Remember.
Remember what? But there’s no one nearby to ask.
***
Tonight, I’m buried alive. I’m in my bed, but a steep, compacted mud wall surrounds me, rising to the ceiling. From a small gap at the top, my parents weep. Imagined versions of them, silhouettes, glimmers.
I struggle and scream, but they’re agitated in their grief and don’t notice my frantic efforts to climb out. They throw soil on top of me. Zenna’s beside them, gazing down with sorrow and pity. She throws the final handful which covers me completely.
Tangled in my bedding, I can’t breathe. The earth fills my lungs.
And then I’m okay. I’m in my bed, and I’m not being buried. I’m still alive. Zenna’s in her painting and my parents are far, far away.
Remember me.
It’s not quite five o’clock—still dark, with the early chill frosting the air. I relax into my pillow and study the ceiling warily, to ensure no one’s peering back. I go into the kitchen and make strong black coffee.
Rather than go back to bed, I take my mug and sketchbook into the main room, comforted by the notion everything is manageable once it’s on paper, under my control. I ponder how to recreate the steep sides of the grave, how to convey the claustrophobia and haunting anguish of my own demise.
I close my eyes, conjuring the faces from my dream, conjuring Zenna.
Zenna. Fascinating yet ominous. Like the opening scene of a horror film where everything is normal and harmless, but you anticipate something terrible from the start because you’ve paid to be terrified.
Zenna was real, in the dream—she wasn’t painted or sketched. Her flesh was warm, and blood pulsed through her.
My mother, in contrast, was the shadow, the fiction I couldn’t bring to life. Her features undefined and tenuous. A remnant of my past, she fades out when I get too close. My father is less than that. While Mum remains in my thoughts, Dad disintegrates.
Nathan once told me he always thinks of his mother as being in her late thirties—there was a specific dress she wore, one particular family holiday, where she was so flawlessly his. And it’s a shock, he said, whenever he sees her, because she’s almost seventy, and he forgets. He readjusts his perception of her each time. Yet he always reverts to his conviction of her enduring youth and vitality.
I can barely conceive my mother at all. I have a sense of her, but I can’t picture her smile when she tucked me into bed or the ferocity of her temper when I was naughty or her various hairstyles and fashion choices over the years. If she or my dad walked past me in the street, I wouldn’t recognize them. I’m not filled with warm sensations; I have no reference for such reactions.
I draw two oval placeholders, shaping their jaws and foreheads. Then I cross through one of them. The empty space fills me with unease.
SEVEN
On my bedroom wall, I have a mass of photos pinned up. Those I’ve taken myself and printed out; black-and-white studio portraits of Victorian ladies in their Sunday best bought from flea markets; several of me, acquired from forgotten sources. Snaps of my friends huddled in drunken clusters in dark nightclubs or lying on the grass on campus unaware photos were being taken.
Voices murmur, like a radio left on in another room—all these people, perhaps, telling me their stories. Are any of them my mother? Some of the pictures I think are me could be her. Perhaps we share a jawline or a sparkle in our eyes and as I age my features blur further into hers.
After so long without thinking about her, this onslaught of sentiment is disconcerting. The more I stare at the photos on the wall, the greater the weight of sadness. I tell people it doesn’t bother me, not knowing where I came from—and for the most part it doesn’t. Today, I want a hug from my mum.
“What are you doing?” Nathan asks, and I jump.
“Nothing. Just rummaging for inspiration.” I unpin a selfie of the two of us. Nathan’s arm is around my shoulder and we’re pulling silly expressions into the camera. We’re so young—our faces not fully lived in. “When was this?”
He glances briefly. “I didn’t realize you had this one. It was a few years ago, after uni, a day trip we took to …” He shrugs indifferently. “Somewhere or other. I’m off now. See you later.”
I take my sketchpad into the other room, curling up on the sofa and wrapping my fluffy blanket around me. I prefer it in here—there’s more light and space. My room, with its dark mahogany furniture purchased cheaply from a house clearance, is stifling.
