman,Itellmyself.Anadult.Ihaveahusband.OneIlove.IthinkbacktowhatIhaveread.Ofthesex.Ofhimfuckingme.IhadnotwrittenthatIenjoyedit.
CanIenjoysex?IrealizeIdon’tevenknowthat.Iflushthetoiletandstepoutofmytrousers,mytights,mypanties.Isitontheedgeofthebath.Howalienmybodyis.Howunknowntome.HowcanIbehappygivingittosomeoneelse,whenIdon’trecognizeitmyself?
Ilockthebathroomdoor,thenpartmylegs.Slightlyatfirst,thenmore.Iliftmyblouseandlookdown.IseethestretchmarksIsawthedayIrememberedAdam,thewiryshockofmypubichair.IwonderifIevershaveit,whetherIchoosenotto,basedonmypreferenceormyhusband’s.Perhapsthosethingsdonotmatteranymore.Notnow.
Icupmyhandandplaceitovermypubicmound.Myfingersrestonmylabia,partingthemslightly.Ibrushthetipofwhatmustbemyclitorisandpress,movingmyfingersgentlyasIdo,alreadyfeelingafainttingle.Thepromiseofsensation,ratherthansensationitself.
Iwonderwhatwillhappenlater.
Thebagsareinthespareroom,wherehesaidtheywouldbe.Botharecompact,sturdy,onealittlelargerthantheother.ItakethemintothebedroominwhichIwokethismorning,andputthemonthebed.Iopenthetopdrawerandseemyunderwear,nexttohis.
Iselectclothesforusboth,socksforhim,tightsforme.IrememberreadingofthenightwehadsexandrealizeImusthavestockingsandgarterssomewhere.Idecideitwouldbenicetofindthemnow,totakethemwithme.Itmightbegoodforbothofus.
Imovetothecloset.Ichooseadress,askirt.Sometrousers,apairofjeans.Inoticetheshoeboxonthefloor—theonethatmusthavehiddenmyjournal—nowempty.Iwonderwhatkindofcoupleweare,whenwegoonholiday.Whetherwespendoureveningsinrestaurants,orsittingincozypubs,relaxingintherosyheatofarealfire.Iwonderwhetherwewalk,exploringthetownanditssurroundings,ortaketaxistocarefullyselectedevents.ThesearethethingsIdon’tknowyet.ThesearethethingsIhavetherestofmylifetofindout.Toenjoy.
Iselectsomeclothesforbothofus,almostrandomly,andfoldthem,placingthemintothecases.AsIdo,Ifeelajolt,asurgeofenergy,andIclosemyeyes.Iseeavision,brightbutshimmering.Itisunclearatfirst,asifhovering,outofbothreachandfocus,andItrytoopenmymind,toletitcome
Iseemyselfstandinginfrontofabag;asoftsuitcaseinwornleather.Iamexcited.Ifeelyoungagain,likeachildabouttogoonholiday,orateenagerpreparingforadate,wonderinghowitwillgo,whetherhe’llaskmebacktohishouse,whetherwe’llfuck.Ifeelthatnewness,thatanticipation,cantasteit.Irollitonmytongue,savoringit,becauseIknowitwillnotlast.Iopenmydrawersinturn,selectingblouses,stockings,underwear.Thrilling.Sexy.Underwearthatiswornonlywiththeanticipationofitsremoval.IputinapairofheelsinadditiontotheflatshoesIamwearing,takethemout,puttheminagain.Idonotlikethem,butthisnightisaboutfantasy,aboutdressingup,aboutbeingotherthanwhatweare.OnlythendoImoveontothefunctionalthings.Itakeaquiltedtoiletriesbaginbrightredleatherandaddperfume,showergel,toothpaste.Iwanttolookbeautifultonight,forthemanIlove,forthemanIhavebeensoclosetolosing.Iaddbathsalts.Orangeblossom.IrealizeIamrememberingthenightIpackedtogotoBrighton.
Thememoryevaporates.Myeyesopen.Icouldnothaveknown,backthen,thatIwaspackingforthemanwhowouldtakeeverythingfromme.
IcarryonpackingforthemanIstillhave.
Ihearacarpullupoutside.Theenginedies.Adooropensandthenshuts.Akeyinthelock.Ben.Heishere.
Ifeelnervous.Scared.Iamnotthesamepersonheleftthismorning;Ihavelearnedmyownstory.Ihavediscoveredmyself.Whatwillhethinkwhenheseesme?Whatwillhesay?
Imustaskhimifheknowsaboutmyjournal.Ifhehasreadit.Whathethinks
Hecallsoutasheclosesthedoorbehindhim.“Christine?Chris?I’mhome.”Hisvoicedoesnotsing,though;hesoundsexhausted.Icallback,andtellhimIaminthebedroom.
Theloweststepcreaksasitacceptshisweight,andIhearanexhalationasfirstoneshoeisremoved,andthentheother.Hewillbeputtinghisslipperson,now,andthenhewillcometofindme.Ifeelasurgeofpleasureatknowinghisrituals—myjournalhascluedmeintothem,eventhoughmymemorycannot—but,asheascendsthestairs,anotheremotiontakesover.Fear.IthinkofwhatIwroteinthefrontofmyjournal.Don’ttrustBen.
Heopensthebedroomdoor.“Darling!”hesays.Ihavenotmoved.Istillsitontheedgeofthebed,thebagsopenbehindme.HestandsbythedooruntilIstandandopenmyarms,thenhecomesoverandkissesme.
“Howwasyourday?”Isay.
Hetakesoffhistie.“Oh,”hesays.“Let’snottalkaboutthat.We’reonholiday!”
Hebeginstounbuttonhisshirt.Ifighttheinstincttolookaway,remindmyselfthatheismyhusband,thatIlovehim.
“Ipackedthebags,”Isay.“Ihopeyoursisokay.Ididn’tknowwhatyou’dwanttotake.”
Hestepsoutofhistrousersandfoldsthembeforehangingtheminthecloset.“I’msureit’sfine.”
“OnlyIwasn’texactlysurewhereweweregoing.SoIdidn’tknowwhattopack.”
Heturns,andIwonderwhetherIcatchaflashofannoyanceinhiseyes.“I’llcheck,beforeweputthebagsinthecar.It’sfine.Thanksformakingastart.”Hesitsonthechairatthedressingtableandpullsonapairoffadedbluejeans.Inoticeaperfectcreaseironeddowntheirfront,andthetwentysomethingmehastoresisttheurgetofindhimridiculous.
“Ben?”Isay.“YouknowwhereI’vebeentoday.”
Helooksatme.“Yes,”hesays.“Iknow.”
“YouknowaboutDr.Nash?”
Heturnsawayfromme.“Yes,”hesays.“Youtoldme.”Icanseehim,reflectedinthemirrorsarrangedaroundthedresser.ThreeversionsofthemanImarried.ThemanIlove.“Everything,”hesays.“Youtoldmeaboutitall.Iknoweverything.”
“Youdon’tmind?Aboutmeseeinghim?”
Hedoesnotlookaround.“Iwishyou’dtoldme.Butno.No,Idon’tmind.”
“Andmyjournal?Youknowaboutmyjournal?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Youtoldme.Yousaidithelped.”
Athoughtcomes.“Haveyoureadit?”
“No,”hesays.“Yousaiditwasprivate.Iwouldneverlookthroughyourprivatethings.”
“ButyouknowaboutAdam?YouknowthatIknowaboutAdam?”
Iseehimflinch,asifmywordshavebeenhurledathimwithviolence.Iamsurprised.Iwasexpectinghimtobehappy.Happythathewouldnolongerhavetotellmeabouthisdeath,overandoveragain.
Helooksatme.
“Yes,”hesays.
“Therearen’tanypictures,”Isay.HeaskswhatImean.“Therearephotosofmeandyou,butstillnoneofhim.”
HestandsandcomesovertowhereIamsitting,thensitsonthebedbesideme.Hetakesmyhand.IwishhewouldstoptreatingmeasifIamfragile,brittle.Asifthetruthwouldbreakme.
“Iwantedtosurpriseyou,”hesays.Hereachesunderthebedandretrievesaphotoalbum.“I’veputtheminhere.”
Hehandsmethealbum.Itisheavy,dark,boundinsomethingmeanttoresembleblackleatherbutdoesnot.Iopenthecover,andinsideitisapileofphotographs.
“Iwantedtoputtheminproperly,”hesays.“Togivetoyouasapresenttonight,butIdidn’thavetime.I’msorry.”
Ilookthroughthephotographs.Theyarenotinanyorder.TherearephotographsofAdamasababy,ayoungboy.Theymustbetheonesfromthemetalbox.Onestandsout.Init,heisayoungman,sittingnexttoawoman.“Hisgirlfriend?”Isay.
“Oneofthem,”saysBen.“Theonehewaswiththelongest.”
Sheispretty,blond,herhaircutshort.SheremindsmeofClaire.Inthephotograph,Adamislookingdirectlyatthecamera,laughing,andsheislookinghalfathim,herfaceamixtureofjoyanddisapproval.Theyhaveaconspiratorialair,asthoughtheyhavesharedajokewithwhoeverisbehindthelens.Theyarehappy.Thethoughtpleasesme.“Whatwashername?”
“Helen.She’scalledHelen.”
IwinceasIrealizeIhadthoughtofherinthepasttense,imaginedthatshehaddied,too.Athoughtstirs;whatifshehaddiedinstead,butIforceitdownbeforeitformsandfindsashape.
“Weretheystilltogetherwhenhedied?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Theywerethinkingofgettingengaged.”
Shelookssoyoung,sohungry,hereyesfullofpossibility,ofwhatisinstoreforher.Shedoesnotyetknowtheimpossibleamountofpainshestillhastoface.
“I’dliketomeether,”Isay.Bentakesthepicturefromme.Hesighs.
“We’renotintouch,”hesays.
“Why?”Isay.Ihaditplannedinmyhead;wewouldbeasupporttoeachother.Wewouldsharesomething,anunderstanding,alovethatpiercedallothers,ifnotforeachotherthenatleastforthethingwehadlost.
“Therewerearguments,”hesays.“Difficulties.”
Ilookathim.Icanseethathedoesnotwanttotellme.Themanwhowrotetheletter,themanwhobelievedinmeandcaredforme,andwho,intheend,lovedmeenoughbothtoleavemeandthentocomebackforme,seemstohavevanished.
“Ben?”
“Therewerearguments,”hesays.
“BeforeAdamdied,orafter?”
“Both.”
Theillusionofsupportvanishes,replacedbyasickfeeling.WhatifAdamandIhadfought,too?Surelyhewouldhavesidedwithhisgirlfriend,overhismother?
“WereAdamandIclose?”Isay.
“Ohyes,”saysBen.“Untilyouhadtogotothehospital.Untilyoulostyourmemory.Eventhenyouwereclose,ofcourse.Ascloseasyoucouldbe.”
Hiswordshitmelikeapunch.IrealizethatAdamwasatoddlerwhenhelosthismothertoamnesia.OfcourseIhadneverknownmyson’sfiancée;everydayIsawhimwouldhavebeenlikethefirst.
Iclosethebook.
“Canwebringitwithus?”Isay.“I’dliketolookatitsomemorelater.”
WEHAVECUPSofteathatBenmadeinthekitchenasIfinishedpackingforthejourney,andthenwegetintothecar.IcheckthatIhavemyhandbag,myjournalstillwithinit.BenhasaddedafewthingstothebagIpackedforhim,andhehasbroughtanotherbag,too—theleathersatchelthatheleftwiththismorning—aswellastwopairsofwalkingbootsfromthebackofthecloset.Ihadstoodbythedoorasheloadedthesethingsintothetrunkandthenwaitedwhilehecheckedthedoorswereclosed,thewindowslocked.Now,Iaskhimhowlongthejourneymighttake.
Heshrugs.“Dependsonthetraffic,”hesays.“Nottoolong,oncewe’reoutofLondon.”
Arefusaltoprovideananswer,disguisedasanansweritself.Iwonderifthisiswhatheisalwayslike.Iwonderifyearsoftellingmethesamethinghavewornhimdown,boredhimtothepointwherehecannolongerbringhimselftotellmeanything.
Heisacarefuldriver,thatmuchIcansee.Heproceedsslowly,checkinghismirrorfrequently,slowingdownatthemeresthintofanapproachinghazard.
IwonderifAdamdrove.Isupposehemusthavedonesotobeinthearmy,butdidheeverdrivewhenhewasonleave?Didhepickmeup,hisinvalidmother,andtakemeontrips,toplaceshethoughtImightlike?Ordidhedecidetherewasnopoint,thatwhateverenjoymentImighthavehadatthetimewoulddisappearovernightlikesnowmeltingonawarmroof?
Weareonthehighway,headingoutofthecity.Ithasbeguntorain;hugedropletssmackintothewindshield,holdtheirshapeforamomentbeforebeginningtheswiftslidedowntheglass.Inthedistancethelightsofthecitybathetheconcreteandglassinasoftorangeglow.Itisbeautifulandterrible,butIamstrugglinginside.Iwantsomuchtothinkofmysonassomethingotherthanabstract,butwithoutaconcretememoryofhim,Icannot.Ikeepcomingbacktothesingletruth:Icannotrememberhim,andsohemightaswellhaveneverexisted.
Iclosemyeyes.IthinkbacktowhatIreadaboutoursonthisafternoonandanimageexplodesinfrontofme—Adamasatoddlerpushingthebluetricyclealongapath.ButevenasImarvelatit,Iknowitisnotreal.IknowIamnotrememberingthethingthathappened,IamrememberingtheimageIformedinmymindthisafternoonasIreadaboutthething,andeventhatwasarecollectionofanearliermemory.Memoriesofmemories,mostpeople’sgoingbackthroughyears,throughdecades,but,forme,justafewhours.
Failingtoremembermyson,Idothenextbestthing,theonlythingtoquietmysparkingmind.Ithinkofnothing.Nothingatall.
Thesmellofgasoline,thickandsweet.Thereisapaininmyneck.Iopenmyeyes.Upclose,Iseethewetwindshield,mistedwithmybreath,andbeyondittherearedistantlights,blurred,outoffocus.IrealizethatIhavebeendozing.Iamleaningagainsttheglass,myheadtwistedawkwardly.Thecarissilent,theengineoff.Ilookovermyshoulder.
Benisthere,sittingnexttome.Heisawake,lookingahead,outofthewindow.Hedoesnotmove,doesnotevenseemtohavenoticedthatIhavewokenup,butinsteadcontinuestostare,hisexpressionblank,unreadableinthedark.Iturntoseewhatheislookingat.
Beyondtherain-spatteredwindshieldisthehoodofthecar,andbeyondthatalowwoodenfence,dimlyilluminatedintheglowfromthestreetlampsbehindus.Beyondthefence,Iseenothing,ablackness,hugeandmysterious,inthemiddleofwhichhangsthemoon,fullandlow.
“Ilovethesea,”hesays,withoutlookingatme,andIrealizeweareparkedonaclifftop,havemadeitasfarasthecoast.
“Don’tyou?”Heturnstome.Hiseyesseemimpossiblysad.“Youdolovethesea,don’tyou,Chris?”hesays.
“Ido,”Isay.“Yes.”Heisspeakingasifhedoesnotknow,asifwehaveneverbeentothecoastbefore,asifwehaveneverbeenonholidaytogether.Fearbeginstoburnwithinme,butIresistit.Itrytostayhere,inthepresent,withmyhusband.ItrytorememberallthatIlearnedfrommyjournalthisafternoon.“Youknowthat,darling.”
Hesighs.“Iknow.Youalwaysusedto,butIjustdon’tknowanymore.Youchange.You’vechanged,overtheyears.Eversincewhathappened.SometimesIdon’tknowwhoyouare.IwakeupeachdayandIdon’tknowhowyou’regoingtobe.”
Iamsilent.Icanthinkofnothingtosay.Webothknowhowsenselessitwouldbeformetotrytodefendmyself,totellhimthatheiswrong.WebothknowthatIamthelastpersonwhoknowshowmuchIchangefromdaytoday.
“I’msorry,”Isay.
Helooksatme.“Oh.It’sallright.Youdon’tneedtoapologize.Iknowit’snotyourfault.Noneofthisisyourfault.I’mbeingunfair,Isuppose.Thinkingofmyself.”
Helooksbackouttosea.Thereisasinglelightinthedistance.Aboat,onthewaves.Lightinaseaoftreaclyblackness.Benspeaks.“We’llbeallright,won’twe,Chris?”
“Ofcourse,”Isay.“Ofcoursewewill.Thisisanewbeginningforus.Ihavemyjournalnow,andDr.Nashwillhelpme.I’mgettingbetter,Ben.IknowIam.IthinkI’mgoingtostartwritingagain.There’snoreasonnotto.Ishouldbefine.Andanyway,I’mintouchwithClairenow,andshecanhelpme.”Anideacomestome.“Wecanallgettogether,don’tyouthink?Justlikeoldtimes?Justlikeatuniversity?Thethreeofus.Andherhusband,Isuppose—Ithinkshesaidshehadahusband.Wecanallmeetupandspendtimetogether.It’llbefine.”MymindfixesontheliesIhaveread,onallthewaysIhavenotbeenabletotrusthim,butIforceitaway.Iremindmyselfthatallthathasbeenresolved.Itismyturntobestrongnow.Tobepositive.“Aslongaswepromisetoalwaysbehonestwitheachother,”Isay.“Theneverythingisgoingtobeokay.”
Heturnsbacktofaceme.“Youdoloveme,don’tyou?”
“Ofcourse.OfcourseIdo.”
“Andyouforgiveme?Forleavingyou?Ididn’twantto.Ihadnochoice.I’msorry.”
