What Was Lost

by Jean Levy

  Episode Fifteen

  The local newsagent opened at seven-thirty. I prepared myself over breakfast and then nipped along there just after eight, stepped inside, nodded to the grubby man behind the counter and politely avoided his two even grubbier customers, one of whom, I noticed, had a poorly-executed dragon tattooed around his neck. The three men were perusing headlines and exchanging obscenities about some sport or other. I walked nonchalantly over to the rack and snatched up this week’s issue of the magazine from the hospital concourse. Then I checked that the three men were otherwise engaged before scanning the wealth of periodicals that were unashamedly dedicated to illustrating people having sex. These were desperate times. I needed urgent tuition. I selected the three magazines with the least harrowing cover illustrations, tucked them under the hospital mag and ventured over to pay. The shopkeeper scanned the top magazine while maintaining his sporting dialogue. When he came to the first of the sex magazines he snorted and held it up for all to see. There was grunting amusement. ‘You just checking out your rates for a blow job, love?’ asked the man with the dragon tattoo.

  The three men continued to grunt. But I needed those magazines, so I waited for the laughter to subside then took out my purse, rooted around in the various compartments and then confessed that I only had a twenty-pound note.

  ‘You’ve not been charging enough, sweetheart!’ said dragon-tattoo man.

  I ignored him and handed over the note. ‘Do you have a bag?’ I asked.

  I couldn’t understand why everything I said caused them to snort.

  Back in the privacy of my flat, I spent the morning browsing through a vast collection of photos of naked men and women. I remember being quite overwhelmed by the way the images made me feel. I realised it was probably not appropriate for me to be feeling that way during Mrs Parkin’s visit, so I squashed the magazines into the CD box in the cupboard and hurried to the kitchen to prepare the tray.

  After handing over a packet of custard creams, Mrs Parkin was quick to inform me that the doctors had advised against reducing our counselling sessions.

  ‘You must remind yourself, Sarah, that this new confidence has not yet managed to re-establish two decades of your memories. So, slow, slow, that’s what we want, don’t we?’

  She pulled out a chair and sat down. She was looking insufferably pleased with herself and I found myself wondering whether Mrs Parkin had ever had sex like the women on page forty-six; the very thought of it caused me to snort like dragon man. Mrs Parkin was barely able to disguise her indignation:

  ‘Have I said something to amuse you, Sarah?’ she snapped.

  ‘No, Mrs Parkin. I was thinking about something completely different. I’ve just finished my first whole story.’

  ‘You’ve written a whole story?’

  ‘Yes, about cooking apples.’

  *

  Straight after midday, I watched my beneficent counsellor walk off towards the house where no one lived. Then I closed the door and hurried to my desk to re-read Matthew’s edits. Perhaps make a start on some illustrations. As I opened the blind to invite in enough light for sketching, I caught sight of Mrs Parkin walking back from her car. I watched her approach but, just the other side of Miss Lewis’s house, she disappeared down the side alley that Miss Lewis shared with the house being renovated. I ran to the far side of my desk to get a better view of the pavement outside, pulled my desk chair round and kept vigil. Eventually, after about twenty minutes, Mrs Parkin emerged from the alley. I ducked down and stayed perfectly still and, when I looked up, there was an empty space where Mrs Parkin’s car had been. Was Miss Lewis also being visited by a social worker? No, that wasn’t likely. There could be only one explanation.

  I was desperate to ask Matthew what to do, but I knew that would involve him too much in the weirdness, and I was very aware that, although he seemed to be incredibly tolerant of my unusual circumstances, there was probably a limit beyond which not even a saint could be expected to go. I would have to handle this alone. I resolved not to mention it to him. When he arrived, I would talk instead about my apple characters, Jack Laxton and Toby Pippin. So, when I opened my front door at five thirty and Matthew stepped inside, I was surprised to hear myself say, ‘Mrs Parkin went next door to Miss Lewis after she came here.’

  ‘Mrs Parkin, your counsellor?’

  ‘Yes!’ I glanced outside then closed the door.

  ‘Well, it’s probably nothing sinister. She’s probably keeping the old girl up-to-date.’

  ‘But I don’t want people talking about me behind my back.’ I watched him walk over and place his bag on the sofa. ‘Matthew, how do you know Miss Lewis is old?’

  He turned and frowned back at me. ‘Sarah, why are you asking me that? I saw her through the window. Just now.’

  I had a sudden mental image of Miss Lewis spying through her window. Ready to report back to Mrs Parkin about unacceptable visitors. ‘Was she watching?’

  ‘She was closing her curtains. I waved.’

  I threw myself onto a sofa. ‘What if she tells them about you?’

  He sat down beside me: ‘Sarah, you’re allowed to meet people.’

  ‘But they don’t want anybody telling me things.’

