Jo-Jo, remember me …
It’s twilight; gray and dull, again. I yawn and try to sit up. The blanket is tight against my torso, trapping my arms by my side. Someone’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and I’m rolling into them.
“Mum?”
The figure laughs sharply. “Of course not.”
I can’t make out a face. I blink a few times, re-focusing, cutting through the haze of the half-light. But she’s still there, encroaching. She touches my cheek, but I don’t feel anything.
Zenna?
***
I wake again, properly. My head is foggy, and I’m hungry and thirsty in equal measure. I stretch to the corners of the bed, and expect to smell frying bacon and have Nathan mustering me for breakfast before remembering where I am.
Rain pulses against the window. The curtains are open and dark, stagnant clouds hang in the sky. I’m weighed down—but not with sadness or regret or any meaningful emotion. Just the residual solidity of a dream.
My head pounds when I sit up. I recall all the wine I drank last night at Mum’s insistence. It was a bad idea, but she kept refilling our glasses. There was laughter, not many serviceable words after a certain point. It might have helped. Or we might have said some horrible things I haven’t remembered yet.
I shuffle my pillows until I’m propped up slightly, trying to find a position where I’m not nauseated. Gradually, I’m lucid enough to consider a hunt for food and water. I tumble out of bed and fumble around the floor for my clothes.
Downstairs, Mum’s bright and cheerful, giving the impression of being awake for several hours. Her hair’s damp from the shower; there’s a light covering of makeup on her face. Did she not drink as much as me? Did she pour more into my glass each time, or tip her excess into the rubber plant when I wasn’t looking?
“Morning,” she says when I hover uncertainly at the door.
The radio’s blasting out something by Ed Sheeran, and pain sears through my temples. I shrink back from the fluorescent light. I slide onto a chair and rest my head on the table.
“Egg and toasted soldiers? You used to love them when you were little. I thought it would be fun to have them this morning.”
“Uh … Thanks. Is there any coffee?”
She flicks the switch on the kettle, and it boils immediately. She pours the water, offers sugar—I shake my head and groan—and adds a splash of milk before setting the mug in front of me with a thud which resonates along the table.
“What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“You should have woken me.”
“I came in, but you were fast asleep, so I left you. It’s not a problem.” She turns the egg timer as the water begins to boil. As the sand vanishes from the top chamber, she sweeps the pan off the hob.
Two egg cups are already set out, and she slides the eggs into them. The toast pops—she butters and cuts them into narrow strips. All of it done in a blur of activity.
“I’ve got a meeting at twelve. Will you be all right by yourself for a couple of hours? I’ll cancel if …”
I smash off the tops of both eggs with my spoon so the yolk oozes. “I was going to go back today.”
“Not in this state, Jo. You can barely keep your eyes open.”
My stomach churns with the first mouthful of toast, and I acquiesce. I’m exhausted and drained, mentally fatigued by everything that’s happened over the past thirty-six hours.
“I’ll go for a walk or something, then. Or I might sit in the garden and draw.”
“You can borrow some of my old paints, if you like.”
“You used to paint? Oh, is that yours in the lounge—the beach one?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“It’s good.”
She dismisses the compliment with a wave of her hand. “I’ve got some old canvases too. I’ll pull them out for you when I get back.”
She’s gone before I have time to reply, dashing upstairs to grab her boots or her bag. When she returns, her face is a stranger’s again, her deportment is altered. Suddenly, she’s just another random person, an illusion I’ll reproduce in acrylic.
SIXTEEN
To clear my hangover, I take a shower. But I can’t relax. Unknown sounds startle me, and I imagine people breaking into the house to rifle through my things. Or attack me with a large carving knife.
Once the water stops, the lack of noise is even more disturbing. My reflection slowly emerges through the steam. It swims, and—just like Mum earlier—transforms into a stranger in front of me. I’m depleted and gaunt, vaguely resembling Zenna.
