Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  “I was joking.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve—” What? Met up with people other than Lily or Nathan, been on a date? What exactly am I going to say next?

  Crockery clatters across the room and we both start, jumping in our seats, saving me from finishing my sentence. I drink. Spencer coughs and glances toward the window.

  “Why art?”

  “Sorry?”

  He gestures to his notebook. Of course, the interview.

  “You already asked. I don’t remember.”

  “No, I mean … you’re always an artist. You studied art, you had work featured in student shows and afterwards”—I raise my eyebrows, and he nods in confirmation—“and without any memory of your previous life, you return to painting.”

  “Uh, that’s a good point.” How can I still be so shocked by these things I don’t know? “But I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I don’t always feel part of the world, I don’t understand it. But when I paint, everything’s a lot clearer.”

  Spencer scribbles in his book and glances at his mobile to check the recording time.

  I drain my cup. He’s obviously disappointed with who I am now—this empty shell I’ve become. Were we in love? I bite my tongue to prevent myself asking.

  “What’s next? Are you working on anything new?”

  “I’m trying out a more abstract style at the moment.” Zenna, I’m still painting Zenna and I can’t stop.

  “Another departure?”

  “I like the challenge.”

  The tables around us are filling up. I’m struck by a couple sitting opposite each other with unyielding intensity, holding hands almost to the point of aggression. Two men—one with tears in his eyes, the other leaning forward, whispering urgently. The end of a relationship or the amplifying of an existing one. The second man’s hand is on top, gripping tightly, afraid perhaps to let go.

  On canvas, I’d identify their story immediately. I glance at my bag where my sketchpad awaits me. My fingers fiddle with the napkin, itching for a pencil.

  Spencer pushes his notebook to the middle of the table. “I had a whole heap of questions about your childhood, your influences, your plans. I guess none of them are relevant.”

  “I have plans!” I sit up straight in my indignation.

  “Go on.”

  And I pause, because I don’t have plans. My only hope for the future is everything will remain the same, that my current memories won’t start to slip away too. With no past, the future seems unimportant. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “So, I guess that’s it. I think I’ve got what I need.” He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “To be honest, I was hoping to make this last a little longer … until dinner, maybe?”

  I smile with regret. “You seem … you are a nice bloke, but you’ve seen how broken I am. It’s easier for me to stay away from entanglement.”

  “Entanglement?”

  “I didn’t mean—” I blush again, furious heat overtaking my whole face.

  He laughs, hiding a flash of irritation, perhaps. He’s hard to read, shifting from professional to flirtatious and back without me catching it. “I think it would have been fun, if we’d managed to stick together all those years ago, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shrug because I don’t know.

  He gathers his things, dropping them into the rucksack under the table. “I’ll text you when the article’s published.” He pushes his chair into the gap behind him. “You’ve got my card—give me a call if you fancy a drink, or a chat, or …” He leans to kiss my cheek and walks away with a whistle.

  FIVE

  I’m cross-legged on the floor in front of the large mirror I’ve dragged from the hall and propped against the wall. I light a candle to my right which softens my features with a warm orange glow.

  When I first painted Zenna, I’d been trying for a self-portrait. Telling Spencer has made me want to try again.

  It’s past midnight. The main light’s off, so the corners of the room are masked and eerie. I focus on my reflection—every shadow, every line and blemish, until my face becomes alien, until I can view myself with the same indifference I casually study customers in the café, or the anonymous mass of commuters who swarm alongside me each evening.

  Charcoal skims across the page, a proliferation of lines. I blow away black dust to reveal the outline of my face. I examine myself again—scooping hair away from my jaw and tilting my head so the candlelight dances on my skin. It creates the illusion of myself in motion.

  Once my features are sketched out, I select the Flesh Ochre pastel and layer it over the charcoal, emphasizing my cheekbones and nose, adding depth and contour. For contrast, I smudge Carmine on my lips and Van Dyke Brown on my eyes. Those flashes of color are striking against the black and white.

