Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  A child laughs.

  “Stop it,” I say sharply, then cover my mouth to keep the noise from waking Mum.

  A cold arm reaches around my shoulder. My feet are wet. Water rises. Up my legs, so my pajama trousers billow and my dressing gown floats around me. To my torso and chest and throat.

  It’s time.

  “Leave me alone, it’s not fair.”

  And I’m drowning again.

  Struggling against the tide. Fighting to keep myself above the rushing ocean.

  It’s not real, it’s not real, I chant silently. Not real, not real.

  I take a final breath and hold it as the oxygen depletes, as my body fills with water. As Zenna’s terror is injected into me.

  The red and peach smudge of sunrise fills the space between wakefulness and my dream. Water ripples tranquilly; warm sand oozes between my bare toes.

  I’m not afraid. I was, once. Yesterday? The day before?

  You remember me.

  You remember …

  “You remember me.” Her voice extracts itself from my head, and it’s in the room, as palpable as I am. The body it belongs to sits beside me. The sofa dips, and I tip toward her.

  “Zenna.”

  “Oh yes, and you’re my Jo-Jo. At last. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “You’re not real. You don’t belong here anymore.”

  Her radiance falters—the air around her grows darker. “That’s not true.”

  No longer a hallucination, she glares with corporeal eyes on her corporeal face. She takes my hand in hers with an impish smile. Her lifeless fingers transfer their chill along my arm, penetrating my bones. I’m solid, unable to snatch my hand away.

  The room disintegrates, splintering my life out into the universe and sucking it back in. When it’s repaired, we’re on the beach.

  “It’s just a dream,” I mutter. “I’m at home on the sofa. Mum’s upstairs. I’m dreaming and Mum’s upstairs. I’m dreaming and Mum’s …”

  The sea is inky, almost inert against the shore. A cool zephyr brushes against us, causing our hair to flutter around our faces.

  “We should walk for a while, like we used to,” Zenna says, taking my hand. It’s the hand of a child, small and delicate in my own adult one.

  “I don’t remember.”

  She’s still jumbled up to me. I recall snippets of us together, but she’s on the periphery. My other memories are a constant slog, playing over and over. But not Zenna. She’s trapped between worlds, hidden behind paint on a canvas, trying to scratch herself out.

  “You really should stop saying that,” she says lightly. “It’s not that you don’t remember —you choose not to. It’s too hard, I understand. After all, you did a terrible thing.”

  I pull my hand away from hers. A terrible thing?

  Zenna smiles reflectively. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  She glides over the beach rather than scrambling through it like I do. My footprints create a solitary line.

  “Where are we going?” I struggle to keep up with her. The faster I go, the more my feet sink into the damp sand.

  She stops abruptly and points without a word. I gaze into the expanse of Winsor Blue sea, uncertain where I should be looking. A pitted rock protrudes from the water. I glance back at Zenna, and she nods.

  “That’s where I drowned,” she says simply. “Just off the rock there.”

  Her words hang in the air between us. I close my eyes and try to remember.

  For a moment, it’s dark. Then the sun is shining, warming my face. Not risen, just there, as though it has been all along. With it, the golden haze of a hot summer’s day, and profound, rapid excitement rising within me. Children laugh and shriek; dogs bark, zealously chasing balls. Basking tourists provide a hubbub of chatter, the soundtrack of my summer holidays. I burst with the thrill of my tiny village swelling with all these new people.

  Zenna jumps around beside me because we’re young again, although I’m not sure how young. Zenna still possesses the cuteness and plumpness of a preschooler. People tell her she’s pretty and delightful. Then they turn to me—gangly and gauche beside her—and their smiles quiver for a fraction, before they regroup and call me lovely as if it’s a question.

  It bristles. I narrow my eyes and become surly. I hate them comparing me with my perfect little sister. It burns, yet she basks in the adoration—why wouldn’t she?

  We run to the edge of the water together, and my resentment is forgotten because it’s a hot, sunny day and we’re playing. We splash into the surf, wading until it reaches our knees, our thighs. Mum’s warnings to be careful ring in our ears, but today, we’re invincible.

