by kendra Smith
‘Mrs Allen?’
‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘Good memories I hope?’ he smiled at her.
‘Not sure.’ She leant her head to the side and looked at him. He pulled at his collar, the way people do when they’re a bit agitated and need to go.
‘Your sister, I believe, is coming tomorrow to take you home in a taxi, is that right? I’ll get your release papers ready. There are some quite extensive notes that, er, somebody needs to read. Your sister perhaps? About your head injury – but we’re satisfied that you are out of the danger zone. Your Glasgow coma scale is normal. But you must take it easy for a few days – no stress, and if you have any headaches, or vomiting, you must let us know. We’ve prescribed paracetamol, the nurse will explain more, and some codeine if your ribs get too painful.’
‘But my memory, doctor?’
He put his clipboard under his arm. ‘We just can’t tell if you’ll get all your memory back or just some. However, normal functions seem to have resumed and your working memory will not be affected – like I said, you’ll remember how to say, type, for example, that kind of thing. The good news is, memories like your schooldays will be crystal clear, childhood memories, if you will. That’s because the neural pathways are much older, stronger than newer ones, ones that were formed nearer to the accident, so the older memories survive, you see? You’ll be able to remember skills, like how to drive or swim, for example, but you won’t remember facts so well, like what kind of car you drive, where you used to swim, that kind of thing. Recent memories will be the most affected.’ He coughed.
Victoria glanced out at the incinerator through the window, then back at the consultant.
‘Some patients find that “jogging” their memory, looking at significant items helps. Does that make sense?’
Nothing made sense at the moment.
‘You’ll have another MRI scan in about six-to-eight weeks with the neurologist, just to make sure all is well.’
All most definitely did not feel well in Victoria’s world as she pulled the bedsheet up and stared back out of the hospital window at the grey tower of the incinerator, plumes of smoke rising above, feeding the skies with black, putrid waste.
5 Lulu
Caterpillars can dance! Treat your toddlers to a funny and fabulous wriggling creature who will gobble up lots of things but also hand out sweets from a secret caterpillar pouch! *
*(NB A Strict Health and Safety form has to be signed & measures in place at your property before we can allow the Crafty Hungry Caterpillar to enter the premises).
A thwack. Ouch! Another kid lands on me as I lie on the floor.
I yank the green Velcro neck of the caterpillar suit and wince as my broken finger throbs. I hate the Caterpillar gigs – the suit makes me itch for days. Vicky used to read the Caterpillar book to me when I was little. Sometimes she’d skip a page, but I always knew. I would poke her in the ribs and tickle her until she owned up. I loved her soothing voice. It was fun to pretend she hadn’t read some of the books, then she’d have to re-read my favourites. I scratch my neck and think about her – always been the capable one. But not since the crash. Who am I, Lulu? she keeps saying. I just don’t know anymore. It unnerves me. Changes our places in the universe.
I lift my mask up to see a wobbly toddler clinging onto his mother’s legs. The mother is speaking in a pseudo-child’s voice, as if speaking in baby-talk will win me over. I smile. Is this where all my training at the London College of Performing Arts has got me? I sigh and reach for my handy water bottle. Half water, half vodka, it’s perfect to get me through these gigs. I take a sip.
‘Mr Caterpillar, we have paid you for an hour and a half,’ says the Mummy in her sugar-coated voice. My gaze falls on shiny red patent shoes. I look up. But then suddenly I grin, because Markie has just struck up on his guitar. Markie is my boss and the brains behind these children’s parties. I could listen to his lilting voice all day. I look at him effortlessly strumming the guitar, he’s got a great sense of rhythm and such an easy manner with the kids. It’s that Irish charm or whatever you want to call it.
‘I’m a caterpillar, I’m a caterpillar…
‘And I want to eat a massive dinner…
‘Lulu?’
Oops, it’s my cue to wriggle and say I’m hungry… I pull myself up onto my knees. ‘I’m so hungry!’ I say, rubbing my caterpillar tummy, but then I wobble slightly and steady myself. ‘What else can I eat?’
‘My mummy!’ says Leg Cling Boy.
I stifle a snort. ‘How about I find some yummy things that you can all eat! Are you hungry?’
‘Yes!’ they yell as I reach into my hidden pouch and produce several packets of mini Haribos.
