My heart skips a beat. “You know what, exactly?”
She exhales loudly. “You suffer from amnesia, and there’s a good chance you don’t remember growing up in this house, or me, or any of your friends from school.” Her words tumble out in a steady, dispassionate stream.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“How would I do that, Jo?” Her sudden severity makes me jump. “Hey, Jo. Nice to see you. I know you don’t have a clue who I am, but hey—how are you?” she says in an affected voice. “It was for you to make the first move, not me. It’s not my responsibility.”
She’s risen in her seat—halfway between standing and sitting, her legs squatting to take her weight. When she realizes, she relaxes back into the chair.
It’s almost dark. The hill behind the house is a tall, looming shadow; the sky embraces the last trace of sunlight. We’re both reflected in the window, isolated and blank. I sit at the table opposite Mum, and she fills up our glasses.
“Is this what happens? We have stupid arguments and don’t talk for years at a time?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is it hereditary? Is Dad … Is he not here because he forgot the way back?”
“No, no. That was something entirely different.”
“I’ve been to doctors. No one knows what’s wrong. They’ve done MRIs and everything’s normal. But it’s not.” I bite back my rage and accusations.
Mum folds in on herself defensively. She shrinks, becomes gray and mute in front of me.
The timer on the cooker dings, and we both jump. I smirk at my absurdity; Mum giggles.
As I stand, a bubble of water rises around me, swirling in my head, sucking oxygen from me. I gasp for breath, curling forward to steady myself against the counter. I’m underwater. Freezing. Caught in a tidal wave.
“Jo?”
“I’m fine.”
Hands force me under … I kick and panic and hold my breath … It’s not real. I’m in the kitchen. I’m safe. Arms restrain me.
I know you can hear me, Jo-Jo. I know you remember me,
“I remember you,” I mumble. But it’s not enough, or it’s too late. She doesn’t let go. “It’s her, it’s Zenna—she’s here.”
“It’s just us, Jo.” Mum presses her hand to my forehead. “No one else.”
I twist around, checking for myself. Our reflections are distorted in the glass, against the dark backdrop outside. For a moment, a third figure hovers beside us. She leans over me, as if to comfort me the way Mum is. Our eyes meet. She vanishes.
“Zenna.” I point to the window. “She was here. I saw her.”
***
“We’re going to the zoo, zoo, zoo,” we sang. “How about you, you, you? You can come too, too, too.”
It was something we sang wherever we went, substituting words as required. We went to the park for a lark, to the beach to eat a peach. The shops rhymed with tops, and we went to school because it was cool. I loved our songs; Mum didn’t. She’d tell Dad to “Give it a rest, won’t you?” through gritted teeth, and we’d quiet under her irritation. Dad would wink at me, so I knew it was him in trouble not me.
And so it happens, my father is fully formed in my head, crouched beside me because … He fades and I’m alone. I was little, obediently waiting for him to tie my shoelace or zip up my coat. I hold my hand out to bring him back, but he’s long gone.
On this particular occasion, it was just Mum and me in the car, so when I began to sing, I was subdued by her glare. I sank into the back seat so I could snarl at her without being seen in the rear-view mirror.
“Are we there yet?” I whined, my face pressed against the window as hedges and fields passed by, gazing up to the sky—making myself dizzy as the world zoomed along and my eyes couldn’t take it all in.
“No,” said Mum.
A little later: “Are we there yet?”
“No,” she growled.
Later still: “Are we—?”
But her expression warned me off. It was funny when I did it to Dad—he laughed along with me and made up silly answers—but Mum didn’t share our sense of humor. She was sad and serious most of the time, even when I tried to cheer her up. If I picked flowers from the side of the road, she’d say they were polluted and throw them away. The time I bought her a packet of giant chocolate buttons with my pocket money, I saw her furiously shoving them all into her mouth, when I was supposed to be asleep, then spitting them out into the sink.
