Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  “No. You think I wouldn’t have invited you to my wedding?”

  She smiles. “I’m sorry, of course not. It’s just been so long—I don’t know anything about you …” She pauses and begins again. “What about a boyfriend? Anyone long term?”

  “No. I’m happy the way I am.”

  “What about kids? Do you want kids?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. You imagine your future and sometimes certain things don’t come up—for me, that’s children.”

  She sips her wine and places the glass back on the coaster with utmost precision. “Is it my fault?”

  “Why would it be?”

  “Because … I wasn’t a … good mother.”

  “You were a good mother. You were everything to me when Dad left.” It seems like the right thing to say, but even with small memories returning, I don’t recall the details of their separation. I don’t know if it was acrimonious and full of spite, or if they drifted apart unable to reconcile some vital detail.

  I wait because this might be the moment I get answers. Does she know this whole place is just a random seaside town to me, the landmarks and the people mean nothing? Does she realize she’s a stranger—and why?

  She finishes her drink, but she’s disinclined to talk any more. Her expression alters, pushing aside whatever thoughts she was having. She gathers our plates, and I drain my glass.

  I type “Jo Mckye” into the search bar, unsure what I’m seeking.

  No, that’s not true. I am sure: I’m searching for me. The real me. Not the shell. Not the empty vessel. I need to know who I was.

  My name appears multiple times on the screen, but not all of the mentions are me. I scroll through—discounting the wrong ones—and click one for my university alumni page. There’s a small biography, no pictures. It gives brief details, nothing I’m not already vaguely aware of. Nothing useful.

  Digging further, I discover archived articles about the course, videos of our end-of-year exhibitions, and interviews with some of the students. A couple of names are familiar only because of their subsequent success; none of the faces are, except Spencer. Candid, behind-the-scenes photos without acknowledgement of who’s in them form a decorative boarder. I scrutinize them, but none are of me.

  Back to the search page, another result leads me to an art competition, with WINNERS 2009 in bright blue letters across the top. In this, I placed fourth with an entry called Girl and Rose. Shivers cascade around my body. I don’t want to click on the link. I don’t want to know who the girl is. Because I already do. My hand is on the mouse. I click. The page loads.

  Zenna smiles back at me. An unformed version of herself. Undeveloped. I don’t recall the competition or the painting. Yet here she is, taunting me from the screen. Her hair is flowing across her shoulders, green in this picture. Her hair is never the same—it changes color and length, sometimes it hangs limply, at others it spreads out like the snakes of Medusa.

  Her eyes are always the same—a curious shade of amber which doesn’t appear among my paints. They shine as though caught in sunlight. The longer I stare, the more they penetrate.

  “I’m going to the Smugglers,” Mum calls up the stairs, and leaves immediately without inviting me.

  I glance toward the door wondering what damage I’ve inflicted on our relationship this time, whether it’s the beginning of another breakdown. It’s all going wrong, and it’s all my fault. I lean back against my pillows. Perhaps it’s time to leave—I only planned to be here a couple of days, anyway. None of what I’d hoped for has occurred. I haven’t salvaged memories or admitted my amnesia. The longer I’m here, the more time that passes, the harder it is to bring up—like answering to the name Jess because I waited too long to correct an acquaintance. It’s sad, but there must be millions of people who don’t get on with their family—I’m not the only one.

  Remember me.

  “Leave me alone. Get out of my head!”

  A little girl laughs, and I’m chilled to my bones.

  ***

  In the middle of the night, I’m wide awake. An owl hoots, foxes cry, something screeches further along the valley and makes me shudder.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, evenly. Floating on the ocean, with Opera Pink mist swirling around me. To be more accurate, over the ocean—the mist holding me like a pair of hands. I drift to sleep, my lungs filling with crisp sea air.

  Suddenly I’m thrashing against the waves. And Mum’s with me, both of us frantic, immersed by the tide. I struggle to keep above the water, stretching toward the surface, gasping for air. The hands which kept me up now push me down—pressing firmly on my shoulders to prevent me breaking free, easing me toward my death.

