The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  But that person who ran off isn’t her – not now. With memories of Rome still bright in her head, the thought of feeling such anger towards David is shocking. She loves him, and despite the guilt and pain he’s been through, she’s sure he still loves her, too. She can understand his trepidation about what might happen when she remembers, but this is them. Life might be putting their marriage to the test, but they’ll be strong enough to get through it.

  It’s impossible to imagine anything different.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  21 November

  The operation is over. It’s over, and I’m still a mother . . . our daughter is still breathing. Granted, she’s attached to a forest of tubes and it’s only been a few hours, but she’s still here, her heart victoriously beating.

  The procedure was successful, although the doctors say she’ll need check-ups as she grows to ensure there aren’t any further complications. But right now, I can’t think about the future. Right now, there is no future. There’s just this beautiful baby in front of me, my child whom I love with every single bit of me. She is knitted into the very fabric of my soul, and I feel every tube, every pinch, every wound on her body almost as keenly as if it were my own.

  Waiting for her operation to end was torture, unlike anything I’ve ever known. When they wheeled her away, it took every ounce of self-control not to run after them and snatch my baby from the looming darkness that could fall. From the possibility that, after today, I could be childless.

  But I knew that if I didn’t let her go, that looming darkness – a word I don’t even want to say – would come anyway.

  David and I stood there, our eyes trained on that squeaky-wheeled cot, unable to look away until the nurses turned the corner and our baby was out of sight. Then a nurse gently guided us to a lumpy sofa and pushed steaming coffee at us. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk to David, couldn’t even turn my head. All I could do was focus on the wall in front of me and try to keep breathing.

  I’ve never known time to move so slowly. Every second seemed to stretch, every minute spilling over with fear, hope, panic, love . . . and guilt. I did this. I put my daughter at risk through my negligence. I’m the reason she’s lying there, her chest open, doctors prodding inside her delicate body. It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming, and in those seven hours we waited, I felt like I’d run a thousand marathons through freezing wastelands and burning deserts. I was scorched, then icy. I was sweating yet shivering at the same time.

  And through it all, one thought echoed above all else, one pledge that circled inside. If you live, I’ll keep you safe. If you live, I’ll keep you safe. If you live, I’ll keep you safe. Just live. Just keep breathing, keep your heart beating. Just get through this, and I’ll do the rest. I’ll protect you. I’ll cradle you when you need it. I’ll feed you when you cry. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.

  I promise. I promise. I promise.

  And I think she heard me. I know she heard me, because we are connected. Linked together through the months she spent inside me, linked together through blood. Because she lived. She made it through the operation, and she’s back in that glass cot. We’ll be in hospital for a while yet and she still has a way to go, but she’s out of immediate danger. There’s always a risk of infection, fever . . . but for now, she’s made it.

  Not that I can relax. I’ll never relax; never let down my guard again. I’ll do everything in my power to protect my child.

  A child I should have tried to protect sooner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Charlotte opens her eyes, apprehension mixed with anticipation churning inside when she remembers that today she’ll be seeing the consultant. After learning of the secret David kept and their argument before the accident, she knows now that the life she doesn’t remember ended on anything but a happy note. They will resolve things, she’s sure, but she’s not exactly eager to regain those turbulent memories – to feel the fury David told her about. The state of her marriage at the moment isn’t much better, though. The only way to move forward is to remember, and hopefully she’ll be on her way today.

  A few hours later, Charlotte’s striding down Harley Street, grimacing as the waistband of her jeans rubs against her skin. She should have stuck with leggings rather than contort herself into clothes she hasn’t worn in forever, but the automatic dress mode for ‘outside world’ kicked in. She even attempted to put on make-up until discovering the concealer she normally used is cracked, and her red lipstick is down to the end. Despite her hope of remembering today, her gut squeezes at the thought. She takes a deep breath and pushes it away.

  Miriam had raised her eyebrows when Charlotte emerged from the bedroom.