Itakehishand.Itfeelsbothwarmandcoldatthesametime,slightlydamp.Itrytoholditbetweenmyhands,butheneitherassistsnorresistsmyaction.Instead,hishandrests,lifeless,onhisknee.Isqueezeit,andonlythendoesheseemtonoticethatIamholdinghim.
“Ben.Iunderstand.Iforgiveyou.”Ilookintohiseyes.They,too,seemdullandlifeless,asiftheyhaveseensomuchhorroralreadythattheycannotcopewithanymore.
“Iloveyou,Ben,”Isay.
Hisvoicedropstoawhisper.“Kissme.”
Idoasheasks,andthen,whenIhavedrawnback,hewhispers,“Again.Kissmeagain.”
Ikisshimasecondtime.But,eventhoughheasksmeto,Icannotkisshimathird.Insteadwegazeoutoverthesea,atthemoonlightonthewater,atthedropsofrainonthewindshieldreflectingbacktheyellowglowfromtheheadlightsofpassingcars.Justthetwoofus,holdinghands.Together.
Wesitthereforwhatfeelslikehours.Benisbesideme,staringouttosea.Hescansthewater,asiflookingforsomething,someanswerinthedark,andhedoesnotspeak.Iwonderwhyhehasbroughtushere,whatheishopingtofind.
“Isitreallyouranniversary?”Isay.Thereisnoanswer.Hedoesnotappeartohaveheardme,andsoIsayitagain.
“Yes,”herepliessoftly.
“Ourweddinganniversary?”
“No,”hesays.“It’stheanniversaryofthenightwemet.”
Iwanttoaskhimwhetherwearesupposedtobecelebrating,andtotellhimthatitdoesn’tfeellikeacelebration,butitseemscruel.
Thebusyroadbehindushasquieted,themoonisrisinghighinthesky.Ibegintoworrythatwewillstayoutallnight,lookingattheseawhiletherainfallsaroundus.Iaffectayawn.
“I’msleepy,”Isay.“Canwegotoourhotel?”
Helooksathiswatch.“Yes,”hesays.“Ofcourse.Sorry.Yes.”Hestartsthecar.“We’llgothererightnow.”
Iamrelieved.Iambothcravingsleepanddreadingit.
Thecoastroaddipsandrisesasweskirttheedgesofavillage.Thelightsofanother,largertownbegintodrawnearer,tighteningintofocusthroughthedampglass.Theroadbecomesbusier,amarinaappears,withitsmooredboatsandshopsandnightclubs,andthenweareinthetownitself.Onourright,everybuildingseemstobeahotel,advertisingvacanciesonwhitesignsthatblowinthewind.Thestreetsarebusy;itisnotaslateasIhadthought,orelsethisisthekindoftownthatisalivenightandday.
Ilookouttosea.Apierjutsintothewater,floodedwithlightandwithanamusementparkatitsend.Icanseeadomedpavilion,arollercoaster.Icanalmosthearthewhoopsandcriesoftheridersastheyarespunabovethepitch-blacksea.
AnanxietyIcannotnamebeginstoforminmychest.
“Wherearewe?”Isay.Therearewordsovertheentrancetothepier,pickedoutinbrightwhitelights,butIcannotmakethemoutthroughtherain-washedwindshield.
“We’rehere,”saysBen,asweturnupasidestreetandstopoutsideaterracedhouse.Thereisletteringonthecanopyoverthedoor.RIALTOGUESTHOUSE,itsays.
Therearestepsuptothefrontdoor,anornatefenceseparatingthebuildingfromtheroad.Besidethedoorisasmall,crackedpotthatwouldoncehaveheldashrubbutisnowempty.Iamgrippedwithanintensefear.
“Havewebeenherebefore?”Isay.Heshakeshishead.“You’resure?Itlooksfamiliar.”
“I’mcertain,”hesays.“Wemighthavestayedsomewherenearhere,once.You’reprobablyrememberingthat.”
Itrytorelax.Wegetoutofthecar.Thereisabarnexttotheguesthouse,andthroughitslargewindowsIcanseethrongsofdrinkersandadancefloor,pulsingattheback.Musicthuds,muffledbytheglass.“We’llcheckin,andthenI’llcomebackfortheluggage.Okay?”
Ipullmycoattightaroundme.Thewindiscoldnow,andtherainheavy.Irushupthestepsandopenthefrontdoor.Thereisasigntapedtotheglass.NOVACANCIES.Igothroughandintothelobby.
“You’vebooked?”Isay,whenBenjoinsme.Wearestandinginahallway.Fartherdown,adoorisajar,andfrombehinditcomesthesoundofatelevision,itsvolumeturnedup,competingwiththemusicnextdoor.Thereisnoreceptiondesk,butinsteadabellsitsonasmalltable,asignnexttoitinvitingustoringittoattractattention.
“Yes,ofcourse,”saysBen.“Don’tworry.”Heringsthebell.
Foramoment,nothinghappens,andthenayoungmancomesfromaroomsomewhereatthebackofthehouse.Heistallandawkward,andInoticethat,despiteitbeingfartoobigforhisframe,hisshirtisuntucked.Hegreetsusasthoughhewasexpectingus,thoughnotwarmly,andIwaitwhileheandBencompletetheformalities.
Itisclearthehotelhasseenbetterdays.Thecarpetisthreadbareinplaces,andthepaintworkaroundthedoorwaysscuffedandmarked.Oppositetheloungeisanotherdoor,markedDININGROOM,andatthebackareseveralmoredoors,beyondwhich,Iimagine,onewouldfindthekitchenandprivateroomsofthestaff.
“I’lltakeyoutotheroom,now,shallI?”saysthetallmanwhenheandBenhavefinished.Irealizeheistalkingtome;Benisonhiswaybackoutside,presumablytogetthebags.
“Yes,”Isay.“Thankyou.”
Hehandsmeakeyandwegoupthestairs.Onthefirstlandingareseveralbedrooms,butwewalkpastthemandupanotherflightofstairs.Thehouseseemstoshrinkaswegohigher;theceilingsarelower,thewallscloser.Wepassanotherbedroomandthenstandatthebottomofafinalflightofstairsthatmustleadtotheverytopofthehouse
“Yourroomisupthere,”hesays.“It’stheonlyone.”
Ithankhim,andthenheturnsandgoesbackdownstairsandIclimbtoourroom.
Iopenthedoor.Theroomisdark,andbiggerthanIwasexpecting,uphereatthetopofthehouse.Icanseeawindowopposite,andthroughitadimgraylightisshining,pickingouttheoutlineofadressingtable,abed,atable,andanarmchair.Themusicfromtheclubnextdoorthuds,strippedofitsclarity,reducedtoadull,crunchingbass.
Istandstill.Fearhasgrippedmeagain.ThesamefearthatIexperiencedoutsidetheguesthouse,butworse,somehow.Igocold.Somethingiswrong,butIcannotsaywhat.Ibreathedeeplybutcannotgetenoughairintomylungs.IfeelasifIamabouttodrown.
Iclosemyeyes,asifhopingtheroomwilllookdifferentwhenIopenthem,butitdoesnot.IamfilledwithanoverwhelmingterrorofwhatwillhappenwhenIswitchonthelight,asifthatsimpleactionwillspelldisaster,theendofeverything.
WhatwillhappenifIleavetheroomshroudedinblacknessandinsteadgobackdownstairs?Icouldwalkcalmlypastthetallman,andalongthecorridor,pastBenifnecessary,andout,outofthehotel.
ButtheywouldthinkIhadgonemad,ofcourse.Theywouldfindme,andbringmeback.AndwhatwouldItellthem?Thatthewomanwhoremembersnothinghadafeelingshedidn’tlike,aninkling?Theywouldthinkmeridiculous.
Iamwithmyhusband.Ihavecomeheretobereconciledwithhim.IamsafewithBen.
Andso,Iswitchonthelight.
Thereisaflashasmyeyesadjust,andthenIseetheroom.Itisunimpressive.Thereisnothingtobefrightenedof.Thecarpetisamushroom-gray;thecurtainsandwallpaperbothinafloralpattern,thoughtheydon’tmatch.Thedresserisbattered,withthreemirrorsonitandafadedpaintingofabirdaboveit;thearmchairwicker,withyetanotherfloralpatternonthecushion;andthebedcoveredwithanorangebedspread,patternedwithadiamonddesign.
Icanseehowdisappointingitwouldbetosomeonewhohasbookeditfortheirholiday,but,thoughBenhasbookeditforours,itisnotdisappointmentthatIfeel.Thefearhasburneditselfdowntodread.
Iclosethedoorbehindmeandtrytocalmmyself.Iambeingstupid.Paranoid.Imustkeepbusy.Dosomething.
Itfeelscoldintheroom,andaslightdraftwaftsthecurtains.Thewindowisopen,andIgoovertocloseit.IlookoutbeforeIdo.Wearehighup;thestreetlampsarefarbelowus;seagullssitsilentlyuponthem.Ilookoutacrosstherooftops,seethecoolmoonhanginginthesky,andinthedistance—thesea.Icanmakeoutthepier,theflashinglights.
AndthenIseethem.Thewords,overtheentrancetothepier.
BRIGHTONPIER.
Despitethecold,andeventhoughIshiver,Ifeelabeadofsweatformonmybrow.Nowitmakessense.Benhasbroughtmehere,toBrighton,totheplaceofmydisaster.Butwhy?DoeshethinkIammorelikelytorememberwhathappenedifIambackinthetowninwhichmylifewasrippedfromme?DoeshethinkthatIwillrememberwhodidthistome?
IrememberreadingthatDr.NashhadoncesuggestedIcomehere,andIhadtoldhimno.
Therearefootstepsonthestairs,voices.ThetallmanmustbebringingBenhere,toourroom.Theywillbecarryingtheluggagetogether,liftingitupthestairsandaroundthetrickylandings.Hewillbeheresoon.
WhatshouldItellhim?Thatheiswrongandbeingherewillnothelp?ThatIwanttogohome?
Igobacktowardthedoor.Iwillhelptobringthebagsinside,andthenIwillunpackthem,andwewillsleep,andthentomorrow—
Ithitsme.TomorrowIwillknownothingagain.ThatmustbewhatBenhasinhissatchel.Photographs.Thescrapbook.Hewillhavetouseeverythinghehastoexplainwhoheisandwhereweare,alloveragain.
IwonderifIhavebroughtmyjournal,thenrememberpackingit,puttingitinmybag.Itrytocalmmyself.TonightIwillputitunderthepillow,andtomorrowIwillfinditandreadit.Everythingwillbefine.
IcanhearBenonthelanding.Heistalkingtothetallman,discussingarrangementsforbreakfast.“We’dprobablylikeitinourroom,”Ihearhimsay.Agullcriesoutsidethewindow,startlingme.
Igotowardthedoor,andthenIseeit.Tomyright.Abathroom;thedoorisopen.Abath,atoilet,asink.Butitisthefloorthatdrawsme,fillsmewithhorror.Itistiled,andthepatternisunusual;blackandwhitealternateincrazeddiagonals.
Myjawopens.Ifeelmyselfgocold.IthinkIhearmyselfcryout.
Iknow,then.Irecognizethepattern.
ItisnotonlyBrightonthatIhaverecognized.
Ihavebeenherebefore.Inthisroom.
Thedooropens.IsaynothingasBencomesin,butmymindspins.IsthistheroominwhichIwasattacked?Whydidn’thetellmewewerecominghere?Howcanhegofromnotevenwantingtotellmeabouttheassaulttobringingmetotheroominwhichithappened?
Icanseethetallmanstandingjustoutsidethedoor,andIwanttocallouttohim,toaskhimtostay,butheturnstoleaveandBenclosesthedoor.Itisjustthetwoofus,now.
Helooksatme.“Areyouallright,love?”hesays.Inodandsayyes,butthewordfeelsasthoughithasbeenforcedoutofme.Ifeelthestirringsofhateinmystomach.
Hetakesmyarm.Heissqueezingthefleshjustalittletootightly;anymoreandIwouldsaysomething,anylessandIdoubtthatIwouldnotice.“You’resure?”
“Yes,”Isay.Whyishedoingthis?Hemustknowwhereweare,whatthismeans.Allalonghemusthavebeenplanningthis.“Yes,I’mfine.Ijustfeelalittletired.”
Andthenithitsme.Dr.Nash.Hemusthavesomethingtodowiththis.Otherwise,whywouldBen—afteralltheseyears,whenhecouldhavebutdidnot—decidetobringmeherenow?
Theymusthavebeenincontact.PerhapsBencalledhim,afterItoldhimallaboutourmeetings.Perhapssometimeduringthelastweek—theweekIknownothingabout—they’dplanneditall.
“Whydon’tyouliedown?”saysBen.
Ihearmyselfspeak.“IthinkIwill.”Iturntowardthebed.Perhapsthey’dbeenintouchallalong?Dr.Nashmighthavebeenlyingabouteverything.Ipicturehim,dialingBenafterhe’dsaidgood-byetome,tellinghimaboutmyprogress,orlackofit.
“Goodgirl,”saysBen.“Imeanttobringchampagne.IthinkI’llgoandgetsome.There’sashop,Ithink.It’snotfar.”Hesmiles.“ThenI’lljoinyou.”
Iturntofacehim,andhekissesme.Now,here,hiskisslingers.Hebrushesmylipswithhis,putshishandinmyhair,strokesmyback.Ifighttheurgetopullaway.Hishandmoveslower,downmyback,comingtorestonthetopofmybuttock.Iswallowhard.
Icannottrustanybody.Notmyhusband.Notthemanwhohasclaimedtobehelpingme.Theyhavebeenworkingtogether,buildingtothisday,thedaywhen,clearly,theyhavedecidedIamtofacethehorrorinmypast.
Howdarethey!Ithink.Howdarethey!
“Okay,”Isay.Iturnmyheadawayslightly,pushhimgentlysothatheletsmego.
Heturnsandleavestheroom.“I’lljustlockthedoor,”hesays,asheclosesitbehindhim.“Youcan’tbetoocareful…”Ihearthekeyturninthedooroutside,andIbegintopanic.Ishereallygoingtobuychampagne?OrishemeetingDr.Nash?Icannotbelievehehasbroughtmetothisroomwithouttellingme;anotherlietogowithalltheothers.Ihearhimgodownthestairs.
Wringingmyhands,Isitontheedgeofthebed.Icannotcalmmymind,cannotsettleonjustonethought.Instead,thoughtsrace,asif,inaminddevoidofmemory,eachideahastoomuchspacetogrowandmove,tocollidewithothersinashowerofsparksbeforespinningoffintoitsowndistance.
Istandup.Ifeelenraged.Icannotfacethethoughtofhimcomingback,pouringchampagne,gettingintobedwithme.NeithercanIfacethethoughtofhisskinnexttomine,orhishandsonmeinthenight,pawingatme,pressingme,encouragingmetogivemyselftohim.HowcanI,whenthereisnometogive?
Iwoulddoanything,Ithink.Anythingexceptforthat.
Icannotstayhere,inthisplacewheremylifewasruinedandeverythingtakenawayfromme.ItrytoworkouthowmuchtimeIhave.Tenminutes?Five?IgoovertoBen’sbagandopenit.Idon’tknowwhy;Iamnotthinkingofwhy,orhow,onlythatImustmove,whileBenisaway,beforehereturnsandthingschangeagain.PerhapsIintendtofindthecarkeys,toforcethedoorandgodownstairs,outintotherainystreet,tothecar.AlthoughI’mnotevencertainIcandrive,perhapsImeantotry,togetinandgofar,faraway.
OrperhapsImeantofindapictureofAdam;Iknowthey’reinthere.Iwilltakejustone,andthenIwillleavetheroom,andrun.Iwillrunandrun,andthen,whenIcanrunnomore,IwillcallClaire,oranybody,andIwilltellthemthatIcannottakeitanymore,andbegthemtohelpme.
Idigmyhandsdeepinthebag.Ifeelmetalandplastic.Somethingsoft.Andthenanenvelope.Itakeitout,thinkingitmightcontainphotographs,andseethatitistheoneIfoundintheofficeathome.ImusthaveputitinBen’sbagasIpacked,intendingtoremindhimithadnotbeenopened.IturnitoverandseethatPrivatehasbeenwrittenonthefront.Withoutthinking,Itearitopenandremoveitscontents.
Paper.Pagesandpages.Irecognizeit.Thefaintbluelines,theredmargins.Thesepagesarethesameasthoseinmyjournal,inthebookthatIhavebeenwriting.
AndthenIseemyownhandwritingandbegintounderstand.
Ihavenotreadallofmystory.Thereismore.Pagesandpagesmore.
Ifindmyjournalinmybag.Ihadnotnoticedbefore,butafterthefinalpageofwriting,awholesectionhasbeenremoved.Thepageshavebeenexcisedneatly,cutwithascalpelorarazorblade,closetothespine.
CutoutbyBen.
Isitonthefloor,thepagesspreadinfrontofme.Thisisthemissingweekofmylife.Ireadtherestofmystory
THEFIRSTENTRYisdated.Friday,November23,itsaysThesamedayImetClaire.Imusthavewrittenitthatevening,afterspeakingtoBen.PerhapswehadhadtheconversationIwasanticipating,afterall.Isithere,itbegins,
onthefloorofthebathroom,inthehouseinwhich,supposedly,Iwakeupeverymorning.Ihavethisjournalinfrontofme,thispeninmyhand.Iwrite,becauseit’sallIcanthinkoftodo.Tissuesareballedaroundme,soakedwithtears,andblood.WhenIblink,myvisionturnsred.BlooddripsintomyeyeasfastasIcanwipeitawayWhenIlookinthemirror,Icanseethattheskinabovemyeyeiscut,andmylip,too.WhenIswallow,Itastethemetallictangofblood.Iwanttosleep.Tofindasafeplace,somewhere,andclosemyeyes,andrest,likeananimal.ThatiswhatIam.Ananimal.Livingfrommomenttomoment,daytoday,tryingtomakesenseoftheworldinwhichIfindmyself.
