by J. A. Baker
I resist the urge to go all the way to the end of the pier, my skin already numb with the cold and instead, flop down onto a damp bench to take in the view of the church and craggy looking abbey that sit high up on the cliff, the church perched so perilously close to the edge, it looks as if it will slide down the embankment at any given moment. People drag themselves up the steps, all one hundred and ninety-nine of them. From where I sit, the people look like ants, their small bodies twisting and turning as they stop to rest or take in the view. I have yet to do the iconic steps even though I’ve lived here for six weeks. I am not a lover of heights so not seeing that view is no great loss to me. Perhaps once I’m more settled I’ll do it, but as it is, I have other more important matters I should be dealing with.
I feel a slight pressure build in my head at the thought of why I came to live in this town. I have yet to do anything about it. It feels like a lifetime ago when I first made the decision to come here and in that time I’ve done nothing worthwhile. Instead I have hung around my flat, miserable and full of self-pity, drinking myself into a stupor and generally being utterly useless at everything. I couldn’t even make the move to knock on the door of my parents’ house. Such a pathetic weak soul.
I rub at my gritty eyes that ache as if I’ve been punched and let out a wavering sigh. This is it. This has got to be the turning point in my current predicament. I have to change, to get some sense of direction back in my life. No more fast food and alcohol. I’ve done more than enough damage to myself. I have drunk, cried, drunk some more, even passed out and woken up unable to remember where I am, but the one thing I haven’t done is make any kind of headway with what it is I came here to do. Alcohol has taken hold of everything, twisting my life into an unrecognisable scrap of nothingness and I need to stop it. I need to get back on track.
I stifle an involuntary sob as the memory of calling Gareth comes back to me. Not just one call but a couple a night for at least a week, probably even longer. He didn’t answer them of course. I’m not even sure what I would have said if he had. I was a bumbling wreck each time I rang him, my misery and angst fuelled by drink and loneliness. He did me a favour by ignoring me, saving me from a great deal of humiliation. I don’t mind admitting that I miss him although I know he doesn’t feel the same way. He made his feelings towards me crystal clear the last time we spoke. A lump lodges in my throat. I swallow it down. Too late for regrets. What’s done is done. This is my new beginning.
This is the start of the new me.
Standing up and striding back towards the bandstand, I make the decision to return to my flat. If I am going to finally unearth what has been hidden for too long, I have to do it now before the downward spiral of my life becomes a permanent pattern; a groove I become too familiar with to break.
Pushing back through town, through the crowds that fill every available space, I sense the ghosts of my past behind me, forcing me on, whispering to me that I need to do this thing; telling me that if I don’t take this chance and do it now, I never will. It would be stupid and cowardly to come this far and then do nothing. I can crack open my past and find the real me, and isn’t that what I’ve wanted for so many years?
By the time I get back home, I am beside myself with excitement and apprehension. I’m finally going to meet my parents. At long last, I’ve summoned up enough courage to see it through, and it feels good. I try to imagine what my first words will be when they open the door, what it is I should say to make that all important first impression, a good one. It’s so close I can almost touch it.
I unlock the door and all but fall in, stumbling over the bunched up rug in the hallway and land in a heap on the sofa, tears threatening to spill over, my head tight with churned up thoughts of my parents; the ones who didn’t want me. Even after all these years the hurt of rejection still burns.
I close my eyes for a second; just a short while to allow the memories to fade. That’s all I need. Just a bit of breathing space to clear my head so I can think straight.
The pressure on my chest is intense, my limbs locked into place, too relaxed to move. I try to twist and turn, to spring free out of this position but it’s all too much. Easier to let sleep do its thing. No matter how often I experience this, I am always convinced I will die if I don’t move. It’s like slipping into a deep, deep hole, allowing myself to be enveloped by the darkness, by the terrifying paralysis that has me in its grip.