On the landing, I peer into Mum’s bedroom—an invisible barricade prevents me going any further. As a child, I would only go in when she was there—jumping into her bed on Sunday mornings before she was properly woken or to help her dress for a night out before the babysitter arrived. It was a privilege.
A variety of boxes are stacked on top of each other and clothes burst from the wardrobe and drawers. A pile of books has toppled over and spread across the carpet. Unpaired shoes tumble from under the bed.
I amble around the house, trying to fix on something I recall—the pictures on the walls, the selection of sheep ornaments on the mantelpiece, the yellowing Paignton Zoo snow globe. None of it elicits attachment.
In the kitchen, I make coffee. I open cupboards and consider the single plate, mug, and bowl within easy reach on the lower shelf, while the rest of the set is higher. There are pretty glass dessert bowls and ramekins covered with dust in another cupboard. An unopened pasta maker, cookie cutters in various shapes and sizes, several platters as though she spends her weekends throwing lavish dinner parties. Which I doubt.
Is this her life? Is this what I’ve done to her?
The house is airless, so I sit in the front garden with my mug and sketchpad. The feeble heat of the sun warms my face; the mug heats my hands. The wind off the sea wafts through my hair. The constant voices in my head have retreated—only a vague ripple remains, the concentric circles of a small stone dropped in a pond.
Zenna, however, is stronger. No longer the enigmatic muse for my collection or the siren tempting me away. She’s unsettling and ominous, slinking from my dreams to stand beside me. In twilight, I catch a fleeting glimpse of her. I close my eyes and I am alone.
I sketch a window—shading the rain-splattered glass and the reflection of autumnal trees, with rough, jagged branches pointing into the sky like witches’ fingers. With Deep Cadmium, I hint at sunlight glinting off the panes.
Every time the curve of an eye or suggestion of a mouth materializes, I smudge the pastel and start again. I refuse to paint her today.
The wind picks up and dark clouds cluster around the valley. The first drops of rain fall on my sketchpad, and it quickly becomes torrential. I gather my things and dash toward the house.
A child squeals with glee. I halt, glancing around for the girl to tell her to go inside before she gets too wet, but the gardens to the left and right are deserted. The child sings—a familiar tune, just out of reach of my memory. I scan the gardens again. She might be too small for me to see, but surely her parents are with her.
“Hello? Hello?”
Nothing. The rain thunders off the roofs, and I hurry inside. My clothes drip, my jeans cling to my hips. I discard them in the hall and run upstairs for my dressing gown. The air is cold for a moment, as though someone’s opened the door.
“Hello?”
Silence. No door closing, no scurry of footsteps up the stairs. But I’m not alone. I sense someone watching me.
“Zenna?” Barely a whisper. I close my eyes and hold my breath, praying there won’t be an answer.
There isn’t. I let out a sharp gasp of relief.
And a door slams shut.
Rain lashes against the window and doors, battering the house all around. I’m on the stairs when Mum comes home, hugging my knees to my chest.
“Jo, are you okay?” She shakes out her umbrella and slips o
ff her raincoat.
I hadn’t meant to still be here like this. I should have been drawing or reading one of the books from her shelf or starting to prepare dinner. I hadn’t meant to show my weakness.
“I was listening to the rain.”
“It’s passing over. Do you fancy another walk?”
We both change into dry clothes and when the clouds break and the sun re-emerges, we leave the house.
Past the wooden play park, past the Smugglers, the horizon is fuzzy and undefined—it’s still raining out at sea. I watch the clouds unraveling into the water. Color has been washed away—the sea mirrors the melancholy sky. Everything is gray like my scrunched-up drawing from earlier. The headlands of Talland and Rame Head remain concealed by lingering mist. I tilt my head, embracing the soft sea spray against my face.
“We played here,” I say.
“Yes, we did. You and me, a long time ago.”
“No. Not with you …” The thought melts away. I fumble for the right words then shake my head—it doesn’t really matter.
A hand nestles into mine. Such a tangible sensation, I glance down to check, flexing my hand through my glove.
