Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  Alone. And it’s my fault. Perhaps she was once the vivacious character of my sketches; perhaps the grief of me leaving drove it out of her.

  We take our drinks into the cluttered lounge. There are too many side tables in here. Too many cushions on the sofa. There are books stacked in front of rammed shelves and framed IKEA prints hanging on the walls. One painting—on the far wall, almost tucked behind a bookcase—is a watercolor of the beach, taking the viewer along the coastline further down into Cornwall. It’s a similar style to some of mine, a few little flourishes here and there. But I didn’t paint this one, I don’t think. I move closer, to get a better look. In the bottom left corner, a figure is almost visible—faded, as though someone’s tried to erase it.

  “Oh, that old thing …” Mum says dismissively. “Come and sit down.”

  There doesn’t seem to be space for me. I wander to the large window, to the simplicity of the vast ocean. As Mum clears a spot, she makes idle conversation, but she’s so far away. I’m bobbing on the waves again, succumbing to the ebb and flow. Seawater surges toward me. Someone calls out.

  I turn into the room and the sensation ceases. Another daydream. It’s been almost twenty-eight hours since I slept—dreams are seeping into reality because there’s nothing to prevent them.

  “If I lived here,” I say, cutting into Mum’s disjointed sentences, “I’d sit at this window all day.”

  “Sometimes I do.” But she’s already nestled among the cushions on the sofa, so today is obviously not one of those times.

  My misgiving at being here is increasing. Nathan will have woken and found my note. He may have sworn in fury and thrown it across the room. My face flashes with shame—he was right, this was a bad idea. All I needed to do was go out and get drunk with Lily or lie on the grass in Hyde Park and stare at the sky. I have no reason to be here. I should have stayed home and painted, committing my confusion to canvas until there was nothing left in my head.

  I examine the room for something I recognize, something to attach me to this life. There must be something to hint at my childhood—a misshapen pottery bowl or a favorite book on one of these shelves. Otherwise, this is just another house, just another lounge. It’s not home.

  “Are you still in London? What are you doing now?”

  “Yes. I’m a barista.”

  “Is that a proper job for someone your age?”

  I bite my lip. “I enjoy it.”

  “And you’re still painting.”

  “Uh, yeah. How did …?”

  “Your exhibition is in the paper.” She waves her hand toward the pile of newspapers on the coffee table. “You said you were a barista.”

  Zenna in the Sea is a thumbnail on the header of the Independent, advertising the article within. As small as she is, I feel a pull toward her, the voice becoming urgent and clamorous before settling to a gentle hum when I turn the paper over.

  “Painting’s just a hobby.”

  “Some hobby! Exhibitions, superb reviews across the board, interviews. That’s a career, Jo, not a hobby.”

  I shrug. “I guess.” How would you know? How would you know anything about me?

  We resort to silence which quickly becomes intolerable. I have a hundred things I want to say, but no idea how to begin. The rigid expression on Mum’s face suggests the same of her. If we’re this uncomfortable in each other’s presence now, it’ll only get worse the longer I stay.

  “I’m sorry I turned up like this. I think it was a mistake. Perhaps it’s best if I leave.”

  She considers me, almost as though she’d forgotten I was in the room. “You should at least stay for lunch. You’re exhausted.” She jumps up, hindering my path to the front door, unnervingly close. “Or you could stay the night, if you want. I can make up the bed in the spare … in your room.” She motions toward the room above us—which is probably hers, given the layout of the house—but I nonsensically glance at the 70s Artex ceiling.

  I relent, relax, feel the pressure of fatigue pressing against my forehead. “That would be nice,” I force myself to say, because maybe it will be.

  FOURTEEN

  I sit on the bed in my old room, with its magnolia walls and patterned pink curtains, and I’m convinced I never had it decorated like this. There are no childhood remnants or teenage memorabilia. No wardrobe either, just a chest of drawers, a flowery tub chair, and a bedspread instead of a duvet. The air has the faint odor of mothballs.

  This room is at the rear of the house, backing onto a steep garden and, beyond it, the hill curves around to enfold the village. I have a brief insight of running up it, hand-in-hand with someone whose face I can’t see. I’m laughing and dancing, and yet I have no idea who I’m clinging to. The moment I try to snatch a glimpse, to quickly peek sideways and outsmart myself, the vision weakens.

  With relief, I sink into the mattress, submitting to my lassitude. The tension in my body defuses. Bright colors flutter around me. I endeavor to catch them, but they pour through my fingers like ribbon.

  Mum coughs from the door to attract my attention. I open my eyes and blink against the stark daylight. She doesn’t come into the room but leans against the jamb. “Okay?”

  “Yes, thank you. I just closed my eyes for a moment.”

  “You were asleep.”

  I yawn, groggy with a blunt headache. “Just for a moment,” I repeat.

  “It’s half-past eleven.”

  I clamber off the bed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.” And, once more, we’re clumsy with each other.

  “You were blowing bubbles like you used to when you were a baby,” she says wistfully. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s been a long time.”

  “I should have called.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, almost overlapping me. She lingers, sliding her forefinger across the top of the chest of drawers and checking for dust, smoothing the corner of the bedspread. “Do you fancy a walk? Clear your head?”

