by kendra Smith
‘I don’t need a wheelchair.’
‘I think it’s wise. You are not to walk after what’s happened.’ Her head tilts to the side. ‘OK?’
I nod and let the porter help me into the wheelchair. The porter presses the lift button and we silently ascend to the fourth floor in the little box smelling of antiseptic and cabbage.
Victoria looks like a tiny doll perched upright on pillows on the bed. Her eyes are closed and somehow, miraculously, her hair is immaculate. For the first time in a long while, our roles have changed. My big sis looks very little. I take her hand. It feels small and warm.
‘Victoria?’ I whisper.
Do you love him? It’s going round and round my head in a repeated loop. I want it to stop.
‘Lulu!’ Victoria yelps and releases my hand. ‘What have you done?’
‘What?’ I manage, my fingers fly to my face and I feel my cheeks. Perhaps it’s some kind of impact of the accident? Dried blood, a black eye? Or some glitter left on from my Fairy Glitter Party.
‘You look—’
‘What?’
‘Older.’
I smile at a passing nurse and ask if by any chance she has a small mirror. When she pulls one out of her pocket I hold it up and look. Tired and shaken, yes. Hair covered in glitter from the Fairy Party, but no blood. Basically, I look like you would look on the day of a car crash: a bit crap. I decide to veer off-topic and concentrate on her. ‘The doctor tells me you had a bad head injury; might take a few weeks for, um, things to heal, like your ribs.’ And your mind. I smile at my older, capable sister. The one who carries notepads and has a schedule.
Victoria nods. ‘Have you told Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘How’s he doing, you know? Because he often says he can cope, and I wonder if he still thinks of mum passing and I wonder how he’s really getting on up there.’ She looks urgently at me.
Mum died nine years ago. And Dad and Mum had moved to Yorkshire ten years ago. It took them both by surprise how much they fitted in to ‘her’ world there; it was where she was from. But then suddenly, Dad was left on his own, fending for himself. He’s got used to the fells now, found some ‘new old friends’ as he calls his walking group, and especially in the shape of a four-legged friend, a beautiful border collie called Billie. The fact that Mum had been the fittest person I knew, meant that it came as such a shock when she died of a stroke. I lean forward onto the hospital bed and flick off some invisible dust from the bedsheet. ‘Victoria, Mum died nine years ago, remember?’
‘Nine?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ I’m staying calm here, I don’t want to frighten her.
‘Right.’ She presses her hands down on the sheets, smoothing them and doesn’t look at me.
‘I spoke to Dad earlier, he wanted to come down but I told him not to worry at the moment, it’s mid-February and the roads are icy. I said you were OK. I promised I’d phone and update him later, alright?’ Victoria bites her lip. ‘And Simon sends his love. I told him to stay put in Manchester but he’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Who’s Simon?’ She stares at me blankly.
Dear, dear Lord. I need a consultant – I need to find out what they’ve done with my sister’s memory. Instead, I smile as brightly as I can. ‘Simon’s my fiancé, remember?’
‘Fi-an-cé,’ she repeats in three syllables after me, as a foreign language student might do. ‘But you’re a, um, yes, a rock chick! You can’t be getting married, like married-married?’ She rakes her fingers through her hair. ‘I don’t understand?’
I’m glad I’m in a wheelchair. Victoria won’t be able to see how much my legs are shaking and that I’m shivering. This is a disaster, but I have to remind myself that she’s come out of this worse, much worse. In fact, she looks like she might cry at any minute.
‘Lulu.’ Her voice is croaky. ‘Where on earth is James? Why hasn’t he called? I thought he’d rush here.’
Dangerous territory. My sister is now not only the victim of a car crash and a couple of broken ribs, she is also teary. This means emotions are involved. I don’t like emotions. They don’t get you anywhere. Best to keep them well hidden. Victoria is meant to be in control, the older sister, I was the one who was allowed to be a bit bonkers. And why on earth is she asking about James? As if he’d run to her side. We’re entering a pin-out-of-a-hand-grenade situation here and I don’t know how to break it to her. I weigh up my options.
‘Victoria?’ I say softly, using my Talking To Children Voice.
