Small Forgotten Moments

by Annalisa Crawford

  Nathan’s in the kitchen, clattering mugs and plates. I slide myself along the wall, toward the smell of bacon sizzling on the grill.

  “Go back to bed,” he says without turning, clipped and monotone. He’s either annoyed or tired. “I’ve called the café for you. I’ll bring your breakfast in.”

  “We don’t have the staff to cover my shift. I’ll call them back. They’ll need me in.”

  “Your boss wasn’t expecting you. He said he sent you home early yesterday?” He glances at me, expecting a reply, and I nod. “Then go back to bed.”

  I hesitate. “Is something wrong?”

  He stirs the egg in the pan vigorously. “It’s almost ready.”

  Nathan follows with our breakfasts. He drags a chair across to sit beside me. He starts to eat immediately. I push fluffy scrambled egg around the plate.

  “I had a nightmare—it’s not a big deal,” I say when his scrutiny is overbearing.

  “You were sleepwalking. You had scissors in your hand, you could have hurt yourself.”

  “Not me. Zenna was—”

  “Zenna?”

  It’s absurd—I know it is. The dream has fragmented. There was something compelling me to fight. But it’s lost now, and the more I try, the less there is to find.

  “I’ve got a virus or something, a fever. You get weird dreams with a fever, don’t you?” I shrug. Yes, yes you do, I confirm to myself. “I’ll take some paracetamol, and I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

  Remember me, Jo-Jo.

  “Jo. I—” He loads his fork with egg and smears brown sauce over the top.

  “Has this happened before?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to know. “The nightmares and stuff? Is it something to do with my amnesia? Am I going crazy?”

  “No.” He leans forward and takes my hand, earnest and sincere. My fingers are icy compared to his. “No, you’re not crazy.”

  But he ignores the other questions.

  All the answers are here—in the crevices and shadows of my brain. Perhaps I should give up the search. Yet Zenna remains, taunting me. Her eyes burrow into me, her smirk troubles me. Lurking in my closed-door memory, concealed in my past.

  “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to lash out at defenseless paintings.”

  “But you’re not telling me the truth.”

  Our fingers are still laced together, his thumb stroking my wrist as though it’s completely natural. I savor the tingle it creates. His touch is soft and familiar; the stirrings of a memory loiter, unrealized.

  I pull away abruptly, flustered.

  He withdraws more slowly, scratching his fingers across the duvet reluctantly. “I guess I should … I’m working here today, so just shout if you need me.”

  My gaze is firmly on my plate, trying to control my erratic breathing. “I will.”

  He closes the door behind him, and I inhale quickly and cough.

  No, no, no. That shouldn’t have … What the hell? It’s Nathan … Nathe. We don’t do that. Friends. Flatmates. It’s all we are, all we want. We don’t need anything else, we’re happy.

  People sometimes question our relationship, and we’re always quick to point out it’s not like that. But perhaps he wants it to be. Perhaps I’m quick to deny it, and he stays quiet.

  I pick at the congealing egg, and then discard the plate on the floor. The pillow is rock-hard when my head hits it; the room sways as though I’m on a swing, gently pushing myself back and forth. I’m consoled into somnolence by the thump-thump of Nathan’s computer keyboard. I don’t ever want him not to be in the room next door, but one day it’ll happen, won’t it? One day, he’ll find someone to love and he’ll move on with his life. And I’ll be here, anchorless.

  When Zenna appeared beneath my paintbrush, months ago, she wasn’t fully formed.

  Only, I can’t think of it as months anymore, can I? She’s been leaching into my work for years.

  So, when she appeared this time, before the portraits and discernible faces which I’d considered her origin, she wasn’t fully re-formed. How could I have forgotten? I’d been painting a crowd scene, drenching my elongated Lowry-esque figures with rainbow tints. Bright and abstract.

  From the left of the picture, a dark apparition loomed toward them. I checked my palette, convinced I hadn’t even opened the black tube. And there it was, beside all the other colors.