  “Sure.”

  Mum peels herself away from the door. I grab my coat and bobble hat and follow. She’s changed her clothes. She’s wearing scruffy biker boots and jeans now. Again, her age eludes me. She’s about forty, fresh-faced and enthusiastic.

  Conversation is sporadic and short-lived. I dig my hands into my coat pockets and hunch my shoulders against the biting sea breeze. Mum repeatedly glances across at me. When we reach the beach, she pauses, querying if I want to continue.

  I nod but freeze before my foot touches the soft sand. I’m dizzy again; the air is thick and hard to inhale. The sea, far out, is churning and menacing—Midnight Green, if I were to paint it. Clouds scamper past, darkening as they move in from the Channel. There’s no fixed point; the sea and clouds and horizon all move independently. I hold my hands to the side of my head, trying to keep myself still.

  “Jo?”

  Mum touches my shoulder and I jump. I’d forgotten she was there.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Rose.” She moves to reveal a cheerful white-haired lady with a generous smile. “Rose, this is my daughter Jo, she’s just arrived from London.”

  Rose steps forward and takes both my hands and squeezes. “Jo, it’s so lovely to meet you at last.” A shadow of uneasiness crosses her face—sympathy and kindness are thrown into the mix. Her eyes flicker to Mum continually. “Your mum’s told me so much … I saw your article in the paper, too. Congratulations.”

  “Hello. Nice to meet you. Thank you.”

  They both expect me to say more, but what else is there? After a moment, they resume their conversation and I wander away like a bored child.

  Once again, I’m on the threshold of the beach, one foot hovering indecisively above the sand.

  One step …

  And another.

  Both feet on the beach, I’m unaccountably anxious. Another, and another. Moving further away from the road where Mum and Rose are still talking.

 
“Not too far, Jo-Jo,” she calls from my past. Because I was the child who loved to run off and hide, who giggled with glee while my parents were frantic.

  A memory! Not a fleeting image or vague perception. A fully formed picture, solid and palpable. And it’s gone. My head is empty for a moment, then slowly fills with the enticing sound of surging waves and the sight of the vivid ocean again.

  I advance tentatively across the fine sand at the top of the beach, my feet sinking into it. Further along, I slip and slide over rounded shingle and large pebbles which crunch together beneath my boots. I’m drawn to the water, even though something terrible will happen … has happened … is happening.

  Dreams and fragmented moments and reality all clash together, bouncing off each other. I can’t distinguish what’s genuine and what’s imagined. The beach spins around, or I spin it. Together, we’re in motion. Unsettled and unbalanced, I stumble on seaweed and topple with my feet tangled.

  Remember. Remember me.

  My heart races. I struggle to catch my breath. I don’t have my bearings. I’m lost, alone. Everything is alien. Mum’s beside me in an instant, and I cling to her.

  “It’s okay, Jo. I’m here. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She helps me to my feet and brushes damp sand from my coat. “This was a bad idea. We should have stayed home.”

  “I’m fine,” I say absently. My ankle is swelling within my boot, throbbing. When I put my weight on it, I flinch and hobble.

  “Come on, why don’t we go to the pub and get some lunch?”

  The Smugglers is a sprawling building on the outside, but warm and cozy with beamed ceilings once we step through the door. Wood and brick throughout make it homely. Small tables are placed sparsely, so the bar area is spacious and laid-back.

  The hubbub of chatter, of clattering cutlery and clinking glasses, circulates. Waiting staff dart from the kitchen to the tables, removing dinner plates and bringing desserts. Mum guides me to one of the tables close to the bar.

  “Hi, Craig,” Mum calls brightly, hanging her coat over the back of a chair. “This is my daughter, Jo—I told you about her, the artist.”

  He looks up briefly from the pint he’s pouring, and nods. “Nice to meet you, Jo. What can I get you both today?”

  She tells people about me. I regard her with interest. Rose, this barman—how many others? It’s a strange contradiction to our relationship, and I’m unsure how to react. I settle into my chair and observe Mum’s interaction with the people she greets by name. She’s spritely and unaged.

  Standing at the bar, she asks what I’d like to drink and relays it to the barman as though he hasn’t heard. She grabs two menus from the rack and wanders back. In all my theories and visualizations, she never resembled the person in front of me.

  “Are you here for long?” he calls across.

  I shrug. “A couple of days?”

  I avoid looking at Mum—we haven’t discussed my plans, so she’ll be listening keenly. I flick through the menu while they continue to chat. She crosses her legs and swings her foot around. Craig brings our drinks across and remains beside us while we decide on our meals.

  “How’s your ankle?” Mum asks, once we’re alone again.

  I make circles under the table with my foot, wincing as part of the movement sends pain along my leg. “Sore.”

  “What happened?”

  I try to recall how I became oddly disorientated. My head must have still been groggy from my nap. “I just fell.”

  I lean back and chug my cider, absorbing the laughter and cheerfulness of the groups and couples. They chat effortlessly; none of them are strained or nervous.

