‘What do you mean by that?’ she asks, straightening the bed as I get out of it. Her eyes are cast down to the pillow she’s plumping, but I note the tension in her voice.
I tell her it meant nothing, I’m just pleased she’s here. ‘Tell me about your flat,’ I say, slipping on my robe over my nightdress. ‘I hear it’s quite something.’
She’s now picking up my clothes, last night’s cast-offs strewn across the floor. ‘Dad told you about my new flat?’ she replies, looking up.
‘Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t he?’
She shrugs. ‘No reason. Yeah it’s lovely. You’ll have to come and visit us again soon.’
I hesitate at the use of the word us, sensing, as Rob said, our resistance to her new boyfriend; or maybe it’s just the feeling of exclusion the word prompts in me.
‘I need to meet Thomas too,’ I say and Sash pauses, her hand reaching down to the floor to retrieve a shoe of mine. ‘I know we didn’t approve of him at first,’ I say, as she looks up. ‘But that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?’
Sash sits on the edge of the bed. ‘You have met him, a couple of times in fact.’ She slides her rucksack from her back, taking out her phone and scrolling through the photos. ‘This is him,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘Jog any memories?’
The image on the screen is of a laughing couple, Sash and Thomas, him tall behind her, his chin resting on top of her short hair, the position causing her to stoop a little. His mouth is formed in a wide smile beneath a thick dark fringe which is almost covering his eyes, one arm wrapped tight around Sash’s shoulders, the other raised out of the shot, presumably to take the snap.
‘It’s not a great photo, I’m afraid,’ Sash tells me. ‘But Thomas isn’t one for having his picture taken. I had to beg him to take that one for me and then he was messing around. Well, you can see.’
I look again. I’d only seen him for a matter of seconds and he’d been beyond the café window, walking fast. But that smile. Oh my god, that smile. I close my eyes and open them again, hoping I’m mistaken, but the man in the photo is definitely the man I saw outside the café.
‘Do you remember him?’ she asks, taking the phone from me.
I want to snatch it back, look again, see someone different, but it’s already gone, returned to her rucksack. I look down at my hands, empty now; as if the image had never been there. But it was. I can’t unsee what I now know.
‘Mum?’ Sash waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Hello, anybody in there?’
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My memories are fragmented, all over the place, connecting up in strange ways: the photo, then the man outside the café, then the images in my dreams of a naked man turning to me, that same smile on his lips. I tell myself it means nothing, it’s just a photo of a man I don’t know, a man I clearly remember because he’s Sash’s boyfriend, but the feeling of dread, even fear, is worse now than ever. Sash is talking again, asking me about my check-up last night at the hospital, her father’s told her it went well, my consultant was happy with me. She stands up, still chattering on as she collects more mess from the floor, my tights and blouse in her hand as she turns back. ‘Mum? What’s wrong?’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say, composing myself a little as she sinks down on to the bed beside me. I take her hand and run my thumb across her palm.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Something your consultant said?’
I look across at her, her face so full of concern. ‘No, of course not, it’s just . . .’
‘Mum, you’re scaring me, what is it?’
‘It’s nothing.’ I look away. ‘I just wish I could remember more. Everything’s so jumbled up.’
‘Did you speak to the doctor about this?’ she asks, her hand still in mine, although I sense her resistance and, sure enough, she pulls away.
‘He said it’s perfectly normal to feel a bit, you know . . .’ I look up at her and smile. ‘Lost.’
She asks if the doctor offered us any advice; things we can do to help the memories come back. ‘Just time,’ I tell her, but my answer is somewhat economical as the consultant gave us a few alternatives to explore, all of which Rob dismissed out of hand.
I’d known he would be resistant to the idea of me talking over our problems with strangers, his aversion to the ‘talking therapies’ always accompanied by air-quotes and the assertion that we will cope ‘just the two of us’; a phrase I find increasingly irritating, the words almost physical in their constraint. It feels like he would prefer me to struggle on like this forever, as though the loss of memory were to him inconsequential, a mere detail in my recovery now I’m recuperating well physically. I’d told him that and he’d replied that he didn’t much like the attitude I’d adopted post-fall, quickly following up with an apology. Neither of us had spoken much after that, the drive home from the hospital almost silent; every conversation loaded with hidden meaning.
