by S. J. Watson
I laugh, agreeing with her, and then we stand in silence for a few more minutes, passing the joint between us. Eventually she offers me what is left of the soggy roach and, when I refuse, grinds it into the asphalt with her booted foot.
‘We should go downstairs,’ she says, grabbing my arm. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Not again!’ I say, but I go anyway. We step over a couple kissing on the stairs. ‘It’s not going to be another one of those pricks from your course, is it?’
‘Fuck off!’ she says, trotting down the stairs. ‘I thought you’d love Alan!’
‘I did!’ I said. ‘Right up until the moment he told me he was in love with a guy called Kristian.’
‘Yes, well,’ she laughs. ‘How was I supposed to know that Alan would decide to choose you to come out to? This one’s different. You’ll love him. I know it. Just say hello. There’s no pressure.’
‘OK,’ I say. I push the door open and we go into the party.
The room is large, with concrete walls and unshaded light-bulbs hanging from the ceiling. We make our way to the kitchen area and get ourselves a beer, then find a spot over by the window. ‘So where’s this guy, then?’ I say, but she doesn’t hear me. I feel the buzz of the alcohol and the weed and begin to dance. The room is full of people, dressed mostly in black. Fucking art students, I think.
Someone comes over and stands in front of us. I recognize him. Keith. We’ve met before, at a different party, where we ended up kissing in one of the bedrooms. Now, though, he’s talking to my friend, pointing to one of her paintings that hangs on the wall in the living room. I wonder whether he’s decided to ignore me, or can’t remember having met me before. Either way, I think, he’s a jerk. I finish my beer.
‘Want another?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ says my friend. ‘Want to get them while I deal with Keith? And then I’ll introduce you to that bloke I mentioned. OK?’
I laugh. ‘OK. Whatever.’ I wander off, into the kitchen.
A voice, then. Loud in my ear. ‘Christine! Chris! Are you OK?’ I felt confused; the voice sounded familiar. I opened my eyes. With a start I realized I was outside, in the night air, on Parliament Hill, with Ben calling my name and fireworks in front of me turning the sky the colour of blood. ‘You had your eyes closed,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. My head spun, I could hardly breathe. I turned away from my husband, pretending to watch the rest of the display. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing. I’m fine. I’m fine.’
‘You’re shivering,’ he said. ‘Are you cold? Do you want to go home?’
I realized I was. I did. I wanted to record what I had just seen.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you mind?’
On the way home I thought back to the vision I had seen as we watched the fireworks. It had shocked me with its clarity, its hard edges. It had caught me, sucked me into it as if I were living it again. I felt everything, tasted everything. The cool air and the fizz of the beer. The burn of the weed at the back of my throat. Keith’s saliva, warm on my tongue. It felt real, almost more real than the life I had opened my eyes to when it vanished.
I didn’t know exactly when it was from. University, I supposed, or just after. The party I had seen myself at was the kind I imagined a student would enjoy. It did not have the feel of responsibility. It was carefree. Light.
And, though I could not remember her name, this woman was important to me. My best friend. For ever, I had thought, and even though I didn’t know who she was I had felt a sense of security with her, of safety.
I wondered briefly if we might still be close, and tried to talk to Ben about it as we drove. He was quiet – not unhappy, but distracted. For a moment I considered telling him everything about the vision, but instead I asked him who my friends were, when we met.
‘You had lots of friends,’ he said. ‘You were very popular.’
‘Did I have a best friend? Someone special?’
He glanced over at me then. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Not particularly.’
I wondered why I couldn’t remember this woman’s name, yet had recalled Keith, and Alan.
‘You’re sure?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure.’ He turned back to face the road. It began to rain. Light from the shops, and from the neon signs above them, was reflected in the road. There is so much I want to ask him, I thought, but I said nothing and, after a few more minutes, it was too late. We were home, and he had begun cooking. It was too late.
As soon as I had finished writing, Ben called me down to our dinner. He had set the table and poured glasses of white wine, but I was not hungry and the fish was dry. I left most of my meal. Then – as Ben had cooked – I offered to wash up. I carried the plates through and ran hot water into the sink, all the time hoping that later I would be able to make an excuse and come upstairs to read my journal and perhaps write some more. But I could not – to spend so much time alone in our room would arouse suspicion – and so we spent the evening in front of the television.
I could not relax. I thought of my journal and watched the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece creep from nine, to ten, to ten thirty. Finally, as they approached eleven, I realized I would have no more time tonight, and said, ‘I think I’m going to turn in. It’s been a long day.’
He smiled, tilting his head. ‘OK, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll be up in a moment.’
I nodded and said OK, but as I left the room I felt a creeping dread. This man is my husband, I told myself, I am married to him, yet still I felt somehow as if going to bed with him was wrong. I could not remember ever having done so before, and did not know what to expect.
In the bathroom I used the toilet and brushed my teeth without looking at the mirror, or the photos arranged around it. I went into the bedroom and found my nightie folded on my pillow and began to get undressed. I wanted to be ready before he came in, to be under the covers. For a moment I had the absurd idea that I could pretend to be asleep.
