Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  She watches me with glassy eyes, neither alarmed by my presence nor reaching to help me. She’s exactly as I draw her—with sadness, with scorn. But there’s something else. Gratification.

  “You came for me,” she says, with a reassuring smile.

  “No, I …” Perhaps I did.

  I let my arms float away from me and my body sways in the ebbing water. My hair drifts around me, highlighted by the sun, like a mermaid. I glance at my legs, disappointed not to find a long, beautiful tail. I’m not breathing, but I don’t have to anymore. The water gives me all I need.

  “You think this is a dream.” She laughs—the little girl giggle which follows me—joyous and animated. She strokes my cheek, and her hand is so tender, loving. Unlike the ferocity of previous encounters.

  She raises her arms above her head and leans backwards until she’s lying horizontally. She surrenders her body to a deep current which wrenches her away from me. Her face alters. No longer serene and beautiful, she’s pallid and her eyes are dark, lifeless hollows. My own tranquility is broken, and my distress elevates. Without Zenna’s protection, I’m drowning.

  “No. Don’t leave me!” But my voice is unheard, unspoken.

  The sea is dark and dirty again. Crashing around me. I thrash, kicking, wrestling my way to the surface against robust waves. Icy water fills my lungs in rapid gulps. My muscles are weary, my resolve falters. My arms twitch ineffectually. I descend. Eyes open, I watch the surface get further away.

  I’m wrenched up, out. Warm arms cradle me, and I’m flung onto compacted sand. I gasp, grappling for oxygen, but my lungs are solid and deflated. Hands pound my chest. Warm air is thrust into my throat.

  “Jo! Oh my God, Jo!”

  Craig. His face is close to mine when I open my eyes, smiling reassuringly although his eyes are serious and scared. I try to smile back, but my body is disconnected, and I can’t be sure I’ve made any movement at all. It was cold a moment ago, now I feel nothing. My vision flickers, and Craig starts to recede.

  “Stay with me, Jo,” he murmurs. “The ambulance is coming.”

  And everything is black.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m in bed with a cannula in my hand and a tube attached to a drip dangling above me. The tape keeping it in place is itchy, but I can’t coordinate my other hand to scratch it. The machine beside me beeps merrily, and shoes squeak on lino along the corridor. Opposite my bed, a gray-haired lady’s muttering about daffodils in her sleep, and at the nurses’ station, several phones are ringing at the same time. Mum’s dozing in the chair beside me.

  My whole body is battered and swollen; my lungs are tight as I breathe. I groan as I use my elbows to prop myself up, and my head throbs. Mum stirs.

  “You shouldn’t be moving. What do you need?”

  She reaches for a beaker before I reply, and I swallow thick, tepid water uncomfortably—allowing her to support the weight of my head. I slump back onto my pillow.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore.” My voice is whisper-weak. It scratches against my throat. “Hungover.” Hungover isn’t right. I wasn’t drinking.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  Hazy, fractured moments pass in and out of my head. None make sense, until … “You lied to me.”

  “It’s not that simple. But it’s not what I meant.” She squirms as I watch her. “We’ll talk, when you’re better.”

  “Yeah, sure we will. Because we talk so well.”

  I turn my head away from her. There’s not much of a view—I’m facing the window, but from this angle all I can see are stark branches of a tall ash tree bowing in the wind and the winter-laden Naples Yellow clouds beyond.

  The chair creaks as Mum shuffles to get comfortable. I imagine her leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, pondering what to do next. Is she staring out of the window too, sharing this same moment? The tree is resilient and majestic, here long before any of us, witness to the loves and losses of so many who’ve sat beneath it.

  Fragments of memory break through. Bouncing on a trampoline when I was six, my first day of uni, the day in the railway station with Mum, eating ice cream after a harrowing dental appointment. These moments disperse before I can grab them, like reflections on a rippling pond.