  I hold it into the light. And it’s not me.

  Zenna. Again. Still.

  But today, I’m not affronted by her presence—I welcome her. It’s fitting she’s here, although I can’t pinpoint why. As I gaze at her, I’m absorbed into her world. I’m floating, bobbing on water with waves lapping over me and the horizon tipping from side to side. She’s beside me to prevent me slipping beneath the water, and I’m safe in her arms. Slowly, her presence wanes and I’m alone, empty and disoriented. She’s pressed back onto the page.

  I unfold myself and go into the kitchen in search of chocolate cake. I cut a huge slice and sit at the table, facing the window. We’re on the first floor of a two-story building, so I peer down on the unnerving and forsaken road below. I sketch ghosts into the silhouettes, and they wander the length of the street, their eerie faces captured in the streetlights.

  The light right outside shines into the room, streaking the walls with orange. The candle’s burning faintly. In the flames, Zenna’s half-turned toward me with her hand held out. Come, she says, and I reach for her. But she’s too far ahead, and I’m running on soft, damp sand to catch up. My feet sink, and I can’t scramble out of the ditches my steps have created.

  I eat cake with one hand and draw Zenna with the other.

  ***

  My limbs are frozen and sore. The candle burned out hours ago and the heating is always off overnight. I’m curled against the arm of the sofa, my portrait of Zenna propped against the opposite wall. I’ve been awake all night, unable to sleep.

  Remember.

  “Nathe?”

  Remember me. You have to find me. You have to remember.

  “Jo, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.” Nathan shakes me, rousing me. “You were screaming.”

  My limbs are frozen and sore. I’m lying on the sofa, my arms tucked under me in search of warmth; the candle burned out hours ago. I stretch out and gasp as pain pulses through my shoulder. The portrait of Zenna is propped against the wall.

  I’m groggy when I shower. Each movement is labored and taxing, and I dress with equal difficulty. I’m going to be late meeting Lily for breakfast but rushing only slows me down as I make ham-fisted mistakes.

  Whereas I have a vague understanding of how I met Nathan, I don’t recall meeting Lily at all—she’s always just been there. She refers to events and conversations as though we’ve shared them, and then explains I was indeed present. In larger groups, she whispers pertinent facts about our shared acquaintances. It must be tedious for her, to recap the same things time and again, but she always smiles, never avoids certain subjects because of it.

  I emerge from the Marble Arch tube station into warm, bright sunshine. The evergreens along the boundary of Hyde Park are radiant; the sky is French Ultramarine, with flat, feathery clouds.

  This whole end of Oxford Street is a hub of tourist activity, visitors and locals all mixed up together. People brush against me as though I’m invisible.

  Remember … Remember me.

  I shiver despite the heat. The ground shifts beneath me, unbalancing me. No one else is affected; they pass by as easily as they did a moment ago. I lean against a p
aint-peeling door and close my eyes. Dizziness rises and passes in an instant. I search for the voice, for someone whispering in my ear, but no one’s paying attention to me, lost in their own early morning contemplations.

  By the time I reach Lily, everything has returned to normal. No voices, no quake beneath my feet—just a residue of exhaustion and disquiet.

  We battle the belligerent stream of traffic and the lights which control it, and head into Hyde Park. Almost immediately, London vanishes. Wind rustles through trees tall enough to obscure the buildings over toward Westminster. Only the highest towers peek over the tops. I filter out the car horns and roar of motorcycles; I ignore the sirens and drone of engines.

  Lily says I’ve always loved this park. Early in our friendship, I told her I felt trapped by the long Regency terraces and suffocated by the heat deflected off them. I talked about sea breezes, she says, as though they were an elixir.

  “You’re not yourself today.” Lily directs me to the left as our path converges with another, guiding me toward the Serpentine.