  ‘You look . . . nice,’ she’d said, like she was surprised it could still happen. ‘I haven’t seen you that dressed up for a while. It’s good to look your best for such an important visit.’ Charlotte had nodded as Miriam wished her luck, thinking that this used to be her casual outfit, something she might wear out to brunch on the weekend. Oh, how times had changed.

  She pulls open the door of the doctor’s office and announces herself to the receptionist, then takes a seat in a plush chair. She’s only just flicked through a few pages of Vogue when her name is called, and she follows the receptionist down a silent corridor and into the consultant’s lair.

  A grey-haired man rises and shakes her hand, but Charlotte gets the sense that he barely even sees her. They both settle into their seats, and immediately the doctor focuses on the computer screen in front of him. ‘Hello, I’m Dr Mitchell,’ he says, typing on the keyboard. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  Charlotte shifts in her chair, wishing he’d actually look at her. For God’s sake, they’re paying him a crazy amount for this. It’ll be worth it, though, she tells herself. She’d pay almost any amount to stop feeling displaced in her own life.

  ‘I had a car accident just over a week ago,’ she says, lifting a hand to her head. She’s taken off the bandage and the bruise has faded, leaving only a tiny black line of dried blood where the wound is healing. For the first time, she’s grateful for the otherwise annoying fringe she decided for some reason to grow. ‘And now . . .’ She swallows. ‘And now I can’t remember the past four years of my life.’ It sounds like a plotline from a soap opera when she says it aloud; if someone told her that, she wouldn’t believe them. ‘I can’t even remember having my daughter.’

  She waits for a reaction of shock and horror, but Dr Mitchell just nods. ‘Right, then. Let’s do the necessary tests and we can see if there is any reason to worry.’

  Besides the fact that I can’t recall my own flesh and blood? ‘Okay.’ She nods.

  ‘But I should tell you that, more often than not, we aren’t able to find anything wrong.’ The doctor pushes up his specs on his very thin nose, and Charlotte watches them slide back down again. ‘People come here all the time looking for answers, but the brain isn’t something that functions in black and white. There’s a lot we still don’t know, and we can’t always get to the bottom of things.’

  Way to big up your services, Charlotte thinks as she follows him through to the diagnostic room. ‘Can’t you just give me a knock on the head and make everything come back again?’ she jokes.

  But Dr Mitchell doesn’t seem to get the humour. ‘Unfortunately not,’ he says. ‘Regardless of what you may see on television.’

  Charlotte can’t help rolling her eyes.

  ‘All right, so I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our technician, Dorota,’ he says. ‘She’ll do all your diagnostic tests, and I’ll see you later in the afternoon to review the results with you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Charlotte watches him leave the room, thinking that he probably doesn’t even know her name. And by the looks of things, he has even less interest.

  Several hours later, Charlotte is back in the waiting room, leafing through the same magazine. Her brain has never been so well photographed: a star in its ve
ry own film. If something is wrong inside her head, she’s sure they must have found it. Dr Mitchell has to err on the side of caution, so as not to raise people’s expectations, but he is an expert, after all. He’ll be able to help, even if it’s just to tell her how long this memory loss will last. Any other alternative isn’t worth thinking about.

  When her name is called, she jumps up and forces herself not to run to the office.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he says, as monotone as ever. ‘I’ve had a chance to look at your images, and as far as I can see – and let me tell you, if there were something to see, I would have seen it – your brain appears to be functioning normally.’

  Charlotte stares, unable to believe what he’s saying. ‘But . . . but it’s not functioning normally. Not when I can’t remember the past four years. Not when I can’t remember giving birth, for God’s sake. Having a daughter.’ Her voice rises, sounding even louder in the hushed room. ‘That’s not normal!’

  Dr Mitchell blinks. ‘Memory is a funny thing, and the part of the brain where memories are stored isn’t something we fully understand yet. While it’s possible the accident damaged that area, it’s not showing up on the scan.’