“The water’s too cold to swim though,” Mum says, as if I’ve caught the tail end of an entire conversation.
“I don’t like swimming.”
“Oh.” She nods briefly, then abruptly strides away, crunching on the coarse, loose sand—her feet unstable as she sinks into it.
I hurry to catch her. The ever-changing beach becomes a band of colored pebbles, then damp compacted sand which preserves our footprints. I glance back at them, side by side yet so far apart.
“This is perfect.” I turn to share my joy, but Mum’s indifferent—her eyes hardened on the route ahead. I recall what she said about being used to it, about the beach being as ordinary as walking on a pavement.
It would never be ordinary to me. I’d sit here daily, capturing the vagaries of the seascape and the people. To the locals, I’d be as much part of the town as the café on the beach or the storms which changed the terrain so dramatically in 2014. I’d grow old here, in solitude and contentment.
Mum’s ahead again. I run, again, to keep up with her, the way I did when I was little. She was always a fast walker; I was forever trailing behind while she urged me to get a move on!
Odd, these things surfacing, these obscure extracts. Is this how memories usually occur? Triggered glimpses into the past, sliding easily into place, without structure.
I extend my hand toward Mum—not to hold hers, but to visualize my six-year-old self clinging to her.
“Are you coming?” she yells, her voice drifting out to sea before it fully reaches me.
Further and further away. I don’t rush. Soon, she’ll be a dot, smaller than a dot, a moment of non-existence before we come back into visual range.
The cliff rises on my left, taking the road with it, up and over. The tide is going out; the beach widening with every passing minute. Waves tumble softly over themselves, a soothing swishing sound. I’m lulled, swaying, emulating the flow of the water.
A ragged band of rock protrudes from the sea—I played here, scrambling across them on lazy Sunday afternoons. We played. But I’ve forgotten who we were. I’m seized by an icy paralysis. Someone screams. But I’m alone. Water rushes around me, over me, as though I’ve fallen in. I’m struggling to breathe, floundering, splashing frantically. Rippled water shadows my skin.
“Jo, come on!”
I’m back on the beach, and the low gray cloud envelopes me.
The memory lingers, the sensation of drowning, the fear of it. Not as pronounced as when I fainted in the coffee shop, or the times since, when I’ve paused to allow the world to realign itself. I’m not experiencing it so much as recalling it. The emphasis has shifted.
“Hurry up,” Mum yells, funneling the words toward me through her hands.
I drag my feet through the deep gravel, passing the rocks with a sense of foreboding.
A family is at the edge of the water. I watch them with fondness. A toddler and her dog splash in the waves and jump away. The dog gambols with excitement; the child darts forward to follow him. I tense, my eyes fixed on her, terrified for her. Her parents turn, distracted by their conversation. If she falls, they won’t even notice. I’ll know because I’m watching. I don’t want to, but I must—just in case.
The girl laughs as the dog shakes sea water over her, holding out her hands to repel it. She topples over and lands heavily on the sand. She clambers to her Wellie-booted feet and wipes her trousers down ineffectively. She runs back and forth, jumping onto each little ripple as it reaches her, with exhilarated squeals.
I want to rush over and lift her up, to keep her from harm. I want to turn away, to pretend I never saw her and jettison my responsibility. Just in case.
I wait. Anticipating the very worst.
I want to shout out, to tell her parents they need to keep her close. A whimper escapes my lips.
“Jo, come on.” Mum’s beside me. She takes my arm to guide me away.
“That girl …” My hand is limp as I point toward the shoreline. “She’s too close. She’ll be swept away. I don’t like it.”
“She’s fine. See. Her dad is with her.”
I cover my eyes. “She’s going to fall in.”
“No, she isn’t. Her dad’s holding her hand.”
Mum lowers my hands from my eyes, and the girl’s crouching, inspecting pebbles with her dad. She holds one between her finger and thumb for him to examine.