It always happens when I’m over tired or stressed and desperate to wake up from whichever dream I want to escape from, but it’s not always that easy. My brain is alert but my body is exhausted, still trapped somewhere between the realms of the deepest sleep and wakefulness, and it refuses to move no matter how hard I try. Even after all these years of suffering from this condition, panic still sets in. This is how it must feel to be paralysed, to be unfortunate enough to have locked-in syndrome. A living nightmare. The world continues to spin, life goes on as normal, but you are not able to be a part of it. You are fixed in position, your body rigid, your mind screaming out for help while your own body holds you hostage.
I give it one more go, my core strength pushed into moving my right arm, to no avail. It’s futile, so instead I relax and let the dream continue, the one where I am chasing my past. I race along the street; ahead of me is a figure dressed in black. I have no idea whether it is male or female. All I know is I am desperate to catch up with it, to spin it around and see who it is. As I run through the crowds of people I can hear them laughing at me, yelling that I should go home, forget about the chase and just leave. I stop and cry, screaming at them to leave me alone, hollering about how they need to help me catch this person.
When I run again the figure has gone. They have been spirited away into thin air as if they never existed. The laughing gets louder. I turn tail and head towards the crashing sea where the mocking voices are drowned out by the almighty roar of the frothing ocean as it crashes against the immense rocks and boulders. And then I see him; Gareth. He is there at the foot of the cliff, beckoning me to go to him. I head over but by the time I get there, he’s gone; disappeared into the ether as if he was never there to begin with.
Out of nowhere, one of the rocks bounces down the cliff wall and knocks me over. I lie there with it trapping me, pushing every last pocket of air out of my lungs. I pant and gasp for breath, terror enveloping me. I push and push with all my might, my body rocking and shaking with the effort, and then suddenly the huge boulder shifts and falls to one side and my body is free of the weight. I spring up off the floor, my head throbbing, my muscles as light as air. I am ecstatic to be able to finally move.
I sit up, startled and fuzzy with fear and look around the living room. I am awake.
7
Eva
I wake up with the mother of all headaches. Blood roars through my ears, and my neck is stiff where I have lain at an awkward angle. Disorientated, I struggle to my feet, staggering on liquid legs towards the kitchen where I grab a glass and fill it to the brim with freezing water. I stare at it for a few seconds, trying to get my bearings and pull myself round. Its sheer clarity mesmerises me. I watch bubbles froth up and disappear then tip my head back and glug it down as quickly as I can, enjoying the icy sensation as it coats my throat and alleviates the nagging ache that has set in at the back of my jaw.
Jesus, I feel groggy and marginally sick. Nightmares like those never get any easier to deal with. In fact, with a little knowledge of how bad they can be, each one gets progressively worse. I dread them. There have been times where I have tried to stay awake to avoid having them, and then ended up falling asleep and slipping into the most horrific dreams imaginable where I’m unable to move and am paralysed, my limbs refusing to budge no matter how hard I push them. It’s a living hell. Even my own body wants to punish me.
I have no idea how long I have slept for and swing round to stare at the clock. I squint, waiting for the numbers to slowly come into focus. It’s two o’clock. I’ve slept for ove
r an hour and yet it feels much longer than that. My body is like lead. I feel as if it has gone into some sort of shutdown, my mind and limbs refusing to work as they should.
Slumping down onto a nearby chair, I rest my head in my hands. A long line of drool stretches over my cheek, warm and sticky. Using the back of my hand, I wipe it away and wince at the sour odour it leaves on my skin. I rub at my eyes feeling like an overtired petulant child. I have got to pull myself round both physically and mentally. Afternoon naps are for the elderly and the infirm and I am neither. What I am, however, is an old soak who is utterly useless at pulling herself together; making sure my life has some sort of focus. I have sought refuge in the bottom of a bottle and this is the net result – me sitting here at my kitchen table, covered in spittle, body like lead, head as tight as a drum and generally feeling like shit. I mean, I even visited a fortune teller, for God’s sake. This is not how I want my life to be; alone, unemployed and permanently hungover. I’ve spent the past six weeks or so wandering around in a daze. It has to stop.
