by Jean Levy
‘Questions about what, Dr Brown?’
She glanced up, her pale face displaying disapproval. ‘About what you can remember.’
‘But I’ve already told everybody everything I can remember. I don’t mean to be unhelpful, but I can’t remember anything else.’
‘I gather you could remember how to drive.’
‘I could work the car but I’d forgotten most of the rules.’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘I don’t know what’s strange. At the moment, everything seems strange. When I woke up I could count and read but, when I tried to write, all I could manage was lists. Then last weekend I could write properly. But I still can’t remember writing my books.’ I waited for her to stop writing then resumed. ‘I’d forgotten what I liked to eat. I could remember colours and the names of flowers and left and right. But I couldn’t remember my clothes. I had loads of shoes. I don’t like most of them. I couldn’t use my mobile phone, not even after Mrs Parkin showed me. I don’t remember anybody from before.’ I paused. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you.’
‘What about right and wrong?’
‘What?’
‘Did you remember what things you should and shouldn’t do?’
I shrugged. ‘Mrs Parkin did keep reminding me not to take things from shops without paying for them. But I already knew shoplifting was wrong. And any other kind of stealing.’ I watched the slow and meticulous note-taking. ‘And I realised I shouldn’t shout in public or go up and speak to people I didn’t know.’
I didn’t much like Della Brown. In fact, looking back, I didn’t like her at all. Even then, when I had no idea who she really was. I remember thinking that she must have missed out on that being-nice-to-patients course in her medical training because she was horrible. It was as if she was trying to trick me by re-asking the same jumbled question until I gave her the answer she wanted.
She glanced up, unsmiling. ‘What about not telling the truth?’
‘If you mean lying, my grandma taught me not to do that.’
‘And what about adultery?’
‘I don’t suppose she mentioned adultery. Although that usually involves lying, doesn’t it? Why are you asking me these questions? Will it help bring my memories back?’
She held my gaze. ‘Do you want your memories back, Sarah?’
I was not expecting that. Through all the long weeks since those too-bright days in the clinic, nobody had ever hinted that I might not want to remember my past. The assumption had been from the very start that my memories were hidden from me and that the intention must be to release them from wherever they were imprisoned. I considered my reply.
‘Everybody wants their memories, don’t they?’
‘One presumes so,’ she said, still holding my gaze.
‘But I’m scared what it is that my mind wants me to forget. It must have been really terrible. But nobody will tell me what happened.’
‘Apparently, nobody knows what happened.’
‘But they do know some things. They emptied my flat. Took my photos. I know I agreed to this treatment, but they’re keeping me away from everyone I knew. And I’m worried that if there were people close to me …’ As I voiced those fears, an additional concern arose in the pit of my stomach. What if there had been someone, someone very close? And meantime I was spending all my time thinking about Matthew.
‘The alternative would have been to keep you in the clinic.’
‘What?’
‘I gather that the preferred treatment involves isolating you from a sudden influx of information. To avoid secondary dissociation. To encourage your recapture of the past by your own means. Dr Williams recommended an extended stay at the clinic. It was Robert Gray who insisted upon your return home with close monitoring.’
‘But what if I never remember? Do they expect me to live like a prisoner for the rest of my life, never speaking to anyone from before? What if there was someone special …’
‘But you don’t remember anyone like that?’
I shook my head: ‘How … how can I not remember making love?’
‘But you don’t remember that?’
‘No. I don’t remember anything like that. But in the last few days, I’ve had these feelings …’ I wasn’t sure why I was telling this unsympathetic woman all this. ‘I just …’
The phone rang. Della Brown lifted the receiver. ‘Della Brown … yes.’ She frowned. ‘But I was only speaking to him … what?’ She glanced over at me. ‘What shall I tell Ms Blake? … OK, yes … Thanks, Shoumi, bye.’ She put down the phone and watched it for a moment before re-engaging. ‘Sarah, Dr Williams is unable to see you today. There’s been an emergency.’ She glanced over at the door. ‘So when we’re finished here, perhaps we might continue our discussion over lunch. There’s a sandwich bar close by …’
‘You mean outside the hospital?’ Something told me that such patient-doctor dalliance wasn’t right.
Della Brown hesitated. ‘We can go to the hospital cafeteria if you’re uncomfortable about leaving the complex.’
‘No! I’m OK about it.’
‘Right! I’ll fetch my things!’
She snatched up her folder, hurried over to the door and stepped outside. Her attention was instantly drawn towards a commotion, a burst of shouting coming from further along the corridor. She quickly closed the door behind her and the shouting became muffled. I waited. After a good five minutes, she stepped back into the room and beckoned me to follow her. As we hurried towards the lift, I took the opportunity to glance behind. Just beyond the consulting rooms two uniformed men were squeezed into a doorway where some kind of altercation was still underway. I tried to pick up snippets of conversation but Della Brown turned to attract my attention.