  I call for Mum, desperately trying to find her in the black, churned-up water. My lips are moving, my words reverberating around my head. But I can’t hear my voice. In my head, I’m yelling, but the sound melts into the sea.

  The hands loosen, and I wriggle away instinctively. I kick out and swim as fast as I can, swallowing water as I gasp with the exertion. I’m not moving. I’m stuck, tangled among the seaweed. Panicked and sinking as I flail. The hands are gone, but I’m going under.

  At the very last moment, as I take my last gulp of air and expect to plummet to the ocean floor, all motion ceases. I’m in bed, flinching against the daylight; my arms are still trying to swim, my legs kick out. I’m bleary, as if I haven’t slept at all. The dream crumbles; pieces ebb away as I grapple for them.

  But it was more tangible than a dream. I was there. Icy water filled my lungs; my arms ached, and I watched my skin wrinkle.

  Another memory? Did I almost drown, as a child? It could explain why Mum’s so reticent to talk about the past. If she was responsible, and Dad blamed her for it, she might not want me around to remind her. If my calamity was the reason he left.

  No, it doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t leave me if he thought I was at risk. And Mum wouldn’t push me away. She’d want to keep me safe; she’d hold me and vow never to let me go. If I had children, it’s what I’d do.

  None of this makes any sense.

  I stare at the ceiling and watch the first fingers of dawn spread across my room.

  EIGHTEEN

  I message both Nathan and Lily over breakfast, a few back-and-forths of no consequence, which makes me feel calmer. I haven’t meant to ignore them, but there’s been little to say. My exhibition is going well—it will run for another week, Nathan says, and a couple more of the paintings have sold.

  The longer I’m here, the further away London is. I can barely conceive my flat, my job, my life there. A barrier has grown around them, as though they’re the nightmare and this tiny town is my reality.

  Mum hasn’t risen yet—indeed, I didn’t hear her come home at all last night—but today feels different, lighter. I listen to every creak, waiting for her to descend. I eat my cereal and make coffee, and when I’m finished, I wash up.

  Leaning against the wall, side-by-side, are three canvases—each primed with gesso and ready to be reworked. They weren’t there yesterday.

  “I finally remembered to pull them out for you,” Mum says, striding into the kitchen. “I thought you might like to paint today. I’ll be gone most of the afternoon, is that okay? I know I haven’t spent much time with you, but …”

  I was ready for a showdown over how our evening ended, yet she’s acting like nothing happened.

  “No, it’s fine. I didn’t expect you to drop everything for me. I’m the one who descended without telling you. Don’t you want them for yourself?”

  She shrugs. “I never got the hang of painting.”

  “The one in the lounge is good—”

  “I got lucky. Have you eaten? Ooh, you’ve made coffee, how lovely.” She maneuvers the conversation without me noticing. She doesn’t mention last night, so I don’t either—not even to ask if she had a nice time. Apparently, we’re moving past it.

  Once she’s gone—downing her co
ffee on the way to the shower and grabbing a couple of biscuits as she heads out the front door—I set up the easel in the front garden. I prefer it outside; the house is unsettling without Mum’s energy to combat it. The valley and the sea inspire the colors I squeeze onto the palette.

  I hate the idea of reusing Mum’s canvases. Mine are all stacked several deep against my bedroom walls, on top of the wardrobe, under the bed. Reusing them would make sense—for those which weren’t quite as good as I’d hoped—but I need them. Along with my sketchbooks, they’re my thoughts and memories at specific periods of time, my connection to myself.

  It troubles me she didn’t want to keep the work underneath. I regret not seeing it. It might have helped me make sense of her.

  The weather has brightened; the sun is much stronger today, almost hot on my skin. The sky is Manganese Blue. Flimsy white clouds leave shadows on the hills as they sail past.

  I wash the canvas with Hooker’s Green and Gold and Cobalt Blue—breaking the scene into rigid blocks of color.