  “Well, I suppose I should go, let you get some rest.” She bends over me to kiss my cheek and her scarf tickles my face. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  A robin lands on a branch, gathering strength in its tiny wings before flittering off again. I listen to Mum’s echoing footsteps halt and the solid door at the end of the ward slams shut.

  With my next blink, I’m walking on a beach as the sun sets. Zenna’s beside me, a shadow or a ghost. Every time I glance across, she becomes transparent. But she’s still there, I hear her soft breath as if it’s the wind. She’s playing with me.

  The sunset is animated in pastel, pink and lilac and orange merging together—one of my doodles from a few days ago. I’ve fallen into my own art, enveloped by the pages of a book. Zenna simply smiles.

  We walk. Sometimes we’re side-by-side with matching strides; at others, the length of an infinite beach is between us. Days and days pass. So many of them, they’ve assembled into weeks and months and years. I grow old, while Zenna stays the same—an age she never achieved in life. My hair is slate gray and bristly, my face wrinkled and leathery, while she is fresh and incandescent. She giggles and skips away.

  The machine beside me beeps. Shoes squeak on lino. Several phones ring at the same time, and Craig appears at the foot of my bed.

  “The nurse said you were awake,” he says apologetically, once my eyes are open enough to focus on him.

  “I was just dozing.” Memories, thoughts, all in the wrong order. “You rescued me, didn’t you?”

  He nods. “I was on my way to work. In the right place at the right time, luckily.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore. A bit confused. There was a swimmer …” Foggy, soggy memories.

  “It’s not important.”

  “I couldn’t find him.” I try to sit up, agitated. I need to find him. “Is he safe? Did you find him? Is he okay?”

  “Jo, don’t worry—”

  “I need to know he’s all right.”

  Craig pulls on his chin. “You should really talk to your mum about this.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her at all.”

  His face contorts, as though he’s having a soundless conversation with himself. His eyes dart, his mouth twitches. “I don’t think there was a swimmer. There was a witness who said you just walked into the water.”

  “No, I saw him. He was waving, and I couldn’t find him.” Tears run down my face, past my ear, onto the pillow. “I was looking. I couldn’t …”

  “They said you took off your coat and waded in.”

  No. There was a swimmer. He was in trouble. He was waving.

  “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, I’m glad you did.” The red speck dips in and out of the water. It did. I know it did. “I can’t handle anymore lies.”

  He glances away, and our previous awkwardness returns. “I should let you rest. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He half-nods to himself as confirmation he’s going, or that I am indeed okay, and moves toward the door.

  “Craig?”

  He pauses.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude, the other day. I was surprised Mum didn’t mention you, that’s all. I’m glad she’s got you.”

  He nods again. “I’ll see you soon.”

  As he leaves, I imagine it’s Nathan walking away with promises to return. Nathan who I wish was here more than anyone else. I need his kindness and strength, his cheerfulness and unwavering friendship. I need his warm kiss on my forehead and his strong arms around me. Without my memories, I’ve always considered myself alone. But I’m not—I never have been.

  Nathan would pa
use as he rounded the corner; he’d wink at me.

  I should phone him, tell him what’s happened. Instead, I allow my eyes to close—the exertion of being awake is too great. The pain medication eliminates the voices in my head and quells the images. The peacefulness is a relief.

  ***

  The doctor discharges me into Mum’s care, with the understanding I remain with her to rest and recover. Mum is attentive as he explains the symptoms and relapses to be aware of; she asks questions to clarify one point or another.

  When the doctor leaves, the strain between us is an insurmountable brick wall. We haven’t talked since yesterday. In front of the doctor, we focused on him.

  “I’ll phone Nathan. He’ll drive down and take me home,” I say, while Mum neatly folds the clothes I drowned in.

  “Don’t be silly. You can’t go anywhere in your condition.”

  “He’ll be here by this evening.” I continue without hearing her.

  “Jo, stop it.” Her lips purse, as though fighting to prevent further words spilling out. Her loving façade is faltering. She zips up my bag with finality.

