by Dani Atkins
‘You know, some of my stuff is really quite good,’ I observed, closing another magazine and placing it on the completed pile on the table.
‘And she’s so modest with it,’ Jimmy teased.
I felt my cheeks pinken.
‘I’m not being big-headed,’ I corrected, ‘I’m just surprised I was good enough at this to actually achieve my dream.’
He gave my hand a friendly squeeze. ‘I never expected anything less.’
Two magazines later my perception of reality exploded in smithereens in front of my face.
I hadn’t noticed the title of the article at first. My attention had been drawn to the small colour photograph occupying the top right hand corner of the page.
‘Oh my God!’ I gasped, feeling the colour draining from my face.
‘What? What is it? What’s wrong?’ exclaimed Jimmy, getting instantly out of his chair to stand beside me.
Unable to find my voice, I pointed with a trembling finger at the photograph. Jimmy bent lower to read the caption out loud.
‘Dr James Whittaker of the Hallingford Clinic.’ He turned to me, confused. ‘So?’
‘It’s Dr Whittaker,’ I said, my thoughts buzzing around my head like angry bees. ‘Dr Whittaker is my doctor,’ I went on, knowing I was sounding increasingly annoyed at his lack of comprehension. ‘He’s the specialist I was under after the accident. He’s the person who has been treating me for my headaches for the past six months!’
We both read the article through twice. It was only when we were done that our eyes met and the silence was broken.
‘It doesn’t mention that he treats head trauma cases,’ Jimmy ventured in a quiet voice.
‘I know.’
‘In fact, from the sound of it, he doesn’t seem to treat patients at all any more.’
‘I know.’
‘He seems more involved in these clinical trials and research.’
I stayed silent.
‘It’s a good article,’ offered up Jimmy at last, as though that might be some consolation.
‘Thanks.’
I turned the magazine towards me as though I wanted to read the title again, but I didn’t need to, I had already committed it to memory.
Multiple Personality Disorder: Medical Fact or Fiction?
And there in smaller italicised writing was the byline:
By Rachel Wiltshire.
9
I don’t remember leaving the building. Jimmy took charge, returning the magazines to Dee and then steering me smoothly towards the bank of lifts. Once inside the carriage and heading back to the ground floor, the other occupants gave us a wide berth when they saw my deathly white complexion and Jimmy’s supporting arm hooked around my waist. I guess I did look sick, but not in the way that they imagined.
The cold wind outside took my breath away and I gave a huge gasp as I inhaled it, like a drowning person coming up for air.
‘Just breathe slowly,’ Jimmy said. ‘There’s no rush, just take it easy.’ He had switched automatically into his professional role of how to deal with someone in shock. And I guess that ‘shock’ was a pretty accurate description to cover what I was feeling right then.
The jigsaw pieces were suddenly all fitting together, but instead of the clarification and explanation I had sought, the puzzle was coming together all wrong and the picture it was revealing filled me with terror.
‘It’s all true. It’s all true. How can it all be true?’ I hadn’t realised I was speaking so loudly until I saw the wary stares being cast my way from passers-by. I must have looked more than a little unhinged.
‘Come on, hon, let’s get out of here,’ Jimmy recommended, and I numbly allowed him to lead me to the underground car park where we had left the car.
He settled me in the seat as though I was a child, before shutting the passenger door and walking around to the driver’s side. I watched him through the windscreen, wondering how he could appear so calm. Shouldn’t he be on the phone to the nearest hospital to have me committed? But he truly didn’t look worried. Perhaps he was as insane as I was. He started the car and we slid out into the busy London streets before either of us spoke.
‘Well,’ he finally broke the ice with, ‘that was a bit of a surprise.’
‘That’s the understatement of the century.’
We drove on for a further ten minutes before he spoke again. ‘I’m going round in circles here.’
‘Welcome to my world,’ I replied darkly.
‘No, Rach, literally. I’m going round in circles; we’ve driven round this block half a dozen times. Where do you want to go now? Do you still want to find the other flat and the engineering company?’
I turned to look out the window, hoping to hide the despondency in my eyes.
‘What’s the point? We both know what we’ll find when we get there. I can’t be living in two places at once, holding down two jobs simultaneously. I guess it’s time I stopped being so pig-headed and started listening to what everyone has been telling me all along.’
He took his eye off the road for a moment to glance at his watch.
‘It not all that late yet. Would you like to head back to Great Bishopsford tonight?’
I sighed unhappily and considered the options for a moment. Our original plan had been to spend the night in London, believing that we would need that time to explore both the two locations in the city where I appeared to reside and the two separate places where I was believed to be employed. In my stupid optimism I had envisioned our quest ending with us spending the evening in my small flat, perhaps sharing a bottle of wine and a takeaway, piecing together at last the final mystery of my broken memories. Now there would be no such ending to the day, but the thought of going back and facing my father with this new revelation seemed too hard to bear.
‘I don’t want to go back tonight.’ I spoke in a quiet determined voice. ‘I need time to think this all through properly: time to get it all straight in my head, before I’m ready to deal with what will happen next.’