  Waist-deep, we belly flop forward, submerging ourselves and leaping out with loud yells. Over and over, swimming back and forth between the flags until we flop onto our towels with exhaustion.

  Mum doles out egg sandwiches, and we buy ice creams for dessert. Afterwards, we play football—Mum’s drilled into us not to swim directly after we’ve eaten. With every kick, we glance across for her approval. Mum, look at me, look at this! Some kids we met earlier in the week join us while their parents pack up their picnic stuff. Mum’s lying on the blanket, with her straw hat tilted across her face for shade.

  The afternoon passes. The sun moves across the sky and the crowd begins to dissolve. As the water empties, we dive back in. It almost feels warmer than it was earlier—a day’s worth of sun has heated it to perfection. The people leaving now are missing the best part. The beach is quiet, and people stroll idly with their dogs panting contentedly beside them. The waves are crinkles in the clear water; the sun is Gold Ochre.

  “Girls, it’s time to go,” Mum calls.

  “Just a little bit longer,” we wail in unison. And she indulgently relents.

  “Half an hour, then, but no more.”

  I float on my back and allow myself to be shunted by the tide. Wispy clouds drift above me. Zenna’s beside me. Until she isn’t.

  I jump to my feet and scan the water, then the beach. She’s over on the rocks, clambering to the far side, where the seabed drops away and the water is much deeper. I can’t find Mum in the blemishes of color on the beach, which means she probably can’t see Zenna.

  Zenna holds her hands above her head, preparing to dive.

  “No!” I yell.

  We’re not allowed to do that—it’s dangerous because of all the hidden rocks beneath the surface. You could break your necks, Mum tells us, time and again.

  Zenna can’t hear me, or she’s ignoring me. I swim across, but the tide pushes against me, deceptively strong just this tiny bit further out. It pushes me away from her. I call out again, to Zenna, to Mum, to anyone at all. Zenna spots me and waves. She smiles and dives.

  I almost swallow water in my effort to reach her, soaring through the surf, using every bit of strength I have. Head down, I attack the water. Each time I check my position, Zenna’s further away. I’m losing power, my arms and legs becoming less effective as I yield to the weariness.

  Eventually, finally, almost not-quite, I grab her leg.

  She’s bleeding. Her head is cut. She’s under the water, and her eyes are open. I try to haul her up, but she slips from my grip. I hook my arm around her and try to swim. She’s too limp and heavy.

  I can’t do it.

  “Help!” I scream. “Mummy!”

  Slowly, people come running. I spot their brightly-colored t-shirts first, bounding across the beach, then hear the yelling. Several people wade toward us. My arm is tingly with pins-and-needles, and Zenna’s face is barely above the water. She continually slips away from me, while tears stream down my face because I’m petrified I’m going to drop her.

  They wrench Zenna from my arms and rush to the sand, lying her down and performing CPR. Many voices fill the air, calling for help. Someone runs to the payphone.

  A woman asks, “How long has it been?”

  I can’t take my eyes off Zenna’s floppy blue body.
The question hangs in the air.

  “How long was she under the water, love?” she repeats, firmly, crouching to block my view of the beach and Zenna and the flock of bright t-shirts gathered around her. She shakes my shoulders to elicit a response.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

  I have no idea how much time has passed, is passing. I fix on Zenna’s pale, lifeless face, and the man knelt beside her blowing air into her lungs and pumping her chest up and down.

  The woman hugs me tightly, wrapping her cardigan around my shoulders.

  And Mum screams.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Of course,” says Zenna, here and now—fully grown, although she never was, never will be, “that’s not what really happened.”

  We’re apart from the crowd, sitting side-by-side and observing the commotion.

  The child Zenna is lying on the sand and my nine-year-old self is being restrained by the stranger who’s trying her best to shield my eyes. The efforts to save her are no longer sincere, they’re actors playing a part—Zenna’s magic conjuring up a replay.

  “You held me under,” she says without emotion, still fixed on the scene in front of us.

