by Naomi Jacobs
This time he laughed. ‘A brain tumour? I don’t think so. In fact, Ms Jacobs, I think this is all in your imagination and I think you need to go home, have a nice cup of tea, and get some rest.’
Was this guy serious? I stared at him. According to this smeg for brains of a doctor sitting in front of me, waking up and still being fifteen years old, when I clearly wasn’t, was all in my imagination and all’s I needed to fix it was a cup of tea? I sat and stared at him until the tears filled my eyes and distorted his yellow face. He stared back defiantly.
I blinked away the tears. ‘But I can’t remember the last seventeen years. I . . . I don’t know how I got here.’
‘Well, you said you woke up here the other morning.’
‘Yeah.’ I was giving face now, full of serious attitude; I so needed to chip.
‘So you have been here all along.’
‘Yes, I know THAT! But I don’t remember being here. This is what I’m trying to say to you!’
‘Yes, well, like I said before . . .’ He sighed and rubbed his large Tefal scientist Homer Simpson fod19. ‘You just need to go home and rest and I’m sure things will go back to normal soon. Do you need more sleeping tablets?’
‘What?’ My face started to burn.
‘I see by your notes you take sleeping tablets.’
I wanted to dive out of my chair across the desk, grab his big slaphead and shake it into the reality of the living hell I was experiencing.
‘I don’t, no, I don’t.’
‘Well, it says here, your last prescription was for sleeping tablets.’ He pressed a button on his computer keypad and the grey printer next to his desk began to whir.
‘You need a good night’s sleep and some rest.’
The printer spewed out a green prescription, which he quickly signed and handed to me. I stared at him for a moment longer, not knowing what to do. He stuck out the paper further, indicating for me to take it from his hands.
I grabbed the prescription from him and stood up. I wiped my face. ‘This is so stale,’ I mumbled.
‘You’re welcome.’ He gave me a fake smile.
I stormed out of the room into the waiting room and marched up to the receptionist’s desk. Simone stood up, her smile quickly fading when she noticed the pissed-off look on my face.
‘Can I help you?’ the blonde-haired woman asked me from behind the glass partition.
‘Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me which doctor I usually see?’
She sighed, shook her head and turned to her computer.
‘What’s your name?’
I told her. She read the screen for a few seconds and then turned to me.
‘You normally see Doctor Rahman, but he’s away on annual leave.’
‘When will he be back?’ I asked her.
Simone put her hand on my back and rubbed it softly.
‘Two weeks’ time,’ she replied. Anticipating my next question, she added, ‘But you can’t make an appointment to see him until he’s here.’
‘Fine, thank you.’ I turned from the desk and walked straight out of the building.
Simone followed me into the car park. ‘Are you okay, babe?’
I shook my head. As soon as the cool air hit me, a large barrel of shame churned inside my stomach, mixing it with fear and producing anger.
‘He said I was imagining it and all’s I needed was a good night’s sleep.’
‘What the . . .’ She quickened her step and caught up with me. ‘What shall we do, babe?’ She looked scared.
I burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to go to hospital, Sim.’
She put her arm around my shoulder and walked me to the car. ‘I know, chica, I know. We can go back in and demand an answer.’
‘No, he’s not my doctor. He’s a smeghead, a pecker neck. What does he know?’
We stood outside the car and I took a big gulp of air. ‘Has this happened to me before, Sim?’ I sobbed.
‘What? No, I don’t think so, but, Nay, you have been through some serious stuff at times, stuff that’s really stressed you out.’
I wiped my eyes and opened the car door. ‘Well, whether that knobhead believes me or not, I know what to do.’
‘What?’
‘Stop stressing for a start and I just need some time. Two weeks, until my doctor gets back. Let me see him first and if nothing’s changed, I’ll ask him to send me straight to hospital, straight to a brain doctor.’
‘Okay, babe. Well, whatever you need, Nay, I’m here for you, okay?’ She smiled and gave me a hug. ‘We’ll get through this.’
I hiccupped a last sob into her arms and swallowed down the fear.