  “Just tired. I was up all night. I think the adrenaline of the exhibition has evaporated.”

  “It’s a lot of work,” she agrees. “Nathan mentioned you were having nightmares?”

  “He fusses too much.” I kick through a line of crispy russet leaves.

  “He cares about you, worries about you. We both do.”

  “There’s a woman at work—a customer. She says I should leave, go traveling.” I’m surprised I’ve mentioned it; it didn’t seem important at the time.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere, I guess. She said I’m wasting my time here, that I should focus on painting and have adventures.”

  Lily tips her head from side to side, weighing her response. “Will you?”

  The park is bustling this morning. A mother and toddler are at the water, throwing food for the ducks. On the other side of the lake, tourists are gathered at the memorial fountain. The whole place is full of people jogging or dog-walking, businesspeople in suits and trainers speed-walking to their next appointment, and students reading or lounging.

  “Why would I leave? Look at this, it’s beautiful.” I spread my arms out to embrace the view. “All these people have chosen to come here, from all over the world, for holidays or to live here, because it’s amazing. And I’m already here. I don’t need to be anywhere else.”

  “You’re right. I sometimes forget that.”

  At the kiosk, Lily orders coffee and two large blueberry muffins, which she claims are kind of breakfast. I stand on the bank of the Serpentine while the order is filled. Several canoes glide past; a duck flaps its wings excitedly. Every couple of minutes, a plane descends toward Heathrow, stalking across the sky.

  In truth, London’s all I know, familiar and safe. I can navigate the Tube and feel at home in the anonymous surge of people. If I left, I’d probably go to Australia or Japan, where the way of life is so different than here. Even a coffee shop job in Melbourne sounds exotic after trudging back and forth in dark British winters, year after year.

  Other people might return to their hometown, I suppose. They’d return to the comfort of their roots, to reset themselves for the next stage of their life. But home is an undefined idea for me—a vague rendering. Small recollections push through my subconscious, but they’re stifled almost immediately.

  “Have you ever lived anywhere else?” I take my cup and muffin from Lily and we sit on the grass.

  “I went to university in Sheffield, but I came back straight after. Daniel was here, and we were already engaged. He had a good job, so it was sensible.” She instinctively strokes the rings on her finger, the engagement and wedding rings designed to be entwined. “We might move one day, but not yet.”

  I pull the muffin into two pieces, biting into the bottom half and saving the top for last—it’s where the fruit has congregated and sugar has been sprinkled.

  We’re the same age, Lily and I, and yet she’s married, settled, happy. They’re planning to start a family, to be responsible for a whole new human being. Mid-thirties, and I’m alone—I guess it’s my fate. How would a relationship even work? Will my amnesia get worse? Will I wake one morning and forget today?

  “Bridget, the woman at work, is amazing though. She lives each day—”

  “—like it’s her last?” Lily says, rolling her eyes.

  “No,” I say with a soft smile, picturing Bridget’s enthusiasm when she was telling me about her trip. “Like it’s her first.” Like I have to.

  SIX

  The weather turns. Rain trickles down the window and the café is gloomy yet snug. Only yesterday I was sitting in the park with Lily, and today I want to hibernate within these walls—to curl up and hide away. I go through the motions of working, slow and labored, lacking the momentum to keep moving. Sometimes I stop altogether, stock still in the middle of the room as if I’ve forgotten where I am.

  Phil watches while I allow Kate and Rafael to cover for me, gathering up the customers I fail to acknowledge.

  “Oi,” Phil says, ducking in front of me to attract my attention. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Look, I know your art stuff is taking off—and that’s great—but whatever’s happening in your own time, I need you to be focused when you’re here. Got it?”

  I nod, chastised like a schoolchild, and he walks back to the small kitchen. Rafael smiles as he wipes down the tables I should be doing. I can’t decide if he’s sympathizing or laughing at me, so I half-smile in return and tidy some chairs.