“It’s okay, she’s safe.” Mum is directly in front of me, maintaining eye contact, turning me away from the water.
But it’s not okay. I snatch glances behind me, adrenaline keeping me alert. My stomach churns with terror.
“They’re walking back to their car.” Mum steps back, allowing me to watch the three of them plus the dog walk up the beach toward the car park. The girl holds her parents’ hands and they swing her between them.
“Okay?”
I nod. My breathing slows. My shoulders relax. Mum releases her grip on my arm.
“Why don’t we stop for a drink?” She points to the top of the cliff, up a steep set of steps, to the pub tucked right on the edge. “You look like you could use one.”
I hadn’t realized we’d walked so far. “Can we just go home?”
It’s not safe out here anymore. Something’s coming, something bad.
SEVENTEEN
Time is warping. It feels like minutes since I arrived in Cornwall, yet hours trying to get off this beach. Each step is a burden, pulling the weight of my terror. Hands wrap around my waist to prevent me. I haul myself forward, one slow encumbered step at a time.
The house is a sanctuary when we reach it. I press myself against the wall, enveloped by the painted woodchip. My dizziness intensifies and I want to be sick—heat rises within me, beads of sweat develop.
“Sit down. You look like you’re going to faint.”
“I’m fine.” I fumble for the bottom stair and thump down onto it. I move further up, further away from the door—hunching over my knees, making myself as small as possible.
“Tea? Coffee?” Mum calls as she walks down the hall. “Something stronger?”
“I don’t mind.” It comes out as a murmur. The girl skips toward the water, heightening my vigilance. Hands tense, legs ready to run to her. I take deep, painful breaths, desperate to call out and stop her. She’s in the water anyway. No one sees her but me. Only I can save her, but I’m too far away. I’ll be too late.
“Here …”
Did she get caught in the tide and swept out to sea? Or did she walk away, like Mum said? I don’t trust my memory—it plays too many tricks or evaporates altogether.
My hands shake as I take the wine glass from Mum. I’m foolish and ridiculous. My reflection is convex in the glass, my features distorted. I watch the wine shudder.
“Are you going to sit on the stairs all evening?”
she asks.
“It’s nice here. Safe.”
“Safe?”
“Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’m just a little …” I let my words drift away and hope she wasn’t listening. I can’t explain; I realize my absurdity. Shivering under her scrutiny, I sip my wine and wish she’d go away.
“I’ll get started on dinner. Is chicken okay?” And she’s gone.
I remain on the stairs, doodling on a junk mail envelope left here. My hand dances over the marketing slogans. I capture the laden clouds from earlier, and the gentle waves lapping the sand—disconnecting, giving my subconscious free rein.
Mum peers through the bannister. “You’ve drawn the girl?” she says with surprise.
“Oh.” I touch the page. I didn’t mean to. I’ve drawn the angry sea swallowing her up, her parents frantically trying to reach her. It happened—I’m sure it happened.
We eat dinner with minimal conversation. Mum’s distracted, focusing on her plate and pushing food around with her fork.
With every step forward, there are several backwards. We have nothing in common, no easy chatter. Mum offers nothing. She doesn’t speak of family or friends; she maintains a wall around herself. She doesn’t act like a mother should, like Nathan’s mother—I’m closer to her than to the woman sat in front of me. If my children came home after a period of estrangement, I’d want to learn everything about them. I’d want them to feel they still had a place with me, that they belonged.
I’m a guest. We’re on our best behavior. When I leave, we’ll hug politely.
“Do you want to talk about what happened on the beach?”
“Not really. I don’t even … There was a girl? I didn’t imagine her—you saw her too?”
“Yes, I saw her.” She sets her knife and fork down. “I saw a toddler playing with her dog and her family. That’s all it was.”
“I know.”
Just a child on the beach, like the thousands of children who play there every year; or the millions playing on all the beaches around the world without ever getting hurt.
“Are you married?” she asks suddenly.
Small Forgotten Moments Page 8