I had been hoping the appointment would have solved this amnesia problem and somehow helped the memories come back, as they eventually did for the student with transient global anaemia. But it didn’t. If anything, it made things ten times worse. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe it was in my imagination. Maybe I would just fall asleep and wake up back in 1992 like I originally thought. Maybe I was just going crazy – the thirty-two-year-old me had lost her mind and my fifteen-year-old self had replaced her. Or maybe I had a mental illness. Maybe I was schizophrenic. I felt sick. Whatever was happening, I didn’t want anyone in Adult Naomi’s life to know, least of all my parents. So far I’d managed not to involve them, but if I went to hospital they would have to be told.
Simone was there for me. I knew that she would totally do anything I asked. But I felt really alone and under pressure to sort things out. I knew the problem wasn’t in my imagination, but I figured if it was in my brain then it was in my mind, and although I couldn’t do anything about my brain, I could do something about my mind.
On the way back to that small house on that tree-lined street, I knew it was time. Time for me – fifteen-year-old Nay – to truly find a way into Adult Naomi’s house. The house I had seen that night in my mind, just before I fell asleep. The house I thought about every time I searched for a memory. Maybe I would be able to find her and she would be able to help me. I knew that the memories were hidden somewhere inside of me and, if I was brave enough, I might somehow find them and make things better. I could fix what was broken and change everything. This, I hoped, would be the fuel needed to propel my time-travelling arse back to the year 1992 and create the space needed for Adult Naomi to come back.
I wrestled all night with my conscience. The responsibility I felt for finding Adult Naomi grew with each passing hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I couldn’t help but turn to the house and stare as hard as I could at it. I felt like I needed to get in now, but I knew the door was locked and I was scared. What if I couldn’t get in ever? What if I did and she wasn’t there? The urgent need for me to gain access would increase but then I’d find myself fighting my insistence to know, telling myself it wasn’t my business and that everything would go back to normal soon.
But where was I to go? I couldn’t remember anything and I knew I wouldn’t be able to survive on automatic memory alone. Nobody was gonna help me. There was no magic pill or potion I could take to make me shrink small enough to climb through a window and gain access to the house.
But there had to be a way in.
Eventually, I turned over and as I was falling asleep, I decided to give up and go to the hospital the next day.
That night I dreamt of butterflies – well, one butterfly in particular. I couldn’t tell what kind of butterfly it was but it felt familiar. It lay in front of me while I was walking with someone, a faceless person, but someone I had a feeling I knew. We were on a deserted beach. The butterfly was injured; there were small pools of water and drops of blood surrounding it, and I kept thinking, If I don’t help it, it will drown. I couldn’t see or tell where it was hurt. I just knew I had to get it home and clean it, so I picked it up and put it into my pocket. The person with me told me not to put it there in case it couldn’t breathe, but I knew it would be safe with me. And then a massive wave rushed up from the sea and washed over
everything, taking us with it.
Sack it, I thought as I woke up the next morning. I know the problem and I’m gonna apply the solution; I’m not some dumb kid. I mean, when I was nine, my teacher told my mum I was three years above my reading age and whenever anything needs figuring out in our house everyone always says ‘Our Nay will do it’, so yeah, I’m gonna figure it out.
With this weird feeling that it was somehow my responsibility to help Adult Naomi, I decided I was going to get the memories back, and would begin by reading all of the journals she had left behind, twenty years’ of diaries to be exact. Simone was going to stay with me until she was convinced I could cope with Leo and the day-to-day running of the house. I knew it wouldn’t be hard; the house was small and clean and I had babysat for kids since the age of twelve, so I was used to it, and Leo felt like the little brother I had never had.
Although I was eager to meet the brother I did have, JJ, we decided Simone would take over communication with the outside world for me, while I took the time to find Adult Naomi. How hard could it be? I didn’t have a job, I didn’t wanna drive, even though I could remember how to. The exams were weeks away, and by that time she would be back and able to deal with them. In the meantime, until I could get to see her real doctor or wake up back in 1992, I would forget the future world and instead delve into Adult Naomi’s world, with the help of her diaries.