  “Where did you come from, eh?” I muttered, dabbing the wet paint. I wiped the black smudge on the tip of my finger across my painting shirt.

  This presence, like a ghost sneaking in, dominated the picture; sinister and hostile in place of the fresh and lively scene I’d intended. With the Cerulean Blue, I attempted to paint over it, dappling the brush over the canvas to erase her, smearing long, dense lines. The shape was veiled but not hidden. As the paint dried, the shadowy figure re-emerged.

  I crane my neck to hunt for her, in tattered pieces on the floor, where I left her, but she’s gone. Nathan must have tidied up after he settled me back down last night. The scissors aren’t here, either. A few chips of red paint on the carpet are the only signs of anything amiss.

  In the corner of the room, my old sketchpads are piled on top of each other. I don’t throw them away or store them in boxes; they remain in sight, my memoirs in pencil or pastel. My attempt to connect with who I was before. A diary, I suppose, in picture form.

  I don’t often open them, scared of what I might find. There must be a good reason for my brain to block out my memories—an event too shocking to bear, or an accident I’ll never fully recover from. It’s bravado when I tell myself I need to know—I have a habit of running away when the opportunity presents itself. The sketchpads are in full sight, but I never touch them.

  What if they are the key, and I’ve been ignoring them all this time? What if, in them, my secrets are revealed?

  I crawl over and wipe the woven layer of dust from the cover of the top book, lifting it to breathe in the warm, musty odor of old paper. The pages are crisp and yellow; when I flick through them, they produce a mellifluous sound. The book contains doodles of diners in coffee shops, buskers on street corners, shoppers and commuters, the joy on people’s faces during a carnival, the despondency of an old man waiting for a bus. For some reason, dogs were a fascination for a while—their noses, paws, ears all being worked on and perfected.

  There are likenesses of myself and my mother—or the vague concept I had of her at the time. She changes quite remarkably across the pages. I can’t be sure if it’s really her, if they were drawn before or after whatever calamity overcame me.

  And Zenna, interwoven among us until it’s hard to distinguish who’s who. My fingers run over the sketches, following the indentations and bumps of Zenna’s face. Subsequent books are packed full of her, unchanging. Page after page after page.

  My eyes glaze over, my vertigo and nausea return. I lie down and Zenna’s face is etched on the inside of my eyelids; her voice is strong and insistent.

  Remember me!

  I wish I could.

  TEN

  The sun sets and rises. Nathan works from home again. He cooks and sits beside me to eat—he says I need proper food, not the stuff I normally concoct for myself. He regards me with an unfathomable expression, as if about to say something, then smiles briefly and makes inane comments about the weather.

  On Tuesday or Wednesday—I’m losing track of the days, they slither so easily into each other—Spencer texts to tell me my interview has been published, and Nathan rushes out to buy the paper. I’d forgotten all about it; I’m not sure I want to read it. But he flicks through and finds the right page, presenting it with a flourish. I’m confronted by a palm-sized photo of me beside Zenna in the Sea, and a headline which reads: Personal and Raw, Inscrutable Imagery.

  I cover the photo with my hand. “Oh God, it’s awful.”

  “No, it’s lovely.” Nathan sits on the edge of the bed and moves my hand from the page so he can read while I’m still
cringing.

  Spencer makes me sound fun and enchanting, graciously focusing on the exhibition rather than my memory loss. He reviews the paintings—he’d taken more notice than I assumed—and spends a couple of paragraphs reminiscing on the young adult he knew, which sounds vaguely like an obituary.

  Nathan jabs his finger at the page. “He was at uni with us?”

  “Yes. He said we were together for a bit. Do you know anything about that? I was at a disadvantage.”

  “Mmm, maybe. Before I knew you properly, perhaps. I don’t remember him.” He bristles slightly and continues to read with a pout. “Still, it’s a good write-up. Well done.” He kisses the top of my head.