I took off my pullover and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw the cream bra I had put on this morning and, as I did so, had a fleeting vision of myself as a child, asking my mother why she wore one when I did not, and her telling me that one day I would. And now that day was here, and it had not come gradually, but instantly. Here, even more obviously than the lines on my face and wrinkles on my hands, was the fact that I was not a girl any more but a woman. Here, in the soft plumpness of my breasts.
I pulled the nightie over my head and flattened it down. I reached underneath it and unhooked my bra, feeling the weight of my chest as I did so, and then unzipped my trousers and stepped out of them. I did not want to examine my body further, not tonight, and so, once I had peeled off the tights and knickers I had put on this morning, I slipped between the covers and, closing my eyes, turned on to my side.
I heard the clock downstairs chime, then a moment later Ben came into the room. I didn’t move but listened to him undress, then felt the sag of the bed as he sat on its edge. He was still for a moment, and then I felt his hand, heavy on my hip.
‘Christine?’ he said, half whispering. ‘Are you awake?’ I murmured that I was. ‘You remembered a friend today?’ he said. I opened my eyes and turned on to my back. I could see the broad expanse of his bare back, the fine hair that was scattered over his shoulders.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He turned to me. ‘What did you remember?’
I told him, though only vaguely. ‘A party,’ I said. ‘We were both students, I think.’
He stood up then and turned to get into bed. I saw that he was naked. His penis swung from its dark nest of hair and I had to suppress the urge to giggle. I could not remember ever seeing male genitals before, not even in books, yet they were not unfamiliar to me. I wondered how much of them I knew, what experiences I might have had. Almost involuntarily, I looked away.
‘You’ve remembered that party before,’ he sai
d as he pulled back the bedclothes. ‘It comes to you fairly often, I think. You have certain memories that seem to crop up regularly.’
I sighed. So it’s nothing new, he seemed to be saying. Nothing to get excited about. He lay beside me and pulled the covers over us both. He didn’t turn out the light.
‘Do I remember things often?’ I said.
‘Yes. A few things. Most days.’
‘The same things?’
He turned to face me, propping himself on his elbow. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Usually. Yes. It’s rare there’s a surprise.’
I looked away from his face and up to the ceiling. ‘Do I ever remember you?’
He turned to me. ‘No,’ he said. He took my hand. Squeezed it. ‘But that’s OK. I love you. It’s OK.’
‘I must be a dreadful burden to you,’ I said.
He moved his hand and began to stroke my arm. There was a crackle of static. I flinched. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. I love you.’
He twisted his body into mine then, and kissed my lips.
I closed my eyes. Confused. Did he want to have sex? To me he was a stranger; though intellectually I knew we got into bed together every night, had done so since we were married, still my body had known him for less than a day.
‘I’m very tired, Ben,’ I said.
He lowered his voice, and began to murmur. ‘I know, my darling,’ he said. He kissed me, softly on the cheek, my lips, my eyes. ‘I know.’ His hand moved lower, beneath the covers, and I felt a wave of anxiety begin to build within me, almost panic.
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I grabbed his hand and stopped its descent. I resisted the urge to fling it away as if it were revolting and stroked it instead. ‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘Not tonight. OK?’
He said nothing, but withdrew his hand and lay on his back. Disappointment came off him in waves. I didn’t know what to say. Some part of me thought I should apologize, but some larger part told me I had done nothing wrong. And so we lay in silence, in bed but not touching, and I wondered how often this happens. How often he comes to bed and craves sex, whether I ever want it myself, or even feel able to give it to him, and if this is always what happens, this awkward silence, if I do not.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ he said, after a few more minutes, and the tension lifted. I waited until he was snoring softly and slipped out of bed and here, in the spare room, sat down to write this.
I would like so much to remember him. Just once.
Monday, 12 November
The clock has just chimed four; it is beginning to get dark. Ben will not be home just yet but, as I sit and write, I listen for his car. The shoebox sits on the floor next to my feet, the tissue paper in which this journal was wrapped spilling out of it. If he comes in I will put my book in the wardrobe and tell him I have been resting. It is dishonest, but not terribly so, and there is nothing wrong with wanting to keep the contents of my journal a secret. I must write down what I have seen. What I have learned. But that doesn’t mean I want someone – anyone – to read it.
I saw Dr Nash today. We were sitting opposite each other, on either side of his desk. Behind him was a filing cabinet, on top of which sat a plastic model of the brain, sliced down the middle, parted like an orange. He asked me how I’d been getting on.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I suppose.’ It was a difficult question to answer – the few hours since I had woken that morning were the only ones I could clearly remember. I met my husband, as if for the first time though I knew it was not, was called by my doctor who told me about my journal. Then, after lunch, he picked me up and drove me here to his office.
‘I wrote in my journal,’ I said, ‘after you called. On Saturday.’
He seemed pleased. ‘Do you think it helped at all?’
‘I think so,’ I said. I told him about the memories I’d had. The vision of the woman at the party, of learning of my father’s illness. He made notes as I spoke.