My sister had gone to work and Leo was at school. Apart from the odd car driving past, the street had grown quiet, leaving me in solitude. I was kinda nervous, but intrigued. I wanted to know, what could have possibly happened to her, to me, to us?
I began with the last one written the night before I had woken up in the future, to see what it could tell me.
I took a deep breath.
1.37 a.m. 17 April 2008
I jogged today, only to the corner shop, but I jogged and it was nice. It’s different jogging in the street rather than at the gym. You feel like you’re getting somewhere. I might try the park tomorrow. I want to start running again; figure I can’t run from here, I can’t run from the past, but jogging is as good as it gets, plus it’ll help me quit smoking, keep me fit and keep my mind clear for my exams. Maybe I’ll run myself to sleep ☺. It’s been an emotional day. I’m exhausted.
Maybe I’m not ready to let go just yet. I know I need to and I will – I want to – but I feel these exams, writing all of these exams, is part of the process. Part of the process of finally letting go of the past, writing about the past, living in the past. And maybe I can start to live in the present, looking to the future. I need a new beginning. Yes, maybe my new beginning will be creating a life without the past getting involved! The power of yesterday, hey? Except I know, as Tolle says, the power of Now is even more powerful. I just wish I understood that. Still, I’m glad I honoured how I felt today and was honest with Katie. I needed to just let go and cry it all out, you know?
I kind of freaked out when I realized I hadn’t done anything for anybody for a whole week (apart from Leo). It felt really selfish. I didn’t want to say anything because I was afraid of looking bad, afraid of what Caroline would think of me. Why? Isn’t it about time? She, with her belief in self-empowerment, would approve. She was the one who told me in front of the class that I had to learn how to say NO! Isn’t this a new beginning for me? Afresh start. I will cleanse my body of the past, I will . . .
What the smeg? What the frick was self-empowerment? And why did she need to take a class? And why couldn’t she tell people no? I couldn’t believe she was afraid of what other people thought of her. At least she was exercising and had vowed to quit smoking – as long as I had control of Adult Naomi’s body she wouldn’t start again.
I read the remainder of the entry and questioned every word written.
I know Henri is part of me letting go. Okay, so I did, I did visualize us being in each other’s future and I’ve never done that before, but at least I know I can do it now. I can be with a man and plan a future. I keep thinking of the dream I had about that gorgeous tall man I met on holiday. It wasn’t Henri, though, which I’m a bit gutted about. But maybe Henri was my preparation, my stepping stone. And as the saying goes, All my mistakes are stepping stones to my success. I mean, I know I was meant to meet him, and now I know I needed to be rescued by a man who looked and smoked like my dad, which is so Freudian. I finally got what I had wanted since I was a child. Got what I had been waiting for. I got what I wanted, the man to come and rescue me and kiss the boo boo, make the pain go away, and you know what, he did and the boo boo was still there. I think I am the only one that can make it feel better and kiss it. Me, myself and I! I think! Can I? Anyway, I listened to my inner child and took her advice, watched P.S. I Love You – ha-ha-ha funny (although Gerald Butler’s Irish accent is awful and you just can’t do that to one of the sexiest accents on the planet). I laughed, I cried, ultimately . . . I kissed my boo boo . . .
Okay, stop. What the bloody hell was the boo boo? And who was this inner child? I put the diary down and it sat open on the bed, silent. No answer to my questions other than, If you wanna know, Nay, read some more. So I took a deep breath, picked the book up, and stared at the black writing scrawled across the pages. I told myself I could handle it. It wasn’t my life and I could deal.
I was sooooo not prepared for what came next.
I’m aware that the dream is me doing my best to repel Henri (Dad 1) and am looking for a secure attachment to future possible boyfriend (Dad 2). Unless I have come full circle again in the realization that I can and will meet my two dads in one man!
Okay, I thought. So, firstly, what’s with the American sitcom crap about My Two Dads? And secondly, why the smeg would I want to end up with a man like my dads? I mean, they are cool and everything, but I kinda know that I am not gonna be with a man like either of them for various reasons FULL STOP!
When I read my future husband checklist . . .
Oh Jeez!