  My shift inches along. The orders and people merge into one another. The world speeds up; I slow down. Today, the whispering is a sea breeze that swirls around me melodically.

  “Hi, how can I help?... No, but this lemon cake is gluten free … Hi, what can I get you?... Take a seat, I’ll bring it right over … Hi, what would you like this morning?... Do you want marshmallows with the hot chocolate?... Take a seat … Hi …”

  Two women scan the board behind the counter. “What would you like, Mum?” asks the younger with her purse already in her hand.

  “Just a pot of tea, love.”

  “And a cake?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.” The older woman pats her stomach self-consciously.

  “We’ll share. Half a muffin each?” And they peer at the gooey cakes on display.

  The daughter catches my eye and smiles indulgently. “The double chocolate muffin, and a pot of tea for two, please.”

  I envy their easy discourse, their affection. “I’ll bring it over.”

  They’re huddled together when I take the order across, scrolling through photos on their mobiles, laughing at their expressions, at their failed effort at a selfie in front of Big Ben. As I set out the teapot and cups, they attempt another—cheeks squashed together as they lean to fit into the shot.

  “You’ve got to look at the camera bit, not the screen,” the daughter says through tears of mirth. She flashes their cross-eyed picture at me and shakes her head.

  “Would you like me to take a photo for you?”

  “Oh yes, thank you so much.”

  They pose, and I take several. With each click, transient yearnings for my own mother catch in my throat—to sit with her this way and share a cake, or to pop round and curl up on her sofa while we talk inconsequential nonsense.

  It’s a ridiculous thought—we haven’t seen each other in years, and I don’t think of her often because I can’t. I’m aware I have a mother, who cared for me and took me to school and cooked tea while I sat at the kitchen table with my homework—but I don’t recall any of it. Not one single moment sticks in my head. She’s as blank as the rest of my past. I don’t even remember what she looks like.

  “We don’t get together often,” the daughter explains, pulling me back into the room. “Mum lives in Margate and finds it hard to travel these days.” She squeezes her mother’s hand and wipes away a tear. “We should make the time. I s
hould come to you more often.”

  Nathan says I mentioned Mum a few times, long ago, and assumed we’d argued. He’s vague on details. It was my choice to leave, but simply walking away makes no sense. Why didn’t I go back? What could possibly have happened so irreparable? I press my fingertips into my temples, trying to push the regrets back inside.

  Here are some other things I’ve forgotten.

  I’ve forgotten my friends. I follow people on Twitter (strangers), and people whose friend requests I’ve accepted on Facebook (who may or may not know me in real life, I’m not sure), but I have no sense of the history we’ve shared.

  I’ve forgotten my GCSE results, and the presumed pressure of taking them.

  I’ve forgotten my favorite actors and bands, and which TV shows were unmissable for me. I don’t know what posters I had on my walls.

  Once, Nathan spent a whole afternoon following YouTube links for the theme tunes of his favorite childhood programs. He was thrilled by how many he could still recall and sing along to.

  “This one,” he’d say, again and again, turning his laptop toward me. “Willo the Wisp, oh I loved that!”

  Or: “Hey, Button Moon?” and point to the big yellow button in the sky and the wooden spoons traveling to it in their washing-up bottle spaceship.

  Or: “Rentaghost? Everyone knows that one.”

  I peered at the screen, at the shaky camerawork and hand-drawn titles, dredging my brain for the smallest snippet of familiarity until it physically hurt.

  He continued for hours, following every suggested link and circling back around to ones we’d already watched, until he discovered programs even he didn’t recognize. I tried to rein in my irritation—it wasn’t his fault, after all. It was my fault, my problem.

  The mother and daughter stack their plates and pile several coins on the table as a tip. The scrape of chairs draws my attention back to them. “Thank you. Have a good afternoon.”

  They pause outside, sorting out their bags and coats. The mother says something, and her daughter hugs her tightly. I feel the hug, their arms enveloping me.