My hand drifts across the page, scratching lines and curves into the paper, shadowing and shading the face appearing in front of me. Always a face.
I’m scared to look properly, half-expecting it to be Zenna again. But this time, it’s my mother—or at least, how I imagine her today. She’s smiling enigmatically, with an elegance I’m not sure she ever possessed when I knew her. She’s tender and loving in this version; she glows. She’s a moment away from bending to kiss me goodnight, her necklace bumps against my cheek, her perfume fills the room.
I allow my eyes to close and feel her lips on my forehead. Shhh, she says softly, time to go to sleep. And I do, sliding into the darkness and dreaming about her.
Except, it’s not about her; I am her, assimilated into her, stretching into her arms and legs, with her wooden bangles on my wrist and long skirt flapping at my ankles. My subconscious mind tries to escape, tries to position me beside her, outside of her, but I remain encased. I’m in a rusty brown Mini, with a cigarette nestled between my fingers, grunting along an A road in the heart of Cornwall, heading somewhere magical and mysterious. The road’s empty so I speed up, flying down hills and bouncing over bumps. “I Want to Break Free” springs from the radio, and I sing along with venom and bitterness, each word hissing from our lips.
Every so often we take a drag and blow a stream of smoke out of the window. It calms us. The nicotine floods our system, and we allow ourself to smile. Our long hair tangles in front of our eyes, until we tie it loosely at the nape of our necks. We put on our Jackie O sunglasses and check our reflection in the rear-view mirror.
She smiles, but she isn’t happy.
In the back seat, directly behind her, I’m thrown from side to side as she overtakes slower cars and skates around the sharp bends of the narrow, hedged roads. She’s going much faster than Daddy does, but I’m afraid to tell her in case she shouts. She checks on me in the mirror every so often, her mouth set in a tight line.
Are we there yet? I crane my neck to watch the road whooshing away from us.
No, she growls, as though I’ve been asking the same thing repeatedly. We’re having an adventure. This is fun, she adds, though she doesn’t sound enthusiastic. She speeds up, faster and faster, like a rollercoaster, until I’m lifted off the seat with the momentum.
The road sweeps into a long, gentle bend and the sun, low in the sky, shines into the car, turning the interior golden. Or is it just my sepia-tinted memory, obscure footage captured on an old cine film, an aged postcard lodged in my mind?
I don’t know if Mum ever smoked, or owned a brown Mini, or had hair long enough to tie back. I don’t know if we ever went on an adventure. My childhood is cobbled together from anecdotes and photos of events I don’t recall; other people’s memories stolen and claimed as my own. The fog around it is viscous—the more I wade through it, the denser it becomes.
The sketchpad slides from my lap and I’m no longer in the backseat of the car. There’s a moment of stillness before the wave of whispering resumes.
“What’s this?” Nathan says, appearing beside me and picking the pad up.
“Shit! You scared me. Stop sneaking around.”
“I wasn’t. Have you been here all night?”
The curtains are open; a repeat of Murder, She Wrote is on the TV. “What time is it?”
“Morning time.” He glances at my drawing. “It’s you? You’ve finally broken the Zenna ‘curse?’” He makes little quote marks in the air.
“I think it’s my mum. It’s probably nothing like her.” I take the pad from him, and she’s already morphing into Zenna. I throw it to the other end of the sofa.
“It’s good.”
“I was just playing around. Mum’s in my head, at the moment.”
“Mmm.”
“I might pop down for a few days, for a visit.” I frown with confusion. Where did that come from? I’m sure it’s not what I was going to say.
Once more, Zenna’s walking across smooth white sand. Not a beach, an infinite desert. Come with me. I hold my hand out to her, desperate for her to grasp it and pull me toward her, but she maintains the same elusive distance. I’m lost, Jo-Jo. I need you.
Back in the room, I shiver and pull the blanket around my shoulders. Nathan’s talking. I try to untangle his words.
“—didn’t realize you kept in touch with her.”
“What? No, I don’t. It’s been a while. I don’t think we … I guess we drifted apart?”