Rage bubbled inside her, just under the surface, for most of my childhood. If I scratched her, I was afraid it would come tumbling out instead of blood.
We went to the train station, that day, the big one in Plymouth, with so many tracks I was always afraid we’d get lost.
We’re going to the trains, trains, trains. We’ll get wet in the rain, rain, rain.
We stayed in the car for a while, then went inside and sat on uncomfortable metal chairs on the concourse. We were waiting for a train, but we never migrated onto the platform to catch any of them. I dutifully noted each muffled announcement of trains departing to Bristol or Edinburgh or Cheltenham Spa—exotic places I’d never heard of—yet still we remained on those cold metal seats.
I glanced furtively at Mum, scared to complain I was thirsty and hungry. I sat with my legs swinging, gawking at the travelers sitting opposite me. Two students wearing too many clothes and one rucksack between them, straining at the seams; three women with shopping bags and a lot of laughter; a somber man in a suit reading the Financial Times. I didn’t know it was the FT at the time—I thought it was a pretty color to make a newspaper from and must contain really fun news. I wondered why there weren’t blue and yellow and green ones too, and if I should buy one for Mum.
At some point, she bought me a drink and a bag of crisps, but otherwise she sat rigidly, with her bag on her lap and her hands folded across the top of it. Her face was pale, like she was sick or she’d been crying, and she stared at the floor, taking no notice of me. I wanted to hold her hand, but there was space between us. I’d have had to move to the next seat, and she might have shouted. So, I waited patiently because I knew at some point something would happen.
It was getting dark outside. Not black like at night-time, but like when Mum tried to put me to bed after the clocks were put forward. Too light to sleep, but not daytime anymore.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“Are we going to be here all night?”
The trains were fewer and less frequent. The shops pulled down their shutters, and the concourse emptied. Instead of the thunder of footsteps, single pairs of shoes echoed around the high ceiling. New arrivals—either from the platform or outside—passed through quickly and purposefully.
“Come on,” Mum said finally, as my eyes were closing and my head lolled to one side. With a heavy exhalation, she stood slowly and stretched out. She held my hand as we walked back to the car.
We never talked about it. I forgot it.
I wonder if we were running away, or if she was planning something far worse. An icy finger slides along my body, all the way from my neck to my feet. Nathan was right—not all memories are good.
TWENTY
Mum says I’m depressed. She says withdrawing into my cocoon makes sense, if we think of it in that way. She says she felt the same when she was depressed.
It’s not a conversation I relish having. I bow my head and blush.
She says she was sometimes so desolate she could barely move—she’d be walking along the road and suddenly stop, unable to find the impulse to continue.
“Is that around the time we went to the train station in Plymouth?”
She bites her lip. “You remember that?”
“Some of it.” I hold her gaze.
“Yes, around then.”
She says sometimes she saw things which weren’t really there.
“Like what?”
“People,” she says slowly. She closes her eyes and presses her forefinger against her lips
. “Or perhaps they were real, and I was too isolated to realize.” She rests her hand on my arm. “Is that how you feel?”
I flounder. I’m not sure.
No. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.
Zenna isn’t real. She never has been. She isn’t baking cakes for a charity sale; she isn’t planning a night out with friends or gossiping on Facebook; she isn’t out there somewhere in search of a new flat to rent. Because she doesn’t exist.
The air is burdensome upon me, making my movements slow and arduous. Thoughts loop around my head without making sense, and I can’t vocalize them. My attempts to consolidate them are tiring. Something’s missing, always missing. I open my mouth to speak and burst into tears.
Mum tucks me up on the sofa, nestling me among the many cushions, wrapping blankets around me. She brushes a stray hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “Get some rest.”
My mobile pings as I close my eyes—another message from Nathan. I drop the mobile to the floor without reading it. He’s sent several today … yesterday? Time is fluid, days are running from one to the next without me noticing. Hundreds of miles away, Nathan’s an illusion. He, and London, no longer exist.