‘And you still don’t remember anything since the day Fin left for uni?’ Sash asks.
I tell her how I’ve remembered taking my coffee into the den and using the laptop in there. Oh, and that I had some pasta sauce in the freezer. Then I hesitate, trying to recall if there’s anything else I can share, and deciding there isn’t.
Sash smiles. ‘All the useful stuff, then! So there’s literally nothing to do but wait?’
Astute as ever, Sash has skewered my vagueness. ‘There’s counselling. Or support groups,’ I reply, recalling again Rob’s negative reaction to these suggestions. ‘The consultant gave me the details for a brain-injury group who meet once a week in the village; this afternoon in fact.’
‘What time?’ Sash asks, glancing at her watch again. ‘I could take you there if you don’t mind getting a taxi back?’
I knew the time last night, the consultant told us, but the information has gone again now, my frustration brimming over as I try to remember. Sash tells me not to worry, she can look it up on her phone; they’re bound to have a website. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not even sure I want to go.’
‘It’s not until half two,’ she says, looking at her phone. ‘You’ll have to get a taxi both ways I’m afraid, but that’s fine. As long as you’re up to it?’ She smiles at me as if it were settled. She’s so much like her father at times; everything a matter of logistics.
‘I’m not sure, Sash. Your dad thinks it’s a waste of time,’ I say, finding it much easier to blame my reticence on Rob’s disapproval than acknowledge my own fears, the images from my internet searches populating the support group with a grotesque collection of fictional victims.
‘For fuck’s sake, Mum!’ She stands up from the bed and paces around the room, her boots thudding across the wooden floor. ‘Stand up for yourself for once! If you want to go to the support group, then go! Fuck what he thinks!’
‘Don’t shout, darling,’ I say, my headache returning with her rant. ‘And don’t swear.’
Sash appears to ignore my comments, but when she speaks it is a little less volubly than before and the swear words are gone. ‘Maybe you’ll hate it, but you won’t know unless you try.’ She smiles at me, but in a tilted-head, poor-old-you kind of way. ‘You need to do something, Mum. I think you’re getting depressed.’
‘Oh Sash, you’re always so dramatic.’ I smile back at her, but she’s serious.
‘I mean it, Mum. Lying in bed all day is a very bad sign. So food or shower first?’
After Sash’s visit I do feel a little better in myself, although my sense of well-being is only pleasing when I can push the image of Thomas’s photo from my mind. At least my headache’s not as bad now, dulled by the painkillers Sash brought me before she rushed back to work. She also insisted I ate the sandwich she’d made, and that I get up and take a shower, laying out some clean clothes on the bed for my return. I enjoyed her take-charge attitude which seemed to come from a different place than Rob’s over-attentiveness. Reminded of his vigilance, I send a text to tell him
I’m fine, but tired after Sash’s visit; he mustn’t panic if he doesn’t hear from me for a couple of hours, I’ll probably be asleep for the rest of the afternoon. I thought I’d feel worse than I do, deliberately lying to him, but maybe self-preservation comes before conscience, and now that I’ve decided to be brave and go to the support group I need to make sure he doesn’t try and stop me.
I’d promised Sash I’d call for a taxi, but it seems silly when my car is right there, waiting for me on the drive. As Sash had said, I need to stand up for myself, and after Rob’s intransigence last night I feel entirely vindicated in my defiance of his rules. Besides, every time I close my eyes I see that photo of Thomas and a million questions ensue. I need something to distract me, something positive and proactive.
