Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  “Amnesia? So, you don’t remember anything about me, university?”

  I shrug apologetically. “Small things, unimportant things.”

  “Oh.”

  “No! I didn’t mean you were unimportant. I meant …” I wave my hands and flounder, wishing I had never come to this stupid place.

  “I’m not sure what to say now.” He surveys me, as if to catch me out in my lie. “Well, okay … I’m Spencer. We were at university together. We—um—were friends.” He raises his eyebrows with a glint and a leisurely smirk.

  “Right.” I nod in mortification and discomfort; my cheeks burn.

  In the silence growing around us, we both turn to the wall and stare at all the Zennas lined up. Red stickers have appeared beside some of the pieces. I overhear a meticulous discussion about Sunrise—which is a far simpler piece than their convoluted opinions are making out.

  “She’s different,” Spencer says with profound consideration. “She wasn’t so sinister or severe before.” He sips his wine, swilling it around the glass, and wanders across to Sunrise as the other group moves away.

  I’m not used to people taking my work so seriously. It’s so far from my intent when I put the canvas on the easel or select watercolors over acrylic. Apparently, even the tiniest stroke has deep meaning.

  My wine is warm; I’ve held it too long. “I should really—”

  “You’re scared of her, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not. She’s just a painting.” My fake, bright smile falters for a second. Because she’s not. I hide my frown in the wineglass and collect myself. “Are you a critic, or something?”

  “A journalist these days, actually—is it that obvious? I was never going to make it in the art world. I never had the talent you did.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and offers a business card. “I’d love to interview you. I think you’d be fascinating.” Fascinating remains on his lips for a second.

  “Oh, I don’t really … I’m not good at talking about myself.” I force myself to pause and take a breath, to be more coherent. “I mean, I prefer to let my work speak for itself.”

  “You realize that’s a cop-out?”

  He’s close, suddenly. Or, suddenly, I’m aware of it. He’s tall; my eyes are level with the curve of his neck. I breathe the scent of his aftershave. I take a step back to retain the space between us, aware of my escalating pulse.

  In the middle of the room, Nathan’s in conversation with the woman I spoke to earlier—or at least, she’s in conversation while he nods with wide-eyed mystification. He mouths: Okay? I nod: You? He rolls his eyes and downs his half-full glass. Lily’s taking photos, gathering people and arranging their pose. She catches my eye and swishes through the small groups toward us.

  “Say cheese,” she says, and we do. “For Twitter,” she explains, focused on the screen and tapping out a few words. “Hashtag Jo Mckye,” she calls over her shoulder as she moves back into the throng.

  We’ve lost the flow of the conversation, of whatever was going to happen. We giggle with embarrassment.

  “Well,” he says. “I should let you mingle. It’s been great catching up. I’ll be in touch about the interview—I mean it.” His eyes narrow. “You really don’t remember me? It’s not a cheap line to avoid me?”

  I shake my head. “I really don’t, I’m sorry.”

  “Uh …” He raises his glass to me and walks away with a wry smile.

  THREE

  On my way to work the path is littered with crisp red and golden leaves. I crunch them underfoot, deliberately lurching toward the curb to kick through the deepest piles, childishly satisfied.

  Dressed in my barista uniform, I’m anonymous again—the veneration and euphoria of the last few days has expired, the anti-climax sits heavily on my chest. Commuters driving past have no idea my art is hanging on the walls of a gallery. Pedestrians overtaking my slow dawdle won’t care people have paid to own it. I want to stop everyone and tell them. I want to jump up and down and yell Look at me!

  I pull my bobble hat further down my forehead and wedge my scarf into the neck of my coat. At the café, a surge of warmth from the overhead heater sends a welcome shiver down my spine.