‘I gather your car’s in unlimited parking,’ she said.
*
It was more an unsavoury café than a sandwich bar, noisy with workers from the construction site nearby. Della Brown strode over to the counter to order sandwiches and coffees; a couple of the workmen watched her checking her phone. I felt very uneasy. So I took the opportunity to check my own mobile. I poked buttons. Watched the screen. Accidentally turned it off. Managed to turn it on again. No messages.
‘You can use it now, can you?’
I looked up. ‘I’m still hopeless. Every time I try to write a text, I forget how to spell.’
‘Did you tell Dr Mustafa that? It’s the kind of detail he’s interested in, isn’t it?’
She sat down and placed her phone face down on the table.
‘Yes, he’s investigating my language deficiencies.’ I dropped my mobile back into my bag. ‘What are you investigating?’
Della Brown forced a smile. Her face seemed little accustomed to such an effort. ‘I suppose you might call it forensic psychology.’
‘Because I was unconscious on a beach?’
‘You could say that. Were you previously familiar with the Devon coastline?’
I wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Did you say Devon?’
‘Yes, Devon. Have you any idea why you were found there? How you got to Beer?’
‘Was that where they found me?’
‘Yes, in Beer Cove.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Really? Don’t you remember Inspector Broderick and … Don’t you remember the police coming to the clinic to interview you? Asking you about Beer Cove?’
‘Not really. The time in the clinic seems to be crunched together. I don’t remember any police interview.’
Our sandwiches and coffee arrived. I looked down at my plate and immediately lost my appetite. But I knew I couldn’t complain, so I took a large bite of leathery ham and white bread. It was like chewing cotton wool. I noticed Della Brown watching me.
‘Do you like ham, Sarah? I should have asked you, but it was all they had.’
‘It’s very nice. Would you like me to give you some money?’
She
laughed. ‘No, this is on expenses!’
I forced a smile then struggled on through the disgusting sandwich and the bitter coffee, answered numerous questions about everything from my writing to immigration and waited for Della Brown to suggest getting back. But she suggested nothing of the kind. She pushed her unfinished sandwich to one side.
‘Did they arrange your flat to your liking?’
‘They took away most of my things.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know. You could ask Mrs Parkin if you think it’s important.’
Just then Della Brown’s phone vibrated. She snatched it up and listened, said, ‘Right!’ then slipped it into her pocket.
‘Shall we be getting back?’ she said. ‘I have a meeting.’
Episode Seventeen
I checked my bedside alarm, then the wall clock in the lounge, watched the minute hand approach twenty past five, half past, quarter to six. My stomach churned as every jolt of time declared that he might not be coming. I went to the kitchen, cleaned the refrigerator and threw away an avocado that was never going to ripen. When the kitchen clock turned to six twenty, I went through to my bedroom, curled up across my pillows and tried to think of nothing. My eyes strayed around my room: everything somebody else had decided I would need. From where I was lying I could see my entire shoe collection, some pairs still in boxes but most of them squashed together across the floor of the open wardrobe. I pushed myself up on to one elbow and tried to imagine the kind of person I had been, a woman who needed so many pairs of shoes. One pair of sandals was bright orange. I dragged myself off the bed and walked over to take a closer look. For some reason the thought of feet encased in orange made me feel nauseous. So I eased them out together with some pink trainers, two pairs of beaded flip-flops, and some hideously high black patent stilettos with soles that looked as if they had never touched the ground. I carried them all through into the kitchen and threw them on the table, ready for the charity shop tomorrow. The doorbell rang. I ran through to the front door and pulled it open.
‘Why are you late?’
‘Sarah, I’ve been phoning you for the last three hours. Your house phone just rings.’ He squeezed past me with a bag of groceries and a large flat box, stooped to kiss me.
I glanced outside then pushed the door closed. ‘What’s in the box?’
‘TV. Didn’t you think to check your mobile?’
‘It didn’t ring all day.’
He propped the box against the coffee table. ‘That’s because we put it on silent so it didn’t make a noise during your appointment.’
I hurried over to investigate my mobile. Ten missed calls, two voicemails and a text. Matthew eased it from my grasp, deleted the voicemails and text.
‘You seem to have a mental block about this bloody thing. I was held up.’ He handed me the phone. ‘Tonight I’m cooking skate wings.’ He pulled me into the kitchen, emptied the food onto the worktop and walked over to investigate the home phone. ‘The plug’s out!’
‘I always pull it out so the house doesn’t catch on fire when I’m not here. I forgot to put it back.’ I watched him reconnect me. ‘Doesn’t it work if it’s pulled out? It’s got a battery.’