Jimmy gave an understanding nod of his head, and I was pleased he wasn’t about to insist on driving me straight back to my father’s.
‘I think I’d be better off being alone tonight,’ I ventured.
He kept his attention on the road as he negotiated our passage through a narrow gap, before he turned to me with a smile.
‘Absolutely. Of course. Couldn’t agree more. As long as you realise that my definition of “alone” incorporates me staying right by your side. I have absolutely no intention of leaving you by yourself tonight, Rachel.’
We compromised in the end.
Yes, we would stay in London and not attempt the journey back while there was still so much to think through.
And no, we wouldn’t be spending the night in the only accommodation in London that seemed to belong to me. I didn’t feel anywhere near ready to accept the Victorian apartment as my home yet, and I think the association the place held with Matt easily decided Jimmy against opting for that location. That really only left us with one option: to find a hotel.
It was already after six o’clock on a busy Friday night in central London, so we were lucky to secure accommodation in the first place we tried. We left the car in the hotel’s car park, and Jimmy carried both our bags into the reception. I hung back while he went to enquire about availability, staring unseeingly into the hotel gift shop’s window.
It was only when he returned to my side several minutes later that I saw he had been successful in booking us in for the night. For the first time a rather obvious question that I had completely ignored up until then occurred to me: had he booked us into one room or two? The query was answered before I could give it voice, when he pressed one plastic entry card into my palm, retaining a second in his own.
‘Adjacent rooms,’ he informed, as I turned the plastic card over in my hand.
I smiled back at him but couldn’t decide if my predominant feeling was one of relief or disappointment.
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At Jimmy’s suggestion, we agreed that we would find somewhere to eat; somewhere quiet where we would could talk without interruption. He said he’d seen a small Italian restaurant just around the corner when we approached the hotel, so we settled on that and he gave me fifteen minutes to freshen up before meeting him back out in the corridor.
I used my time alone to splash reviving cold water on my face and attempted to drag a comb through my wind-tangled hair. I hadn’t brought much make-up with me, so I just did what little repairs I could, and then sat on the bed until the remainder of the fifteen minutes ticked away. The room, although pleasant enough, was hotel-bland, and there was precious little in it to distract my incoherent thoughts from running wildly away from me.
The restaurant was within easy walking distance, situated on the corner of a side road only a few minutes away from the hotel. As we walked past the large glass frontage to the front entrance, I peered inside and couldn’t escape the feeling that the place looked strangely familiar. It really felt like I’d seen it somewhere before. The answer came to me as we waited for the waiter to confirm whether or not they could accommodate us.
‘Lady and the Tramp!’
Jimmy looked down at the fresh pair of jeans he had changed into and his crisp white shirt.
‘Tramp? That’s charming, I must say. I didn’t think I looked that bad!’
‘Not you, you idiot. This place.’ I nodded to indicate the room around us, and it was true, the cartoonist could have used the restaurant as the inspirational blueprint for his design. Here were the chequered cloths on the small intimately grouped tables, each one of which held a flickering red candle trickling its wax down onto an empty Chianti bottle. Lilting violin music, played discreetly through concealed speakers, served only to complete the picture.
Jimmy saw what I meant and grinned back, just as the waiter offered to take us to our table.
‘If you think I’m sharing my spaghetti strand with you – forget it. And as for the last meatball… that’s definitely mine. I don’t love you that much!’
‘Just as long as you don’t start singing “Bella Notte”, we’ll be fine,’ I retorted, remembering his complete inability to hold a note.
And even though we were both still smiling at the banter as we walked to our table, I couldn’t help but replay his last casual comment in my mind.
But the frivolity between us was only a mask we had taken up to disguise the real purpose of the evening, and once our order was placed, the reality of what we needed to discuss could be ignored no longer.
‘Are things any clearer in your mind now? Now that you’ve had some time to think about them?’
I took a long sip of my wine before answering as honestly as I could. ‘“Clear” might not be the right word exactly. If you’re asking if I suddenly remember the last five years the way you all say that they happened, then no, I don’t. For me, the only reality is still the one I explained to you the other day. The only difference between then and now, is that now I know that none of it could actually have happened the way I thought it did.’
He reached across the table and took both of my hands in his own.
‘That in itself is a huge step forward,’ he encouraged. ‘At least when you meet with the amnesia specialist, you’ll be more receptive to hearing how you can get back your true memories.’
‘I suppose so.’ My voice still sounded heavy with a scepticism I couldn’t disguise.
‘When is your appointment, anyway?’
‘The end of next week.’ I wondered if he was going to volunteer to accompany me, then realised that Matt would be back in the country by then, and as my fiancé it would be his place to go with me, rather than Jimmy’s. But if the choice was entirely mine, which man would I rather have at my side?
Jimmy released my hands as the waiter arrived with our plates, and I felt strangely bereft at the loss of his grasp. But at least it crystallised the answer to my question.
‘You know, many of the things you thought had happened to you are really beginning to make sense now, when you think it all through.’