. . . I embody most of those qualities, things like sensitive and caring, a good listener, and I’ve been told I’m strong, and I know if he ticks all the boxes or comes close to embodying most if not all of those qualities, then he’s the one for me.
But why?
Let me peruse them for a moment . . . Henri got nineteen out of thirty. I gave him ‘has lovely hair’ because judging by his old pictures, he did have lovely hair and I did like touching his bald head a lot.
Oh dear God. I breathed in hard. I think I’m gonna hurl!
He has ten of Dad 1 and nine of Dad 2. Well, I suppose what is true is that one stuck around and one ran away.
What? Wait! What? My stepdad ran away?
I put the diary down and picked up the phone. Simone answered after the second ring. ‘What’s up, sis? Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, I just . . . Sim, did Joe run away?’ I had assumed Joe (Joseph), my stepfather, was still around somewhere, maybe even in London, where apparently Evelyn (my mum) lived.
‘Nay, I can’t really talk right now. I’m at work.’ She sounded tense.
‘I know . . . you don’t have to tell me what happened. Just answer yes or no.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow! So, like, he’s still in our life, right? Does he visit or do we go and see him?’
‘Nay, seriously, we can talk about this when I come up after work.’
Why was she being so cryptic? It was a simple question that required a simple yes or no answer. ‘Sim, just quickly tell me.’
She whispered into the phone. ‘You haven’t seen him since you were eighteen. He disappeared nearly fifteen years ago and no one has seen him since. Some people think he’s dead; others say he faked his own death, stole millions, and changed his identity. Maybe it wasn’t just weed he was selling, and in the end he got caught up in the serious drug world and it killed him? Who knows, sis? Bottom line is, he left.’
I laughed. Simone didn’t.
‘I’ve got to go; we’ll talk about it when I come up.’
And with that, she hung up her phone and left me standing staring at the floor, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. The words you haven’t seen him since you were eighteen echoed in my ears. I shook them out of my head and came up for air. They were immediately replaced with disappeared nearly fifteen years ago. Why? And my mind screamed, where the bloody hell is he?
I sat back down on the bed in shock and stared at the different journals scattered across the floor. They would tell me and, if I read on, I knew I would eventually find the answers to all of my questions. So I placed the phone on the table next to the bed, picked up the journal, and lay down.
I think I’ve just figured out why my inner child was so attached to Henri. Have I really got to make a choice and stick to it? Joseph or Art? If I was a little girl and I had to choose, I would’ve run to my dad, no question. If I was a teenager and had a choice I would have run to Joseph and I did . . .
I did?
. . . Yes, okay, it was for money! But I still turned to him. In the end, though, when I was a teenager I ran back to my dad; if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have survived everything that happened and I wouldn’t be here today and, well, when I was in the hostel . . .
I was in a hostel?
I ran to my dad again and that Christmas with him and JJ and Leo was lovely, even though I wasn’t talking to Simone; it was greatly needed! But then why did I dream about that tall guy if I am so in love with Henri and why did I start taking coke again?
Hold up, wait a minute, rewind, come again? I did what? Did I read right? Did she write right? She started taking coke again? As in cocaine? As in blow? As in powder? As in that crap Danniella Westbrook from EastEnders shoved up her nose until it caved in?! I was horrified, mortified, disappointed, and dumbfounded all in one big ball of disbelief.
Yes, maybe because I realized that my dad couldn’t give me what I needed emotionally. No, maybe I realized or felt I couldn’t get through university homeless anyway! But in essence, being there did give me something I needed because I got through my dissertation, cocaine and all! So back to the original question, do I really have to make a choice about which one was the better dad and hope he embodies most of the qualities of that dad or, like the relationship book says, the qualities of the one who stuck around, the one who was reliable, the one who was dependable? Which of course has been Art. Well, whatever the answer, there was creativity in both of them, whether it was music or painting; there is no creativity in Henri – I mean, of course there is; there is in everybody, he just hasn’t found it yet – and that is the most important quality to possess. I mean, that he must own. Creativity! Yes. Am I creative, though? Oh, who knows!