Myheartraces.Ireadbackovertheparagraph,myeyesdrawnagainandagaintothewordblood.Whathadhappened?
Ibegintoreadquickly,mymindstumblingoverwords,lurchingfromlinetoline.Idon’tknowwhenBenwillgetbackandcannotriskhimtakingthesepagesbeforeIhavereadthem.Nowmaybemyonlychance.
I’ddecideditwasbesttospeaktohimafterdinner.Weateintheden—roastbeefandmashedpotatoes,ourplatesbalancedonourknees—andwhenwehadbothfinished,Iaskedifhewouldturnthetelevisionoff.Heseemedreluctant.“Ineedtotalktoyou,”Isaid.Theroomfelttooquiet,filledonlywiththetickingoftheclockandthedistanthumofthecity.Andmyvoice,soundinghollowandempty.“Darling,”saidBen,puttinghisplateonthecoffeetablebetweenus.Ahalf-chewedlumpofmeatsatonthesideoftheplate,peasfloatedinthingravy.“Iseverythingokay?”“Yes,”Isaid.“Everything’sfine.”Ididnotknowhowtocontinue.Helookedatme,hiseyeswide,waiting.“Youdoloveme,don’tyou?”Isaid.IfeltalmostasifIwasgatheringevidence,insuringmyselfagainstanylaterdisapproval.“Yes,”hesaid.“Ofcourse.What’sthisabout?What’swrong?”“Ben,”Isaid.“Iloveyou,too.AndIunderstandyourreasonsfordoingwhatyou’vebeendoing,butIknowyou’vebeenlyingtome.”AlmostassoonasIfinishedthesentence,Iregrettedstartingit.Isawhimflinch.Helookedatme,hislipspulledbackasiftospeak,hiseyeswounded.“Whatdoyoumean?”hesaid.“Darling—”Ihadtocontinuenow.TherewasnowayoutofthestreamintowhichIhadbeguntowade.“Iknowyou’vebeendoingittoprotectme,nottellingmethings,butitcan’tgoon.Ineedtoknow.”“Whatdoyoumean?”hesaid.“Ihaven’tbeenlyingtoyou.”Ifeltasurgeofanger.“Ben,”Isaid.“IknowaboutAdam.”Hisfacechanged,then.Isawhimswallowandlookaway,towardthecorneroftheroom.Hebrushedsomethingoffthearmofhispullover.“What?”“Adam,”Isaid.“Iknowwehadason.”Ihalf-expectedhimtoaskmehowIknew,butthenrealizedthisconversationwasnotunusual.Wehavebeenherebefore,onthedayIsawmynovel,andotherdayswhenIhaverememberedAdam,too.Isawhewasabouttospeak,butdidn’twanttohearanymorelies.“IknowhediedinAfghanistan,”Isaid.Hismouthshut,thenopenedagain,almostcomically.“Howdoyouknowthat?”“Youtoldme,”Isaid.“Weeksago.Youwereeatingacookie,andIwasinthebathroom.IcamedownstairsandtoldyouthatIhadrememberedwehadhadason,evenrememberedwhathewascalled,andthenwesatdownandyoutoldmehowhe’dbeenkilled.Youshowedmesomephotographs,fromupstairs.Photosofmeandhim,andlettersthathe’dwritten.AlettertoSantaClaus—”Griefwashedovermeagain.Istoppedtalking.Benwasstaringatme.“Youremembered?How—?”“I’vebeenwritingthingsdown.Forafewweeks.AsmuchasIcanremember.”“Where?”hesaid.Hehadbeguntoraisehisvoice,asifinanger,thoughIdidnotunderstandwhathemightbeangryabout.“Wherehaveyoubeenwritingthingsdown?Idon’tunderstand,Christine.Wherehaveyoubeenwritingthingsdown?”“I’vebeenkeepinganotebook.”“Anotebook?”Thewayhesaiditmadeitsoundsotrivial,asifIhavebeenusingittowriteshoppinglistsandrecordphonenumbers.“Ajournal,”Isaid.Heshiftedforwardinhischair,asifhewasabouttogetup.“Ajournal?Forhowlong?”“Idon’tknow,exactly.Acoupleofweeks?”“CanIseeit?”Ifeltpetulantandangry.Iwasdeterminednottoshowittohim.“No,”Isaid.“Notyet.”Hewasfurious.“Whereisit?Showittome.”“Ben.It’spersonal.”Heshotthewordbackatme.“Personal?Whatdoyoumean,personal?”“Imeanit’sprivate.Iwouldn’tfeelcomfortablewithyoureadingit.”“Whynot?”hesaid.“Haveyouwrittenaboutme?”“OfcourseIhave.”“Whathaveyouwritten?Whathaveyousaid?”Howtoanswerthat?IthoughtofallthewaysIhavebetrayedhim.ThethingsIhavesaidtoDr.Nash,andthoughtabouthim.ThewaysinwhichIhavedistrustedmyhusband,thethingsIhavethoughthimcapableof.IthoughtoftheliesIhavetold,thedaysIhaveseenDr.Nash—andClaire—andtoldhimnothing.“Lotsofthings,Ben.I’vewrittenlotsofthings.”“Butwhy?Whyhaveyoubeenwritingthingsdown?”Icouldnotbelievehehadtoaskmethatquestion.“Iwanttomakesenseofmylife,”Isaid.“Iwanttobeabletolinkonedaytothenext,likeyoucan.Likeanybodycan.”“Butwhy?Areyouunhappy?Don’tyoulovemeanymore?Don’tyouwanttobewithme,here?”Thequestionthrewme.WhydidhefeelthatwantingtomakesenseofmyfracturedlifemeantthatIwantedtochangeitinsomeway?“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Whatishappiness?I’mhappywhenIwakeup,Ithink,thoughifthismorningisanythingtogoby,I’mconfused.ButI’mnothappywhenIlookinthemirrorandseethatI’mtwentyyearsolderthanIwasexpecting,thatIhavegrayhairsandlinesaroundmyeyes.I’mnothappywhenIrealizethatallthoseyearshavebeenlost,takenfromme.So,IsupposealotofthetimeI’mnothappy,no.Butit’snotyourfault.I’mhappywithyou.Iloveyou.Ineedyou.”Hecameandsatnexttome,then.Hisvoicesoftened.“I’msorry,”hesaid.“Ihatethefactthateverythingwasruined,justbecauseofthatcaraccident.”Ifeltangerriseinmeagain,butclampeditdown.Ihadnorighttobeangrywithhim;hedidnotknowwhatIhadlearnedandwhatIhadn’t.“Ben,”Isaid.“Iknowwhathappened.Iknowitwasn’tacaraccident.IknowIwasattacked.”Hedidnotmove.Helookedatme,hiseyesexpressionless.Ithoughthehadn’theardme,andthenhesaid,“Whatattack?”Iraisedmyvoice.“Ben!”Isaid.“Stopit!”Icouldnothelpit.IhadtoldhimIwaskeepingajournal,toldhimIwaspiecingtogetherthedetailsofmystory,andyetherehewas,stillpreparedtolietomewhenitwasobviousIknewthetruth.“Don’tkeepfuckinglyingtome!Iknowtherewasnocaraccident.Iknowwhathappenedtome.There’snopointintryingtopretenditwasanythingotherthanwhatitwas.Denyingitdoesn’tgetusanywhere.Youhavetostoplyingtome!”Hestoodup.Helookedhuge,raisedaboveme,blockingmyvision.“Whotoldyou?”hesaid.“Who?WasitthatbitchClaire?Didshegoshootingheruglyfatmouthoff,tellingyoulies?Interferingwheresheisn’twanted?”“Ben—”Ibegan.“She’salwayshatedme.She’ddoanythingtopoisonyouagainstme.Anything!She’slying,mydarling.She’slying!”“Itwasn’tClaire,”Isaid.Ibowedmyhead.“Itwassomebodyelse.”“Who?”heshouted.“Who?”“I’vebeenseeingadoctor,”Iwhispered.“We’vebeentalking.Hetoldme.”Hewasperfectlymotionless,apartfromthethumbofhisrighthand,whichwastracingslowcirclesontheknuckleofhisleft.Icouldfeelthewarmthofhisbody,heartheslowdrawinginofhisbreath,thehold,therelease.Whenhespoke,hisvoicewassolowIstruggledtomakeoutthewords.“Whatdoyoumean,adoctor?”“HisnameisDr.Nash.Apparently,hecontactedmeafewweeksago.”EvenasIsaidit,IfeltlikeIwasn’ttellingmyownstorybutthatofsomeoneelse.“Sayingwhat?”Itriedtoremember.HadIwrittenaboutourfirstconversation?“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkIwrotedownwhathesaid.”“Andheencouragedyoutowritethingsdown?”“Yes.”“Why?”hesaid.“Iwanttogetbetter,Ben.”“Andisitworking?Whathaveyoubeendoing?Hashebeengivingyoudrugs?”“No,”Isaid.“We’vebeendoingsometests,someexercises.Ihadascan—”Thethumbstoppedmoving.Heturnedtofaceme.“Ascan?”Hisvoicewaslouderagain.“Yes.AnMRI.Hesaiditmighthelp.Theydidn’treallyhavethemwhenIwasfirstill.Ortheyweren’tassophisticatedastheyarenow—”“Where?Wherehaveyoubeendoingthesetests?Tellme!”Iwasstartingtofeelconfused.“Inhisoffice,”Isaid.“InLondon.Thescanwasthere,too.Idon’trememberexactly.”“Howhaveyoubeengettingthere?Howdidsomeonelikeyougettoadoctor’soffice?”Hisvoicewaspinchedandurgent,now.“How?”Itriedtospeakcalmly.“He’sbeencollectingmefromhere,”Isaid.“Anddrivingme—”Disappointmentflashedonhisface,andthenanger.Ihadneverwantedtheconversationtogolikethis,neverintendedittobecomedifficult.Ineededtotryandexplainthingstohim.“Ben—”Ibegan.WhathappenednextwasnotwhatIwasexpecting.AdullmoanbeganinBen’sthroat,somewheredeep.Itbuiltquicklyuntil,unabletoholditinanymore,heletoutaterriblescreech,likenailsonglass.“Ben!”Isaid.“What’swrong?”Heturnedaround,staggeringashedidso,avertinghisfacefromme.Iworriedhewashavingsomekindofattack.Istoodupandputmyhandoutforhimtoholdonto.“Ben!”Isaidagain,butheignoredit,steadyinghimselfagainstthewall.Whenheturnedbacktome,hisfacewasbrightred,hiseyeswide.Icouldseethatspittlehadgatheredatthecornersofhismouth.Itlookedasthoughhehadputonsomekindofgrotesquemask,sodistortedwerehisfeatures.“Youstupidfuckingbitch,”hesaid,movingupagainstmeashedidso.Iflinched.Hisfacewasjustinchesfrommine.“Howlonghasthisbeengoingon?”“I—”“Tellme!Tellme,youslut.Howlong?”“Nothing’sgoingon!”Isaid.Fearwelledwithinme,risingup.Itdidaslowrollonthesurfaceandthensankbeneath.“Nothing!”Isaidagain.Icouldsmellthefoodonhisbreath.Meatandonion.Spittleflew,strikingmeintheface,thelips.Icouldtastehiswarm,wetanger.“You’resleepingwithhim.Don’tlietome.”ThebacksofmylegspressedagainsttheedgeofthesofaandItriedtomovealongit,togetawayfromhim,buthegrabbedmyshouldersandshookthem.“You’vealwaysbeenthesame,”hesaid.“Astupidlyingbitch.Idon’tknowwhatmademethinkyou’dbeanydifferentwithme.Whathaveyoubeendoing,eh?SneakingoffwhileI’vebeenatwork?Orhaveyoubeenhavinghimoverhere?Ormaybeyou’vebeendoingitinacar,parkedupontheheath?”Ifelthishandsgriptight,hisfingersandnailsdiggingintomyskineventhroughthecottonofmyblouse.“You’rehurtingme!”Ishouted,hopingtoshockhimoutofhisrage.“Ben!Stopit!”Hestoppedshakingandloosenedhisgripafraction.Itdidnotseempossiblethatthemangrippingmyshoulders,hisfaceamixtureofrageandhate,couldbethesamemanwhohadwrittentheletterthatClairehadgivenme.Howcouldwehavereachedthislevelofdistrust?Howmuchmiscommunicationmustithavetakentobringusfromtheretohere?“I’mnotsleepingwithhim,”Isaid.“He’shelpingme.HelpingmetogetbettersothatIcanliveanormallife.Here,withyou.Don’tyouwantthat?”Hiseyesbegandartingaroundtheroom.“Ben?”Isaidagain.“Talktome!”Hefroze.“Don’tyouwantmetogetbetter?Isn’tthatwhatyou’vealwayswanted,alwayshopedfor?”Hebegantoshakehishead,rockingitfromsidetoside.“Iknowitis,”Isaid.“Iknowit’swhatyou’vewantedallthistime.”Hottearsrandownmycheeks,butIspokethroughthem,myvoicefracturingintosobs.Hewasstillholdingme,butgentlynow,andIputmyhandsonhis.“ImetClaire,”Isaid.“Shegavemeyourletter.I’vereadit,Ben.Afteralltheseyears.I’vereadit.”
Thereisastainthere,onthepage.Ink,mixedwithwaterinasmudgethatresemblesastar.ImusthavebeencryingasIwrote.Icarriedonreading.
Idon’tknowwhatIexpectedtohappen.PerhapsIthoughthe’dfallintomyarms,sobbingwithrelief,andwewouldstandthere,holdingeachothersilentlyforaslongasittookforustorelax,tofeelourwaybackintoeachotheragain.Andthenwewouldsit,andtalkthingsthrough.PerhapsIwouldgoupstairsandgettheletterthatClairehadgivenme,andwewouldreadittogether,andbegintheslowprocessofrebuildingourlivesonafoundationoftruth.Instead,therewasaninstantinwhichnothingatallseemedtomoveandeverythingwasquiet.Therewasnosoundofbreathing,notrafficfromtheroad.Ididnotevenhearthetickingoftheclock.Itwasasiflifewassuspended,hoveringonthecuspbetweenonestateandanother.Andthenitwasover.Bendrewawayfromme.Ithoughthewasgoingtokissme,butinsteadIwasawareofabluroutofthecornerofmyeyeandmyheadcrackedtooneside.Painradiatedfrommyjaw.Ifell,thesofacomingtowardme,andthebackofmyheadconnectedwithsomethinghardandsharp.Icriedout.Therewasanotherblow,andthenanother.Iclosedmyeyes,waitingforthenext—butnothingcame.Instead,Iheardfootstepsmovingaway,andadoorslamming.Iopenedmyeyesandinhaledinanangrygasp.Thecarpetstretchedawayfromme,nowvertical.Asmashedplatesatneartomyheadandgravyoozedontothefloor,soakingintothecarpet.Greenpeashadbeentroddenintotheweaveoftherug,andthehalf-chewedlumpofmeat.Thefrontdoorswungopen,thenslammed.Footstepsonthepath.Benhadleft.Iexhaled.Iclosedmyeyes.Imustnotsleep,Ithought.ImustnotIopenedthemagain.Darkswirlsinthedistanceandthesmellofflesh.Iswallowed,andtastedblood.WhathaveIdone?WhathaveIdone?Imadesurehewasgone,thencameupstairsandfoundmyjournal.Blooddrippedontothecarpetfrommysplitlip.Idon’tknowwhathashappened.Idon’tknowwheremyhusbandis,orifhewillcomeback,orwhetherIwanthimto.ButIneedhimto.Withouthim,Ican’tlive.Iamscared.IwanttoseeClaire.
Istopreadingandmyhandgoestomyforehead.Itfeelstender.ThebruiseIsawthismorning,theoneIcoveredupwithmakeup.Benhadhitme.Ilookbackatthedate.Friday,November23.Itwasoneweekago.Oneweek,spentbelievingthateverythingisallright.
Istanduptolookinthemirror.Itisstillthere.Afaintbluecontusion.ProofthatwhatIwrotewastrue.IwonderwhatliesIhavebeentellingmyselftoexplainmyinjury,orwhatlieshehasbeentellingme.
ButnowIknowthetruth.Ilookatthepagesinmyhandandithitsme.Hewantedmetofindthem.HeknowsthatevenifIreadthemtoday,Iwillhaveforgottenthemtomorrow.
SuddenlyIhearhimonthestairsand,almostforthefirsttime,realizefullythatIamhere,inthishotelroom.WithBen.Withthemanwhohashitme.Ihearhiskeyinthelock.
Ihavetoknowwhathappened,soIpushthepagesunderthepillow,andlieonthebed.Ashecomesintotheroom,Iclosemyeyes.
“Areyouokay,darling?”hesays.“Areyouawake?”
Iopenmyeyes.Heisstandinginthedoorway,clutchingabottle.“IcouldonlygetCava,”hesays.“Okay?”
Heputsthebottleonthedresserandkissesme.“IthinkI’lltakeashower,”hewhispers.Hegoesintothebathroomandturnsonthetaps.
Whenhehasclosedthedoor,Ipulloutthepages.Idon’thavelong—surelyhewillnotbemorethanfiveminutes—andsoImustreadasquicklyasIcan.Myeyesflickdownthepage,notevenregisteringallthewords,butseeingenough.