‘Why do you keep calling me Victoria!’ she sniffs. ‘Like I’ve done something terribly wrong, like Mum used to when she scolded us? What’s happened to “Vicky”?’
That’s exactly what I want to know. ‘Sweetheart.’ I’m back to hand-squeezing, it seems safer with what’s about to come. ‘Look, first, you have insisted on being called Victoria for the last five years; second, James is skiing with the kids in Verbier, remember?’ I clear my throat for the final blow. ‘And third, he’s filing for divorce.’
3 Lulu
‘Darling!’ Simon bounds up the stairs in the shared hallway of my Victorian flat as I open the door to him. He’s carrying a shopping bag, his overnight holdall and a bunch of lilies. He squeezes past me in the narrow door frame as I open the door wider for him, then pecks my cheek. I smell wet rain on him, newspaper and a sort of chemical dry-cleaning aroma. I close the door and sigh. It’s good to see him but I’m just so tired. ‘Thank God you’re alright!’ He hands me the flowers. ‘I’ve come straight from the airport. These are for you. You like lilies, don’t you?’
The truth is that I don’t like lilies. Their scent gives me a headache. ‘They’re lovely.’ I move swiftly, closing the door and then head into the kitchen, grab a vase from a top cupboard and then place them out in the hall, away from me.
‘You should sit down!’ He comes up behind me and snakes his arm around my waist. I smile. He’s always been tactile. ‘How’s Victoria?’ He squeezes my waist and looks at me in the hall mirror. He’s in a pair of chinos, red-checked shirt and navy jacket. I stifle a yawn.
‘Well, she’s a bit odd, actually,’ I say, turning around and looking at his short-cropped blonde hair, his pale, watery blue eyes.
‘Bound to be after what you both went through. Come on, you need to sit down, you look shattered.’ He leads me by the hand back into the kitchen and instructs me to take a seat at the kitchen table.
‘No, I mean odd-odd, Simon.’
‘I’m sure she will be just fine. She’s in the hands of the consultant, he knows best. Hospital is the best place for her.’ He turns to the kitchen counter and starts to rummage in the shopping bag.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘I thought we’d make moules mariniere.’ Simon is very engrossed rustling through the plastic bag, laying out ingredients on the counter with a flourish.
‘Sounds great.’ I manage a smile. All I can think about is Victoria.
‘Going to cook it with parsley and thyme, double cream, what do you think?’ His eyes light up. ‘For my invalid.’
I think I’d rather have fish and chips from the chippie. ‘Yes, lovely.’
‘Have you got any bouquet garni?’
‘Bouquet of what flowers?’ I smile. He stares at me. Humour, I’ve found, doesn’t always work with Simon. I stroll to the fridge tripping up slightly on the ripped linoleum next to it. Simon looks round. ‘Have you spoken to your landlord about that yet?’
‘No,’ I say as I open the fridge and pull out some white wine, frown at the amount left. ‘Drink?’
His head is burrowed deep inside my store cupboard, the one where I keep stock cubes and supermarket instant gravy powder that he disapproves of. He peeks out at me. ‘Yes please.’ He nods, then turns back to me. ‘Should you be having one? I mean, what did the doctor say?’
The doctor might have mentioned something about not drinking today, but I choose to take my own advice, I need it for my nerves. ‘It�
��s fine.’
I sit at my small wooden table and pour out two glasses and knock one back quickly then refill my glass. Simon washes his hands vigorously and then starts to haul things out of my cupboard, pots and pans banging on the floor; a lid falls out. I hear him swear under his breath. Cooking is always such a pantomime.
I pick up my glass and study my engagement ring, sparkling on my finger. He’d been so persuasive. I study the tiny gold claws holding the ruby in place, thinking about the security it offers. And, let’s face it, right now my life isn’t exactly a raging success, is it? Twenty-nine and my list of achievements read like a series of cartoon shows: Little Bo Peep, Bubble Disco, Hungry Caterpillar… Simon might be on the wrong side of forty, but as a widower, it’s the whole package. Home and husband – I think about that word and say it to myself. It’s time to stop being a children’s entertainer and grow up. What was it Simon had joked, ‘time to give up that silly little business’? It had hurt at the time, but maybe he’s right. My glittering West End career hasn’t happened. Four years at drama school just landed me voiceovers for a cartoon monkey for a cereal brand, and then it was a slippery slope to children’s entertainer to pay the rent. I take another slug of wine. The audiences are still live, I sniff, it’s just that they’re normally toddlers.