I unfurl myself and go to the kitchen. Nathan follows.
“How long?” he asks. “Since you saw her?”
“A long time. It’s not important. Have we still got cheesecake?”
“For breakfast? Top shelf.” And he’s already got a fork in his hand for me.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re the perfect flatmate?”
“Well, I’ve only ever lived with you, so no.”
I turn, mid-mouthful. “Really? How come?”
He pauses. “I lived with my parents, then alone.”
“So, how come we live together now?”
“You … had nowhere else to go.”
“But I’ve been here for years, right?” I gulp my mouthful quickly, almost choking on the next question. “Was I supposed to move out?”
“No! Definitely not. It’s been working well. I wouldn’t have been able to afford this place by myself. You don’t want to move out, do you?”
I shake my head. I can’t begin to imagine a world without Nathan in it.
“Good.”
In the other room, I retrieve the picture of my mother, who became Zenna, and reverted back to my mother. Should I visit? Is it what I really want? Would it help? I slide my finger across my plate, scooping up the last of the cheesecake crumbs.
Remember me.
EIGHT
At work, I stifle yawns, smothered by the inertia of another restless night. The voice is becoming a river of white noise. Random words picked out like blood-red drops on a canvas. Lucid and strident before fading back into an incoherent hum.
Remember me.
People come and go, cakes and cups balanced in their arms as they wrestle with the door. Or with trays and toddlers as they search for a table.
I’m lost.
The coffee machine hisses, glasses crash together in their basket, spoons clatter against the sides of mugs.
You have to find me.
As I clear tables, the lights flicker and a shadow crosses my path, pushing me off-balance as though someone’s sprinting past and I’m caught in the slipstream. My throat is constricted, like hands are squeezing around me. I steady myself with the nearest table, gulping air.
“You all right, Jo?” Rafael calls. He’s muffled, distant.
“Just dizzy.”
I’m floundering underwater. Disorientated as if I’ve dived in and can’t find my way to the surface. Ducking under, unable to break through. Not swimming, drowning. I taste saltwater. Swallow it.
My legs buckle and Raf’s arms are holding me up, guiding me to a chair. I slump forward and close my eyes to stop the world from tumbling around me.
“I’m fine.” The dizziness intensifies. I try to stand; my legs are jelly beneath me. I groan involuntarily.
I can’t find you.
“Stay there,” Phil orders, his hand resting on my shoulder to keep me from moving. He puts a glass of water into my hand. “Drink this. Any better?”
Remember me.
“I don’t want to,” I murmur, shaking my head, shaking the voice out of my head.
“Just a sip. I think we should get you to A&E.”
“No, no I’ll be all right in a minute. I’ll sit here, I’ll be fine.” I raise my head, but it takes a while for the room to catch up. Everything around me is swirling, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. “Maybe it’s a migraine?”
“I’ll get Raf to drive you home.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I’ll get a taxi. I just want to lie down.” I want to be sick. I want to stop drowning.
Hushed conversations take place above my head. Phil and Raf debate the taxi idea; some of the customers have congregated with curiosity or concern. I’m vaguely aware of the taxi being called, new customers entering and demanding service, the taxi arriving. Phil helps me to the car and I’m home in minutes. I crawl up the stairs, unable to walk erect without falling into the wall. I fumble my key into the lock.
“I’m home,” I call out pathetically, without reply—Nathan’s out just when I need him here.
I grope along the wall to my room and clamber onto the bed. It shifts and tilts and turns, buffeting me around. I cling to the mattress, searching for stability. Gradually, the giddiness and nausea begin to dissipate.
A persistent bird tweets outside my window—a discordant, irritating noise. Across the road, someone’s receiving a delivery—the drivers are yelling instructions to each other, the item is large and weighty. In contrast, the hum of planes flying out of Heathrow is almost soothing, and the voice in my head is reassuring.
My mother screams. Blood-chilling and anguished.
I’m straight as a plank, my heart pounding into my stomach, holding my breath. But the flat’s still empty. Nathan’s at work, Mum’s hundreds of miles away. The voice is a calming melody. Shhh, it says, as though soothing a baby. Am I the baby? Is this my mother trying to reach me? Is she in danger?