  ‘Telling you what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they think my mind made me forget something terrible and if anybody tells me something it doesn’t want me to know then it will erase another whole slice of my memories. I’m scared it will take away my new memories as well.’

  He closed his hand around my clenched fist. ‘God, Sarah, I don’t want you forgetting me. I’d have to start all over again. Shopping five times a day. Throwing apples.’

  I was successfully distracted. ‘You said you shopped three times a day.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.’

  I leaned against his arm. ‘So you did throw the apple?’

  ‘Yes. To introduce myself.’

  ‘To someone with a lost past.’

  ‘I don’t care about your past. I care about now!’

  ‘Even though I said I didn’t want to have sex with you?’

  ‘Well, I must admit that was a bit of a blow. But Matthew Parry can wait.’

  That made me smile. ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s never been tested.’

  I started to laugh. ‘They’ll disapprove.’

  ‘Tell them to go to Hell! Anyway, who are these people?’

  I sank back into the sofa and heaved a sigh. ‘There’s Dr Gray and Dr Williams. And Mrs Parkin. And three research associates.’

  ‘Three research associates?’

  ‘Yes. One of them is investigating my vocabulary. And one of them asks me about story-telling. I don’t know what the other one’s interested in.’

  ‘Do you … what are their names?’

  There’s Dr Clegg. And another man, I can’t remember what he’s called. And there’s a lady doctor … I don’t think they told me her name. Oh yes, Dr Brown.’

  Matthew frowned. ‘Dr Brown?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s Mrs Dickson, my cleaner, who’s really a spy.’

  Matthew leaned back beside me and said nothing.

  ‘Then there’s you. I can’t think what they’d say if they knew about all this.’

  He turned his head towards me. ‘All what? We haven’t done anything.’

  ‘But, what if …’ I pulled myself up to face him, suddenly more than ever aware of this large, after-shave-smelling, next-to-me, handsome man. I started to imagine …

  He looked apprehensive. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I could see myself reflected in his eyes, tried to imagine being one of the women on page forty-six. But I felt too thin, too trembly, too far away. I moved closer.

  Matthew looked even more apprehensive. ‘Sarah?’

  I dared to touch his thigh and felt a surge of excitement so profound that it made me weak. ‘Matthew, I want you to kiss me!’

  A smile spread
across his face. ‘I’m irresistible, aren’t I?’

  I sagged away from him. ‘Do you have to joke about everything?’

  ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’ I stroked his arm, ran my fingers down his sleeve so that my nails vibrated across the thin tweed, wished to God I’d never bought those magazines.

  He watched my hand on his arm. ‘Sarah, this is making me very nervous!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I pulled my hand away. ‘I just suddenly wanted you to kiss me. Because, when you’re with me I feel safe. And when you kissed me the other night, I didn’t care what I couldn’t remember. And …’

  I caught my breath as he pulled me towards him, grasped his sleeve, let myself collapse beneath him. I inhaled the scent of his hair, felt his mouth on my throat, his hand inside my blouse. I felt myself rise weightless beneath him, readied myself for anything … then sank back heavy and exhausted as he pulled away from me. I lay there bewildered, disappointed, angry.

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘Because I’d be taking advantage of you.’

  I sat up and pulled myself tidy. ‘What?’

  ‘Look, Sarah, I’ve no idea how much of this you can possibly know.’

  I looked at his lap. Shamelessly. ‘I know you don’t want to stop.’

  He glanced down. ‘Ignore that. It’ll go away in a minute.’

  ‘I don’t want …’

  He lifted my hand away. ‘Sarah, stop!’ He stood up and pulled me to my feet, caught my other hand as I lowered it. Shamelessly. ‘Sarah, please! You’re not ready for this!’

  I pulled away from him. Enraged. I virtually spat the words at him. ‘Why does every fucker keep telling me I’m not ready!’ I threw my hand across my mouth. I couldn’t believe what had just come out of it: ‘My granny would die if she heard me say that!’

  ‘So would your readers.’

  My only sensible option was to punch him and then march off to the kitchen.

  ‘Sarah, wait!’ He hurried after me, moving cautiously to my side. I ignored him. He watched me filling the kettle. ‘Are you angry because we didn’t have sex? I mean … Well, it’s pretty much a first for me. I don’t know how to react.’

  I nudged past him to get to the refrigerator. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to.’

  I stamped my foot. ‘I feel stupid!’

  ‘Well, don’t. I think you’re gorgeous. It’s just that …’

  ‘You don’t think I’m ready!’ I pushed back past him, snatched two mugs from the dresser, banged them onto the worktop and turned to glare at him. ‘Go and sit down!’

  He looked contrite. ‘In here?’

  ‘I don’t care, just sit!’

  He sat. ‘Sarah, if this is making you upset, I will, I mean, we can …’

  I grabbed the carton of milk and resumed glaring. ‘I don’t want to anymore. I might never want to again!’