‘I thought we’d look through some venues online tonight, what do you think?’
I hadn’t even thought about where I want to get married, I’ve been getting used to actually being a fiancée, the fact that there’s an end point is quite scary – but we’re getting married in two months, Simon’s right, we need to get on with it. I just feel exhausted.
‘What’s up?’ He comes over and kisses me on the head. ‘It’ll take your mind off that nasty little prang you had with your sister.’ He hesitates then adds, ‘If you like?’
‘I’d love to,’ I lie, sipping my wine. But perhaps we should. And the little girl in me, the one who used to hide behind Victoria’s legs at Christmastime when the house was full of grown-ups, does want the fairy tale, and after a glass of vodka or red wine it’s much easier to forget about ambitions and dreams and what you think you want. In fact, it makes you much more chilled about everything, and the demons that lurk in my head are silenced for a while, too.
‘Can’t wait,’ I say, running my finger around the rim of the wine glass and watching him as he throws open cupboards and mutters about sea salt. He’s wearing one of my aprons and looks faintly ridiculous as I study his frilly outline. But he’s a kind man. I pour myself another glass of wine and cast my mind back to meeting him. He’d been hanging around the back door to the garden at one of the children’s parties. He’d been there with his goddaughter, who I assumed was his daughter, but when I asked where his wife was, his eyes had clouded over. ‘Died. Three weeks ago.’ I’d been lost for words. I’d reached out and touched his arm and he’d seemed surprised. He’d fiddled with his cufflinks, mentioned a dreadful accident at their rented flat, and said something ridiculously British like, ‘These things happen.’ I’d wanted to hug him there and then, he’d looked like a wounded teddy bear, so I’d pressed my business card into his hand – it’s all I’d had on me, Lulu your Chameleon Children’s Entertainer – and told him to call if he needed to chat.
And he had. The very next day. I was gobsmacked. He’d flattered me ridiculously, but I’d enjoyed the attention. He wasn’t my usual type, but all my other ‘bohemian bad boys’, as Vicky used to call them, where had they got me? It seemed that you couldn’t have the bad boy without them being – well, bad. They were either unfaithful, or they’d lie to me, or worse, they’d be lying to themselves, telling me that they would change.
‘Lulu, don’t you have any other saucepans?’ Simon turns from the stove.
I shake my head. I’ve had to make do with what I’ve got. It’s not easy coping on a children’s entertainer’s salary. No sooner do I pay off one ‘final demand’, another one thumps onto my doormat, or in my inbox.
‘Sooner we get you out of this dreadful flat, the better, eh?’
I like this flat. It’s my haven. It might have a wonky table in the kitchen, the shower may be leaky but I feel safe here, tucked up on the first floor of a Victorian semi on the outskirts of Little Norland overlooking the fields. But Simon’s just looking after me, that’s all. He’s kind and caring and wants the best, wants to look after me and that feels good. I close my eyes, enjoying the feeling of the wine relaxing me. I like feeling looked after – it doesn’t mess with your head like love does, that’s way too emotional for me. And emotions can let you down.
‘There you go, darling.’ I open my eyes as Simon places a steaming plate of little shells in front of me and breaks my train of thought. They glisten, the little creatures inside shrivelled up, suffocated with a creamy sauce. I look up at his sweaty forehead as he puts his hands on his hips and smiles triumphantly. He’s so kind. Love can start from many places, I remind myself.
4 Victoria
A nurse was helping Victoria to the bathroom in the corridor. The one on her ward was being cleaned. They shuffled along in amicable silence, Victoria leaning on the nurse’s strong, freckled arm. She glanced at her nurse’s name badge. Sarah. She had kind eyes and reddish hair swept into a neat ponytail. Victoria managed a smile. She imagined her smile as ‘being brave’ as her mother used to say. This was all a silly mix-up and she needed everyone to understand that. But first, she needed to wee.