‘Yippee!’ I lean back on my haunches. A swarm of children floods over my lap like hungry bees, ripping open packets. As I help a child open a packet, my engagement ring glistens in the sun, sending shards of deep red light sparkling across the wooden floor like a glitter ball. It wasn’t Simon’s fault that he didn’t know I don’t like rubies. My mind wanders off. Thinking about the whole wedding shenanigans gives me the jitters: the dress – Simon’s mum is piling on the pressure, the WhatsApp wedding group she’s created has made me feel suffocated, not supported. Marjory wants to meet tonight to look at shoes. No Marjory, I texted, the shoes can wait, Vicky’s in hospital.
‘You alright?’ Suddenly Markie’s hand is on my shoulder, reassuringly, and I’m back in the room.
‘Yes,’ I smile. But I’m not really. Ever since I’ve come out of hospital I’ve been at odds with myself. The crash, Victoria still in hospital; something’s shifted. My focus has changed. Before the accident I had my eye on the future, and I knew where I was going. It’s different now. I feel different. Maybe my brain got a jolt too, like Vicky’s.
‘Look, let’s call it a day, get cleared up, you look shattered, you’ve probably done too much,’ Markie winks at me, then he tilts his head to one side and stares at me. ‘You’re still worried about your sister, so you are.’ Markie’s soothing Irish accent washes over me, bringing me back to earth.
I am worried about Victoria. I’m fetching her from hospital today, seeing as James has made no attempt to come back. How’s she going to cope?
‘Hey, it’s not your fault your sister lost her memory,’ Markie adds, as if reading my mind. I look up at him packing away his guitar and shrug. ‘No, I guess not.’ A wave of guilt hits me like a force field, square in the chest. I hope he can’t smell the vodka on my breath.
Once we clear up, we clamber into Markie’s van, or ‘portable office’ as he likes to call it.
‘Want to talk about it?’ he offers, pulling away from the kerb.
There’s something about him which makes me want to confess, to talk, to lose myself in the calm of the space between us. No, that sounds ridiculous – but it’s true. His van, the way I can just be myself and not have to think too much – until we pull up at the next party.
‘Trouble is, I don’t know where to start, Markie.’
‘Have you talked to Simon?’
With the mention of his name I feel a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. I should talk to Simon. Trouble is, I already did last night. And it’s all practical, do you want a sandwich, are you cold, shouldn’t you go to bed, should you go to work? He’s never asked me how I’m actually feeling. I’m being unkind, I should try again. Simon’s been great since the accident, he even let me watch Love Island Extra last night, and other stuff he normally rolls his eyes at.
Pull yourself together, Lulu, a little voice pipes up. Simon will know what to say next time – won’t he? Tell me it isn’t my fault… be my comfort blanket, the one I’ve ended up turning to, he’ll heal me. He’ll tell me – what? There’s that knot of guilt again.
‘Look, why not start at the beginning?’
I glance at Markie and offload. Tell him about the Wedding Fayre, the free prosecco, the car, the drive, those lights. But I don’t tell him abou
t those endless refills, the deep nagging or the demons I keep hidden. Abruptly I stop, tears threatening, and I feel conflicted, I want to go on, but I can’t. ‘Actually, you’re right,’ I say shakily, ‘I should talk to Simon.’ I hesitate. ‘But Vicky’s not right, Markie, I mean really not right.’
‘How do you mean?’ Markie glances in his rear-view mirror.
‘She thinks she’s who she was ages ago, like, before she and James, her memory—?’
‘She doesn’t remember stuff?’
‘No.’
‘That’s not good. So she still thinks her and James are pally?’
‘Yeah. It’s a nightmare.’
I’ve told Markie loads about my family, about what happened to my mum and dad when they went to Yorkshire, about Vicky, or Victoria as she has wanted to be called in the last few years. (‘It will give me gravitas,’ she said. I just burst out laughing. I asked her if ‘gravitas’ was a kind of Spanish tapas. She didn’t find that funny. Even when I poked her in the ribs.) I’ve told him about my dreams and he’s shared his family story with me. I know that Markie’s ‘mam’, as he calls her, and dad still live in Dublin, he’s an only child, he went to a local grammar and then on to the Royal Irish Academy of Music on a scholarship – he was in a band in the Nineties, playing gigs around Brighton, but they split up after two years. And then he started the children’s party business.