  The outline of Zenna is apparent before I realize what I’ve done. Her sharp, elfin features follow. Her chin juts into the air, her glassy amber eyes pierce into the real world. I swipe my hand through the wet acrylic, and it smears.

  “Hi there!”

  I jump. The barman from the Smugglers—Craig?—is walking up the garden path, with a brief wave. I wipe my painted hands onto my jeans.

  “Hello?”

  “Mags asked me to bring you something for lunch from the pub.” He presents me with a plastic-wrapped plate and laughs awkwardly.

  Weird. Wait—Mags? What?

  “Uh, thanks.” I take it from him, not quite sure what to do next.

  “Don’t leave it too long. The quiche is nicer when it’s hot.”

  “Cheers.”

  He hesitates, swaying on the spot but not moving. I glance at the plate in case he brought enough for two and is awaiting an invitation to sit.

  “She actually asked you to bring me food?”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s what mums do, isn’t it—fuss?”

  I half-nod, half-shrug. I can’t agree or disagree; I don’t know.

  Again, he doesn’t move, and I’m not sure of the etiquette. I should probably make conversation, but I don’t know what to say.

  “How’s it going?” He nods toward the canvas which, thankfully, he can’t see. The long sludge of my handprint is beyond redemption.

  “Okay. It’s such a lovely place to paint.”

  “Perhaps I could commission something for the pub?”

  “Maybe. Have you lived here long?”

  “A couple of years.” He takes a cautious step forward.

  “So, you won’t remember me like everyone else seems to?”

  “No. But I’ve heard a lot about you. Your mum talks about you all the time.”

  “She does? You and Mum are … friends, then? Close friends?”

  He smiles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yes. Is it a problem?”

  “Aren’t you, like, my age?”

  “I’m older than I look,” he says carefully. “I’d better get back. Enjoy your lunch.”

  He ambles back down the path. It’s none of my business—the mother I don’t think about has a boyfriend I don’t know about. It’s good she’s not alone, that my visions of her yearning for my return are unfounded. This bubble of resentment is ridiculous. I stab my finger into the quiche in vexation. It’s hot; it burns.

  After lunch, I return to the canvas and Zenna is remarkably intact, her colors matching the streaks on my jeans. I can’t bring myself to erase her completely. She’s morose today; her smugness and superiority replaced with something more wretched.

  The surf is rolling in, white peaks blown up by the swelling wind. The ocean is endless, the sky expansive. If I painted nothing but shades of blue, it wouldn’t be enough. I’m roused by the magnitude yet limited by the canvas.

  In London, the relentless gloom presses against me. Even on dazzling summer days, the flat is dark and dreary. It shrinks as I think of it. The color of the walls escapes me; I don’t remember if we have curtains or blinds.

  “Have you finished?” Mum asks. She doesn’t startle me as Craig did—her keys rattling in her hand signal her arrival.

  “Not sure. It didn’t go as planned. I can’t decide whether to scrap it.” I turn to face her. “You sent your boyfriend to check up on me.”

  “Oh, Craig? Just to bring you some lunch. I thought you could use a friend. Boyfriend is a bit … not … It’s not like that.” She flusters and holds out her hands to reset herself. “Okay, yes. Craig and I are a …” She scratches her head and frowns. “Not many people know. It’s quite casual.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Love him?”

  She smiles involuntarily. “Possibly.”

  “Then you shouldn’t keep it a secret.”

  “So, you approve?” Her tone changes, deep and formal.

  “If it makes any difference, I guess so.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Thank you. Can I have a look?” She points to the canvas eagerly, reaching it before I can answer. “Oh.”

  A clouded, troubled frown shadows her face briefly. She pushes a smile through her lips. Her hand follows the shape of Zenna’s violated face, hovering inches from the wet paint.

  “Well,” she says, with a single clap. “I should get dinner started.”

  “Wait.” I shake my head. “This is going to sound stupid. Do you remember my imaginary friend, when I was little? I called her Zenna, didn’t I?”

  “I think you did, yes.”