  ‘So . . .’ Charlotte leans back in the chair. There has to be something he can do; something he can tell her. ‘I should be able to remember, then? If everything is okay?’

  ‘I didn’t say everything was okay. It might be; it might not. I said that, as far as we can tell at the moment, your brain is fine. You may regain some of your memories, and you may not.’

  Frustration bubbles inside her. ‘What can I do? What can I do to remember?’ She has to remember. She can’t carry on this way!

  ‘The best thing you can do is just live your daily life, and try not to force it. Memories may trickle back in, or they may return in a rush. They may not return at all. It’s really impossible to say.’ He smiles distractedly and glances at the door, indicating the session is over.

  Charlotte stays in the chair, unwilling to move. That’s not an answer. That’s not even close to an answer. If anything, this so-called expert has only muddied the waters even more. There’s nothing wrong, but there is. She may remember everything, or nothing at all. Life may return to normal, or it may never be the same again.

  Fear and panic twist her insides, and she clenches her hands. How can she ever be a mother again if she can’t remember her child – if she doesn’t love her own child, or not like she should? How can she live this life, trapped in a place light years from who she is now . . . from what she wants? And how can she begin to heal the rift with David if she’s not even the same person he argued with?

  Charlotte longs to scream and beat her feet on the floor, but instead she says thank you (not that it matters – Dr Mitchell is fixated on his computer screen again) and forces herself to stand.

  Out on the street, cars rush by and a taxi honks when she almost steps in front of it. She lifts a hand in apology and tries to breathe. She knew regaining her memories wouldn’t be a straightforward process, but she hadn’t let herself think that she’d simply never remember – that she’d be stuck here forever. Plodding down Harley Street, past door after door of top-notch consultants promising everything from the latest cosmetic surgery to videos of babies in the womb, she remembers her earlier apprehension about regaining her former self. Now, she’d give anything to dive into the cauldron of memories and let them fill her up again, no matter what challenges she might face.

  Live your daily life, the doctor had said, and Charlotte feels determination flood through her. That’s exactly what she’ll do. She’ll immerse herself in her daughter, following the path she’d laid out years earlier. Her memories will have to return. Because if they don’t . . .

  She shakes her head. They will, and that’s all there is to it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  19 December

  Anabelle is home! She’s been home for just over two weeks now, actually. It’s hard to believe it’s only been that long, because it feels like forever. In fact, I can barely remember life without her, although I dimly recall a place where dishes didn’t clog the sink and laundry wasn’t piled in corners of the bedroom.

  The flat is a disaster, with muslins draped on every surface. Half-drunk cups of coffee – those I start but never get further than a few gulps before Anabelle starts crying – dot the flat. I used to wonder what mums did all day at home, and now I marvel if I’m able to get in the shower. My stomach is spongy and soft, my hair is greasy, and I’m lucky if I can even form a coherent thought right now – that’s how tired I am. And as for preparing for Christmas . . . Scoffing down a box of mince pies is the closest I’ve got.

  But I don’t care about any of it, because at last, I can be a mother – a real mother. Not just one standing stiffly by a cot, hoping for the best, but one who’s filled with such a fierce, protective love that nothing could diminish it. One who can pick up her daughter and jiggle her around, let her kick on the play mat, who can breathe in her scent . . .

  A scent I’m still not all that familiar with, swaddled as she was for the past couple of weeks in bandages and scratchy, stiff hospital blankets. I camped out with her in the NICU for those long, endless days after surgery, sleeping upright in a chair in the corner of the room. David tried to give me a break, and even Miriam offered to take a shift. But I couldn’t leave my girl. It felt like the second I stepped away, her body would fail. She would feel my absence in her heart, and it would stop working. And although I know it can’t possibly be true, a small part of me fears that my lack of emotion during pregnancy – excitement, anticipation, love – directly affected my daughter’s heart, as if she didn’t feel my devotion.

  Like she somehow knew my first priority wasn’t her.