  Phil, the manager, is already here, turning on the coffee machine, filling the till with float money. Rafael follows me in. We make jovial small-talk as we busy ourselves with the other start-of-day tasks. I allow their banter to wash over me, saying as little as possible. Given the choice, I wouldn’t socialize at all. I’d be a recluse, secreted away at home and churning out paintings. I’d work for days and nights on end, lost in a creative miasma, emerging randomly to eat or crash into bed.

  Nathan and Lily are fundamental in this utopia. I couldn’t live without them. They make sense of me; they know my history better than I do. When terror strikes in the middle of the night and I forget where I am, they hold my hand until I’m calm again. In my hermitism, they’d provide conversation and solace.

  The hours at work are sluggish. The dreary and sustained rain is keeping people away. Those who do appear explode into the room to snatch a brief respite from the freezing drizzle —wrapping cold hands around their hot chocolate and making it last much longer than it ought.

  “Good morning, Jo,” says a familiar voice. Bridget, a chaotic sixty-something with frizzy black hair and a Smoked Purple lipstick smile is at the counter in front of me.

  “Hi! How was your holiday?” I pass a takeaway cup to a waiting customer and turn to her with a grin to mirror hers.

  “Amazing. Everything I hoped. I did absolutely everything. I’ve got so many photos, you wouldn’t believe.”

  I set a tray on the counter for her order and turn to prepare her usual flat white. She asks for a Victoria sponge and sits at her favorite table by the window, gazing absently at the walls.

  Last year, after working here for a few weeks, I let slip I was an artist and Phil swapped his generic poster art for a few of my pieces. He thought it would garner business for us both. I’m not sure how much it’s succeeded—occasionally customers glance at them while eating, but mostly they blend into the background. Despite the price tags, a lot of people don’t realize they’re for sale.

  Bridget bought a couple, which is how we started talking. I’m never certain she genuinely liked them, or if she was just being altruistic.

  I deliver her coffee and cake and slide into the seat opposite, taking advantage of the next lull. “How does it feel to be back? How long was it—six weeks?”

  “Just over. It’s pretty dull, actually. On holiday, every day was different and exciting. I’d get up in the morning and make spontaneous decisions. I never knew what would happen next—it was fantastic.” She pushes her fork into the sponge and strawberry jam oozes from the sides. “You know what I came back to? Two letters from the hospital and a gas bill.” She laughs grimly and savors the cake.

  I squirm. How can she make jokes about it?

  “Over there, no one knew I was ill—no one needed to. I was just the mad English woman. Back here, I’m the cancer patient, the next name on the list. No, that’s not fair—my doctor’s great.” Her eyes focus on a couple rushing past the window, coats pulled over their heads. “Perhaps I should go away again and not come back …” She slaps the table, pushing away her dejection. “Anyway, how are you? Oh”—she pats my arm excitedly—“I saw your exhibition yesterday. Stunning. Really stunning. Such a magical creature you created.”

  As always, she doesn’t give me time to linger on her sadness. I’m grateful; conversations like this discomfit me—I never know if I’m doing or saying the right thing. She said the same about me, once. She said she felt guilty when she spoke of her past because I didn’t have one. She asked if I ever felt isolated, if anxiety kept me awake at night.

  “In Grief was my favorite,” she says. “But it was already sold when I saw it. It felt a lot more intimate than your usual work. I could sense your love pouring from the canvas.”

  “She’s
just a character. No one I know.” I fuss with her spare napkin, folding down the corners and smoothing them into sharp edges.

  Bridget says love; Spencer said fear. How interesting people isolate such conflicting concepts. Neither is correct—they’re too precise, too final. I painted Zenna with reflection and sadness and curiosity. I searched for her vulnerabilities, for her story—but even now, at the end of it all, she’s elusive.

  “Really? I’m surprised.” Bridget ponders for a moment, taking another forkful of cake. “You’ve painted her with such understanding and humanity. Perhaps she’s someone you once knew?”

  A little girl giggles—it diverts me for a moment. I glance around, but the only child in the café is asleep in her buggy.

  “What are you still doing here, Jo?”