  Why didn’t I remember this sooner? She was my constant companion, at one time. I made Mum set an extra place at the table and dish up a plate for her. When we went out, Zenna was always included, and Mum always had to help her put on her boots or find her coat. We spent a lot of time waiting for this invisible person to catch up with us.

  All this dumps itself onto me, as if it’s always been there.

  I spin to face Mum, another thought pressing into me. “Do you recognize her?”

  “Of course not—she’s your imagination.”

  “But when you saw the painting just then …?”

  “You might have drawn her when you were little, I suppose. And she’s in your exhibition. I was surprised you were still working on her.” She picks at a stray thread dangling from her coat sleeve.

  She’s lying. She swallows and her face flushes. She fusses with my brushes and tubes of paint and avoids looking at Zenna. This is my chance to tackle her, to demand answers. But she goes inside before I get my thoughts in the correct order.

  My imaginary friend? It makes sense.

  A deep formative memory lurking in the recesses of my mind, despite whatever caused my memory loss; the comfort of childhood forcing itself to the fore.

  “Yes, it makes sense,” I say aloud, with only a bit of reservation. However, like Mum, I don’t look at her again. I carry her inside facing away from me.

  NINETEEN

  The shower water runs blue then clear as I lather shampoo and wash paint from my hair. My body slowly warms back up—I hadn’t noticed my skin mottling and my fingers growing numb. Mum suggests going to the Smugglers for dinner, but I plead exhaustion and change into my pajamas.

  “Have you contacted any of your old school friends? Several of them are still quite local.”

  “I came to see you.”

  “You’ve only left the house twice since you’ve been home, and both of those because I made you.”

  “I’m recuperating. I was ill before I came down. It’s nice to have some peace.”

  Just as it threatens to escalate into argument, Mum shrugs and continues her crossword, chewing the end of her pen. I pad around the kitchen, glancing at the already dark evening.

  “How about I cook tonight?” I offer.

  I rifle through the cupboards and ponder the almost empty fridge. I opt for cot
tage pie—minced beef, vegetables, mashed potatoes. I imagine it’s one of the meals she made for me; an easy mid-week supper for a working mum to feed her active child.

  Mum gives up her puzzle and pours wine, setting a glass on the counter for me. “I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me before—it’s nice.”

  I smile feebly.

  “I expect, being a famous London artist, you’re rarely home to cook for yourself.”

  I laugh. “I’m a barista with a single, solo exhibition. Sometimes I can barely afford beans to put on my toast.” I slice into an onion and blink back itchy tears.

  “Really? I had no idea. Do you need money?”

  “I’m exaggerating. It’s not that bad yet.”

  “Your exhibition will help? You’ll get more attention, more acclaim?”

  “Maybe. But there are lots of us trying to make a living. Who knows if I’ll be good enough.”

  It’s not a consideration I usually allow myself—I’ve no idea why I’m being so honest. I ought to savor the idea of being famous, of being rich, of my art on display in Washington and Paris. This jaunt to Cornwall might be my Agatha Christie moment, discussed at every interview I undertake from now on.

  “Anyway, I won’t get anywhere if I only paint one woman for the rest of my career.”

  “It won’t be like this forever.”

  “She’s all over my older work too. In my sketchbooks …” I stir the mince and gravy as it simmers. “In my uni portfolio. I googled it. I know.”

  Mum’s hand trembles—she uses her other hand to steady the glass.

  I drain the potatoes, mash them, assemble the component parts of the cottage pie, and put it into the oven. I lean against the sink, legs crossed at the ankle, glass in hand, and consider Mum carefully. She pretends not to notice.

  “You didn’t ask why,” I say when her uneasiness is palpable.

  “Sorry?”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you, an artist would recognize her own work? Would know the pieces she put into her final uni portfolio? But you didn’t ask why I had to search for it.”

  She sips her wine and straightens the placemat in front of her. She lays her palms and forearms flat on the table and shuffles in the chair. “No I didn’t. Because I already know.”