  On the way home, Mum fiddles with the radio and the mundane babble of the BBC 4 host fills the space. I lie back against the headrest as hedges flash past. I open the window and inhale the musky odor of manure and damp grass. The motion of the car rocks me into a soft slumber.

  Mum is steely and precise as she drives; her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the wheel. I wish I had my paints, to capture her fragility and anguish, to remind myself of her grief. Yesterday, she almost lost a second child. And I yelled at her.

  Still, we don’t talk.

  She tucks me in on the sofa, plumping the cushions and fussing over the curtains and the angle of the TV. She’s in and out of the room with sandwiches and extra pillows and glasses of water so I can take my medication.

  Occasionally she pauses and covers her mouth with her hand as though to subdue a sob.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  All the versions of Mum trapped in my head, all my memories of her, fill the kettle and click the switch. They splinter to load the washing machine or hunt for snacks. The real one pulls out a packet of chocolate chip cookies—she believes she can pacify me with the good ones she keeps for special occasions. They all stir the teabags in the mugs, awaiting the right depth of color before adding milk.

  “You shouldn’t be up,” the real one says without turning. “The doctor made me promise you’d take it easy.”

  I slump against the wall, exhausted and overflowing, everything all at once. “I’m bored.”

  She brings the mugs to the table and sits. I do the same. “You were never good at being ill as a kid, either. You’d want to play with toys or scamper around the garden. I had to rein you in.”

  The knowledge is wedged into my head. I don’t need her to tell me. People do though, all the time—they tell each other what they already know, confirming their own recollections match everyone else’s, filling the spaces between sentences. I’d never really noticed it when my own gaps were so cavernous.

  We drink our tea and eat cookies. I nibble around a large chunk of chocolate, carefully removing the biscuit before holding the chocolate in my mouth to melt.

  “You used to do that too.” She tries to smile, but it vanishes, leaving her lips oddly curled. She crosses her arms on the table and leans over them.

  “I remember the day you were born. It doesn’t seem so long ago—time plays tricks.” She smiles wistfully. “I remember cradling you to sleep—you’d snuggle under my chin and hold onto my earlobe to comfort yourself.”

  I don’t care. I don’t want to know. I look over her shoulder her at the tap dripping steadily like someone knocking on the window to come in.

  She takes another cookie and breaks off a small piece, examining it rather than eating it. She drops it back onto the plate.

  “When you were two and a half, I had another baby. We named her Selena. You couldn’t say it properly—it came out as Zenna instead.” She dips her head and peers at me, checking that I’m listening.

  “I asked you who she was. You let me make up all kinds of fantasy, and you hid her away in a cupboard.”

  She inhales and puffs out her cheeks. “When I saw your exhibition, I knew it wouldn’t be long before you turned up here again.”

  “Again?”

  She holds up her hand to hush me. “I have to explain this my way.”

  Déjà vu sweeps over me. I fold my arms to protect myself.

  “You loved her so much. You took care of her, wouldn’t let her out of your sight.”

  “She was like a little doll …” I whisper.

  “You used to call her my Zenna.”

  “My Zenna … I remember.” She’s in her cot and I’m lying on the floor beside it while she gurgles and kicks off her blankets. I’m keeping her safe because Mummy’s busy. “I’d pretend to be asleep, so you’d carry me to bed, like you did with her.”

  Mum pushes her chair from the table and reaches for a box on the floor beside her. When she puts it down, its heft shakes the table. She opens several Truprint envelopes and spreads the photos across the table like a deck of playing cards. Pick a card, any card. There are hundreds of them—of me, Dad, Mum, Zenna. Snapshots of my life, of our lives all together.

  I was a cute kid, with dark ringlets and a cheeky grin. Zenna was beautiful. Blonde and wide-eyed, as if in awe of everything. She was porcelain and delicate. There was always something lurking below the surface, something spiteful—a pinch on my arm the grown-ups didn’t notice, my favorite doll mutilated. When I portray her adult persona, I capture the embryonic menace of these early years.