The nurse pulled open the door of the bathroom. ‘Will you be alright? I’ll wait out here.’
She nodded. She may have lost some memory, but she could still remember how to go to the toilet. She yanked the door shut and took a breath, inhaling the musty mixture of damp and bleach. It was a roomier cubicle than the one on her ward. There was a shower for a start, with faded blue shower curtains and a white plastic seat, presumably for those who could not shower standing up.
She glanced to the right – then screamed. Across from her was a woman she didn’t recognise. An older woman, a woman with chestnut highlights. The woman was staring blankly at her in a hospital gown. Her hands flew to her face. It was her. She was that woman. The nurse banged on the door.
‘Are you OK Victoria?’
She coughed. ‘Yes, fine, I just – slipped. Won’t be a moment.’
‘I’m still here.’ Sarah’s muffled voice came through the door.
Victoria leant on the basin under the mirror. The bathroom on her ward had no mirror, she suddenly realised. Is this how she looked? She smiled into the mirror. It looked odd. She smoothed her hand over her jaw. It was so angular. And when she frowned, nothing happened. And her eyebrows! It was as if someone had drawn them in using a Sharpie pen. How dreadful. She closed her eyes and opened them. No, same woman. The woman did look sort of good, she thought as she scratched at her eyebrows to see if they could be removed or something, but not like her. Her hands skimmed over her bust. She pressed them. They felt hard and unreal. She pressed again. They didn’t budge. She clung on to the edge of the sink, watching as her knuckles turned white.
A light knock on the door. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Victoria sat down on the toilet with a thump. She was shattered.
The consultant was standing looking at Victoria’s notes at the end of her bed. Which was a good thing. She’d just had another X-ray for her ribs and he was here to discuss her MRI brain scan, she hoped. She really needed to understand where this whole divorce business had come from. Perhaps the MRI scan would show up the ‘divorce’ section in her brain. I’m happily married, for goodness sake, she mused, pulling her sheet up sharply between two fingers. She loved her husband. She had pictures of him on her screensaver at home – she knew she did – and on her phone, she and James were the annoyingly cute couple at dinner parties who still held hands under the table when nobody was looking. They were in love, goddamit.
‘So where exactly is my memory, doctor? Has it taken a vacation? And if so, when will it be back?’ She found the absurdity
of her situation simultaneously amused her (Oh, you lost your memory? Maybe it’s hiding in the cutlery drawer?), then terrified her. It was easier to joke with herself than face stark reality: she had lost years of her life.
‘These things take time to come back, Mrs Allen.’
‘How long?’ Perhaps Lulu was the one with the brain injury and had got it all wrong.
He shifted from one foot to another. ‘We don’t really know. You’ve had a mild brain injury, a concussion. It has disrupted your brain’s ability to receive and send signals. It’s called retrograde amnesia.’ He smiled at her.
‘And how do I recover from this, um, retrograde amnesia.’ She tugged at the neck of her hospital gown.
‘Rest, for a start. But if you were to go back to your house, look at pictures on your phone for example, to time-travel as it were, back in photos, old emails, that kind of thing, we’ve found that can be useful. The brain is a complicated thing, Mrs Allen. Patients often have short-term memory loss after such an accident, that’s very normal. What we don’t know is how “short term”’ – he screwed up his nose when he said this bit, ‘it will be, and what it affects. It’s all about the different areas of the brain and where long- and short-term memory are stored. Longer-term repeated memory, if you will, like how to ride a bicycle, that’s harder to erase.’ He beamed at her, as if she’d be very pleased that she could still ride a bicycle. Probably.
‘Meantime,’ he glanced at his notes, ‘the good news is, your breathing has returned to normal and your ribs are slowly healing. You must take it easy. No vigorous sport. Make sure you rest. These ribs will take about six weeks to heal properly.’
Retrograde amnesia. What she had, had a name. She felt oddly pleased. Suddenly there was a flash of a memory. Vigorous sport? Tennis! Did she play tennis? She really didn’t know. Somewhere, lodged into her brain, was a kind of memory, a squishy sort of memory, some sensation she was trying to locate. A distant joke. Where had the joke gone, the memory? It was just – yes, just out of reach.