  Mum—or, at least, a two-dimensional version of her—rushes across the beach, with her blood-chilling scream. I remember the scream. The sound resonates through me. She slithers to her knees beside Zenna, collapsing over her cataleptic body, embracing her with such a wretched wail. It’s already too late—she was too late.

  “I thought it was a game,” Zenna says. “I trusted you. But you wouldn’t let me go.”

  Mum’s still on the sand, pushing away any attempt to comfort or contain her. She strokes her baby’s face, brushes away the sand which has gathered on her hairline, rocks her, sings a lullaby. I squeeze my eyes shut and push my hands against my ears.

  “You killed me, Jo-Jo. You were supposed to look after me, and you killed me.”

  And now we’re in a different version.

  We’re both on the rocks. Zenna’s messing around, balancing on one leg and pretending to tip over, and I’m encouraging her.

  “I’ll give you my sweeties if you dive in,” I say in Zenna’s voice, horrible words wedged into my mouth. “I’ll give you my best dolly. I won’t tell Mummy.”

  And she almost does but catches herself at the last moment. She teeters, overbalancing. I nudge her. A tiny prod, that’s all it takes. She tumbles and hits her head. And she bleeds.

  I scramble down after her, cutting my leg on the rock, and it stings as the salt seeps into it. Zenna’s under the water, not even trying to get up. Her hair floats around her; her face is serene, like an angel. Her eyes are open, but unresponsive. I press on her shoulder, restraining her, resisting the buoyancy of her body. Her blood flows crimson into the sea, sharing itself with all the oceans. I laugh.

  But it’s not my laugh. It’s Zenna’s, cruel and unflinching. Gradually the vision fades, and it’s just the two of us again, on the vast expanse of an empty beach.

  Zenna drags me to the water. She grips my jaw and forces me to face the murky surf. She tightens her hold, until I’m pinned against her, and coerces me closer to the edge. I writhe and wriggle, digging my heels into the sand, frantic to break free. The tide laps our toes. Her eyes are fiery, her face harsh and menacing. She’s stronger than me. She lifts me from the ground, my feet kick in mid-air.

  “No! That’s not what happened!” My voice falters: I’m moving my lips long after the sound has diffused.

  I twist, scream, kick out, strain to bite her so she releases me. She’s firm and unyielding.

  “It’s your turn, Sister.”

  I push against her, leaning back to make my body as cumbersome as possible. She can’t get purchase. I jolt back and forth, with as much weight as possible, and slide from her grasp. I sprint into the darkness, along a coast which is no longer there.

  The real world trickles back in various shades of gray. The room is fuzzy, and my vision impeded. I flinch against the burning daylight.

  “Jo. Jo? On my God, Jo …?”

  I’m back in the lounge, sprawled on the floor. My arm is uncomfortable beneath me, with pins-and-needles digging into it. Mum hauls me into a sitting position, but I collapse against the sofa, disorientated and detached.

  “Jo, can you hear me?” She taps my cheek, leaning over me, her face etched with terror. “Talk to me.”

  The urgency in her voice frightens me. Her anguish is a reprise of when she saw Zenna on the beach. My mouth opens, but the sounds are vague and unformed.

  “Zenna,” I manage at last and it consumes all my energy.

  “Oh, thank God.” She folds me into a hug; I allow my head to rest against her shoulder.

  The haunting, lingering image of Zenna on the sand persists.

  “What did I do?” I whisper.

  Mum extracts herself from the embrace. “Come on, let’s get you comfortable.” She helps me up onto the sofa, and I flop in an uncooperative heap. She tucks a blanket around my torso, and the warmth slowly radiates into me.

  “I had a dream—”

  “You scared me. I was about to call an ambulance. I thought … Perhaps I still should.” She chews on her lip, frowning with concern. She glances between the phone and me several times. “Or, at least, the doctor. Am I blurry to you?” She holds up one finger and moves it across my field of vision. “Follow my hand.”

  “I was on the beach,” I say. “With Zenna. She jumped, from the rocks. No, I pushed her. I killed her.” I grab Mum’s hand. “It was my fault. I had a sister and I killed her.”