‘Why don’t you drop a few hints, see if her memory comes back a bit?’
Markie drives us through the dark streets of Little Norland towards my flat; houses flash past on either side, windows glow in the dark. He pulls up behind a queue of cars.
‘Penny for them.’
I turn to him. ‘It’s like the accident has made me question everything. I know Vicky got a bump to the head, but I feel really rattled.’
‘What are you questioning?’ He is staring straight ahead.
‘Well, who I am, too.’ It sounds pathetic, saying it out loud, but well, I kind of mean it. ‘Sorry, no that sounds ridiculous—’
‘No, no it doesn’t,’ he moves gears and pulls away. ‘It’s bound to shake you up – I mean these major events – death, birth, near-misses, or, you know, weddings, have a habit of doing that.’
Major events… I close my eyes and shake my head. I want to rid my brain of those black thoughts. When I open my eyes Markie’s smiling. ‘Look, it’s your big day soon. That could be stressful, no?’ he says, with an edge I don’t recognise – is that sarcasm? – as he slides the car into the next lane.
My ‘big day’. I feel overwhelmed and sweaty. It’s probably just this ridiculous outfit, green and crumpled and hot. It’s bound to give me a headache. I yank at the collar just as my stomach rumbles really loudly; I blush. Markie turns to me and grins. ‘Well, pet, it’s no wonder, because,’ he makes a comedy face: ‘you are a really hungry caterpillar.’
I snort out loud.
He can always make me laugh.
6 Victoria
‘Do you recognise this?’
Lulu was sitting next to her in the back seat of the taxi; she put a hand out and touched her forearm gently. ‘Victoria?’
‘Will you stop calling me Victoria! I’m Vicky!’
‘Have a look around,’ Lulu soothed.
Victoria sat back and took a deep breath. The ride home had been like some sort of nightmare. While she couldn’t process what was going on in her head, her body had another idea. Lulu had laid her hand on her arm as she’d taken short, shallow breaths as the taxi swung out of the hospital car park, recognising that her body was having some kind of reaction yet her mind was blank. She’d pulled at her seatbelt. It’s OK, Victoria, Lulu had said. She hadn’t felt OK. Now, she looked at her unfamiliar surroundings. They were sitting on a perfect resin-coated driveway with tidy borders, punctuated by little pockets of wild primroses and snowdrops. The little white flowers were bobbing up and down in the wind, as if greeting her. Friendly flowery faces in an unfamiliar driveway. Her driveway.
The house was a 1950s two-storey double-fronted detached building. The outside walls were painted white, and there were grey weatherboard beams running across the top floor, rather like a New England house. It was a nice house. Two very neat bay trees sat elegantly in brushed metal containers on either side of the door. Victoria found that she rather liked it. But it didn’t feel hers.
‘I don’t know where I am.’ She had recognised some of the streets on the way back from the hospital, especially as they drew nearer to Little Norland; there was a café that looked oddly familiar, but when they had stopped at the junction just before her driveway, they could have been anywhere.
‘It will come back to you, I’m sure.’ Everyone kept telling her this. Bits will come back to you. But what if they didn’t? What had happened? What had she and James done to their marriage for goodness sake? She looked around again and then caught sight of something and gasped. ‘Good lord, Lulu, we have a tennis court.’
She heard Lulu sigh. ‘Yes, Victor— Vicky, you have a tennis court. You really don’t remember, do you? Come on, let’s get you inside.’
Victoria followed Lulu to the front door and watched her turn the key in the lock, then they both nearly jumped out of their skin as an ear-piercing siren started. ‘Jesus, I forgot you had an alarm,’ shrieked Lulu.
Calmly, Victoria walked inside and stared at it on the hall wall. Then, without realising what she was doing, tapped in a few numbers and pressed the key icon on the keypad. The alarm stopped.
‘We have an alarm?’ she turned to Lulu.
‘Yes, you do. You remembered the code?’
Victoria’s handbag slid off her arm and it fell to the floor with a thump. She turned around and leant against the wall. Her head was spinning. ‘It’s weird. The doctor said this might happen. Some things will be lodged in my brain and stuck there – like the code for the alarm – but other things,’ she shook her head, ‘have vanished, and nobody knows for how long, or if they’ll come back.’ She felt her throat catch.