I pick up my keys and lock the house, reassured by the sound my car makes as I press the blip-key and it unlocks. The interior smells familiar, new upholstery and a trace of my favourite perfume, offering up my first taste of real independence since my fall. I listen to the engine start up first time, despite the days it’s been left idle, as I glance around for anything that may offer clues to the past, but the car is immaculate as always. I imagine myself screwing up parking receipts and dropping them in the dustbin on the drive, much as Rob must have dropped my broken phone in there after my fall. I release the handbrake and manoeuvre the car slowly across the drive; every action feeling unnatural, although it’s probably only been a matter of days since I last drove. The panic which swells in my throat is sudden and unexpected, causing me to cough. I apply the handbrake, taking a moment to compose myself, but fear grips me once more. What if I can’t do this? I think of the ambulance which took me away from here on the night of my fall, and the taxi I had to call to take me to town to meet Rose. I’m a prisoner up here if I can’t drive; beholden to others, especially Rob. I need to do this. I take a deep breath and try to think back to the last time I may have been in my car. It was 18:02 when I fell. That would have been around the time Rob arrived home from work, or not long after. Maybe I’d driven that day, perhaps visited the drop-in centre, or . . . I close my eyes, breathe deeply and push away the images of a naked back, a smile, a kiss . . . I have to concentrate. I can do this.
It’s not an easy drive away from the barn, a single-track lane winding down the hill. There are passing places, but it’s best not to meet anyone on the way as reversing up the narrow incline is always tricky. Relieved to reach the intersection at the bottom, I release my tight grip on the steering wheel and indicate left to join the main road to the village. It’s a turn I’ve negotiated thousands of times, but the longer I wait, the more my head pounds and the less certain I am of my own judgement. I watch the traffic, car following on after car, lorries too. How much time do I need? I hesitate for too long, and when I do go, it’s with a lurch in both the suspension and my stomach, more a leap of faith than a calculated decision. The van driver comes out of nowhere, flashing his lights at me, but not slowing down at all. I raise my hand and drive on as fast as I can, but he speeds up behind me, his naked aggression caught in my rear-view mirror; he’s so close behind. I increase my speed as the decline steepens, although I’m already at the speed limit. I can see a turning to my right, not the one I need, and it will be a close thing, but I think I can make it. I skid around the corner, bumping the kerb and then slamming on my brakes as I pull into the side of the road, a final blast of a horn behind me now dying away.
Leaning my head forward and still gripping the steering wheel, I try to control my panic. Rob was right, I shouldn’t have driven. I lift my head and look around me, my hands trembling, but I’m in one piece and the car is undamaged. The van driver was in the wrong, not me. He should have backed off, allowed me the space I needed. The village hall is just around the corner. I can do this. I take a deep breath, wipe my eyes and drive on.
The support group is already underway by the time I arrive. I can see them inside, but the double doors are firmly locked and my light tap on the glass goes unnoticed. I wait, unsure whether to interrupt, or leave before my presence is noted, but a young man who appears to be directing proceedings looks across at me now, a smile and a wave as he walks towards me.
‘Hi,’ he says, opening the door. His attire is casual, jeans and tee shirt, his smile welcoming. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m not sure; my consultant, Mr . . .’ I trail off, trying to recall the doctor’s name. ‘Sorry, it’s unusual, Indian I think.’
‘Mr Agrawal?’ he prompts and I tell him, yes, I think so, imagining he must have to finish a fair few sentences in his line of work. He says Mr Agrawal is a great supporter of the group, then introduces himself as Matt.
‘And you are?’ he asks, still smiling, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets forcing his narrow shoulders up, his foot in the door to keep it open.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Joanne Harding, Jo.’
‘Hi, Jo.’ Matt smiles at me. ‘Well done for coming, that’s the hard bit. Come in and meet the others, there’s nothing scary here, I promise.’
Matt jokes with them as we approach, asking them to confirm they are all friendly – well, most of them – bantering with a couple of lads who are next to one another at the far end of the semi-circle of seated participants. The chairs are reshuffled, an extra one added for me; not at one end as I’d expected, but in the middle, next to Matt. There’s respect and warmth extended towards me in the interactions which accomplish this task, and obvious affection between Matt and the assembled group. Matt introduces me and asks me to explain what brought me here today, just a few words, nothing to worry about, then all eyes turn to me.