Thatwashoursago.Ihavebeensittinginthedarkenedhallwayofouremptyhouse,aslipofpaperinonehand,atelephoneintheother.Inkonpaper.Anumbersmudged.Therewasnoanswer,justanendlessringing.Iwonderifshehasturnedoffheransweringmachine,orifthetapeisfull.Itryagain.Andagain.Ihavebeenherebefore.Mytimeiscircular.Claireisnottheretohelpme.
IlookedinmybagandfoundthephonethatDr.Nashhadgivenme.Itislate,Ithought.Hewon’tbeatwork.He’llbewithhisgirlfriend,doingwhateveritisthatthetwoofthemdoduringtheirevenings.Whatevertwonormalpeopledo.Ihavenoideawhatthatis.
Hishomenumberwaswritteninthefrontofmyjournal.Itrangandrang,andthenwassilent.Therewasnorecordedvoicetotellmetherewasanerror,noinvitationtoleaveamessage.Itriedagain.Thesame.HisofficenumberwasnowtheonlyoneIhad.
Isatthereforawhile.Helpless.Lookingatthefrontdoor,half-hopingtoseeBen’sshadowyfigureappearinthefrostedglassandinsertakeyinthelock,half-fearingit.
Eventually,Icouldwaitnomore.Iwentupstairsandgotundressed,andthenIgotintobedandwrotethis.Thehouseisstillempty.Inamoment,Iwillclosethisbookandhideit,andthenswitchoffthelightandsleep.AndthenIwillforget,andthisjournalwillbeallthatisleft.
Ilookatthenextpagewithdread,fearingIwillfinditblank,butitisnot.
Monday,November26,itbegins.
HehitmeonFriday.Twodays,andIhavewrittennothing.Forallthattime,didIbelievethingswereallright?Myfaceisbruisedandsore.SurelyIknewthatsomethingwasnotright?TodayhesaidthatIfell.Thebiggestclichéinthebook,andIbelievedhim.Whywouldn’tI?He’dalreadyhadtoexplainwhoIwas,andwhohewas,andhowI’dcometobewakingupinastrangehouse,decadesolderthanIthoughtIshouldbe,sowhywouldIquestionhisreasonformybruisedandswolleneye,mycutlip?Andso,Iwentaheadwithmyday.Ikissedhimasheleftforwork.Iclearedupourbreakfastthings.Iranabath.AndthenIcameinhere,foundthisjournal,andlearnedthetruth.
Agap.IrealizeIhavenotmentionedDr.Nash.Hadheabandonedme?HadIfoundthejournalwithouthishelp?
OrhadIstoppedhidingit?Ireadon.
Later,IcalledClaire.ThephonethatBenhadgivenmedidnotwork—thebatterywasprobablydead,Ithought—andsoIusedtheonethatDr.Nashhadgivenme.Therewasnoanswer,andsoIsatinthelivingroom.Icouldnotrelax.Ipickedupmagazines,putthemdownagain.IputtheTVonandspenthalfanhourstaringatthescreen,notevennoticingwhatwason.Ilookedatmyjournal,unabletoconcentrate,unabletowrite.Itriedheragain,severaltimes,eachtimehearingthesamemessageinvitingmetoleaveoneofmyown.Itwasjustafterlunchtimewhensheanswered.“Chrissy,”shesaid.“Howareyou?”IcouldhearTobyinthebackground,playing.“I’mokay,”Isaid,althoughIwasn’t.“Iwasgoingtocallyou,”shesaid.“Ifeellikehell,andit’sonlyMonday!”Monday.Daysmeantnothingtome;eachmeltedaway,indistinguishablefromtheonethathadprecededit.“Ineedtoseeyou,”Isaid.“Canyoucomeover?”Shesoundedsurprised.“Toyourplace?”“Yes,”Isaid.“Please?Iwanttotalktoyou.”“Iseverythingokay,Chrissy?Youreadtheletter?”Itookadeepbreath,andmyvoicedroppedtoawhisper.“Benhitme.”Iheardagaspofsurprise.“What?”“Theothernight.I’mbruised.HetoldmeI’dfallen,butIwrotedownthathehitme.”“Chrissy,thereisnowayBenwouldhityou.Ever.Hejustisn’tcapableofit.”Doubtfloodedme.WasitpossibleI’dmadeitallup?“ButIwroteitinmyjournal,”Isaid.Shesaidnothingforamoment,andthen,“Butwhydoyouthinkhehityou?”Iputmyhandstomyface,felttheswollenflesharoundmyeyes.Ifeltaflashofanger.Itwasclearshedidn’tbelieveme.IthoughtbacktowhatIhadwritten.“ItoldhimthatI’vebeenkeepingajournal.IsaidIhadbeenseeingyouandDr.Nash.ItoldhimIknewaboutAdam.Itoldhimyou’dgivenmetheletterhe’dwritten,thatI’dreadit.Andthenhehitme.”“Hejusthityou?”Ithoughtofallthethingshe’dcalledme,thethingshe’daccusedmeof.“HesaidIwasabitch.”Ifeltasobriseinmychest.“He—heaccusedmeofsleepingwithDr.Nash.IsaidIwasn’t,then—”“Then?”“Thenhehitme.”Asilence,thenClairesaid,“Hasheeverhityoubefore?”Ihadnowayofknowing.Perhapshehad?Itwaspossiblethatourshadalwaysbeenanabusiverelationship.MymindflashedonClaireandme,marching,holdinghomemadeplacards—WOMEN’SRIGHTS.NOTODOMESTICVIOLENCE.IrememberedhowIhadalwayslookeddownonwomenwhofoundthemselveswithhusbandswhobeatthem,andstayedput.Theywereweak,Ithought.Weakandstupid.WasitpossiblethatIhadfallenintothesametrapastheyhad?“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“It’sdifficulttoimagineBenhurtinganything,butIsupposeit’snotimpossible.Christ!Heusedtomakeevenmefeelguilty.Doyouremember?”“No,”Isaid.“Idon’t.Idon’trememberanything.”“Shit,”shesaid.“I’msorry.Iforgot.It’sjustsohardtoimagine.He’stheonethatconvincedmethatfishhaveasmuchrighttolifeasananimalwithlegs.Hewouldn’tevenkillaspider!”
Thewindguststhecurtainsoftheroom.Ihearatrain,inthedistance.Screamsfromthepier.Downstairs,onthestreet,someoneshouts“Fuck!”andIhearthesoundofbreakingglass.Idonotwanttoreadon,butknowthatImust.
Ifeltachill.“Benwasavegetarian?”“Vegan,”shesaid,laughing.“Don’ttellmeyoudidn’tknow?”Ithoughtofthenighthe’dhitme.Ahalf-chewedlumpofmeat,I’dwritten.PeasfloatinginthingravyIwentovertothewindow.“Beneatsmeat…”Isaid,speakingslowly.“He’snotavegetarian…Notnow,anyway.Maybehe’schanged?”Therewasanotherlongsilence.“Claire?”Shesaidnothing.“Claire?Areyouthere?”“Right,”shesaid.Shesoundedangrynow.“I’mcallinghim.I’msortingthisout.Whereishe?”Iansweredwithoutthinking.“He’llbeattheschool,Isuppose.Hesaidhewouldn’tbebackuntilfiveo’clock.”“Attheschool?”shesaid.“Doyoumeantheuniversity?Ishelecturingnow?”Fearbegantostirwithinme.“No,”Isaid.“Heworksataschoolnearhere.Ican’trememberthename.”“Whatdoeshedothere?”“Ateacher.He’sheadofChemistry,Ithinkhesaid.”Ifeltguiltyatnotknowingwhatmyhusbanddoesforaliving,notbeingabletorememberhowheearnsthemoneytokeepusfedandclothed.“Idon’tremember.”Ilookedupandcaughtsightofmyswollenfacereflectedinthewindowinfrontofme.Theguiltevaporated.“Whatschool?”sheasked.“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkhetoldme.”“What,never?”“Notthismorning,no,”Isaid.“Formethatmightaswellbenever.”“I’msorry,Chrissy.Ididn’tmeantoupsetyou.It’sjustthat,well—”Isensedachangeofmind,asentenceaborted.“Couldyoufindoutthenameoftheschool?”Ithoughtoftheofficeupstairs.“Iguessso.Why?”“I’dliketospeaktoBen,tomakesurehe’sgoingtobecominghomewhenI’mtherethisafternoon.Iwouldn’twantittobeawastedjourney!”Inoticedthehumorshewastryingtoinjectintohervoice,butdidnotmentionit.Ifeltoutofcontrol,couldnotworkoutwhatwasbest,whatIshoulddo,andsodecidedtosurrendertomyfriend.“I’llhavealook,”Isaid.Iwentupstairs.Theofficewastidy,pilesofpapersarrangedacrossthedesk.Itdidnottakelongtofindsomeletterhead:anoticeaboutaparents’eveningthathadalreadytakenplace.“It’sSt.Anne’s,”Isaid.“Youwantthenumber?”Shesaidshe’dfinditoutherself.“I’llcallyouback,”shesaid.“Yes?”Panichitagain.“Whatareyougoingtosaytohim?”Isaid.“I’mgoingtosortthisout,”shesaid.“Trustme,Chrissy.Therehastobeanexplanation.Okay?”“Yes,”Isaid,andendedthecall.Isatdown,mylegsshaking.Whatifmyfirsthunchhadbeencorrect?WhatifClaireandBenwerestillsleepingtogether?Maybeshewascallinghimnow,warninghim.Shesuspects,shemightbesaying.Becareful.Irememberedreadingmyjournalearlier.Dr.NashhadtoldmethatIhadonceshownsymptomsofparanoia.Claimingthedoctorswereconspiringagainstyou,he’dsaid.Atendencytoconfabulate.Toinventthings.Whatifthat’sallhappeningagain?WhatifIaminventingthis,allofit?Everythinginmyjournalmightbefantasy.Paranoia.Ithoughtofwhatthey’dtoldmeattheward,andBeninhisletter.Youwereoccasionallyviolent.IrealizeditmighthavebeenmewhocausedthefightonFridaynight.DidIlashoutatBen?Perhapshehitbackandthen,upstairsinthebathroom,Itookapenandexplaineditallawaywithafiction.WhatifallthisjournalmeansisthatI’mgettingworseagain?ThatsoonitreallywillbetimeformetogobacktoWaringHouse?Iwentcold,suddenlyconvincedthatthiswaswhyDr.Nashhadwantedtotakemethere.Topreparemeformyreturn.AllIcandoiswaitforClairetocallmeback.
Anothergap.Isthatwhat’shappeningnow?Ithink.WillBentrytotakemebacktoWaringHouse?Ilookovertothebathroomdoor.Iwillnotlethim.
Thereisonefinalentry,writtenlaterthatsameday.Monday,November26.Ihaveaddedthetime.6:55p.m.
Clairecalledmeafterlessthanhalfanhour.Andnowmymindoscillates.Itswingsfromonethingtotheother,thenbackagain.Iknowwhattodo.Idon’tknowwhattodo.Iknowwhattodo.Butthere’sathirdthought.IshudderasIrealizethetruth:Iamindanger.Iturntothefrontofthisjournal,intendingtowriteDon’ttrustBen,butIfindthosewordsarealreadythere.Idon’trememberwritingthem.ButthenIdon’trememberanything.
Agap,andthenitcontinues.
Shesoundedhesitant,onthephone.“Chrissy,”shesaid.“Listen.”Hertonefrightenedme.Isatdown.“What?”“IcalledBen.Atschool.”Ihadtheoverwhelmingsensationofbeingonanuncontrollablejourney,ofbeinginunnavigablewaters.“Whatdidhesay?”“Ididn’tspeaktohim.Ijustwantedtomakesureheworkedthere.”“Why?”Isaid.“Don’tyoutrusthim?”“He’sliedaboutotherthings.”Ihadtoagree.“Butwhydidyouthinkhe’dtellmeheworkedsomewhereifhedidn’t?”Isaid.“Iwasjustsurprisedhewasworkinginaschool.Youknowhetrainedtobeanarchitect?ThelasttimeIspoketohimhewaslookingintosettinguphisownpractice.Ijustthoughtitwasabitoddheshouldbeworkinginaschool.”“Whatdidtheysay?”“Theysaidtheycouldn’tdisturbhim.Hewasbusy,inaclass.”Ifeltrelief.Hehadn’tliedaboutthat,atleast.“Hemusthavechangedhismind,”Isaid.“Abouthiscareer.”“Chrissy?ItoldthemIwantedtosendhimsomedocuments.Aletter.Iaskedforhisofficialtitle.”“And?”Isaid.“He’snotheadofChemistry.OrScience.Oranythingelse.Theysaidhewasalabassistant.”Ifeltmybodyjerk.Imayhavegasped;Idon’tremem-ber.“Areyousure?”Isaid.Mymindracedtothinkofareasonforthisnewlie.Wasitpossiblehewasembarrassed?WorriedaboutwhatIwouldthinkifIknewhehadgonefrombeingasuccessfularchitecttoalabassistantinalocalschool?DidhereallythinkIwassoshallowthatIwouldlovehimanymoreorlessbasedonwhathedidforaliving?Everythingmadesense.“OhGod,”Isaid.“It’smyfault!”“No!”shesaid.“It’snotyourfault!”“Itis!”Isaid.“It’sthestrainofhavingtolookafterme.Ofhavingtodealwithme,dayinanddayout.Hemustbehavingabreakdown.Maybehedoesn’tevenknowhimselfwhat’strueandwhat’snot.”Ibegantocry.“Itmustbeunbearable,”Isaid.“Heevenhastogothroughallthatgriefonhisown,everyday.”Thelinewassilent,andthenClairesaid,“Grief?Whatgrief?”“Adam,”Isaid.Ifeltpainathavingtosayhisname.“WhataboutAdam?”Itcametome.Wild.Unbidden.OhGod,Ithought.Shedoesn’tknow.Benhasn’ttoldher“He’sdead,”Isaid.Shegasped.“Dead?When?How?”“Idon’tknowwhen,exactly,”Isaid.“IthinkBentoldmeitwaslastyear.Hewaskilledinthewar.”“Thewar?Whatwar?”“Afghanistan?”Andthenshesaidit.“Chrissy,whatwouldhebedoinginAfghanistan?”Hervoicewasstrange.Shealmostsoundedpleased.“Hewasinthearmy,”Isaid,butevenasIspoke,IwasstartingtodoubtwhatIwassaying.ItwasasifIwasfinallyfacingsomethingIhadknownallalong.IheardClairesnort,almostasifshewasfindingsomethingamusing.“Chrissy,”shesaid.“Chrissy,darling.Adamhasn’tbeeninthearmy.He’sneverbeentoAfghanistan.He’slivinginBirmingham,withsomeonecalledHelen.Heworkswithcomputers.Hehasn’tforgivenmeforwhathappenedbetweenmeandhisfather,butIstillcallhimoccasionally.He’dprobablyratherIdidn’t,butIamhisgodmother,remember?”Ittookmeamomenttoworkoutwhyshewasstillusingthepresenttense,andevenasIdidso,shesaidit.“Icalledhimafterwemetlastweek,”shesaid.Shewasalmostlaughing,now.“Hewasn’tthere,butIspoketoHelen.Shesaidshe’daskhimtocallmeback.Adamisalive.”
Istopreading.Ifeellight.Empty.IfeelImightfallbackward,orelsefloataway.DareIbelieveit?DoIwantto?Isteadymyselfagainstthedresserandreadon,onlydimlyawarethatnolongerdoIhearthesoundofBen’sshower.