I drink some more water and give myself time to come around. Slowly, my head clears, the fog inside it dissipating, allowing me to think properly. I decide that now is as good a time as any to root through all my things; all the documents and certificates that I stashed away in a box when I first moved here. I’ve put it off for too long, using every excuse under the sun to avoid doing what it is I originally came here to do. This is where that all ends. Headache or no headache, I am determined to tackle it. It scares me. I don’t mind admitting that, but I will fall apart completely if I don’t go at it head on. I am already well on my way to unravelling. It’s as if I have some sort of self-destruct mechanism hidden deep inside me and misery and angst are my default emotions. I want to be happy. I really do. You wouldn’t think so to look at me, but deep down, I am actually a really positive person. It’s just that somewhere, somehow, along the path of this thing we call everyday life, I have lost my way.
Dragging up my weary bones, I reach on top of the kitchen cupboard and pull down the small box that contains everything I need. All the addresses, numbers, photographs and general documentation detailing my past, my other life. Not that I have much in the way of paperwork; just an address, some certificates and a couple of photographs.
I run my fingers through my hair and yawn loudly, yet another way of procrastinating. It is my forte. I suppose I have to be good at something, don’t I? While my life is falling apart, at least I can say that I completely mastered the art of putting stuff off that I should have sorted out many years ago.
I lift the lid off the container and my fingers hover over the first thing I see; a black velvet pouch no bigger than my hand. My eyes fill up and my face grows hot. I had forgotten it was in here. I lean down to touch it; the pouch that contains my bracelet. I stroke it carefully and swallow back unexpected tears, then place it to one side and look back inside the box. A grainy photograph stares up at me from the top of the thin stack of papers. My breath catches in my throat and a film of something foul tasting coats my mouth. The picture. My picture. I clear my throat and snatch it up, grasping it firmly between my thumb and forefinger. It’s a photograph of me as a toddler. I have no recollection of it being taken but know it is definitely me as I’ve looked at it thousands of times over the years, glancing at it each and every day, hoping for some hidden memory to resurface and unlock the mystery of my past. It’s one of the few photos I have of me with my parents – my biological parents – the ones who dumped me then forgot I existed.
I keep my eyes glued to it, still hoping it will release a memory or a fleeting thought hidden somewhere deep inside my brain, but nothing comes. It’s hard to believe, looking at such a happy, family snap, that our home, the place where I was born, contained such heartache. The barely visible image is of my mother staring up at my father adoringly, her head tipped back, her shoulders hunched as she smiles at her husband. I am balanced on my father’s knee and he is grinning at the camera like he doesn’t have a care in the world. A man who has everything going for him. A man who, only weeks after this picture was taken, beat my mother black and blue, and broke my arm whilst in a drunken rage, one of many from what I have gathered from the bits of information I’ve managed to glean out of the social workers over the years. I’ve been told that I’m lucky to not have any recollections, that it was a bleak time for everybody involved and being removed from the family home was the best thing that could have happened to me.
I grimace and place the photograph to one side then rummage through the pieces of paper, knowing the particular one I’m searching for. I am almost certain I have the details correct in my mind but need to check just one more time. I can’t afford to make any mistakes. Not when I’ve come this far. I may have wasted lots of time and done some stupid things in the past, but my mind is made up about my next move. There is no way I’m about to bugger it up. Not a hope in hell.
I trace my fingers across the brittle wad of papers, leafing through them all until at last I find it nestling at the bottom of the pile. The one I’ve been looking for, the one that will put an end to all of this. Dust motes swirl lazily in the air as I lift it out and place it on my knee, my fingers trembling slightly as I flatten it out and watch as the words on it blur and merge, my eyes misting over, my chin trembling. Everything in my life, all the worry and the loneliness, the mistakes and the clawing sense of dread I feel, it has all come to this point. I hold the answers to both my past and my future in my hands. It’s all down to me from here on in. How I manage this next step will determine what lies in store for me. So far, I haven’t done so well, but I can change. I have it within me to adapt. I am a chameleon. I’ve had to be.