‘Hello.’ I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. ‘Well, I’m not really sure what to expect, I don’t even know if I qualify—’
Matt interrupts me with a raised hand, the fingers spread, non-threatening. ‘Just tell us why you’re here, Jo. As much or as little as you want to share.’
‘I’m Jo.’ I cough again. ‘I suffered a head injury when I fell down the stairs.’
Matt leans forward. ‘How long ago was this, Jo?’
‘A week.’ I pause, trying to work it out exactly. ‘I think . . . maybe less . . . about five days.’
‘Very recently,’ he offers. ‘Well done on your recovery so far.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile, his composure reassuring.
‘And how are you feeling today?’ Matt asks.
‘Better, in myself, but I’ve lost a whole year. I have no memory of it at all – well, hardly any.’
‘That must be terrible,’ observes the older lady seated at the other end of the chairs to the two lads. ‘I’m forgetful; but a whole year!’
‘Yes, it is terrible,’ I reply, turning to smile at her. ‘Everyone tells me it will all come back, trying to reassure me, I suppose; as though it doesn’t matter now I’m physically getting better.’
Matt nods. ‘It’s a common problem, I’m afraid. If people can’t see what you’re dealing with it’s much harder for them to empathise, but it is still very early days for you.’
‘My girlfriend left me,’ the leather-clad biker to my right tells me, his sidekick laughing when he adds, ‘She said I was a nut-job.’
‘That’s ’cos the accident turned you into a horny bastard,’ the sidekick says, and everyone laughs except the older lady, who whispers to the blonde woman beside her, ‘What did he say?’
‘Okay, guys,’ Matt says. ‘This is Jo’s time. Just tell us how you’re doing, Jo.’
And so I do, everything tumbling out in a few short sentences, the fear, the confusion, the pain, and it’s all greeted with knowing nods and words of support and, although I cry, I feel better than I have since it happened. Then I listen as they talk, and again, for the first time since I woke up in hospital, I feel fortunate by comparison. I’m exhausted, my head pounding, but for those few minutes at least, I’ve found a real understanding of what I’m going through. We gather in the kitchen, standing around a table laid out wit
h cups of tea and plates of plain biscuits, both of which I accept gratefully. Now the tension has been released from my body, I’m shaky and light-headed. I think of Rose and the sweet coffee and spoon another sugar into my tea.
‘You alright, love?’ asks the older lady who’d sympathised when I’d first spoken of my memory loss. She’d shared her own concerns after I’d finished, telling us all of her increasing forgetfulness. ‘I don’t know if it’s the brain trauma, or just old age.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I tell her, trotting out my standard reply, but then I think better of it and say, ‘Actually, it’s been quite an effort; it’s the first time I’ve driven since my fall and I gave myself a bit of a fright on the way here.’
‘You’ve done really well,’ she says. ‘Really well.’
‘Thanks; you too,’ I say, then I watch as she says her goodbyes, zips up her pink anorak and pushes open the double doors.
‘What did you think?’ Matt asks, joining me. ‘Will you come again?’
‘It was good,’ I reply, taking another biscuit from the plate next to my cup of tea. ‘You’re all very welcoming.’
‘Nice to find some company; people going through the same kind of problems?’ he suggests.
‘Yes, definitely, although I still feel a bit of a fraud taking up their time.’
I’d listened to stories of comas which had lasted weeks or even months, battles to walk again, talk again. Tales of jobs gone, partners lost, money troubles, drastic side effects of medication, every aspect of daily life affected by their injuries. My problems seem unimportant in comparison. I don’t have to fight an employer for compensation, or learn how to write my name, or post notes around my kitchen reminding me how to make a cup of tea.
Matt’s expression has changed to one of professionalism. ‘It’s not about who deserves more sympathy, or has the worst deal. You’re all going through a period of prolonged recovery and you face different challenges, but there’s common ground. It’s important not to trivialise your concerns. We’re here to listen and support one another. After my brain injury—’
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