Imusthavestumbled,grabbedholdofthechair.“He’salive?”Mystomachrolled,Irememberfeelingvomitriseinmythroatandhavingtoswallowitdown.“He’sreallyalive?”“Yes,”shesaid.“Yes!”“But—”Ibegan.“But—Isawanewspaper.Aclipping.Itsaidhe’dbeenkilled.”“Itcan’thavebeenreal,Chrissy,”shesaid.“Itcan’thavebeen.He’salive.”Ibegantospeak,buttheneverythinghitmeatonce,everyemotionboundupineveryother.Joy.Irememberjoy.ThesheerpleasureofknowingthatAdamwasalivefizzedonmytongue,butmixedintoitwasthebitter,acidtangoffear.Ithoughtofmybruises,oftheforcewithwhichBenmusthavestruckmetocausethem.Perhapshisabuseisnotonlyphysical,perhapssomedayshetakesdelightintellingmethatmysonisdeadsothathecanseethepainthatthoughtinflicts.Wasitreallypossiblethatonotherdays,inwhichIrememberthefactofmypregnancy,orgivingbirthtomybaby,hesimplytellsmethatAdamhasmovedaway,isworkingabroad,livingontheothersideoftown?And,ifso,whydidIneverwritedownanyofthosealternativestoriesthathefedme?Imagesenteredmyhead,ofAdamashemightbenow,fragmentsofscenesImayhavemissed,butnonewouldhold.Eachimageslidthroughmeandthenvanished.TheonlythingIcouldthinkaboutwashe’salive.Alive.Mysonisalive.Icanmeethim.“Whereishe?”Isaid.“Whereishe?Iwanttoseehim!”“Chrissy,”Clairesaid.“Staycalm.”“But—”“Chrissy!”sheinterrupted.“I’mcomingover.Staythere.”“Claire!Tellmewhereheis!”“I’mreallyworriedaboutyou,Chrissy.Please—”“But—”Sheraisedhervoice.“Chrissy,calmdown!”shesaid,andthenasinglethoughtpiercedthroughthefogofmyconfusion:Iamhysterical.Itookabreathandtriedtosettle,asClairebegantospeakagain.“AdamislivinginBirmingham,”shesaid.“ButhemustknowwhereIamnow,”Isaid.“Whydoesn’thecometoseeme?”“Chrissy…”shebegan.“Why?Whydoesn’thevisitme?DoeshenotgetonwithBen?Isthatwhyhestaysaway?”“Chrissy,”shesaid,hervoicesoft.“Birminghamisafairwayaway.Hehasabusylife…”“Youmean—”“Maybehecan’tgetdowntoLondonthatoften?”“But—”“Chrissy.YouthinkAdamdoesn’tvisit.ButIcan’tbelievethat.Maybehedoescome,whenhecan.”Ifellsilent.Nothingmadesense.Yetshewasright.Ihaveonlybeenkeepingmyjournalforacoupleofweeks.Beforethat,anythingcouldhavehappened.“Ineedtoseehim,”Isaid.“Iwanttoseehim.Doyouthinkthatcanbearranged?”“Idon’tseewhynot.ButifBenisreallytellingyouthathe’sdead,thenweoughttospeaktohimfirst.”Ofcourse,Ithought.Butwhatwillhesay?HethinksthatIstillbelievehislies.“He’llbeheresoon,”Isaid.“Willyoustillcomeover?Willyouhelpmetosortthisout?”“Ofcourse,”shesaid.“Ofcourse.Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.Butwe’lltalktoBen.Ipromise.I’llcomenow.”“Now?Rightnow?”“Yes.I’mworried,Chrissy.Something’snotright.”Hertonebotheredme,butatthesametimeIfeltrelieved,andexcitedatthethoughtthatImightsoonbeabletomeetmyson.Iwantedtoseehim,toseehisphotograph,rightaway.Irememberedthatwehadhardlyany,andthosewedidhavewerelockedaway.Athoughtbegantoform.“Claire,”Isaid.“Didwehaveafire?”Shesoundedconfused.“Afire?”“Yes.WehavehardlyanyphotographsofAdam.Andalmostnoneofourwedding.Bensaidwelosttheminafire.”“Afire?”shesaid.“Whatfire?”“Bensaidtherewasafireinouroldhome.Welostlotsofthings.”“When?”“Idon’tknow.Yearsago.”“AndyouhavenophotographsofAdam?”Ifeltmyselfgettingannoyed.“Wehavesome.Butnotmany.Hardlyanyofhimotherthanwhenhewasababy.Atoddler.Andnoneofholidays,notevenourhoneymoon.NoneofChristmases.Nothinglikethat.”“Chrissy,”shesaid.Hervoicewasquiet,measured.IthoughtIdetectedsomethinginit,somenewemotion.Fear.“DescribeBentome.”“What?”“Describehimtome.Ben.Whatdoeshelooklike?”“Whataboutthefire?”Isaid.“Tellmeaboutthat.”“Therewasnofire,”shesaid.“ButIwrotedownthatIrememberedit,”Isaid.“Achippan.Thephonerang…”“Youmusthavebeenimaginingit,”shesaid.“But—”Isensedheranxiety.“Chrissy!Therewasnofire.Notyearsago.Benwouldhavetoldme.Now,describeBen.Whatdoeshelooklike?Ishetall?”“Notparticularly.”“Blackhair?”Mymindwentblank.“Yes.No.Idon’tknow.He’sbeginningtogogray.Hehasapaunch,Ithink.Maybenot.”Istoodup.“Ineedtoseehisphotograph.”Iwentbackupstairs.Theywerethere,pinnedaroundthemirror.Meandmyhusband.Happy.Together.“Hishairlookskindofbrown,”Isaid.Iheardacarpullupoutsidethehouse.“You’resure?”“Yes,”Isaid.Theenginewasswitchedoff,thedoorslammed.Aloudbeep.Iloweredmyvoice.“IthinkBen’shome.”“Shit,”saidClaire.“Quick.Doeshehaveascar?”“Ascar?”Isaid.“Where?”“Onhisface,Chrissy.Ascar,acrossonecheek.Hehadanaccident.Rockclimbing.”Iscannedthephotographs,choosingtheoneofmeandmyhusbandsittingatabreakfasttableinourdressinggowns.Init,hewassmilinghappilyand,apartfromahintofstubble,hischeekswereunblemished.Fearrushedtohitme.Iheardthefrontdooropen.Avoice.“Christine!Darling!I’mhome!”“No,”Isaid.“No,hedoesn’t.”Asound.Somewherebetweenagaspandasigh.“Themanyou’relivingwith,”Clairesaid.“Idon’tknowwhoitis.Butit’snotBen.”
Terrorhits.Ihearthetoiletflush,butcandonothingbutreadon.
Idon’tknowwhathappenedthen.Icannotpieceittogether.Clairebegantalking,almostshouting.“Fuck!”shesaid,overandover.Mymindwasspinningwithpanic.Iheardthefrontdoorshut,theclickofthelock.“I’minthebathroom,”IshoutedtothemanwhoIhadthoughtwasmyhusband.Myvoicesoundedcracked.Desperate.“I’llbedowninaminute.”“I’llcomeover,”saidClaire.“I’mgettingyououtofthere.”“Everythingokay,darling?”shoutedthemanwhowasnotBen.IheardhisfootstepsonthestairsandrealizedIhadnotlockedthebathroomdoor.Iloweredmyvoice.“He’shere,”Isaid.“Cometomorrow.Whilehe’satwork.I’llpackmythings.I’llcallyou.”“Shit,”shesaid.“Okay.Butwriteinyourjournal.Writeinitassoonasyoucan.Don’tforget.”Ithoughtofmyjournal,hiddeninthecloset.Imuststaycalm,Ithought.Imustpretendnothingiswrong,atleastuntilIcangettoitandwritedownthedangerIamin.“Helpme,”Isaid.“Helpme.”Iendedthecallashepushedopenthebathroomdoor.
Itendsthere.Frantic,Irifflethelastfewpages,buttheyareblank,scoredonlywiththeirfaintbluelines.Waitingfortherestofmystory.Butthereisnomore.Benhadfoundthejournal,removedthepages,andClairehadnotcomeforme.WhenDr.Nashcollectedthejournal—onTuesday,itmusthavebeen—Ihadnotknownanythingwaswrong.
Inasinglerush,Iseeitall,realizewhytheboardinthekitchensodisturbedme.Thehandwriting.Itsneat,evencapitalslookedtotallydifferentfromthescrawloftheletterClairehadgivenme.Somewhere,deepdown,Ihadknownthenthattheywerenotwrittenbythesameperson.
Ilookup.Ben,orthemanpretendingtobeBen,hascomeoutoftheshower.Heisstandinginthedoorway,dressedashewasbefore,lookingatme.Idon’tknowhowlonghehasbeenthere,watchingmeread.Hiseyesholdnothingmorethanasortofvacantemptiness,asifheisbarelyinterestedinwhatheisseeing,asifitdoesn’tconcernhim.
Ihearmyselfgasp.Idropthepapers.Unbound,theyfanontothefloor.
“You!”Isay.“Whoareyou?”Hesaysnothing.Heislookingatthepapersinfrontofme.“Answerme!”Isay.Myvoicehasanauthoritytoit,butonethatIdonotfeel.
MymindreelsasItrytoworkoutwhohecouldbe.SomeonefromWaringHouse,perhaps.Apatient?Nothingmakesanysense.Ifeelthestirringsofpanicasanotherthoughtbeginstoformandthenvanishes.
Helooksupatmethen.“I’mBen,”hesays.Hespeaksslowly,asiftryingtomakemeunderstandtheobvious.“Ben.Yourhusband.”
Imovebackalongthefloor,awayfromhim,asIfighttorememberwhatIhaveread,whatIknow.
“No,”Isay,andthenagain,louder.“No!”
Hemovesforward.“Iam,Christine.YouknowIam.”
Feartakesme.Terror.Itliftsmeup,holdsmesuspended,andthenslamsmebackintoitsownhorror.Claire’swordscomebacktome.Butit’snotBen.Astrangethinghappensthen.IrealizeIamnotrememberingreadingabouthersayingthosewords,Iamrememberingtheincidentitself.Icanrememberthepanicinhervoice,thewayshesaidfuckbeforetellingmewhatshe’drealized,andrepeated,It’snotBen
Iamremembering.
“You’renot,”Isay.“You’renotBen.Clairetoldme!Whoareyou?”
“Rememberthepicturesthough,Christine?Theonesfromaroundthebathroommirror?Look,Ibroughtthem,toshowyou.”
Hetakesasteptowardme,andthenreachesforhisbagonthefloorbesidethebed.Hepicksoutafewcurledphotographs.“Look!”hesays,andwhenIshakemyhead,hetakesthefirstoneand,glancingatit,holdsituptome.
“Thisisus,”hesays.“Look.Meandyou.”Thephotographshowsussittingonsomesortofboat,onariver,orcanal.Behindusthereisdark,muddywater,withunfocusedreedsbeyondthat.Webothlookyoung,ourskintautwherenowitsags,oureyesunlinedandwidewithhappiness.“Don’tyousee?”hesays.“Look!That’sus.Meandyou.Yearsago.We’vebeentogetherforyears,Chris.Yearsandyears.”
Ifocusonthepicture.Imagescometome;thetwoofus,asunnyafternoon.We’dhiredaboatsomewhere.Idon’tknowwhere.
Heholdsupanotherpicture.Wearemucholdernow.Itlooksrecent.Wearestandingoutsideachurch.Thedayisovercast,andheiswearingasuitandshakinghandswithaman,alsoinasuit.Iamwearingahat,whichIseemtobehavingdifficultywith;Iamholdingitasifitisindangerofblowingoffinthewind.Iamnotlookingatthecamera.
“Thatwasjustafewweeksago,”hesays.“Somefriendsofoursinvitedustotheirdaughter’swedding.Youremember?”
“No,”Isayangrily.“No,Idon’tremember!”
“Itwasalovelyday,”hesays,turningthepicturebacktolookatithimself.“Lovely—”
IrememberreadingwhatClairehadsaidwhenItoldherIhadfoundanewspaperclippingaboutAdam’sdeath.Itcan’thavebeenreal.
“ShowmeoneofAdam,”Isay.“Goon!Showmejustonepictureofhim.”
“Adamisdead,”hesays.“Asoldier’sdeath.Noble.Hediedahero—”
Ishout,“Youshouldstillhaveapictureofhim!Showme!”
HetakesoutthepictureofAdamwithHelen.TheoneIhavealreadyseen.Furyrisesinme.“ShowmejustonepictureofAdamwithyouinit.Justone.Youmusthavesome,surely?Ifyou’rehisfather?”
Helooksthroughthephotographsinhishand,andIthinkhewillproduceapictureofthetwoofthem,buthedoesnot.Hisarmshangathisside.“Idon’thaveonewithme,”hesays.“Theymustbeatthehouse.”
“You’renothisfather,areyou?”Isay.“Whatfatherwouldn’thavepicturesofhimselfwithhisson?”Hiseyesnarrow,asifinrage,butIcannotstop.“Andwhatkindoffatherwouldtellhiswifethattheirsonwasdeadwhenheisn’t?Admitit!You’renotAdam’sfather!Benis.”EvenasIsaidthename,animagecametome.Amanwithnarrow,dark-rimmedglassesandblackhair.Ben.Isayhisnameagain,asiftolocktheimageinmymind.“Ben.”
Thenamehasaneffectonthemanstandinginfrontofme.Hesayssomething,buttooquietlyformetohearit,andsoIaskhimtorepeatit.“Youdon’tneedAdam,”hesays.
“What?”Isay,andhespeaksmorefirmly,lookingintomyeyesashedoesso
“Youdon’tneedAdam.Youhavemenow.We’retogether.Youdon’tneedAdam.Youdon’tneedBen.”
Athiswords,IfeelallthestrengthIhadwithinmedisappear,and,asitgoes,heseemstorecover.Isinktothefloor.Hesmiles.
“Don’tbeupset,”hesaysbrightly.“Whatdoesitmatter?Iloveyou.That’sallthat’simportant.Surely?Iloveyou,andyouloveme.”
Hecrouchesdown,holdingouthishandstowardme.Heissmiling,asifIamananimalthatheistryingtocoaxoutoftheholeinwhichithashidden.
“Come,”hesays.“Cometome.”
Ishiftfartherbackward,slidingonmyhaunches.Ihitsomethingsolidandfeelthewarm,stickyradiatorbehindme.IrealizeIamunderthewindowatthefarendoftheroom.Headvancesslowly.
“Whoareyou?”Isayagain,tryingtokeepmyvoiceeven,calm.“Whatdoyouwant?”
Hestopsmoving.Heiscrouchedinfrontofme.Ifheweretoreachout,hecouldtouchmyfoot,myknee.Ifheweretomovecloser,Imaybeabletokickhim,shouldIneedto,thoughIamnotsureIcouldreachand,inanycase,ambarefoot.
“WhatdoIwant?”hesays.“Idon’twantanything.Ijustwantustobehappy,Chris.Likeweusedtobe.Doyouremember?”
Thatwordagain.Remember.Foramoment,Ithinkperhapsheisbeingsarcastic.
“Idon’tknowwhoyouare,”Isay,nearhysterical.“HowcanIremember?I’venevermetyoubefore!”
Hissmilevanishesthen.Iseehisfacecollapseinonitselfwithpain.Thereisamomentoflimbo,asifthebalanceofpowerisshiftingfromhimtomeand,forafractionofasecond,itisequalbetweenus.
Hebecomesanimatedagain.“Butyouloveme,”hesays.“Ireadit,inyourjournal.Yousaidyouloveme.Iknowyouwantustobetogether.Whycan’tyourememberthat?”
“Myjournal!”Isay.Iknowhemusthaveknownaboutit—howelsedidheremovethosevitalpages?—butIrealizehemusthavebeenreadingitforawhile,atleastsinceIfirsttoldhimaboutitaweekago.“Howlonghaveyoubeenreadingmyjournal?”
Hedoesn’tseemtohaveheardme.Heraiseshisvoice,asifintriumph.“Tellmeyoudon’tloveme,”hesays.Isaynothing.“See?Youcan’t,canyou?Youcan’tsayit.Becauseyoudo.Youalwayshavedone,Chris.Always.”
Herocksback,andthetwoofussitonthefloor,oppositeeachother.“Irememberwhenwemet,”hesays.Ithinkofwhathe’stoldme—spilledcoffeeintheuniversitylibrary—andwonderwhatiscomingnow.
“Youwereworkingonsomething.Youusedtogotothesamecaféeveryday.Youalwaysusedtositinthewindow,inthesameseat.Sometimesyouwouldhaveachildwithyou,butusuallynot.Youwouldsitwithanotebookopeninfrontofyou,eitherwritingorsometimesjustlookingoutofthewindow.Ithoughtyoulookedsobeautiful.Iusedtowalkpastyou,everyday,onmywaytocatchthebus,andIstartedtolookforwardtomywalkhomesothatIcouldcatchaglimpseofyou.Iusedtotryandguesswhatyoumightbewearing,orwhetheryou’dhaveyourhairpulledbackorloose,orwhetheryou’dhaveasnack,acake,orasandwich.Sometimesyou’dhaveawholebrownieinfrontofyou,sometimesjustaplateofcrumbs,orevennothingatall,justthetea.”
Helaughs,shakinghisheadsadly,andIrememberClairetellingmeaboutthecaféandknowthatheisspeakingthetruth.“Iwouldpassbyatexactlythesametimeeveryday,”hesays,“andnomatterhowhardItriedIjustcouldn’tworkouthowyoudecidedwhentoeatyoursnack.AtfirstIthoughtmaybeitdependedonthedayoftheweek,butitdidn’tseemtofollowanypatternthere,sothenIthoughtperhapsitwasrelatedtothedate.Butthatdidn’tseemtowork,either.Istartedtowonderwhattimeyouactuallyorderedyoursnack.Ithoughtmaybethatwasrelatedtothetimethatyougottothecafé,soIstartedtoleaveworkearlierandrunsothatIcouldmaybeseeyouarriving.Andthen,oneday,youweren’tthere.IwaiteduntilIsawyoucomingdownthestreet.Youwerepushingastroller,andwhenyougottothecafédoor,youseemedtohavetroublegettingitin.Youlookedsohelplessandstuck,and,withoutthinking,Iwalkedovertheroadandheldthedoorforyou.Andyousmiledatme,andsaid,‘Thankyousomuch.’Youlookedsobeautiful,Christine.Iwantedtokissyou,thereandthen,butIcouldn’t,andbecauseIdidn’twantyoutothinkthatI’drunacrosstheroadjusttohelpyou,Iwentintothecafé,too,andstoodbehindyouintheline.Youspoketomeaswewaited.‘Busytoday,isn’tit?’yousaid,andIsaid,‘Yes,’eventhoughitwasn’tparticularlybusyforthattimeofday.Ijustwantedtocarryonmakingconversation.Iorderedtea,andIhadthesamecakeasyou,too,andIwonderedifIshouldaskyouwhetheritwouldbeokayformetositwithyou,butbythetimeI’dgotmytea,youwerechattingtosomeone,oneofthepeoplewhoranthecafé,Ithink,andsoIsatonmyowninthecorner.
“Afterthat,Iusedtogotothecaféalmosteveryday.It’salwayseasiertodosomethingwhenyou’vedoneitonce.SometimesI’dwaitforyoutoarrive,ormakesureyouweretherebeforeIwentin,butsometimesI’djustgoinanyway.Andyounoticedme.Iknowyoudid.Youbegantosayhellotome,oryou’dcommentontheweather.AndthenonetimeIwasheldup,andwhenIarrived,youactuallysaid,‘You’relatetoday!’asIwalkedpast,holdingmyteaandmymuffin,andwhenyousawthattherewerenofreetables,yousaid,‘Whydon’tyousithere?’andyoupointedtothechairatyourtable,oppositeyou.Thebabywasn’ttherethatday,soIsaid,‘Areyousureyoudon’tmind?Iwon’tdisturbyou?’andthenIfeltbadforsayingthat,andIdreadedyousayingthatyes,actually,onsecondthought,itwoulddisturbyou.Butyoudidn’t,yousaid,‘No!Notatall!Tobehonestit’snotgoingtoowellanyway.I’dbegladofadistraction!’andthatwashowIknewthatyouwantedmetospeaktoyouratherthanjusthavemyteaandeatmycakeinsilence.Doyouremember?”