‘Do you still remember those things now?’ he said. ‘Or did you when you woke up this morning?’
I hesitated. The truth was I did not. Or only some of it at least. This morning I had read my entry for Saturday – of the breakfast I shared with my husband, of the trip to Parliament Hill. It had felt as unreal as fiction, nothing to do with me, and I found myself reading and rereading the same section, over and over, trying to cement it in my mind, to fix it. It took me more than an hour.
I read of the things Ben had told me, of how we met and married, of how we lived, and I felt nothing. Yet other things stayed with me. The woman, for example. My friend. I could not recall specifics – the fireworks party, being on the roof with her, meeting a man called Keith – but her memory still existed within me and this morning, as I read and reread my entry for Saturday, more details had come. The vibrant red of her hair, the black clothes that she preferred, the studded belt, the scarlet lipstick, the way that she used to make smoking look as though it was the coolest thing in the world. I could not remember her name, but now recalled the night we met, in a room that was shrouded in a thick fug of cigarette smoke and alive with the whistles and bangs of pinball machines and a tinny jukebox. She had given me a light when I asked her for one, then introduced herself and suggested I join her and her friends. We drank vodka and lager and, later, she held my hair out of the toilet bowl as I vomited most of it back up. ‘I guess we’re definitely friends now!’ she said, laughing, as I pulled myself back to my feet. ‘I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.’
I thanked her and, for no reason I knew, and as if it explained what I had just done, told her my father was dead. ‘Fuck …’ she said, and, in what must have been the first of her many switches from drunken stupidity to compassionate efficiency, she took me back to her room and we ate toast and drank black coffee, all the time listening to records and talking about our lives, until it began to get light.
She had paintings propped up against the wall and at the end of the bed, and sketch books littered the room. ‘You’re an artist?’ I said, and she nodded. ‘It’s why I’m here at university,’ she said. I remembered her telling me she was studying fine art. ‘I’ll end up a teacher, of course, but in the meantime one has to dream. Yes?’ I laughed. ‘What about you? What are you studying?’ I told her. English. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘So do you want to write novels or teach, then?’ She laughed, not unkindly, but I didn’t mention the story I had worked on in my room before coming down. ‘Dunno,’ I replied instead. ‘I guess I’m the same as you.’ She laughed again. ‘Well, here’s to us!’ she said, and as we toasted each other with coffee I felt, for the first time in months, that things might finally be all right.
I remembered all this. It exhausted me, this effort of will to search the void of my memory, trying to find any tiny detail that might trigger a recollection. But my memories of my life with my husband? They had gone. Reading those words had not stirred even the smallest residue of memory. It was as if not only had the trip to Parliament Hill not happened, but neither had the things he told me there.
‘I remember some things,’ I said to Dr Nash. ‘Things from when I was younger, things that I remembered yesterday. They’re still there. And I can remember more details, too. But I can’t remember what we did yesterday at all. Or on Saturday. I can try to construct a picture of the scene I described in my journal, but I know it isn’t a memory. I know I’m just imagining it.’
He nodded. ‘Is there anything you remember from Saturday? Any small detail that you wrote down that you can still recall? The evening, for example?’
I thought of what I had written about going to bed. I realized I felt guilty. Guilty that, despite his kindness, I had not been able to give myself to my husband. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Nothing.’
I wondered what he might have done differently for me to want to take him in my arms, to let him love me. Flowers? Chocolates? Does he need to make romantic overtures every time he’d like to have sex, as if it were the first time? I realized how closed the avenues
of seduction are to him. He can’t even play the first song we danced to at our wedding, or recreate the meal we enjoyed the first time we ate out together, because I don’t remember what they are. And in any case, I am his wife; he should not have to seduce me as if we have only just met every time he wants us to have sex.
But is there ever a time when I let him make love to me, or perhaps, even, want to make love to him? Do I ever wake and know enough for desire to exist, unforced?
‘I don’t even remember Ben,’ I said. ‘I had no idea who he was this morning.’
He nodded. ‘You’d like to?’
I almost laughed. ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘I want to remember my past. I want to know who I am. Who I married. It’s all part of the same thing.’
‘Of course,’ he said. He paused, then leaned his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his face, as if thinking carefully about what to say, or how to say it. ‘What you’ve told me is encouraging. It suggests that the memories aren’t lost completely. The problem is not one of storage, but of access.’
I thought for a moment, then said, ‘You mean my memories are there, I just can’t get to them?’
He smiled. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
I felt frustrated. Eager. ‘So how do I remember more?’
He leaned back and looked in the file in front of him. ‘Last week,’ he said, ‘on the day I gave you your journal, did you write that I showed you a picture of your childhood home? I gave it to you, I think.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did.’
‘You seemed to remember much more, having seen that photo, than when I asked you about the place where you used to live without showing you a picture of it first.’ He paused. ‘Which, again, isn’t surprising. But I’d like to see what happens if I show you pictures from the period you definitely don’t remember. I want to see if anything comes back to you then.’