  “Sorry?” What was it she said, about knowing Zenna? I try to grasp the thread of her conversation, but it unravels.

  “You’re wasted here. I mean, you make good coffee and all, but you’re an artist. Look at your exhibition, at these paintings right here”—with a sweep of her hand in the air—“they’re special. You’re special. You should be experiencing the world, mixing with artists in Paris and Venice, drinking Champagne in the middle of the afternoon. I’m serious, you should be hanging in the Tate and the Guggenheim.” She nods in agreement with herself. “Trust me, time goes far too quickly.”

  I squeeze her hand and return to the counter, catching the fleeting melancholy in her eyes. She stares at the picture in front of her—my watercolor of a hand reaching for a coffee cup. In the background, I painted a window facing out onto an ocean. There are no faces, no emotion, yet several people say they find it sad—a woman sitting alone. They suppose she’s waiting for someone, or it’s a comment on unrequited love—and they share their own sad stories with me while I squirm and search for an escape.

  “Why did you paint a window?” one woman asked, overlooking the jilted hand. “If I was that close to the ocean, I’d be outside with the surf on my face and the sun warming my skin. What does the window represent?”

  Bridget subconsciously mimics the position of the painted hand as she drains her cup. I want to hug her, to save her. But while I serve my next customer, she heads to the door with an affable wave.

  FOUR

  Spencer called to arrange my interview. Damn.

  “Hey, remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wasn’t sure, with the whole memory thing.”

  “Long term, not short term.”

  “Right. Cool. Are you free tomorrow, about eleven?”

  My shoulders drooped and I grimaced into the mirror I was stood in front of. I scratched black paint off my nose. “Sure,” I said with a smile.

  Now, outside the coffee shop where we agreed to meet, I’m nervous. My hand shakes as I push the door open and I steel myself with a deep breath. It’s quiet, only a few people dotted around, working on laptops or reading newspapers. Spencer’s sitting in the dimly lit far corner; he rises from his chair and meets me at the counter.

  He lines up to buy me a drink, and I sit at the table to compose myself. I try to picture our younger selves together. He’s tall and slim, with curly hair reminiscent of Cumberbatch as Sherlock—I had good taste in men, back then. I wonder how his arms would have felt sweeping me into an embrace. When Nathan, more muscular and a little shorter, hugs me I’m safe and content. Spencer would rouse excitement and danger. Ruffled, I cough to conceal the soft smile playing on my lips.

  My fingers comb through my hair and snag on a clump of dried paint which I flick onto the floor. I remove my jacket and billow my shirt to allow air to flow around me. I wipe my hands across my face and imagine the city grime clinging to me. I’ll never get used to the weight of polluted air pushing me down.

  “So.” Spencer returns and organizes the mugs, moving them off the tray along with the napkins and spoons. He slides the tray onto a neighboring table. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  So good? I try to gather clues. What was I like when he knew me? Have I changed? Did he love me? It won’t do any good to ask out right—people with memories filter them, edit them. They possess whimsical versions of themselves and their past.

  “You too.”

  “Even though you don’t know who I am?”

  I blush. “Yeah, even then.”

  “How does it work? Are there things you remember? Is it permanent? Does it come and go?”

  Too many questions. With each one he inches closer to me across the table. I press myself into the back of my chair and, after a moment, he relaxes into his.

  “It is what it is. I don’t know how to describe it. I mean, how would you describe living with your past constantly rattling around in your head? Don’t you feel full up? Is everyone you’ve ever met locked up inside you?”

  He grins. “Fair enough. Daft question.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, I get it. It’s okay.” He clicks his pen against the table—on, off, on, off—and repositions his mobile so it’s directly between us.

  “I don’t usually talk about my condition. People tend to back off pretty sharpish when they discover I’m not normal.”

  “Normal is overrated. Shall we get started?” He moves seamlessly into interview mode—the breezy persona who’ll narrate the article. “So, your first solo exhibition? How does it feel? You must be pretty excited?”