Ishakemyhead.Ihavedecidedtolethimspeak.Iwanttofindouteverythinghehastosay.
“SoIsat,andwechatted.Youtoldmeyouwereawriter.Yousaidyou’dhadabookpublished,butyouwerestrugglingwithyoursecondone.Iaskedwhatitwasabout,butyouwouldn’ttellme.‘It’sfiction,’yousaid,andthenyousaid,‘supposedly,’andyousuddenlylookedverysad,soIofferedtobuyyouanothercupofcoffee.Yousaidthatwouldbenice,butthatyoudidn’thaveanymoneywithyoutobuymeone.‘Idon’tbringmypursewhenIcomehere,’yousaid.‘Ijustbringenoughmoneytobuyonedrinkandonesnack.ThatwayI’mnottemptedtopigout!’Ithoughtitwasanoddthingtosay.Youdidn’tlookasthoughyouneededtoworryabouthowmuchyouateatall.Youwerealwayssoslim.Butanyway,Iwasglad,asitmeantyoumustbeenjoyingspeakingtome,andyouwouldowemeadrink,sowe’dhavetoseeeachotheragain.Isaidthatitdidn’tmatteraboutthemoney,orbuyingmeoneback,andIgotussomemoreteaandcoffee.Afterthat,westartedtomeetquiteregularly.”
Ibegintoseeitall.ThoughIhavenomemory,somehowIknowhowthesethingswork.Thecasualmeeting,theexchangeofadrink.Theappealoftalkingto—confidingin—astranger,onewhodoesnotjudgeortakesides,becausehecan’t.Thegradualacceptanceintoconfidence,leading…towhat?
Ihaveseenthephotographsofthetwoofus,takenyearsago.Welookhappy.Itisobviouswherethoseconfidencesledus.Hewasattractive,too.Notfilm-starhandsome,butbetter-lookingthanmost;itisnotdifficulttoseewhatdrewme.Atsomepoint,ImusthavestartedscanningthedooranxiouslyasIsattryingtowork,thinkingmorecarefullyaboutwhatclothesIwouldwearwhenIwenttothecafé,whethertoaddadashofperfume.And,oneday,oneortheotherofusmusthavesuggestedwegoforawalk,ortoabar,ormaybeeventocatchafilm,andourfriendshipslippedoveraline,intosomethingelse,somethinginfinitelymoredangerous.
Iclosemyeyesandtrytoimagineit,andasIdo,Ibegintoremember.Thetwoofus,inbed,naked.Semendryingonmystomach,inmyhair,meturningtohimashebeginstolaughandkissmeagain.“Mike!”Iamsaying.“Stopit!Youhavetoleavesoon.Ben’sbacklatertodayandIhavetopickAdamup.Stopit!”Buthedoesn’tlisten.Insteadheleansin,hismustachioedfaceinmine,andwearekissingagain,forgettingabouteverything,aboutmyhusband,aboutmychild.Withasickeningplunge,Irealizethatamemoryofthisdayhascometomebefore.Thatday,asIhadstoodinthekitchenofthehouseIoncesharedwithmyhusband,Ihadnotbeenrememberingmyhusbandbutmylover.ThemanIwasfuckingwhilemyhusbandwasatwork.That’swhyhehadtoleavethatday.Notjusttocatchatrain—butbecausethemanIwasmarriedtowouldbereturninghome.
Iopenmyeyes.Iambackinthehotelroomandheisstillcrouchinginfrontofme.
“Mike,”Isay.“YournameisMike.”
“Youremember!”hesays.Heispleased.“Chris!Youremember!”
Hatebubblesupinme.“Irememberyourname,”Isay.“Nothingelse.Justyourname.”
“Youdon’trememberhowmuchinlovewewere?”
“No,”Isay.“Idon’tthinkIcouldeverhavelovedyou,orsurelyIwouldremembermore.”
Isayittohurthim,buthisreactionsurprisesme.“Youdon’trememberBen,though,doyou?Youcan’thavelovedhim.AndnotAdam,either.”
“You’resick,”Isay.“Howfuckingdareyou!OfcourseIlovedhim!Hewasmyson!”
“Is.Isyourson.Butyouwouldn’trecognizehimifhewalkedin,now.Wouldyou?Youthinkthat’slove?Andwhereishe?AndwhereisBen?Theywalkedoutonyou,Christine.Bothofthem.I’mtheonlyonewhoneverstoppedlovingyou.Notevenwhenyouleftme.”
Itisthenthatithitsme,finally,properly.Howelsecouldhehaveknownaboutthisroom,aboutsomuchofmypast?
“OhmyGod,”Isay.“Itwasyou!Itwasyouwhodidthistome!Youwhoattackedme!”
Hemovesovertomethen.Hewrapshisarmsaroundme,asiftoembraceme,andbeginstostrokemyhair.“Christine,darling,”hemurmurs,“don’tsaythat.Don’tthinkaboutit.It’lljustupsetyou.”
Itrytopushhimoffme,butheisstrong.Hesqueezesmetighter.
“Letmego!”Isay.“Please,letmego!”Mywordsarelostinthefoldsofhisshirt.
“Mylove,”hesays.Hehasbeguntorockme,asifsoothingababy.“Mylove.Mysweet,mydarling.Youshouldneverhaveleftme.Don’tyousee?Noneofthiswouldhavehappenedifyouhadn’tleft.”
Memorycomesagain.Wearesittinginacar,atnight.Iamcrying,andheisstaringoutofthewindow,utterlysilent.“Saysomething,”Iamsaying.“Anything.Mike?”
“Youdon’tmeanit,”hesays.“Youcan’t.”
“I’msorry.IloveBen.Wehaveourproblems,yes,butIlovehim.He’sthepersonIammeanttobewith.I’msorry.”
IamawarethatIamtryingtokeepthingssimple,sothathewillunderstand.Ihavecometorealize,overthepastfewmonthswithMike,thatitisbetterthisway.Complicatedthingsconfusehim.Helikesorder.Routine.Thingsmixinginpreciseproportionswithpredictableresults.Plus,Idon’twanttogettoomiredindetails.
“It’sbecauseIcameovertoyourhouse,isn’tit?I’msorry,Chris.Iwon’tdothatagain.Ipromise.Ijustwantedtoseeyou,andIwantedtoexplaintoyourhusband—”
Iinterrupthim.“Ben.Youcansayhisname.It’sBen.”
“Ben,”hesays,asiftryingthewordforthefirsttimeandfindingitunpleasant.“Iwantedtoexplainthingstohim.Iwantedtotellhimthetruth.”
“Whattruth?”
“Thatyoudon’tlovehimanymore.Thatyoulovemenow.Thatyouwanttobewithme.ThatwasallIwasgoingtosay.”
Isigh.“Don’tyouseethat,evenifitweretrue—whichitisn’t—it’snotyouwhoshouldbesayingthattohim?It’sme.Youhadnorighttojustturnupatthehouse.”
AsIspeak,IthinkaboutwhataluckyescapeIhavehad.Benwasintheshower,Adamplayinginthediningroom,andIwasabletopersuadeMikethatheoughttogohomebeforeeitherofthemwereawareofhispresence.ThatwasthenightIdecidedIhadtoendtheaffair
“Ihavetogonow,”Isay.Iopenthecardoor,stepoutontothegravel.“I’msorry.”
Heleansacrosstolookatme.Ithinkhowattractiveheis,thatifhehadbeenlessdamaged,mymarriagemighthavebeeninrealtrouble.“WillIseeyouagain?”hesays.
“No,”Ireply.“No.It’sover.”
Yetherewearenow,alltheseyearslater.Heisholdingmeagain,andIunderstandthatnomatterhowscaredIwasofhim,Iwasnotscaredenough.Ibegintoscream.
“Darling,”hesays.“Calmdown.”HeputshishandovermymouthandIscreamlouder.“Calmdown!Someonewillhearyou!”Myheadsmacksbackward,connectswiththeradiatorbehindme.Thereisnochangeinthemusicfromtheclubnextdoor—ifanything,itisloudernow.Theywon’t,Ithink.Theywillneverhearme.Iscreamagain.
“Stopit!”hesays.Hehashitme,Ithink,orelseshakenme.Ibegintopanic.“Stopit!”MyheadhitsthewarmmetalagainandIamstunnedintosilence.Ibegintosob.
“Letmego,”Isay,pleadingwithhim.“Please—”Herelaxeshisgripalittle,thoughnotenoughformetowrigglefree.“Howdidyoufindme?Alltheseyearslater?Howdidyoufindme?”
“Findyou?”hesays.“Ineverlostyou.”Mymindwhirs,uncomprehending.“Iwatchedoveryou.Always.Iprotectedyou.”
“Youvisitedme?Inthoseplaces?Thehospital,WaringHouse?”Ibegin.“But—?”
Hesighs.“Notalways.Theywouldn’thaveletme.ButIwouldsometimestellthemIwastheretoseesomeoneelse,orthatIwasavolunteer.JustsothatIcouldseeyou,andmakesureyouwereallright.Atthatlastplaceitwaseasier.Allthosewindows…”
Igocold.“Youwatchedme?”
“Ihadtoknowyouwereallright,Chris.Ihadtoprotectyou.”
“Soyoucamebackforme?Isthatit?Wasn’twhatyoudidhere,inthisroom,enough?”
“WhenIfoundoutthatbastardhadleftyou,Icouldn’tjustleaveyouinthatplace.Iknewyou’dwanttobewithme.Iknewitwasthebestthingforyou.Ihadtowaitforawhile,waituntilIknewtherewasnoonestilltheretotryandstopme,butwhoelsewouldhavelookedafteryou?”
“Andtheyjustletmegowithyou?”Isay.“Surelytheywouldn’thaveletmegowithastranger!”
Iwonderwhatlieshemusthavetoldforthemtolethimtakeme,thenrememberreadingwhatDr.NashhadtoldmeaboutthewomanfromWaringHouse.Shewassohappywhenshefoundoutyou’dgonebacktolivewithBen.Animageforms,amemory.MyhandinMike’sashesignsaform.Awomanbehindadesksmilesatme.“We’llmissyou,Christine,”shesays.“Butyou’llbehappyathome.”ShelooksatMike.“Withyourhusband.”
Ifollowhergaze.Idon’trecognizethemanwhosehandIamholding,butIknowheisthemanImarried.Hemustbe.Hehastoldmeheis.
“OhmyGod!”Isaynow.“HowlonghaveyoubeenpretendingtobeBen?”
Helookssurprised.“Pretending?”
“Yes,”Isay.“Pretendingtobemyhusband.”
Helooksconfused.IwonderifhehasforgottenthatheisnotBen.Thenhisfacefalls.Helooksupset.
“DoyouthinkIwantedtodothat?Ihadto.Itwastheonlyway.”
Hisarmsrelaxslightly,andanoddthinghappens.Mymindstopsspinning,and,althoughIremainterrified,Iaminfusedwithabizarresenseofcompletecalm.Athoughtcomesfromnowhere.Iwillbeathim.Iwillgetaway.Ihaveto.
“Mike?”Isay.“Idounderstand,youknow?Itmusthavebeendifficult.”
Helooksupatme.“Youdo?”
“Yes,ofcourse.I’mgratefultoyouforcomingforme.Forgivingmeahome.Forlookingafterme.”
“Really?”
“Yes.JustthinkwhereI’dbeifyouhadn’t?Icouldn’tbearit.”Isensehimsoften.ThepressureonmyarmsandshoulderlessensandisaccompaniedbyasubtleyetdefinitesensationofstrokingthatIfindalmostmoredistastefulbutIknowismorelikelytoleadtomyescape.BecauseescapeisallIcanthinkof.Ineedtogetaway.Howstupidofme,Ithinknow,tohavesatthereonthefloorwhilehewasinthebathroom,toreadwhathehadstolenofmyjournal.Whyhadn’tItakenitwithmeandleft?ThenIrememberthatitwasnotuntilIreadtheendofthejournalthatIhadanyrealideaofhowmuchdangerIwasin.Thatsamesmallvoicecomesinagain.Iwillescape.IhaveasonIcannotrememberhavingmet.Iwillescape.Imovemyheadtofacehim,andbegintostrokethebackofhishandwhereitrestsonmyshoulder.
“Whynotletmego,andthenwecantalkaboutwhatweshoulddo?”
“HowaboutClaire,though?”hesays.“SheknowsI’mnotBen.Youtoldher.”
“Shewon’trememberthat,”Isaydesperately.
Helaughs,ahollow,chokedsound.“YoualwaystreatedmelikeIwasstupid.I’mnot,youknow?Iknowwhat’sgoingtohappen!Youtoldher.Youruinedeverything!”
“No,”Isayquickly.“Icancallher.IcantellherIwasconfused.ThatI’dforgottenwhoyouwere.IcantellherthatIthoughtyouwereBen,butIwaswrong.”
Ialmostbelievehethinksthisispossible,butthenhesays,“She’dneverbelieveyou.”
“Shewould,”Isay,eventhoughIknowthatshewouldnot.“Ipromise.”
“Whydidyouhavetogoandcallher?”Hisfacecloudswithanger,hishandsbegintogripmetighter.“Why?Why,Chris?Weweredoingfine,untilthen.Fine.”Hebeginstoshakemeagain.“Why?”heshouts.“Why?”
“Ben,”Isay.“You’rehurtingme.”
Hehitsmethen.IhearthesoundofhishandagainstmyfacebeforeIfeeltheflashofpain.Myheadtwistsaround,mylowerjawcracksup,connectingpainfullywithitscompanion.
“Don’tyoueverfuckingcallmethatagain,”hespits.
“Mike,”Isayquickly,asifIcanerasemymistake.“Mike—”
Heignoresme.
“I’msickofbeingBen,”hesays.“YoucancallmeMike,fromnowon.Okay?It’sMike.That’swhywecamebackhere.Sothatwecanputallthatbehindus.Youwroteinyourbookthatifyoucouldonlyrememberwhathappenedhereallthoseyearsagothenyou’dgetyourmemoryback.Well,we’reherenow.Imadeithappen,Chris.Soremember!”
Iamincredulous.“Youwantmetoremember?”
“Yes!OfcourseIdo!Iloveyou,Christine.Iwantyoutorememberhowmuchyouloveme.Iwantustobetogetheragain.Properly.Asweshouldbe.”Hepauses,hisvoicedropstoawhisper.“Idon’twanttobeBenanymore.”
“But—”
Helooksbackatme.“Whenwegobackhometomorrow,youcancallmeMike.”Heshakesmeagain,hisfaceinchesfrommine.“Okay?”Icansmellsournessonhisbreath,andanothersmell,too.Iwonderifhe’sbeendrinking.“We’regoingtobeokay,aren’twe,Christine?We’regoingtomoveon.”
“Moveon?”Isay.Myheadissore,andsomethingiscomingoutofmynose.Blood,Ithink,thoughIamnotsure.Thecalmnessdisappears.Iraisemyvoice,shoutingasloudasIcan.“Youwantmetogobackhome?Moveon?Areyouabsolutelyfuckingcrazy?”Hemoveshishandtoclampitovermymouth,andIrealizethathasleftmyarmfree.Ihitoutathim,catchinghimonthesideofhisface,thoughnothard.Still,ittakeshimbysurprise.Hefallsbackward,lettinggoofmyotherarmashedoes.
Istumbletomyfeet.“Bitch!”hesays,butIstepforward,overhim,andheadtowardthedoor.
Imanagethreestepsbeforehegrabsmyankle.Icomecrashingdown.Thereisastoolsittingtuckedunderthedressingtable,andmyheadhitsitsedgeasIgodown.Iamlucky;thestoolispaddedandbreaksmyfall,butitcausesmybodytotwistawkwardlyasIland.Painshootsupmybackandthroughmyneck,andIamafraidIhavebrokensomething.Ibegintocrawltowardthedoor,buthestillholdsmyankle.Hepullsmetowardhimwithagrunt,andthenhiscrushingweightisontopofme,hislipsinchesfrommyear.
“Mike,”Isob.“Mike—”
InfrontofmeisthephotographofAdamandHelen,lyingonthefloorwherehehaddroppedit.Eveninthemiddleofeverythingelse,Iwonderhowhehadgotit,andthenithitsme.AdamhadsentittomeatWaringHouseandMikehadtakenit,alongwithalltheotherphotographs,whenhe’dcomeforme.
“Youstupid,stupidbitch,”hesays,spittingintomyear.Oneofhishandsisaroundmythroat;withtheother,hehasgrabbedahandfulofmyhair.Hepullsmyheadback,jerkingmyneckup.“Whatdidyouhavetogoanddothatfor?”
“I’msorry,”Isob.Icannotmove.Oneofmyhandsistrappedbeneathmybody,theotherclampedbetweenmybackandhisleg.
“Wheredidyouthinkyouweregoingtogo,eh?”hesays.Heissnarlingnow,ananimal.Somethinglikehatefloodsoutofhim.
“I’msorry,”Isayagain,becauseitisallIcanthinkoftosay.“I’msorry.”Irememberthedayswhenthosewordswouldalwayswork,alwaysbeenough,bewhatwasneededtogetmeoutofwhatevertroubleIwasin.