Is this what happens when people return home, no matter how long they’ve been away, as if the intervening time has no relevance? Many years, several months, or just a day or two—does it matter? Is there an intrinsic submissiveness to the person you were before?
In my mother’s company, I regress. I’m seventeen again, twelve, eight. I’m not stopping. Four, three, two …
My eyes close; my jaw unclenches, my mouth relaxes into an O.
There’s a giggle.
We’re going to the train, train, train.
My voice blends with someone else’s, but it isn’t Mum’s. She’s not singing; she’s driving us to Plymouth. Her eyes are fixed on the road, her hands pressed into the steering wheel.
She glances at us in the rear-view mirror when she stops at traffic lights. “Will you two shut up. I can’t hear myself think.”
“Aw, Mum …” But it’s not my voice. It’s not me speaking.
I turn, but my subconscious prevents me seeing who’s there—it inclines my head away or changes my perception, so this other person hides just out of sight.
***
I slip out of the house early. The streetlights are still on, but the birds are singing to greet the impending dawn. I wrap my coat around myself and wish I had gloves—crisp, biting mist blankets the valley, contrasting with the stuffy and oppressive house. I take a deep breath, and chill air glides through me, satisfying and refreshing.
I pass my car, abandoned and unused since I arrived, and drag my hand across the frost on the roof. It would be so easy to get in and drive away, return to London and all the tedium it provides. I pat the roof and walk away. Soon, but not yet.
The sea is serene, glass-like, slowly creeping back toward shore. There’s no noise apart from my footsteps. Walking along the deserted beach is surreal. The moon tinges the air with silver, creating a haunting half-light. I’ve arrived in a softly-lit 1950s film noir.
My feet sink into the gravelly sand, crunching rhythmically with each laborious step; a hypnotic sound to quell my unease. Across the bay, from behind the cliffs and hills, the sun rises. A bouquet of scarlet and peach streaks across the sky.
Further along the beach, rocks bulge from the water, weathered and sharp. In a few hours, they’ll only be accessible by wading or clambering over flatter, more colorful rocks which harbor pools of water and clumps of seaweed.
I back away, fearful of the waves enveloping me; afraid they’ll seek me out and devour me. My chest tightens, the dread of the water rises again.
Remember!
She’s abrupt and exasperated, as though I’m doing something wrong, not playing by the rules. I’m trying, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be remembering. My life is a series of distorted dreams from which I never wake. It’s a silent film where I’m required to guess the plot. It’s mid-way through a novel, yet I can’t flick back to remind myself of the previous chapter.
The tide swirls closer, more ferocious. Splashing at my feet. I scramble sideways across the rocks to escape it, stupidly isolating myself, climbing higher as the water level rises. The sea crashes against the base, reaching further with each surge.
Remember me.
I turn quickly and my left foot slips into a rockpool. My ankle cracks; water leaks into my boot. “Shit.”
A scornful laugh fills the air. The child from the rainstorm, from the café in London, from the reflection in the window. All of them Zenna.
“Tell me what you want.”
She doesn’t say anything. She’s in my head, after all, my vindictive invisible friend, my deviant imagination. I laugh, but my hands are balled into fists. I miss a breath, waiting.
A dog yaps, and I’m on the shingle again. The sea is a long way off.
People swarm around me.
There are shouted hellos and good mornings crisscrossing the beach—a cacophony of noise rumbling around the cliffs.
Several of these newly-materialized dog walkers break their conversations to say good morning to me. They nod politely but eye me with the same apprehension Rose displayed on my first day, as though I’ve appeared in front of them from nowhere.
The beach café is open and early customers are already lining up. I head inside, in need of a soothing hot chocolate. “And a teacake, please,” I add, reading from the menu at the side of the counter.
“You’re Maggie’s girl,” says the waitress. It’s not a question. “Staying long? Five-fifty, love.”