  “Oh yes. It’s been a lot of work, but I’m so happy.” I recount the Instagram story of being discovered.

  “Is that a typical way to be approached?” he asks, in a tone suggesting he knows it’s not.

  “No. I guess I was in the right place at the right time. Or, at least, my painting was.”

  I’d always assumed the gallery owner was a friend of Nathan’s who owed him a favor—or he asked for a favor. But at the opening, there was no specific intimacy between them. They barely acknowledged each other. I ought to ask; I ought to know.

  “Your exhibition features one woman—Zenna. Tell me about her.”

  “Well, she’s an accident, I suppose. Or at least the way she came about is. I was trying to paint a self-portrait. But Zenna appeared on the canvas instead. The next time I picked up my brush, I didn’t really have a plan, and she came back. With something like On the Beach in Twilight, she’s in the background, but she’s still there.”

  “At what point did you decide to place her at the heart of the show?”

  “When I painted Zenna in the Sea. She had a story, and I needed to discover what it was.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “It’s … evolving.”

  “You used to draw her before, at uni.”

  “You said that the other night.” It must mean something—being followed from one existence to another by the same creation?

  “Do you think she’s someone from your past, someone important?”

  University was over a decade ago; I only lost my memory three years ago. It doesn’t make sense I’d be preoccupied by the same character at such different points in my life.

  “The collection is about vulnerability and hidden strength. Reality and fantasy merging together.” I’m waffling, wasting words. I wish this was over. I sip my coffee and peer at the large clock above the counter.

  Spencer’s pen hovers over his notebook. “That sounds like something Jim Turner would have said. One of our lecturers,” he prompts when I don’t respond.

  I smile tightly. “Oh right. Well, maybe I remember more than I think I do.”

  “Did you always want to be an artist?” he reads from his notebook.

  “I … guess so.”

  His eyes widen. “Shit, sorry. Insensitive question. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay. It’s a memoryful world—people take it for granted.

  “It can’t be easy.” He flicks his pen between his fingers and rests his hand on his cup as if he’s going to pick it up but doesn’t. “Aren’t you ever curious? D
on’t you want to know more about yourself?”

  Yes … No … It wouldn’t do me any good … Of course, I do … Where would I even begin?

  I exist with chunks of myself veiled in fog, a vague blur in my peripheral vision, a ghost. Other people have the comfort of reminiscing or basing choices off previous experiences; but each of my days is brand new. No reflections or portents, no moments of delight when a casual recollection is evoked. I’m trapped in an interminable present.

  It’s impossible to explain, especially to a casual acquaintance in a coffee shop. As my stumbling silence continues, Spencer reads through his notes again, flipping the page to censor his prepared questions.

  “What’s your workspace like?”

  “I paint in my bedroom, at the moment. I’d love a studio, but I can’t afford one. My bed’s pushed into one corner, my clothes are on a rack, and I have to climb over stacked canvases and boxes of paints to reach the window.” I glance at my crumpled, paint-flecked shirt, and shrug. I don’t need to explain—it’s obvious I’m living as a vagabond.

  He follows my eyes and smiles warmly. “You were never one for dressing up. You’d turn up at uni parties just like this—you wore dungarees a lot.”

  “Lots of pockets,” I say automatically.

  “Yep, that’s what you said back then.” He laughs. “You didn’t care what people thought. It’s one of the things I … liked about you.”

  His expression softens, but I blush with shame. This is his memory of me? Scatty and unkempt?

  What happened between us? I’m longing to ask. But what if he tells me it was my fault? What if we fought and cried in despair and had months of make-up sex which did nothing but cause more misery? Time will have soothed his memory, but my probing could shake it all up again. I have to accept he knows more than me—it’s not the first time.

  “We’ll probably use one of the publicity photos from the gallery.” He winks and I cover my face with my hand.

  “I got caught up,” I mumble through my fingers. “I was running late.”