A stupid thought. She’d have called. Someone would have.
The dizziness returns. I clutch my skull until it ebbs to a mild fuzziness, as though I’ve had one too many glasses of wine yet am still on the right side of inebriation. I lie back onto my pillow and reach for the TV remote, skipping through the channels, barely conscious of the programs flicking past me.
It’s not quite three o’clock, but already getting dark as clouds cloak the sky and spots of rain patter against the window. The room is gloomy and cold. I slide beneath my duvet.
Before she screamed, Mum was running toward me, terrified. There was no location, no backdrop—we weren’t anywhere. We were inside a white bubble, with harsh black edges to keep us contained.
Mum screamed like that a long time ago. But I don’t recall why. Brief flashes trickle into my conscious without context. Each attempt to recreate the memory causes the image to glitch and recede—a shroud swaddles my past, obscuring it.
The latest incarnation of Zenna is waiting for me on my easel, with a budding malice—self-assured and severe. So different to the peacefulness and refinement of the exhibition. In acrylic, she’s sharp and definite. No longer a fantasy.
She’s beside me, stroking my cheek. Her fingers burn into my skin, and I pull away.
Remember me.
I pull the duvet over my head, the pressure of her hand still firmly on my face. Nonsense, obviously. Impossible. The relentless murmuring rises until the voice is shouting, resonating around my head and obliterating my own thoughts.
Remember me!
“I don’t want to.”
You don’t have a choice—you always do, in the end.
“You’re just a dream. You’re not real.”
You’re wrong. I’m so much more.
“Leave me alone!”
She grows in front of me, filling the room, and laughs—booming, reverberating off the walls, shaking me, pulsating through me. With a single finger, she holds me down. And I’m underwater, struggling to breathe, straining away from her. I can’t escape—in a moment, I’ll take my final gulp of air, and th
e cold, brackish ocean will fill my lungs.
I surge from the water, back into the room. Flying toward the canvas, I gouge into the paint with ragged fingernails. I grope for a weapon. Scissors. I press the point against her throat watching the canvas bow to the pressure. Harder. A hole develops.
“Leave me alone!” My voice is deep and guttural, raging.
I drive the scissors all the way, right up to the handles, and drag the blades down, tearing into her flesh as though it’s nothing but paper.
Nathan bursts in. He presses my arms tight against my body and coerces the scissors from my hand. They drop to the floor, or he throws them, and they bounce off the carpet.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“She was pushing me under. I couldn’t breathe.”
Already, the words don’t make sense. I knew what I was doing, but now I’m not sure. A moment ago, I wasn’t here—I was somewhere else entirely.
I twist my body to escape his grasp. He holds tighter, hauling me toward the bed. I writhe and wrestle against him, digging my feet into the carpet to gain traction, pushing my arms apart in the hope of breaking his grip. We fall together onto my bed, and he pins me down. I kick in fury, growl in frustration.
“I’m not letting you go until you calm down.”
I scowl and snarl, hating him. My efforts are futile; my strength diminished. I can’t keep up the fight and my limbs slacken. He releases his grip and lies on his back beside me. My wrath subsides and I’m exhausted. My head is heavy; the dream evaporates.
“What was that all about?”
I don’t reply because I don’t know. Nothing makes sense. My dreams are memories, my thoughts are dreams. Reality is tentative. People are appearing and disappearing; voices are disjointed. Water rushes all around me. I’m submerged and drowning.
Oh, Jo-Jo, you’re so close. Just a little longer.
I sit up with a start. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
NINE
Bright sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains. The road is busy with traffic but without the shrieks of kids on their way to school. It must be mid-morning, at least. I should be at work. I stumble out of bed and I’m immediately overcome by yesterday’s vertigo. The floor’s in motion—there’s an underlying vibration, as though I’m on a train rather than solid ground, succumbing to the gentle rocking of the carriages.
Small Forgotten Moments Page 4