  I placed such stress upon that last threat that the milk I was pouring arced over the mug onto the worktop. ‘Oh shit!’

  Matthew leapt up, grabbed a tea towel and caught the flow just as it was about to waterfall onto the floor.

  ‘Love, why don’t you let me make the tea … Hey, don’t be upset!’ He threw down the cloth and put his arm around me. ‘I’m so sorry. I was only trying to do … not do …’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to start swearing uncontrollably?’

  ‘What? No, it’s my fault. My mother says I’m enough to make anyone swear.’

  I was jolted from my melancholy. ‘Is your mother still alive?’

  ‘Yes. She lives in Spain. With my father.’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t have parents. My father’s untraceable and my mother’s dead.’

  Matthew took a step back. ‘Your mother died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I think it was when I was really little. I lived with my grandma.’ I was confused by his sudden concern. I had clearly upset him. All that promiscuousness and swearing. ‘Matthew, I’m so sorry I behaved like that.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. Your charming prince will make it right.’

  Episode Sixteen

  Before leaving for the hospital, I practised texting Matthew on my mobile until I was almost casual about the whole process. I intended to maintain casual during my consultation with Dr Williams. As it was, it was not Dr Williams who greeted me when I stepped into the consulting room: it was Shoumi Mustafa, wearing an expression of academic determination and no white coat. He got to his feet and extended his hand across the desk.

  ‘Good morning, how are you today, Sarah?’

  For the first time, I noticed his accent. American I thought.

  I shook his hand. Casually. ‘I’m fine.’

  He indicated for me to take the seat opposite, sat down and adjusted his cuffs. I watched him checking his notes, his hands resting on the buttons of his waistcoat. He was quite stocky and I remember thinking that he looked like a well-dressed bear. The pattern on his tie was too busy, almost threatening. I decided to avoid looking at it.

  ‘Now, Sarah, before we start let me explain. I’ve put together a few simple lexical tests: word meanings, synonyms, word associations, to see whether your language abilities have been impaired or altered in any way. We …’

  ‘But how will you know if my language has altered?’

  His look was a little too patronising. ‘We have documentation from before your incident. And, of course, your writing.’ He pushed a sheet of paper and a pencil towards me. ‘Shall we begin?’

  I scanned the page in front of me: two columns, the left-hand column a series of words. The wider, right-hand column was blank.

  ‘You’ll see a series of words on the left. What I want you to do is write a short sentence in each of the adjacent spaces to demonstrate that you know what each of the words means. If you’re not certain just put a cross. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do? Be as speedy as you can. There are other exercises.’

  I read the words in front of me. It felt like being back in school but with nobody to get better marks than me if I didn’t know the answers. I started to write.

  Apple: Sarah bit into her apple and disturbed the family of maggots living inside.

  Stair: If you stair at the sun it hurts your eyes.

  Wife: The farmer’s wife hated blind mice.

  The exercise took over fifteen minutes to complete, during which time Dr Mustafa made two phone calls, which made composing sentences difficult. I slid the finished sheet towards him. He snatched it up and replaced it with another list of words but this time I had to provide synonyms. I attempted diligence but as I racked my brain to think of an alternative to Marriage, it occurred to me to question how these exercises might recover my lost memories. Dr Mustafa was engrossed in annotating my previous test.

  ‘Why am I doing this?’

  He glanced up: ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this.’

  A brief irritation flashed across his face. ‘Sarah, we need to comprehend this kind of memory aberration and the possible effects it has had upon your cognitive processes. Your disorder does not seem to be associated with any form of physical compromise.’ He folded his arms. ‘The pattern of loss which you demonstrate has left specific memories intact while others appear to have been expunged utterly. I believe Dr Gray mentioned that your capacity for language is my particular concern? I am trying to determine any vocabulary involvement, any acquired language deficiencies, in what appears to be an involuntary suppression of memory.’ He paused with a smile as if this explanation should calm my doubts.

  I considered this useless burst of information; one phrase in particular stuck in my mind.

  ‘Do I have language deficiencies?’

  ‘Sarah, it is to answer that very question that I have devised these tests.’

  I regarded him briefly then returned to my task.<
br />
  Shoumi Mustafa left clutching my exercise sheets. Sam Clegg’s interview followed immediately after. He chatted to me about my writing and asked me if I could describe a day spent with my grandmother. Then he asked me to retell that same childhood day but to add another, imaginary, person to the story: an unexpected visitor. I imagined a crazy astronomer. Then he asked me how differently I felt about the two versions of the story. I was not too clear about his purpose although I really enjoyed his session. The third interview started not at all well. Dr Clegg held the door open. Della Brown stepped through and waited for it to close behind him. I sensed an unpleasant chemistry between them.

  ‘Hello, Sarah,’ she said, making brief eye contact. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She took her seat and flicked through her notes, her pen poised. Her hand was not that steady. ‘Just a few questions …’