  She shakes her head, pushing my words away as though they’re not important. She isn’t really listening—she’s reaching for the glass of water I filled earlier and pressing it to my lips.

  “She showed me what happened. I remember it.”

  “It was just a dream. It’s not what happened.”

  “I felt it.” I’m nauseated as I relive it. Zenna’s inert face below the surface, just like my painting of her. Zenna in the Sea—that’s what I called it. I knew. It’s always been inside me.

  Mum shakes her head, so forcefully her shoulders follow. “No, no, no,” she murmurs.

  I need the truth. “Did I do it?”

  Did I do it?

  Such a simple question, and yet such an immense and inflamed one.

  I’m not ready for the answer.

  Mum draws out a long, deep sigh. She strokes my cheek, and a single tear slides down her face. “You always think you did.”

  The clock ticks.

  A helicopter flies east over the house.

  Mum is motionless in the middle of the room.

  I’m jumbled and churned up inside.

  “I’ll get us some lunch, yeah? You’ve got to keep your strength up.” She’s already half-way out of the room.

  “What do you mean, always?”

  She says it a lot. Always, this time, again …

  “I’ve got a loaf of bread from the baker’s. It’ll go nicely with some chicken soup.” And she flees before I can stop her.

  Outside, the dull wintry sludge of the past few days has given way to bright sunshine. The leafless trees scatter into the blue sky, like spilled paint dribbling across a page. Clouds drift past the window—they have an Iridescent Gold tinge, as though they’re carrying snow. But it’s far too early for snow, too near the coast.

  It snowed here, once. I remember making a knee-high snowman in the garden, scraping dregs of snow from the lawn and the walls. We had to climb into next door’s garden when we ran out of our own.

  Oh, how I’ve longed to be able to say I remember out loud, but oh how tarnished those words are. My face burns as though I’m about to cry, but there are no tears.

  Mum sets a tray on the coffee table. She plumps my cushions so I’m upright and rests a bowl of soup on my lap, along with wedges of buttered bread. Not intentional wedges—she’s never mastered the art of neatly slicing uncut loaves, yet she prefers t
he taste. I smile fondly at the recollection of barely being able to open my mouth wide enough for some of her sandwich creations. Not all memories are hard.

  “How can you bear to have me here?” I ask once the meal is eaten. We’ve been silent the whole time; my voice cuts into the room. “I killed her. I’m a monster.”

  I try to connect the assorted scenes together, to create a lucid narrative. But the further I am from the dream, the fainter it is, until only the outline remains, as if penciled lines are being obliterated.

  “No. Don’t say that.” Mum takes my bowl and stacks it into hers, fussing with the spoons and the uneaten crusts. “It’s not what happened. It was … a tragic accident.”

  She says nothing for a long time. She perches on the edge of the coffee table, then moves to the chair and hugs a cushion. She stares into the garden. Her mouth transforms into a frown; her eyes glaze.

  “It was my fault. I got distracted. I was watching you so carefully … I always did. But that day, I looked away. And then there were all these people … running …”

  “But I saw it.”

  “It was just a dream,” she says despondently. “You should rest. I think I will phone the doc, just in case.”

  I resist sleep. I resist Zenna sneaking into my head and showing me her death again. I refuse to be sucked into the nightmare. I turn on the TV and some kind of game show floods into the room. And when Mum—chewing her lip with uncertainty—comes back to say the doctor thinks there’s little to be concerned about, I’ve settled into a post-ordeal stupor.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I paint to make sense of it all. My life empty and my life too full. I sit in front of the easel, holding a brush, and I don’t know how to begin. Because it doesn’t make sense.

  I swirl my brush around the Alizarin Crimson, the bristles spreading in a fan shape. Red was a subliminal decision, but perhaps all my work from now on should be shades of blood. So I don’t forget again. Because I shouldn’t forget what I did.

  I daub color across the canvas. It drips, like blood oozing from a wound.

  Zenna’s blood. Washing into the sea.

  From my tubes of watercolors, I select Indanthrene Blue to sweep between the flecks of crimson. I take New Gamboge for the sand and cover the lower half of the canvas—it fades in and out, the uneven nature of the medium.