‘They are?’
‘Absolutely.’ Clearly he had been giving the matter some serious thought. Or perhaps his policeman’s mind had been unable to stop itself from seeking out the rational and logical in a situation that seemed to defy either.
As we devoured the deliciously steaming pasta and crisp green salad, not to mention the bottle of surprisingly good house wine, Jimmy, time and time again, found evidence to rationalise and clarify the minutiae of my imagined reality.
‘But what about the explicit details that I knew? For instance, how did I know the name and number of that woman in Human Resources at Andersons Engineering?’
‘That’s simple. You could have applied for a job there at some time in the past. Those details could all have been lodged somewhere in your head. I’m sure I remember hearing once that anything you know is never entirely forgotten.’
I supposed it was feasible, although it seemed highly unlikely. I tried a different track.
‘OK then, why would I have conjured up such an awful idea of my father dying of cancer?’
He paused to consider for a moment, before a solution presented itself to him.
‘Well you did make him stop smoking many many years ago when we were kids. You were terrified of him dying after seeing some TV ad campaign, or something. So perhaps that fear had never really gone away, it was only buried somewhere in your mind.’
He had a point. I had always had an almost irrational hatred of people smoking.
‘And,’ Jimmy continued, clearly on a roll now with his theory, ‘the idea of people having a second, completely fictitious identity would already have been planted in your head after interviewing Dr Whittaker for your article.’
I gave a humourless laugh. ‘It does explain why his number was on my mobile.’ It also explained why I thought I’d seen an article on that subject. It should have been familiar – after all, I’d written it.
‘You see?’ encouraged Jimmy. ‘Once you start to break it down, detail by detail, almost everything there can be explained.’
I took a moment to absorb his words, and could so far find no hole in his theory. But one question still remained.
‘But why was everything I created so terrible? So bleak and tragic? Why did my mind conjure up my father’s illness – my own too, for that matter? Why was I alone and lonely? Why hadn’t I imagined a second perfectly happy life for myself?’
I stopped, knowing I had omitted to include the largest of all the tragedies I had created in my imagined nightmare world.
‘Why did I think that you had been killed?’
He was quiet for a very long time. So long in fact that I thought he wasn’t going to reply at all.
‘Perhaps your real life was, or rather is, your perfect reality. You were already living it. So you manufactured something that was the exact opposite. And as for me being…’ he hesitated before saying the word, ‘dead. Maybe that’s because I haven’t been a part of your life for quite some time.’ His voice was full of sadness. ‘We grew apart; we hadn’t seen each other for a very long time. Perhaps it was more symbolic of the death of our friendship?’
Or perhaps it was more than that, I thought. Perhaps my subconscious mind had realised something that the rest of me had refused to acknowledge. That a life without Jimmy was like a living death and suffering through it was the worst sort of hell I could ever imagine.
The plates had been cleared, and the wine we had drunk had effectively taken the edge off the anxiety that had threaten to overwhelm me when we’d left the magazine offices. Jimmy too, seemed to have allowed the alcohol to relax his guard. I didn’t know if he was aware of his hand absently playing with mine as we spoke. But the electric charge I felt as his fingers entwined and circled about my own was a real and physical thing. His hand and mine must have been linked together a thousand times before in our lifetime. Why was his touch only no
w able to ignite my flesh? Why was I suddenly overcome by these feelings; why now, when I belonged to another man?
‘So tell me, Rachel. Now that we think we have sorted out the mystery, what explanation had you come up with to explain away your dual past?’
I plucked a breadstick from the container on the table and began to twist it, baton-style, between my fingers.
‘Nothing really. Nothing that made much sense.’
The stick rolled and twirled; I kept my eyes upon it, knowing he would probe further.
‘Come on then, tell me what you had figured out.’
I rolled the stick back and forth between my thumb and forefinger, so fast I could feel the generated heat.
‘It’s all a little silly, really.’
‘I promise I won’t laugh.’
The breadstick rolled faster.
‘I thought that something had happened on the night of the accident. Something to do with time. I thought that reality had…’ I hesitated; this was sounding really stupid now I was saying it out loud. ‘That reality had somehow split in two.’
There was a snap, as the fragile breadstick broke at that precise moment into two pieces. I didn’t dare look at Jimmy to see his reaction. He’d spent the whole of the evening patiently pointing out that I was not, in fact, insane, and I had a feeling that my own theory of what had occurred was going to get him doubting me all over again.
‘Split in two?’ I couldn’t tell from his tone if he was incredulous or horrified at the idea.
‘Yes, you know, as though my life, all our lives, had somehow… fractured… at the moment of the accident.’
‘Fractured?’
‘Uh-huh. And in one life we were all OK, and everything continued as it should have. But in the other… it was the exact opposite. I was maimed, and everything was ruined from that moment on. And you, well, you…’
‘Died.’
That one word gave it away. I looked up and saw the agony he had been in to suppress his hilarity at my theory. I threw both the breadstick pieces at him as he burst out in laughter so hearty that half the other diners turned to look at us in amazement.