  Further down the page, Spencer writes, “The collection is raw and personal, an insight into a trauma either real or conceived by the artist.”

  Despite being submerged, Zenna is calm and composed in the title painting; very much untraumatized. Her smile is measured, her expression aloof. No one studying her would spot trauma of any kind—they’d see beauty and bewitchment, and be as overwhelmed by her as I am. Even in print, she beckons me, enticing me toward her.

  Nathan removes the newspaper and folds it. “That’s enough for today—I don’t want you to get big-headed. If you’re good, I’ll let you read it again tomorrow. Or cut it out and frame it,” he adds with a wink.

  It takes a second to bring myself back. I smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

  ***

  As my dizziness retreats, I make it as far as the sofa. Nathan makes a nest with my duvet, and I snuggle into it while he cooks. Occasionally he calls through or pops his head around the door. I doze, letting these homely sounds filter through, jolting myself awake before any dream can take hold.

  The voice is a wave of water, or a crowd all murmuring together. Nathan disappears; the flat splits wide open until I’m floating in a bubble high above London. The sound increases, and I cover my ears to block it out. I squeeze my eyes shut, scrunching my face, and when I open them, I’m in my duvet on the sofa and Nathan’s dishing up in the kitchen.

  We eat dinner on our laps, with a bottle of wine.

  “So, you’re all set for going back to work? Another day or two, just to make sure?”

  “Actually, you know I mentioned visiting Mum? I was thinking I’d take a few days’ leave and go now.” I haven’t been thinking anything of the sort. I try to bite back my words, even as they’re spilling from my mouth.

  “Are you up to the journey?”

  “I’m fine.” It’s a faint vibration, hardly noticeable—just the whisper, the persistent voice in my ear.

  His mouth twitches, but he says nothing.

  “I just need to get away for a bit.” I have to justify it, make it seem planned yet casual. Although why do I? Why do I need to explain myself to my flatmate, my friend? I wouldn’t have this conversation with Lily. I’d say I’m going to see my mum for a few days, and she’d wish me a good trip.

  “You don’t need to go there to get away. Surely,” he adds after a beat.

  I sip wine and savor the taste for a second. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  “It’s … out of the blue. You don’t mention your mum much, and suddenly you want to spend all this time with her.”

  “It’s not all this time. It’s a day or two.” Forkful of lasagna, sip of wine. “I’m starting to wonder if my nightmares are linked to home.”

  “I thought you’d only had a couple.”

  I shrug. “Mum’s in them, that’s why it’s important I go. And you’re in them. And … so’s Zenna.”

  “Oh.”

  “It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

  He smirks. “Yes.”

  “It’s like she’s stalking me, or worse—haunting me.” I let out a short hollow laugh. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “No.”

  From the corner of the room, eyes watch me and my skin crawls.

  “No, me neither.” I push the remainder of my dinner around the plate and crunch into a fragment of crispy burned cheese. “A few days in Cornwall, fresh sea air, a proper pasty … I’ll be back to normal in no time.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal about this.”

  “Because you want answers and there might not be any.”

  “There’s a reason I lost my memory. I might find out what it is.”

  “What if the memories aren’t all good ones? You might be trying to protect yourself from something bad.”

  I shake my head vehemently. “It wouldn’t matter. You don’t understand what it’s like to live with chunks of yourself missing. Even if it is bad”—I take a deep breath because the realization is unexpected—“I need to know. Everything we are comes from the things we experience. Without them, I’m a blank page.”

  I think of my sketchbooks on the floor in my bedroom, dated for every single one of the last fifteen years. So much in them I don’t recognize. I drain my glass and top it up, pouring until the liquid clings to the rim.

  “There’s a reason I don’t have friends or relationships—I can’t. Because I’m not a whole person. I’m not complete.” I don’t mean to cry, but tears run down my cheeks.

  “You have me,” he says softly.

  “I know, but …” I exhale, reconsidering everything I was so sure of a minute ago.