‘Yes, but the base unit …’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Do you remember how to peel potatoes? My God, shoes!’
‘They’re for the charity shop.’
‘Right. Isn’t it unlucky to put shoes on the table?’
‘Only if they’re new.’
He looked at me. ‘You remember that?’
‘My granny used to say it.’
‘Right. Anyway, fetch a bag. I do not cook when there are shoes on the table!’
I fetched a carrier bag. ‘Are you cross?’
‘No, I’m stressed.’ He started to transfer shoes.
I watched the flip-flops and the orange sandals be consigned to someone else’s life.
‘Because we argued about sex?’
‘No!’ He held up a patent stiletto. ‘Why are you getting rid of these?’
‘I didn’t think I’d be able to walk in them. Do you think they’re sexy?’
He looked at me and sighed. ‘Possibly!’
I laughed at his expression. ‘In that case I’ll keep them.’ I went to reclaim my shoe but he lifted it out of reach.
‘Sarah, if you mention sex one more time, I will not cook your supper!’ He picked up the matching stiletto and handed them over. ‘Go put them back in … wherever you keep your sexy outfits.’
I laughed. ‘You said it.’
‘I’m allowed. Hurry up and peel the potatoes! I’ll set up the TV.’
‘What if Mrs Parkin sees it?’
‘We’ll hide it.’
The skate wings were amazing. I couldn’t remember tasting anything so delicious. We cleared away then watched the microwaves inflating our movie popcorn. It was Matthew’s opinion that I should take advantage of my current predicament by watching Home Alone, and Jurassic Park before I remembered that I’d seen them already. And he insisted that no children’s author should be ignorant of the emergent wizardry of Harry Potter. The microwave pinged. He put the bowl of popped corn on to the worktop and drenched it in sweet butter. It smelled of happiness. It reminded me of … of … No, it was gone like a dream.
I followed him into the lounge. ‘Who taught you to cook?’
‘My mother. She thought it would protect me from stumbling into an unrewarding marriage just because I needed someone to cook my supper.’
‘And did it save you?’
He set the bowl on the table then bent down to insert the DVD.
‘Unfortunately not. We’ll start you off with cloning dinosaurs. Unless you’d prefer the escapades of a small boy accidentally left at home by his fecund parents.’ He backed towards the sofa and pressed Start.
‘Matthew!’
‘What?’
‘You’re married?’ I didn’t want him to be married.
‘I was. To Maddie. We still see each other from time to time. She’s married to a lawyer. Sit down. I’ll wind through the trailers.’
I didn’t want him to see her from time to time. ‘Do you still …’
‘No!’ He paused the DVD and sighed. ‘We met in college, got married a month after graduation then spent the next two years realising that all we had in common was college, so she went off and married her lawyer.’
‘Was her name Ashdown?’
‘No, Lucy Ashdown came later.’
‘Do you still see her?’
‘No!’
‘Were you married?’
‘No!’
‘But you lived together?’
‘Some of the time.’
‘In Crouch End?’
‘No, in a desirable detached property in Hampstead and I’d rather not talk about it.’
I watched him not restart the DVD. ‘What happened?’
‘We screwed around.’
‘You mean you were unfaithful?’
He laughed. ‘Something like that. What a wonderful word! Matthew was unfaithful! Shall we watch the movie?’
‘Yes. What does fecund mean?’
He held out his arm. ‘Pass the popcorn. I’ll explain later.’
*
I was not looking forward to any further conversations with Drs Mustafa or Brown, although I was quite excited about the prospect of doing more of Sam Clegg’s storytelling exercises. So, when I walked into Dr Gray’s Regent’s Park consulting room, I was almost disappointed to discover my elderly psychotherapist sitting alone at his desk. He looked up from his notes.
‘Hello, Sarah. And how are you this fine day?’
‘I’m good, Dr Gray. I was expecting to see the research associates.’
Dr Gray raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed, but I’ve decided that today it’s more important for us to have a little uninterrupted chat. Sort a few things out.’
‘What things?’
‘Nothing too serious. Tell me, Sarah, how are you getting
along with Mrs Parkin? Do you feel you can discuss your problems with her?’
‘I don’t really have any problems. Apart from my memory.’
‘Do you like Mrs Parkin?’
I wasn’t sure how to answer that question. ‘Am I supposed to like her?’
Dr Gray laughed. ‘Not really. We just wanted you to have somebody to confide in apart from the clinical staff.’ He checked his notes. ‘And what about your home help … Mrs Dickson?’
‘I really like her. Dawn was quite nice but I prefer Mrs Dickson.’
‘Dawn?’
‘She came last Friday when Mrs Dickson wasn’t well.’