Leaning back, I lift the paper up to the light, reading and re-reading the words on it as if they are about to change in some way. I smile as I trace them with my index finger, looping around the cursive script with absolute precision.
I stop and take a deep breath, the cold air hitting my nostrils as I slowly inhale. I can do this. All of a sudden it feels within my reach. For so many years it was an unattainable dream. I had neither the courage nor the wherewithal to see it through. But now, it’s here, right in front of me. This thing is mine for the taking.
First off, I need to tidy myself up, snap out of this slovenly lifestyle I have managed to slip into since moving here. When I meet them I want to be presentable, not turn up on their doorstep hair and clothes askew and reeking of alcohol. They would slam the door in my face if I were to do that, and I wouldn’t blame them one little bit. But once I present them with my birth certificate, there is no way they can deny that I am their daughter. I will show them every piece of ID I can think of: this birth certificate, my driving licence, my passport. Hell, I’ll even present my Nectar card if I have to. There is no way they are going to escape from me. Not this time. I can’t wait to see their faces, to study them closely and see if I look like them. The picture is too small to see them clearly. They are no more than a pair of grainy looking individuals with blurry faces and indefinable features, but that doesn’t matter because very soon I’ll be able to see them up close, work out which one of my parents gifted me with my slightly crooked nose. I wonder if my blue eyes match those of my mother? Mixed emotions bubble up inside me: fear, excitement, resentment. All those years I was ignored, forgotten about.
I place the certificate down on the kitchen counter, put the box back, and go about tidying up the flat. I start in the kitchen, scooping up armfuls of empty bottles and discarded food wrappers that I have studiously ignored over the last few weeks, and push them into the bin. I wipe surfaces until they gleam and I even wash the floor, getting down on my hands and knees, and scrubbing at it until my hands are raw, dragging a bleach-covered brush around the edges one last time before standing up and surveying my handiwork.
Next, I tackle the living room, shaking cushions and gathering up magazines and old newspapers before placing them in the recycling box in the alley outside t
he door. Even my dustbin of a bedroom doesn’t faze me. I enter it, a ball of positive energy. It seems that the more I clean, the more determined I am that I will take back control of my life. I bundle the reeking vomit-stained duvet into the washing machine and clean every corner of the room, not resting until it’s complete.
By the time I finish, every muscle in my body aches from the effort but my mind is clear, my thinking back on track. I can’t remember ever feeling so excited or filled with such a sense of purpose. It’s as if by ridding myself of the outward clutter, I have helped to cleanse my mind in the process, streamlined my thoughts and pointed myself in the right direction. I know now what it is I have to do. I will get cleaned up, make myself thoroughly presentable and make that visit – the one I have dreamed about for as long as I can remember; the one that has haunted me for all of my days. I will do it now before this surge of adrenalin dissipates and the demons begin to bite once more.
I am almost running as I head back into the bedroom and strip naked, pulling my clothes over my head. I step into the shower and let the hot water pummel my grimy filthy skin, ridding me of the dirt that has clung to me as I cleaned the flat, swilling away the oil and sweat that coated my skin and made my hair stick to my forehead in little wet ringlets.
When I finally emerge, hot and clean and smelling of mint shampoo and magnolia shower gel, I feel strangely refreshed, ready to take on the world. Funny isn’t it, how feelings and situations can change so quickly? One minute you feel down in the depths and the next minute, you’re ready to face anything.
I dress quickly and tie my hair back, my hands shaking as I grab the certificate and photograph, and stuff them deep into my pocket.
I pull on a fleecy sweater and head out, so sure, so certain that this day is the one that will change the rest of my life. I have finally taken the plunge and am now about to meet the people who left me behind. In just a short while I will be face-to-face with the parents who didn’t want me. Whether they like it or not, I am on my way to their home so they had better be ready. I want to know the truth about my past and I want it now.