  I’ll never banish the image of her after surgery: so tiny, so frail, so defenceless. I’ll never forget the terror while doctors performed the procedure. I’ll never recover from waiting to hear if I was still a mother – waiting to hear that my child had survived.

  And then . . . the absolute relief, like all the heavy, sludgy blood had drained out of me, to be replaced by a frothy light liquid. Like I’d been lifted right off my feet and floated up into the sky. My daughter was alive.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared now. For as much as I wanted to have my baby home, once the moment arrived, I was petrified. I made a vow to keep my daughter safe. But what if I can’t? What if she falls ill, or her heart stops working, or . . . Although the doctors are quite sure she’ll make a full recovery, there is still a risk of complications in the years ahead. What if I fail to protect her once again?

  Her future is in my hands, and only mine. I can’t even think of burdening David with my fears when I’m the one who set us on this path. If only he knew . . . I can’t bear to ponder his reaction. Better to leave him be; better to keep the silence between us than open up a channel of communication right now. I don’t deserve his comfort, his reassurance. I can barely see him through the guilt fogging my vision, anyway.

  He’s making noises about getting up to speed on everything so he’s ready to take over when I return to the office. Return to the office. The words sound so foreign that I can’t begin to process them. Right now, the only thing I can focus on is Anabelle. Anything else . . . My brain will not allow it. My heart will not allow it. I’m marooned here with my daughter, and I don’t want to be rescued. I need to stay here.

  I will stay here.

  Because I’ve quit my job at Cellbril. I’m never going back, and the sense of relief when I said those words almost bowled me over.

  It all started this morning when the human resources woman (Tina? I can never remember her name) left a message on my voicemail, asking if she could confirm my start date at work in two weeks’ time. Two weeks! I held the phone away from my ear, my heart squeezing as I remembered thinking, right after Anabelle was born, that I’d confirm the date as soon as I was home. And then . . .

  Then everything chang
ed.

  I couldn’t return to work in two weeks’ time – no way. For God’s sake, my daughter was barely off the operating table, and I’d only just started getting to know her. I rejected the notion of leaving her without even thinking about it.

  I rang Vivek up straight away, unsure what I’d say other than that I needed more time – my daughter and I needed more time. Hearing my boss’s familiar deep voice was jarring, like looking through a cracked window into a dusty, far-off place. I’d cared so much about it, but now I barely recognised it.

  I told him I wouldn’t be returning in two weeks, trying to explain as unemotionally and succinctly as I could about Anabelle’s heart condition. As the words fell from my lips, nausea swirled in my stomach and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I wasn’t even back at work, and already I was glossing over what had happened to my daughter, making my decision palatable and justifiable to my boss. Already my daughter was taking a back seat in my conversation, with work first and foremost.

  Vivek responded with incredulous sympathy, quickly moving on to develop a strategy so none of our accounts would suffer until I returned. I sank down on to the bed as his words poured over me, anger rattling inside. How could I do that? This job and my determination not to let anything affect it had put my child at risk; yet here I was, shoving my daughter to the background once again. My newborn daughter, who’d almost died.

  God.

  I couldn’t go back there. I couldn’t let myself fall into that trap again, be sucked into caring more about a job than my child . . . to want to be a VP more than a mother. I cringed, remembering writing just that in this diary. That job is like an addiction to me, and if I couldn’t shake it after what had just happened, I’d clearly never be able to.

  I needed to go cold turkey.

  So, I told Vivek I didn’t just need more time. I told him I wouldn’t be back, full stop. I kept my tone firm and unyielding, like he’d taught me. He tried to persuade me to wait a bit longer before making such a drastic decision, talking quickly in his sales-patter voice about how I was so talented, how hard I’d worked, how I was on the way to becoming VP, and how he was certain I would want to come back after a little time to ‘adjust to everything’. I’m sure he expected me to be flattered, but instead of boosting me up, every word rubbed raw, the guilt pouring into open wounds. I had to cut him off with a final ‘no’.