‘Come on,’ Lulu said, yanking her away from the wall, ‘let’s get into your kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
She let Lulu lead her into the kitchen. ‘Oh my! It’s incredible. And so tidy! When did I get this tidy?’
‘Probably around the time you lost— well, you said it kept you busy. Gave you something to do,’ Lulu said, filling up the kettle.
Victoria gripped the kitchen surface as Lulu came over to her. ‘Sweetie, let’s sit down, you’re probably still in shock.’ She led her over to the table and pulled out a chair. Victoria sat down and took in the kitchen with its tiled floor, grey marble surfaces and glass-fronted cupboards and stared at Lulu as she busied herself with making tea, putting biscuits on a plate. When she sat down opposite her at the kitchen table, Victoria shivered. There was so much she didn’t know. Most importantly, why was her husband divorcing her? Surely when he got back they could all sit and talk about it? Hold hands, and she’d make his favourite Moroccan chicken, the one they’d had on honeymoon and she’d hunted out the recipe for. She’d add the flaked almonds, plus the Greek yogurt and it would be melt-in-the-mouth gorgeous and he wouldn’t dream of leaving her. No, said a little voice, it will take more than a chicken dish.
‘Lulu, I can’t remember any of this. It’s starting to scare me.’ She took a sip of tea. Nice mug.
‘What, er, what do I usually do?’
Lulu looked at her. Victoria took in the curly blonde hair framing her face, the slightly more tired-looking face – she’d got used to it now – and watched as Lulu tilted her head, as if summing something up, then she flicked her hair off one shoulder decisively. ‘Well, you like a tidy house, and you’re pretty busy with that new Pilates place in the village you joined, and your friend Zoe – and um, manicures, Botox, and of course ferrying the twins here and there, school committees. You’re – you know – busy.’ She shrugged then took a sip of coffee.
‘Manicures? Pilates? But I hate spo
rt.’
‘Um, well you don’t really “do” sport, Victoria, you sort of like to wear the gear and – have coffee.’
What was the point of that? ‘And this Zoe, is she a good friend, is she nice?’
Lulu picked up a biscuit and bit it in half. ‘Remind me what the doctor suggested. You know, about your memory?’
‘He told me to look at some photos, that kind of thing, to see if it jogged my thoughts. Triggered any events.’
‘Right, I’ll get a few photo albums – wait here.’
Victoria gripped her arm on the way past. ‘Lulu, why hasn’t James called? I mean, whatever’s happened, surely we’re still talking?’
Lulu gave her a weird look. ‘Let me get those photos.’
When she came back, Lulu had a collection of photo albums and pictures in frames. They sat and pored over some old photo albums – the old-fashioned kind with little stickers under each one saying when it was taken. Victoria pulled one from the pile, it had a green velvet cover which had faded; it was oddly familiar.
‘That’s the one from Mum and Dad’s house.’
‘Dad – he’s?’ She scratched her head. Oh, blast these memories.
‘He’s OK. In Yorkshire, remember?’ Lulu was nodding with eyes wide. The way you do when you’re talking to small children. ‘He wanted to come down but I told him to wait till you were settled back home.
‘Look, here.’ Lulu stabbed at the picture with her fingers, silver bangles clanked around her wrist. ‘When the twins were born.’
‘I do remember that!’ Victoria’s heart thumped in her chest. She remembered! She flicked through the pages of the worn album and took in the tiny bundles, one in the crook of each of James’s arms. ‘My darling babies.’ But there was a dark memory too. She frowned. A haunting feeling, of being sucked under – was it water? Then a pillow wet with tears. When was that? But then she looked at James beaming from a hospital chair in the photo, in a blue wrinkled shirt with a twin on either side of him, bundled in blankets. She traced the outline of his face with her finger. She did recall that day, pieces of it. The shock of the twins arriving early, going into labour, being utterly terrified, James being calm by her side, his thick thatch of strawberry blonde hair sticking up because he kept running his hands through it, saying it would be alright. She smiled at the memory. Eventually they’d had to whisk her off for an emergency caesarean, but James had stayed right by her side, holding her hand. The tiny wail of Izzy coming out first was a sound she could remember, thank goodness.