“Stopsayingyou’refuckingsorry,”hesays.Myheadjerksback,andthenslamsforward.Myforehead,nose,mouthallconnectwiththecarpetedfloor.Thereisanoise,asickeningcrunch,andthesmellofstalecigarettes.Icryout.Thereisbloodinmymouth.Ihavebittenmytongue.“Wheredoyouthinkyou’regoingtorunto?Youcan’tdrive.Youdon’tknowanybody.Youdon’tevenknowwhoyouaremostofthetime.Youhavenowheretogo,nowhereatall.You’repathetic.”
Istarttocry,becauseheisright.Iampathetic.Clairenevercame;Ihavenofriends.Iamutterlyalone,relyingtotallyonthemanwhodidthistome,and,tomorrowmorning,ifIsurvive,Iwillhaveforgotteneventhis.
IfIsurvive.ThewordsechothroughmeasIrealizewhatthismaniscapableof,andthat,thistime,Imaynotgetoutofthisroomalive.Terrorslamsintome,butthenIhearthetinyvoiceagain.Thisisnottheplaceyoudie.Notwithhim.Notnow.Anythingbutthat.
Iarchmybackpainfullyandmanagetofreemyarm.Lungingforward,Igrabthelegofthestool.Itisheavy,andtheangleofmybodywrong,butImanagetotwistaroundandheaveitbackovermyhead,whereIimagineMike’sheadwillbe.Itstrikessomethingwithasatisfyingcrack,andthereisagaspinmyear.Heletsgoofmyhair.
Ilookaround.Hehasrockedbackward,hishandtohisforehead.Bloodisbeginningtotricklebetweenhisfingers.Helooksupatme,uncomprehending.
Later,IwillthinkhowIshouldhavehithimagain.Withthestool,orwithmybarehands.Withanything.Ishouldhavemadesurehewasincapacitated,thatIcouldgetaway,getdownstairs,evenfarenoughawaythatIcouldopenthedoorandscreamforhelp.
ButIdonot.IpullmyselfuprightandthenIstand,lookingathimonthefloorinfrontofme.NomatterwhatIdonow,Ithink,hehaswon.Hewillalwayshavewon.Hehastakeneverythingfromme,eventheabilitytorememberexactlywhathedidtome.Iturn,andbegintomovetowardthedoor.
Withagrunt,helauncheshimselfatme.Hiswholebodycollideswithmine.Togetherweslamintothedresser,stumbletowardthedoor.“Christine!”hesays,“Chris!Don’tleaveme!”
Ireachout.IfIcanjustopenthedoor,thensurely,despitethenoisefromtheclub,someonewillhearusandcome?
Heclingstomywaist.Likesomegrotesque,two-headedmonster,weinchforward,medragginghim.“Chris!Iloveyou!”hesays.Heiswailing,andthis,plustheridiculousnessofhiswords,spursmeon.Iamnearlythere.SoonIwillreachthedoor.
Andthenithappens.Irememberthatnight,allthoseyearsago.Me,inthisroom,standinginthesamespot.Iamreachingoutahandtowardthesamedoor.Iamhappy,ridiculouslyso.ThewallsresonatewiththesoftorangeglowofthelitcandlesthatweredottedaroundtheroomwhenIarrived,theairistingedwiththesweetsmelloftherosesinthebouquetthatwasonthebed.I’llbeupstairsataroundseven,mydarling,saidthenotethatwaspinnedtothem,andthoughIwonderedbrieflywhatBenwasdoingdownstairs,IamgladofthefewminutesIhavehadalonebeforehearrives.Ithasgivenmetheopportunitytogathermythoughts,toreflectonhowcloseIcametolosinghim,whatareliefithasbeentoendtheaffairwithMike,howfortunateIamthatBenandIarenowsetonanewtrajectory.HowcouldIhavethoughtthatIwantedtobewithMike?MikewouldneverhavedonewhatBenhasdone:arrangeasurprisenightawayinahotelatthecoast,toshowmehowmuchhelovesmeandthat,despiteourrecentdifferences,thiswillneverchange.Mikewastooinward-lookingforthat,Ihavelearned.Withhim,everythingisatest,affectionismeasured,thatgivenweighedagainstthatwhichhasbeenreceived,andthebalance,moreoftenthannot,disappointinghim.
Iamtouchingthehandleofthedoor,twistingit,pullingittowardme.BenhastakenAdamtostaywithhisgrandparents.Wehaveawholeweekendinfrontofus,withnothingtoworryabout.Justthetwoofus.
“Darling,”Iamstartingtosay,butthewordischokedoffinmythroat.It’snotBenatthedoor.It’sMike.Heispushingpastme,comingintotheroom,andevenasIamaskinghimwhathethinksheisdoing—whatrighthehastoluremehere,tothisroom,whathethinkshecanachieve—Iamthinking,Youdeviousbastard.Howdareyoupretendtobemyhusband.Doyouhavenoprideleftatall?
IthinkofBenandAdam,athome.BynowBenwillbewonderingwhereIam.Possiblyhewillsooncallthepolice.HowstupidIwastogetonatrainandcomeherewithoutmentioningittoanybody.Howstupidtobelievethatatypewrittennote,evenonesprayedwithmyfavoriteperfume,wasfrommyhusband.
Mikespeaks.“Wouldyouhavecome,ifyou’dknownitwastomeetme?”
Ilaugh.“Ofcoursenot!It’sover.Itoldyouthatbefore.”
Ilookattheflowers,thebottleofchampagnehestillholdsinhishand.Everythingcarriesthesmackofromance,ofseduction.“MyGod!”Iamsaying.“Youreallythoughtyoucouldjustluremehere,givemeflowersandabottleofchampagneandthatwouldbeit?ThatIwouldjustfallintoyourarmsandeverythingwouldgobacktobeinglikeitwasbefore?You’recrazy,Mike.Crazy.I’mleavingnow.Goingbacktomyhusbandandmyson.”
Idon’twanttorememberanymore.Isupposethatmusthavebeenwhenhefirsthitme,but,afterthat,Idon’tknowwhathappened,whatledmefromtheretothehospital.AndnowIamhereagain,inthisroom.Wehaveturnedafullcircle,thoughformeallthedaysbetweenhavebeenstolen.ItisasthoughIneverleft.
Icannotreachthedoor.Heispullinghimselfup.Ibegintoshout.“Help!Help!”
“Quiet!”hesays.“Shutup!”
Ishoutlouder,andheswingsmearound,atthesametimepushingmebackward.Ifall,andtheceilingandhisfaceslidedowninfrontofmelikeacurtaindescending.Myskullhitssomethinghardandunyielding.Irealizehehaspushedmeintothebathroom.Itwistmyheadandseethetiledfloorstretchingawayfromme,thebottomofthetoilet,theedgeofthebath.Thereisabarofsoaponthefloor,stickyandmashed.“Mike!”Isay.“Don’t…”butheiscrouchingoverme,hishandsaroundmythroat.
“Shutup!”heissaying,overandover,eventhoughIamnotsayinganythingnow,justcrying.Iamgaspingforbreath,myeyesandmoutharewet,withblood,andtears,andIdon’tknowwhatelse.
“Mike—”Igasp.Icannotbreathe.HishandsarearoundmythroatandIcannotbreathe.Memoryfloodsback.Icanrememberhimholdingmyheadunderwater.Irememberwakingup,inawhitebed,wearingahospitalgown,andBensittingnexttome,therealBen,theoneImarried.IrememberapolicewomanaskingmequestionsIcannotanswer.Amaninpalebluepajamassittingontheedgeofmyhospitalbed,laughingwithmeevenashetellsmethatIgreethimeverydayasifIhaveneverseenhimbefore.Alittleboywithblondhairandatoothmissing,callingmeMummy.Oneafteranother,theimagescome.Theyfloodthroughme.Theeffectisviolent.Ishakemyhead,tryingtoclearit,butMikegripsmetighter.Hisheadisabovemine,hiseyeswildandunblinkingashesqueezesmythroat,andIcanrememberitbeingsooncebefore,inthisroom.Iclosemyeyes.“Howdareyou?”heissaying,andIcannotworkoutwhichMikeitiswhoisspeaking:theonehere,now,ortheonewhoexistsonlyinmymemory.“Howdareyou?”hesaysagain.“Howdareyoutakemychild?”
ItisthenthatIremember.Whenhehadattackedmeallthoseyearsago,Ihadbeencarryingababy.NotMike’s,butBen’s.Thechildthatwasgoingtobeournewstarttogether.
Neitherofushadsurvived.
Imusthaveblackedout.WhenIregainconsciousness,Iamsittinginachair.Icannotmovemyhands,theinsideofmymouthtastesfurry.Iopenmyeyes.Theroomisdim,litonlybythemoonlightstreaminginthroughtheopencurtainsandthereflectedyellowstreetlights.Mikeissittingoppositeme,ontheedgeofthebed.Heisholdingsomethinginhishand.
Itrytospeak,butcannot.Irealizesomethingisinmymouth.Asock,perhaps.Ithasbeensecured,somehow,tiedinplace,andmywristsaretiedtogether,andalsomyankles.
Thisiswhathewantedallalong,Ithink.Me,silentandunmoving.Istruggle,andhenoticesthatIhavewokenup.Helooksup,hisfaceamaskofpainandsadness,andstaresatme,rightintomyeyes.Ifeelnothingbuthate.
“You’reawake.”Iwonderifheintendstosayanythingelse,whetherheiscapableofsayinganythingelse.“Thisisn’twhatIwanted.Ithoughtwewouldcomehereanditmighthelpyoutoremember.Rememberhowthingsusedtobebetweenus.Andthenwecouldtalk,andIcouldexplainwhathappenedhere,allthoseyearsago.Inevermeantforittohappen,Chris.Ijustgetsomad,sometimes.Ican’thelpit.I’msorry.Ineverwantedtohurtyou,ever.Iruinedeverything.”
Helooksdown,intohislap.ThereissomuchmoreIusedtowanttoknow,yetIamexhausted,anditistoolate.IfeelasthoughIcouldclosemyeyesandwillmyselfintooblivion,erasingeverything.
YetIdonotwanttosleeptonight.AndifImustsleep,thenIdonotwanttowakeuptomorrow.
“Itwaswhenyoutoldmeyouwerehavingababy.”Hedoesnotlifthishead.Instead,hespeakssoftlyintothefoldsofhisclothes,andIhavetostraintohearwhatheissaying.“IneverthoughtI’dhaveachild.Never.Theyallsaid—”hehesitates,asifchanginghismind,decidingthatsomethingsarebetternotshared.“Yousaiditwasn’tmine.ButIknewitwas.AndIcouldn’tcopewiththethoughtthatyouwerestillgoingtoleaveme,goingtotakemybabyawayfromme,thatImightneverseehim.Icouldn’tcope,Chris.”
Istilldon’tknowwhathewantsfromme.
“YouthinkI’mnotsorry?ForwhatIdid?Everyday.Iseeyousobewilderedandlostandunhappy.SometimesIliethere,inbed.Ihearyouwakeup.Andyoulookatme,andIknowyoudon’tknowwhoIam,andIcanfeelthedisappointmentandshame.Itcomesoffyouinwaves.Thathurts.Knowingthatyou’dneversleepwithmenow,ifyouhadthechoice.Andthenyougetoutofbedandgotothebathroom,andIknowthatinafewminutesyouwillcomebackandyou’llbesoconfusedandsounhappyandinsomuchpain.”
Hepauses.“AndnowIknoweventhatwillbeoversoon.I’vereadyourjournal.Iknowyourdoctorwillhaveworkeditoutbynow.Orhewilldosoon.Claire,too.Iknowthey’llcomeforme.”Helooksup.“Andthey’lltrytotakeyouawayfromme.ButBendoesn’twantyou.Ido.Iwanttolookafteryou.Please,Chris.Pleaserememberhowmuchyoulovedme.Thenyoucantellthemthatyouwanttobewithme.”Hepointstothelastfewpagesofmyjournal,scatteredonthefloor.“Youcantellthemthatyouforgiveme.Forthis.Andthenwecanbetogether.”
Ishakemyhead.Icannotbelievehewantsmetoremember.Hewantsmetoknowwhathehasdone.
Hesmiles.“Youknow,sometimesIthinkitmighthavebeenkinderifyou’ddiedthatnight.Kinderforbothofus.”Helooksoutofthewindow.“Iwouldjoinyou,Chris.Ifthat’swhatyouwanted.”Helooksdownagain.“Itwouldbeeasyenough.Youcouldgofirst.AndIpromiseyouIwouldfollow.Youdotrustme,don’tyou?”
Helooksatmeexpectantly.“Wouldyoulikethat?”hesays.“Itwouldbepainless.”
Ishakemyhead,trytospeak,fail.Myeyesareburning,andIcanhardlybreathe.
“No?”Helooksdisappointed.“No.Isupposeanylifeisbetterthannone.Verywell.You’reprobablyright.”Ibegintocry.Heshakeshishead.“Chris.Thiswillallbefine.Yousee?Thisbookistheproblem.”Heholdsupmyjournal.“Wewerehappy,beforeyoustartedwritingthis.Orashappyaswecouldbe,anyway.Andthatwashappyenough,wasn’tit?Weshouldjustgetridofthis,andthenmaybeyoucouldtellthemyouwereconfused,andwecouldgobacktohowitwasbefore.Foralittlewhile,atleast.”
Hestandsupandslidesthemetalbinfrombeneaththedresser,takingouttheemptylineranddiscardingit.“It’llbeeasy,then,”hesays.Heputsthebinonthefloorbetweenhislegs.“Easy.”Hedropsmyjournalintothebin,andgathersthelastfewpagesthatarestilllitteringthefloorandaddsthose.“Wehavetogetridofit,”hesays.“Allofit.Onceandforall.”
Hetakesaboxofmatchesoutofhispocket,strikesone,andretrievesasinglepagefromthebin.
Ilookathiminhorror.“No!”Itrytosay,butnothingcomesapartfromamuffledgrunt.Hedoesnotlookatmeashesetsfiretothesinglepageandthendropsitintothebin.
“No!”Isayagain,butthistimeitisasilentscreaminmyhead.Iwatchmyhistorybegintoburntoash,mymemoriesreducedtocarbon.Myjournal,theletterfromBen,everything.Iamnothingwithoutthatjournal,Ithink.Nothing.Andhehaswon.
IdonotplantodowhatIdonext.Itisinstinctive.Ilaunchmybodyatthebin.Withmyhandstied,Icannotbreakmyfall,andIhititawkwardly,hearingsomethingsnapasItwist.PainshootsfrommyarmandIthinkIwillfaint,butdonot.Thebinfallsover,scatteringburningpaperacrossthefloor.
Mikecriesout—ashriek—andfallstohisknees,slappingtheground,tryingtoputouttheflames.Inoticeaburningshredhascometorestunderthebed,unnoticedbyMike.Flamesarebeginningtolickattheedgeofthebedspread,butIcanneitherreachitnorcryout,andsoIsimplyliethere,watchingthebedspreadcatchfire.Itbeginstosmoke,andIclosemyeyes.Theroomwillburn,Ithink,andMikewillburn,andIwillburn,andnoonewilleverreallyknowwhathappenedhere,inthisroom,justlikenoonewilleverreallyknowwhathappenedhereallthoseyearsago,andhistorywillturntoashandbereplacedbyconjecture.
Icough,adry,heavingretch,swallowedbythesockballedinmythroat.Iambeginningtochoke.Ithinkofmyson.Iwillneverseehim,now,thoughatleastI’lldieknowingIhadone,andthatheisaliveandhappy.ForthatIamglad.IthinkofBen.ThemanImarriedandthenforgot.Iwanttoseehim.Iwanttotellhimthatnow,attheend,Icanrememberhim.Icanremembermeetinghimattherooftopparty,andhimproposingtomeonahilllookingoutoveracity,andIcanremembermarryinghiminthechurchinManchester,havingourphotographstakenintherain.
And,yes,Icanrememberlovinghim.IknowthatIdolovehim,andIalwayshave.
Thingsgodark.Icannotbreathe.Icanhearthelapofflames,andfeeltheirheatonmylipsandeyes.
Therewerenevergoingtobeanyhappyendingsforme.Iknowthatnow.Butthatisallright.
Thatisallright.
Iamlyingdown.Ihavebeenasleep,butnotforlong.IcanrememberwhoIam,whereIhavebeen.Icanhearnoise,theroaroftraffic,asirenthatisneitherrisingnorfallinginpitchbutremainingconstant.Somethingisovermymouth—Ithinkofaballedsock—yetIfindIcanbreathe.Iamtoofrightenedtoopenmyeyes.IdonotknowwhatI
ButImust.Ihavenochoicebuttofacewhatevermyrealityhasbecome.
Thelightisbright.Icanseeafluorescenttubeonthelowceiling,andtwometalbarsrunningparalleltoit.Thewallsareclosebyoneachside,andtheyarehard,shinywithmetalandplastic.Icanmakeoutdrawersandshelvesstockedwithbottlesandpackets,andtherearemachines,blinking.Everythingismovingslightly,vibrating,including,Irealize,thebedinwhichIamlying.
Aman’sfaceappearsfromsomewherebehindme,overmyhead.Heiswearingagreenshirt.Idonotrecognizehim.
“She’sawake,everybody,”hesays,andthenmorefacesappear.Iscanthemquickly.Mikeisnotamongthem,andIrelax,alittle.
“Christine,”comesavoice.“Chrissy.It’sme.”Itisawoman’svoice,oneIrecognize.“We’reonourwaytothehospital.You’vebrokenyourcollarbone,butyou’regoingtobeallright.Everything’sgoingtobefine.He’sdead.Thatmanisdead.Hecan’thurtyouanymore.”