  There’s no order to them. We grow and shrink, age and return to babyhood with a flick of my hand. I pause at one of all four of us at the zoo, in front of the lion enclosure with cheap plastic sunglasses and ice-cream grins. A willing passerby must have taken the picture so we could all be in it together. Behind us, a lioness paces, stalking.

  I touch Dad’s face. He’s crouching a little, so he doesn’t tower over us—knees bent, one hand on his leg for support, the other around Mum’s shoulders. His smile is a laugh not quite realized. He’s still just a hole in my memory, a trick of the light, a glimmer in the distance. His features morph until he’s a stranger again.

  “He left when you were ten,” Mum says tersely.

  I won’t get any more information from her—her resentment is deep set. But I don’t think I need it. Instead I turn to a photo of Zenna alone, with the furred edge of being torn off. It’s the other half of the one upstairs. I was pulling Mum one way; she the other.

  “I still don’t know how she died. I’ve remembered so much—I don’t understand why this is so hard.”

  She takes the photo from me and smiles sadly. “You were nine. She was … six. There was an accident.” Her voice cracks. “Zenna drowned.”

  Her sobs are deep and raw as she runs from the room, hand pushed against her mouth. There’s a blast of air as the front door opens and slams shut.

  I remain at the table, fumbling through these ostracized pieces of my life. We were happy, laughing into the camera; normal family life captured so we didn’t have to remember. Yet, a couple of months, a couple of years later, we were fractured.

  So many questions bounce around my head. Why all the secrecy? Why are these photos in a box, tucked away where no one can see them? Why aren’t they displayed and honored? What else happened?

  Other people have lost siblings; other people haven’t misplaced their memory because of it. In my head, Zenna’s still alive. Her death is a mystery—concealed, out of reach. I can’t visualize it the way Mum can.

  Mum returns, leaning against the door jamb with a vacant, drained expression. Broken, like me. Like Zenna. Tormented and unraveled, disappearing in front of me. I rush forward to save her from collapsing. Our arms tangle into an embrace, and she rests her head on my shoulder. She’s wearing the same perfume she always ha
s, the fragrance warm and soothing as it mixes with nicotine. She shudders as she cries, and I move away.

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  She nods, mouthing words under her breath. I lean in to listen. “I can’t, Jo … I’m so tired. I thought, this time—”

  “This time?” I laugh scathingly. “Nothing changes, does it? You sound like you’re giving answers, and suddenly there’s a whole lot of other shit you’re still hiding. She’s hurting me. She’s burrowing into my head and won’t leave me alone.”

  I bang my fists against my temples. I want to do the same to Mum, so she’ll bear the same pain.

  “Stop it, Jo. Please.”

  “She’s everywhere—forcing herself into my work, my life, my nightmares. And I don’t understand any of it.” My voice rises until it hurts. “I almost drowned because I thought I saw someone in the water. But it was her.” I stop abruptly, the force of this latest truth settling on me. “It was her.”

  We stare at each other in horror and comprehension. Fingers of cold air swirl around us.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pencil poised over my sketchpad, I’m scared to make the first mark, scared the mark will be Zenna.

  Everything Mum showed me yesterday remains scattered about the house, in the spare … in Zenna’s room and across the kitchen table. I brought some of the photos into the lounge once I’d put Mum to bed and sat with a glass of wine remembering the real Zenna, not this cryptic creature of my imagination.

  Mum’s still upstairs, sleeping after a disturbed night. I woke too early, long before dawn, tossing and turning as my past nudged itself into its rightful place.

  The pencil remains above the unblemished page.

  The weather’s turned; frost covers the ground and hangs from the trees like tinsel, casting an ethereal presence over the valley. Zenna passes behind me, sweeping a draught along with her, but when I turn, the room’s empty. As it should be.