  “Perhaps we should check out some local support groups. There must be an Amnesiacs Anonymous somewhere?”

  “I don’t want a support group. I want to go home.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t get hurt.”

  He considers me carefully, considers his words. “You don’t know what you’ll discover.”

  “You’re talking like you do.”

  “Fine.” He gets up and snatches my plate from my lap. “It’s nothing to do with me. If you want to go on this quest …”

  “Quest?” I scoff. “I’m not hunting dragons.”

  “You might as well be,” he mutters, turning to the door.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He scowls. “Nothing. It means nothing.” And without another word, he takes the plates to the kitchen and disappears into his room.

  ELEVEN

  I’m in front of a canvas far larger than anything I’ve attempted before. It stretches as high as a house, as wide as several double-decker buses end-to-end. Jumping to reach the top of it is pointless—I need a ladder. But suddenly, I don’t, because I’m being lifted.

  Zenna, again. She’s blowing gently, and I’m gliding on the breeze she’s creating. I hover like a kestrel, before recoiling in panic at the height I’ve achieved. She withdraws her breath and I plummet to the ground.

  Her hand breaks free of the giant canvas; the paint cracks and flakes onto the floor. She’s fascinated by her fingers branching into the real world. She wasn’t expecting to be released from the confines of her acrylic prison—an arrogant smirk creeps across her face. She holds out her other arm and pushes her head through. Her shoulders follow. She slides from the painted version of herself as though being born.

  There’s a spotlight on us, casting eerie shadows across our faces. I hunt for the source, but, as with all nightmares, logic is diminished and there is none. My heart beats erratically, fearful of her, but without reason. She’s mine—my creation, mine to control.

  Her eyes flash with malice, so brief I discount it immediately. Just as quickly, she shrinks until she’s only slightly taller than me. She folds me into her arms and strokes my hair. Such a tender maternal touch. I relax into her torso and rest my head against her chest. I knew you’d find me. Then she’s gone.

  I’m alone, bobbing on a stagnant ocean, stricken with foreboding.

  The flat is dark and cold. My arm’s gone dead, hanging off the edge of my bed. I try to cling to the dream, but it’s already disintegrating. I extract myself from the duvet and rub my arm vigor
ously, enduring the agony of the blood returning.

  Outside, the street is dormant. A lone cat skips from one shadow to the next; a taxi speeds past. Wind bristles through the magnolia tree in our front garden. My unease slowly subsides, but the image of Zenna remains with me. Her eyes … there was something ruthless in them, something I’ve never painted nor envisaged.

  Before the hug, I was ready to flee.

  ***

  Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen with a stuffed bag slung over my shoulder. I consider the melodrama of sneaking away overnight, then scribble a note for Nathan and prop it against the kettle.

  The irregular hum of the North Circular hangs on the frosty air. My footsteps echo around the street, bouncing off the two-story houses. The light’s on next door; the shadow of a baby being rocked in its parent’s arms ripples on the curtains—newborn, brought home a few days ago.

  I throw my bag into the boot of the car and slide into the driver’s seat. Deep breath. Count slowly from ten to one—like Nathan taught me. Our windows are in darkness. I forgot to close the curtains so I can make out the line of the chimney breast and the edge of the TV. This is all wrong—I should wait until morning, talk to Nathan, to Lily. I should ask for other opinions.

  Is this what I normally do, run away when life becomes difficult? Is it what I did before? Did I run away from my mother in Cornwall all those years ago?

  The house disappears in the rear-view mirror. I turn left and head for the M4. The roads are busier than I’d expected—huge lorries delivering freight to supermarkets and cars transporting lone, weary workers to or from their nightshifts.

  Clear of the city, the monotony of the motorway is soporific; the rhythm of the tarmac beneath my wheels is a lullaby. My eyes droop even though I’ve been on the road less than an hour. It was stupid to leave immediately—I should have waited until Nathan left for work. The hodgepodge of songs on Absolute Radio revives me until I can turn off at the next services.