“I don’t know yet.” I offer her a ten-pound note and keep my hand primed for the change.
“Why would you leave?” she says jovially. “It’s perfect here.”
“Yes, but I have a job to get back to.”
“I bet your mum’ll try to keep you.”
I smile grimly. “Well, perhaps.”
The conversation is left hanging as the woman turns to the next customer—an apparent regular, with a Jack Russell scuttling around his feet. When my order arrives, I take it outside to one of the picnic benches, where a low wall divides the café from the rest of the beach. I wrap my hand around my mug until the heat burns a little.
Between the screeching gulls, barking dogs, squealing toddlers, and general chatter, there are pockets of stillness when even the pitching waves cease. Mist tumbles across the village, smudging the lines between my dreams and the real world. The road vanishes behind it, the hills too.
Zenna is a pencil mark on the approaching horizon. She sits beside me with her chin resting on my shoulder. She dives from rocks. She’s beside me and around me and seeping inside me. She’s a dream and a memory and a fear. She whispers into my ear with increasing volume until the rest of the café is muffled. My dizziness returns, a momentary displacement.
Remember.
As distraction, I take my sketchbook from my bag and draw the beach. Beyond the mist, at low tide, it stretches for miles. At least, that’s how it felt when I was six and how I draw it now—capturing the exuberance of skipping over the yellow-gray sand and jumping into the deep blue sea, the first icy rush of water on my feet and splashing against my legs.
Oh God—I’d forgotten. I used to swim. I used to play in the sea. I wasn’t scared; I didn’t recoil. When did it change?
When did the fear begin?
On the page, I add three people—elongated, misshapen figures with their faces obscured, the way shadows extend from their source on a midsummer evening. I like the detachment. They don’t resemble people—I want them to be alien to me.
“You did cartwheels,” I mutter without reason, swapping pencils and concentrating on the sky. “Every time your feet left the ground, you kicked sand into my face, and it blew into my eyes.”
I pause, foolishly, for a reply. Because there won’t be one; I’m sitting alone. Most of the other customers are sheltering b
eneath the lean-to. Yet, I sense someone—the proximity of someone breathing, the imposition of an arm pressed against mine. It’s fleeting, but it leaves an additional chill against my side.
Summer-bronzed arms and legs, star-shaped, tumble over and over. Not my arms. Not my legs. I was a clumsy child, and these are graceful and sinuous.
“You tried to teach me, but I could never do them.”
It was a game I played—my invisible friend was really my little sister. We bounced on my bed together, played hide-and-seek in the park, and rocked our dollies to sleep. I hugged her when the thunder scared her, and she took the blame for all the naughty things I did. We shared secrets. We talked about running away, but we never did.
I draw a series of the three characters in my sketchpad. My mother, myself, my “sister.” They’re abstract, at first, becoming more defined and tangible with each sketch. My mother, myself, Zenna.
TWENTY-ONE
Jo-Jo.
Her sudden arrivals no longer alarm me. She slips into the bed beside me, and I recall a thunderstorm where she was so very scared. Not her really, me. I was scared, projecting my worries onto this invisible person who I was able to soothe in my place.
There’s no thunder tonight; the noises outside are more distant than usual. The foxes are quiet, tucked away in their dens against the freezing air. Even the moon is absent. In the speckled blackness, vague impressions of the room filter in.
“Come on,” Zenna whispers. “Let’s go for a swim.”
The bed disappears beneath me, and I’m falling, tumbling. Plunging into a void without sides, without a bottom. I land on gray sand—not a beach, but inside my own painted version. Three shadowed figures face me. One of them approaches and holds out her hand to help me to my feet.
She laughs and runs. I race to catch up with her, and she turns cartwheels beside me. I try to copy, but my legs are unwieldy and graceless. At the edge of the water, she kicks off her shoes and tugs her t-shirt over her head.
Small Forgotten Moments Page 10