  “This is a nice place,” I say, when our silence becomes too loud and obtrusive.

  “Yes. I come here quite a lot. I’m on the darts team.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  Our meals arrive and we delve in. We both ordered the carbonara—I turn the spaghetti on my fork until it slides off and start again.

  “Do you work?” I ask, blurting out the first thing which comes to mind, regretting such a stupid question immediately.

  “I do book-keeping for a couple of local businesses. I was made redundant a while back. It’s a nice way to slide into retirement, and it keeps me busy.”

  “I didn’t know you were made redundant.”

  She hesitates. “Why would you?”

  It’s not a malicious comment; it’s matter of fact. And she’s right—there’s no reason for me to have. Even so, it seems remiss. Although, no more so than Mum not knowing I work in a coffee shop.

  “Do you spend much time on the beach?”

  Her eyes flicker to the door, to the direction of the sea. We can’t see it from here; the pub is set back and down a small incline. “Not so much. You get used to having it right on your doorstep—it’s not a novelty anymore. It’s like walking along a pavement.”

  “Oh no. It’s beautiful. I could set up my easel and paint the sea all day.”

  “You could?” She studies me, with concern or intrigue, it’s hard to decipher. She finishes her gin and tonic and considers the empty glass. “Another?”

  We order raspberry cheesecake, both proclaiming it our favorite. In truth, any dessert is my favorite. I’m full, but I don’t want to leave this lively pub to sit in Mum’s claustrophobic lounge. It’s late afternoon—the longer we remain here, the less time we’ll be alone later.

  No, no, no … This isn’t how it should be. We ought to be able to find something to talk about. We should be able to sit companionably, and not have it be weird. But nothing about this is normal. We’re working far too hard to act naturally.

  Around us, diners are leaving, replaced by couples and families wrapped up in ski jackets and scarves—people who’ve walked the beach and, as the sun begins to set, are in need of a drink to warm themselves. The ease of these people contrasts with our embarrassment.

  We eat our cheesecakes and nurse our empty glasses.

  “Another drink?” I ask, but Mum shakes her head, which is probably a good thing. Today has been the longest day, and it’s not even five o’clock.

  FIFTEEN

  Dusk folds over the village—a burgundy hue lies down on top of us. From the houses on the opposite side of the valley, lights sparkle like stars.

  I open the lounge window and let the sharp, fresh air rush in. I lean out to listen to waves lapping against the shore, but the wind is blowing in the wrong direction, pushing the sound away. The occasional car whizzes along the single road which runs through the village. For extended moments, I hear nothing at all—such a difference to the constant activity at home.

  Home. Nathan! I should call him. But I’m not sure what I’d say. I don’t understand enough about the situation to share it with anyone, not even Nathan. I could at least tell him I arrived safely.

  I wave my mobile in the air and pace around the room.

  “You won’t get a signal. You’ll have to use the landline.” She points to the handset and puts a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. “I thought this might be easier if we had a drink.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” I grab the phone, and Mum puts a glass in my hand. I take both up to my room. The phone doesn’t ring for long. “Hi Nathe.”

  “Jo! I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m at Mum’s.”

  “I saw the note.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.” I imagine him running his hand through his hair or creasing his forehead as he considers the correct, courteous response. “I’m not mad. I didn’t mean to cause a fight, I’m sorry. How is it?”

  I glance at the door I left ajar and lower my voice. “It’s weird. We’re hyper polite, and we have nothing to say to each other.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know—that my whole life would come flooding back the moment I walked in the door? That all my questions would be answered, and my hallucinations would disappear.”
/>   “Hallucinations? You never said anything.”

  Stupid to mention it. “It’s not important.” Stupid to give him more reason to worry. “And it didn’t happen anyway.”

  I lean on the windowsill, peering up at the top of the hill, just a silhouette against the final glimmer of daylight. I open one of the drawers, then another. At the back of the bottom one is an ancient, threadbare rabbit. One ear’s half-torn, held on with a few strands of thread, the other is chew-stained. I hug it, waiting for the pang of childhood joy to overwhelm me. It doesn’t. I drink wine instead.

  “She hasn’t mentioned the argument either—I expected her to say something, even if it was to demand an apology.”

  “What argument?”

  “The one we had, the reason I left home. We haven’t talked in years—there’s got to be a reason.” The decrepit rabbit is still in my arms; I stroke his ear. “Anyway, you were right. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I didn’t want to be.”

  “I must love her. I must have our entire life together locked away, up here.” I tap the side of my head. “I ought to have that, at least.” The rabbit, this room, my childhood—all hidden.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “A day, maybe two. Not long.”

  “Take it slowly, yeah.” He pauses. “I have to go—you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. See you soon.”

  I throw the phone onto the bed. I smooth my hand across the bedspread, the way Mum did earlier, and pick at the woven edges.

  “Jo, are you coming back down?”

  “In a minute.”

  I tuck the rabbit under the blanket and rest his worn head on my pillow.

  ***

  I remember …

  No, it’s gone again—a momentary sensation, of holding someone, hugging someone.

  Or a toy. The rabbit perhaps. Nestling it in the crook of my arm and taking it everywhere with me.