Iseethepersonspeaking,then.Sheissmilingandholdingmyhand.It’sClaire.ThesameClaireIsawjusttheotherday,nottheyoungClaireImightexpecttoseeafterjustwakingup,andInoticeherearringsarethesamepairthatshehadonthelasttimeIsawher
“Claire?”Isay,butsheinterrupts.
“Don’tspeak,”shesays.“Justtrytorelax.”Sheleansforwardandstrokesmyhair,andwhisperssomethinginmyear,butIdon’thearwhat.Itsoundslike“I’msorry.”
“Iremember,”Isay.“Iremember.”
Shesmiles,andthenshestepsbackandayoungmantakesherplace.Hehasanarrowfaceandiswearingthick-rimmedglasses.Foramoment,IthinkitisBen,untilIrealizethatBenwouldbemyagenow.
“Mum?”hesays.“Mum?”
HelooksthesameashedidinthepictureofhimandHelen,andIrealizeIrememberhim,too.
“Adam?”Isay.Wordschokeinmythroatashehugsme.
“Mum,”hesays.“Dad’scoming.He’llbeheresoon.”
Ipullhimtome,andbreatheinthesmellofmyboy,andIamhappy.
Icanwaitnolonger.Itistime.Imustsleep.Ihaveaprivateroomandsothereisnoneedformetoobservethestrictroutinesofthehospital,butIamexhausted,myeyesalreadybeginningtoclose.Itistime.
IhavespokentoBen.TothemanIreallymarried.Wetalkedforhours,itseems,thoughitmayonlyhavebeenafewminutes.Hetoldmethatheflewinassoonasthepolicecontactedhim.
“Thepolice?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Whentheyrealizedyouweren’tlivingwiththepersonWaringHousethoughtyouwere,theytracedme.I’mnotsurehow.Isupposetheyhadmyoldaddressandwentfromthere.”
“Sowherewereyou?”
Hepushedhisglassesupthebridgeofhisnose.“I’vebeeninItalyforafewmonths,”hesaid.“I’vebeenworkingoutthere.”Hepaused.“Ithoughtyouwereokay.”Hetookmyhand.“I’msorry…”
“Youcouldn’thaveknown,”Isaid.
Helookedaway.“Ileftyou,Chrissy.”
“Iknow.Iknoweverything.Clairetoldme.Ireadyourletter.”
“Ithoughtitwasforthebest,”hesaid.“Ireallydid.Ithoughtitwouldhelp.Helpyou.HelpAdam.Itriedtogetonwithmylife.Ireallydid.”Hehesitated.“IthoughtIcouldonlydothatifIdivorcedyou.Ithoughtitwouldfreeme.Adamdidn’tunderstand,evenwhenIexplainedtohimthatyouwouldn’tevenknow,wouldn’tevenrememberbeingmarriedtome.”
“Didit?”Isaid.“Didithelpyoutomoveon?”
Heturnedtome.“Iwon’tlietoyou,Chrissy.Therehavebeenotherwomen.Notmany,butsome.It’sbeenalongtime,yearsandyears.Atfirstnothingserious,butthenImetsomeoneacoupleofyearsago.Imovedinwithher.But—”
“But?”
“Well,thatended.ShesaidIdidn’tloveher.ThatI’dneverstoppedlovingyou…”
“Andwassheright?”
Hedidnotreply,andso,fearinghisanswer,Isaid,“Sowhathappensnow?Tomorrow?WillyoutakemebacktoWaringHouse?”
Helookedupatme.
“No,”hesaid.“Shewasright.Ineverstoppedlovingyou.AndIwon’ttakeyouthereagain.Tomorrow,Iwantyoutocomehome.”
NowIlookathim.Hesitsinachairnexttome,andalthoughheisalreadysnoring,hisheadtippedforwardatanawkwardangle,hestillholdsmyhand.Icanjustmakeouthisglasses,thescarrunningdownthesideofhisface.Mysonhaslefttheroomtophonehisgirlfriendandwhisperagood-nighttohisunborndaughter,andmybestfriendisoutsideintheparkinglot,smokingacigarette.Nomatterwhat,IamsurroundedbythepeopleIlove.
Earlier,IspoketoDr.Nash.HetoldmeIhadleftthecarehomealmostfourmonthsago,alittlewhileafterMikehadstartedvisiting,claimingtobeBen.Ihaddischargedmyself,signedallthepaperwork.Ihadleftvoluntarily.Theycouldn’thavestoppedme,evenifthey’dbelievedtherewasareasonforthemtotry.WhenIleft,ItookwithmethefewphotographsandpersonalpossessionsthatIstillhad.
“ThatwaswhyMikehadthosepictures?”Isaid.“Theonesofme,andAdam.That’swhyhehadtheletterthatAdamhadwrittentoSantaClaus?Hisbirthcertificate?”
“Yes,”saidDr.Nash.“TheywerewithyouatWaringHouse,andtheywentwithyouwhenyouleft.Atsomepoint,MikemusthavedestroyedallthepicturesthatshowedyouwithBen.PossiblyevenbeforeyouweredischargedfromWaringHouse—thestaffturnoverisfairlyhighandtheyhadnoideawhatyourhusbandreallylookedlike.”
“Buthowwouldhehavegotaccesstothephotographs?”
“Theywereinanalbuminadrawerinyourroom.Itwouldhavebeeneasyenoughforhimtogettothemoncehestartedvisitingyou.Hemightevenhaveslippedinafewphotographsofhimself.Hemusthavehadsomeofthetwoofyoutakenduring…well,whenyouwereseeingeachother,yearsago.ThestaffatWaringHousewereconvincedthatthemanwhohadbeenvisitingyouwasthesameoneasinthephotoalbum.”
“SoIbroughtmyphotosbacktoMike’shouseandhehidtheminametalbox?Thenheinventedafire,toexplainwhythereweresofew?”
“Yes,”hesaid.Helookedtired,andguilty.Iwonderedwhetherheblamedhimselfforanyofwhathadhappened,andhopedhedidn’t.Hehadhelpedme,afterall.Hehadrescuedme.Ihopedhewouldstillbeabletowritehispaperandpresentmycase.Ihopedhewouldberecognizedforwhathehaddoneforme.Afterall,withouthimI’d—
Idon’twanttothinkaboutwhereI’dbe.
“Howdidyoufindme?”Isaid.HeexplainedthatClairehadbeenfranticwithworryafterwe’dspoken,butshehadwaitedformetocallthenextday.“Mikemusthaveremovedthepagesfromyourjournalthatnight.Thatwaswhyyoudidn’tthinkanythingwaswrongwhenyougavemethejournalonTuesday,andneitherdidI.Whenyoudidn’tcallher,Clairetriedtophoneyou,butsheonlyhadthenumberforthemobilephoneIhadgivenyou,andMikehadtakenthat,too.IshouldhaveknownsomethingwaswrongwhenIcalledyouonthatnumberthismorningandyoudidn’tanswer.ButIdidn’tthink.Ijustcalledyouonyourotherphone…”Heshookhishead.
“It’sokay,”Isaid.“Goon…”
“It’sfairtoassumehe’dbeenreadingyourjournalforatleastthelastweekorso,probablylonger.AtfirstClairecouldn’tgetholdofAdamanddidn’thaveBen’snumber,soshecalledWaringHouse.Theyonlyhadonenumber,whichtheythoughtwasforBenbut,infact,itwasMike’s.Clairedidn’thavemynumber.ShecalledtheschoolheworkedatandpersuadedthemtogiveherMike’saddressandphonenumber,butbothwerefalse.Shewasatadeadend.”
Ithinkofthismandiscoveringmyjournal,readingiteveryday.Whydidn’thedestroyit?
BecauseI’dwrittenthatIlovedhim.Andbecausethatwaswhathewantedmetocarryonbelieving.
OrmaybeIambeingtookindtohim.Maybehejustwantedmetoseeitburn.
“Clairedidn’tcallthepolice?”
“Shedid,”henodded.“Butitwasafewdaysbeforetheyreallytookitseriously.Inthemeantimeshe’dgotholdofAdamandhe’dtoldherthatBenhadbeenabroadforawhileandthatasfarasheknewyouwerestillinWaringHouse.Shecontactedthemand,thoughtheywouldn’tgiveheryourhomeaddress,theyeventuallyrelentedandgaveAdammynumber.Theymusthavethoughtthatwasagoodcompromise,asIamadoctor.Claireonlygotthroughtomethisafternoon.”
“Thisafternoon?”
“Yes.Claireconvincedmesomethingwaswrong,andofcoursefindingoutthatAdamwasaliveconfirmedit.Wecametoseeyouathome,butbythenyou’dalreadyleftforBrighton.”
“Howdidyouknowtofindmethere?”
“YoutoldmethismorningthatBen—sorry,Mike—hadtoldyouthatyouweregoingawayfortheweekend.Yousaidhe’dtoldyouthatyouweregoingtothecoast.OnceClairetoldmewhatwasgoingon,Iguessedwherehewastakingyou.”
Ilayback.Ifelttired.Exhausted.Iwantedonlytosleep,butwasfrightenedto.FrightenedofwhatImightforget
“ButyoutoldmeAdamwasdead,”Isaid.“Yousaidhe’dbeenkilled.Whenweweresittingintheparkinglot.Andthefire,too.Youtoldmethere’dbeenafire.”
Hesmiledsadly.“Becausethat’swhatyoutoldme.”ItoldhimIdidn’tunderstand.“Oneday,acoupleofweeksafterwefirstmet,youtoldmeAdamwasdead.Evidently,Mikehadtoldyou,andyouhadbelievedhimandtoldme.Whenyouaskedmeintheparkinglot,ItoldyouthetruthasIbelievedit.Itwasthesamewiththefire.Ibelievedthere’dbeenone,becausethat’swhatyoutoldme.”
“ButIrememberedAdam’sfuneral,”Isaid.“Hiscoffin…”
Againthesadsmile.“Yourimagination…”
“ButIsawpictures,”Isaid.“Thatman”—IfounditimpossibletosayMike’sname—“heshowedmepicturesofmeandhimtogether,ofusgettingmarried.Ifoundapictureofagravestone.IthadAdam’sname—”
“Hemusthavefakedthem,”hesaid.
“Fakedthem?”
“Yes.Onacomputer.It’sreallyquiteeasytomock-upphotosthesedays.Hemusthaveguessedyouweresuspectingthetruthandleftthemwhereheknewyou’dfindthem.It’squitelikelythatsomeofthephotosyouthoughtwereofthetwoofyouwerealsofaked.”
IthoughtofthetimesIhadwrittenthatMikewasinhisoffice.Working.Isthatwhathe’dbeendoing?Howthoroughlyhehadbetrayedme.
“Areyouokay?”saidDr.Nash.
Ismiled.“Yes,”Isaid.“Ithinkso.”Ilookedathim,andrealizedIcouldpicturehiminadifferentsuit,withhishaircutmuchshorter.
“Icanrememberthings,”Isaid.
Hisexpressiondidnotchange.“Whatthings?”hesaid.
“Irememberyouwithadifferenthaircut,”Isaid.“AndIrecognizedBen,too.AndAdamandClaire,intheambulance.AndIcanrememberseeinghertheotherday.WewenttothecaféatAlexandraPalace.Wehadcoffee.Shehasason,calledToby.”
Hiseyesweresad.
“Haveyoureadyourjournaltoday?”hesaid.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Butdon’tyousee?IcanrememberthingsthatIdidn’twritedown.Icanremembertheearringsthatshewaswearing.They’rethesameonesshehasonnow.Iaskedher.ShesaidIwasright.AndIcanrememberthatTobywaswearingablueparka,andhehadcartoonsonhissocks,andIrememberhewasupsetbecausehewantedapplejuiceandtheyonlyhadorangeorblackcurrant.Don’tyousee?Ididn’twritethosethingsdown.Icanrememberthem.”
Helookedpleasedthen,thoughstillcautious.
“Dr.Paxtondidsaythathecouldfindnoobviousorganiccauseforyouramnesia.Thatitseemedlikelythatitwasatleastpartlycausedbytheemotionaltraumaofwhathadhappenedtoyou,aswellasthephysical.Isupposeit’spossiblethatanothertraumamightreversethat,atleasttosomedegree.”
Ileapedonwhathewassuggesting.“SoImightbecured?”Isaid.
Helookedatmeintently.Ihadthefeelinghewasweighingupwhattosay,howmuchofthetruthIcouldstand.
“Ihavetosayit’sunlikely,”hesaid.“There’sbeenadegreeofimprovementoverthelastfewweeks,butnothinglikeacompletereturnofmemory.Butitispossible.”
Ifeltarushofjoy.“Doesn’tthefactthatIrememberwhathappenedaweekagomeanthatIcanformnewmemoriesagain?Andkeepthem?”
Hespokehesitantly.“Itwouldsuggestthat,yes.ButChristine,Iwantyoutobepreparedforthefactthattheeffectmaywellbetemporary.Wewon’tknowuntiltomorrow.”
“WhenIwakeup?”
“Yes.It’sentirelypossiblethatafteryousleeptonight,allthememoriesyouhavefromtodaywillbegone.Allthenewones,andalltheoldones.”
“ItmightbeexactlythesameaswhenIwokeupthismorning?”
“Yes,”hesaid.“Itmight.”
ThatImightwakeupandhaveforgottenAdamandBenseemedtoomuchtocontemplate.Itfeltlikeitwouldbealivingdeath.
“But—”Ibegan.
“Keepyourjournal,Christine,”hesaid.“Youstillhaveit?”
Ishookmyhead.“Heburnedit.That’swhatcausedthefire.”
Dr.Nashlookeddisappointed.“That’sashame,”hesaid.“Butitdoesn’treallymatter.Christine,you’llbefine.Youcanbeginanother.Thepeoplewholoveyouhavecomebacktoyou.”
“ButIwanttohavecomebacktothem,too,”Isaid.“Iwanttohavecomebacktothem.”
Wetalkedforalittlewhilelonger,buthewaskeentoleavemewithmyfamily.Iknowhewasonlytryingtopreparemefortheworst—forthepossibilitythatIwillwakeuptomorrowwithnoideawhereIam,orwhothismansittingnexttomeis,orwhothepersoniswhoisclaimingtobemyson—butIhavetobelievethatheiswrong.Thatmymemoryisback.Ihavetobelievethat.
Ilookatmysleepinghusband,silhouettedinthedimroom.Irememberusmeeting,thatnightoftheparty,thenightIwatchedthefireworkswithClaireontheroof.Irememberhimaskingmetomarryhim,onholidayinVerona,andtherushofexcitementI’dfeltasIsaidyesAndourwedding,too,ourmarriage,ourlife.Irememberitall.Ismile.
“Iloveyou,”Iwhisper,andIclosemyeyes,andIsleep.
Author’sNote
Thisbookwasinspiredinpartbythelivesofseveralamnesiacpatients,mostnotablyHenryGustavMolaisonandCliveWearing,whosestoryhasbeentoldbyhiswife,DeborahWearing,inherbookForeverToday:AMemoirofLoveandAmnesia
However,eventsinBeforeIGotoSleepareentirelyfictitious.
Acknowledgments
Endlessgratitudetomywonderfulagent,ClareConville,toJakeSmith-BosanquetandallatC&W,andtomyeditors,ClaireWachtel,SelinaWalker,MichaelHeyward,andIrisTupholme.
Thanksandlovetoallmyfamilyandfriends,forstartingmeonthisjourney,forreadingearlydrafts,andfortheirconstantsupport.ParticularthankstoMargaretandAlistairPeacock,JenniferHill,SamanthaLear,andSimonGraham,whobelievedinmebeforeIbelievedinmyself;toAndrewDell,AnzelBritz,GillianIb,andJamieGambino,whocamelater;andtoNicholasIb,whohasbeentherealways.ThanksalsotoallatGSTT.
ThankyoutoallattheFaberAcademy,andinparticulartoPatrickKeogh.Finally,thisbookwouldnothavebeenwrittenwithouttheinputofmygang—RichardSkinner,AmyCunnah,DamienGibson,AntoniaHayes,SimonMurphy,andRichardReeves.Hugegratitudeforyourfriendshipandsupport,andlongmaytheFAGskeepcontroloftheirferalnarrators.
AbouttheAuthor
S.J.WATSONlivesinLondonandworkedintheNationalHealthServiceforanumberofyears.In2009WatsonwasacceptedintothefirstFaberAcademyWritingaNovelcourse,arigorousandselectiveprogramthatcoversallaspectsofthenovel-writingprocess.BeforeIGotoSleepistheresult.
Visitwww.AuthorTracker.comforexclusiveinformationonyourfavoriteHarperCollinsauthors.
Credits
JACKETDESIGNBYRICHARDLJOENES
FRONTJACKETPHOTOGRAPH?STEPHENCARROLL/TREVILLION
Copyright
BEFOREIGOTOSLEEP.Copyright?2011byS.J.Watson.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.Bypaymentoftherequiredfees,youhavebeengrantedthenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookon-screen.Nopartofthistextmaybereproduced,transmitted,downloaded,decompiled,reverse-engineered,orstoredinorintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereinafterinvented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.
FIRSTEDITION
LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Watson,S.J.(StevenJ.)
BeforeIgotosleep:anovel/S.J.Watson.—1sted.
p.cm.
ISBN:978-0-06-206055-6(hardback)
EPubEdition?JUNE2011ISBN:9780062060570
1.Womenauthors—Fiction.2.Memorydisorders—Fiction.3.Lifechangeevents—Fiction.4.Identity(Psychology)—Fiction.5.Psychologicalfiction.I.Title.
PR6123.A884B442011
823′.92—dc22
2010043159
1112131415OV/RRD10987654321
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