The Memory Trap

by Andrea Goldsmith

  All at once he realised how much he wanted to be at the cottage. When he chose the rented van it was because he had needed to escape, and the cottage would have been far too noisy with memories. But now he wanted his house at the coast, and, in much the same way that Beth didn’t want to visit the ocean alone, he was glad to be going with her.

  His van life was over. Early that afternoon he and Beth returned the vehicle to the hire company and after a quick trip to the supermarket, they set off for the coast. It was Beth’s car and she drove.

  ‘I probably would have suggested I drive even if we were in your car,’ she said. ‘I’m a shocking passenger.’

  Elliot couldn’t say what sort of passenger he was, it had been so long since anyone had driven him. Although he did ask about Scott.

  Beth laughed. ‘As shocking a passenger as I am, he was a far worse driver. Once his male vanity allowed him to admit it – fortunately quite early in our marriage – I always drove.’

  She was a good driver, confident and deft, Elliot settled back to enjoy the ride. It was a Tuesday, and warm weather notwithstanding, the traffic was light. Beth directed him to a container of CDs. In his car, the music library had been synced with the wireless system, including an option that predicted what he might want to hear based on his past selections. He found himself enjoying the old-fashioned way of choosing music.

  ‘Your selection is truly classic,’ he said. ‘My kind of music.’

  The albums were Scott’s. ‘He never moved on from the music of his youth.’

  There were Beatles, old Rolling Stones, The Animals, Creedence, Bowie, AC/DC, Blondie, Led Zeppelin. And folk too: Simon and Garfunkel, early Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell.

  ‘Music as nostalgia?’ he asked. ‘Is this what we have here? Transport to the lost days of youth?’

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘Scott definitely wasn’t the nostalgic kind. Too much of the scientist for that. And besides, he always found plenty to occupy him in the present. Music for him was either pure enjoyment or a trigger for thought, for work.’

  As someone who needed absolute silence when he worked, this piqued his interest.

  ‘Scott’s work was theoretical,’ she continued, ‘and it seemed that music – he called it the great intangible – propelled him deep into the realms of abstraction. It tickled his fancy that Jagger not getting any satisfaction and Clapton riding his orgasmic riffs were behind his best work.’

  It was so different for Elliot. Music was an extension of his emotions, and goodness knows what fictions his biographies might have become if he had worked with music playing. He actually had a special Zoe playlist containing all the music he associated with their early days. A music monument it now occurred to him, and he wondered what Nina would say about that.

  He slipped Joni Mitchell’s Blue into the CD player and the pure leaping voice filled the car. He settled back and watched the passing scenery. Neither he nor Beth felt any need to talk but every now and then he glanced at her, and at the first sight of the ocean he stretched out his arm and rested it across her shoulders. She smiled, said nothing, did not shake him off. He was reminded of that old film, Same Time Next Year, when Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn meet as lovers for a weekend each year. It was a liaison that concerned no one but themselves. Of course Alan and Ellen had more than twenty-five separate meetings while he and Beth had only this one. Although why did they need to put limits on it? A connection that had been a blessing and a gift to them both, why did they need to bring it to an end?

  They arrived at the cottage with hours of daylight left, unpacked and made their way to the beach. There was a glassy swell and the surfers were out in force. People and dogs were walking along the sand. With Adelaide bounding in the shallows, Beth and Elliot strolled together at the water’s edge.

  ‘If only life could always be like this,’ Elliot said at last.

  Beth shook her head. ‘No, not always. Remember – this is our moment of reprieve.’

  Elliot tugged on her arm. The two of them stood facing each other in the shallows.

  ‘I’ve lacked courage in my life,’ he began.

  She looked surprised. ‘I think you’ve demonstrated huge strength. You gave up alcohol, you’ve stuck with your marriage.’

  ‘I’ve lacked courage,’ he said again. ‘And you can stay in a marriage out of weakness. I never thought I could leave Zoe, but if you –’

  She stopped him, stopped the statement he might later regret. ‘We met at exactly the right moment,’ she said. ‘It was always finite. And soon, very soon, you’ll decide your future, with or without Zoe.’

  She allowed a long silence to absorb these words before continuing. ‘I can’t imagine ever being with someone else. Living with them, being married to them. But if it were to happen, it won’t be for a long time. For a start I’d have to loosen my grip on Scotty.’ She smiled. ‘And I don’t want to, not yet.’

  ‘So friends? We can be friends?’

  ‘I’m not short on friends, and I expect you’re not either. Let’s just enjoy these few days as we’ve enjoyed the last few weeks. It’ll happen soon enough that we have to return to the real world.’

  His mind had always taken him away from the present, either to better versions, or in the case of dull Peoria, to places quite different, or with his biographies into other lives, or when it came to his wife to a far more promising past. But now he made the effort; he didn’t want to miss a moment of this time with Beth.

  And so they embarked on their one and only holiday. Meals and beach walks together, swimming together, shopping and cooking together, talking and not talking together. And during unguarded moments when his mind skidded into the future, he felt his reluctance to turn his back on this relationship. It was ideal, it was perfect.

  2.

  Once she realised that Elliot had not escaped to New York, Zoe had guessed where he was hiding out. He loved the beach cottage, and he loved the ocean. Born landlocked in the middle of America, Elliot was eight years old before he saw the sea; the ocean would always mean separation – escape – from the normal run of things. And now that she was able to look clearly at these past many weeks, see them as an outsider rather than one caught in the currents, it was obvious to her why he needed to escape.

  She had arranged to take the Friday off work, family exigencies, she explained to her section head, and not far from the truth. She was tempted to drive down to the cottage in Elliot’s car, then decided it could appear presumptuous, that he might think she had come to bring him home. Yet her hope was exactly that: a couple of days together, during which they’d find some of their old closeness, then he’d return home with her.

  When the children emerged for breakfast she told them she’d be away for the weekend. ‘Your father and I need to spend some time together.’

  Hayley, who looked much in need of a good night’s sleep, immediately brightened. ‘About bloody time,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never dump that dickhead Ramsay.’

  Zoe felt herself bristle; Hayley had no right to speak this way, she had no idea how it was with Ramsay. And then she realised that Hayley, her sixteen-year-old daughter, knew exactly how it was with Ramsay. Zoe stood there, shuffling under the accusing gaze of her daughter, until she could bear it no longer and turned away. Had she really believed her feelings for Ramsay were a secret? And as astonishing as it seemed to her now, she had never really considered it. Ramsay had been as much a part of her emotional life as her parents and her children, and in the same way she would not think to question her feeling for them, so, too, with Ramsay. But there was no denying it: Elliot knew all about Ramsay, and her children did as well.

  Why now, when Ramsay had finally lost his appeal did she see the situation so clearly? The harm to her own family, her own stupidity, Ramsay himself. Why now, when Ramsay was perfectly happy with his Mr and Mrs Monday, happy with his Ausliszt tinkerings, happy again at the piano and practising for his China trip? Why now,
when clearly Ramsay did not need her and had never needed her did she understand how much she had put in jeopardy? A swag of questions and all eliciting the same answer – not the old cliché that love is blind, but that fantasies and obsessions demand a full cognitive landscape; allow the smallest space and reason might creep in.

  She turned to face her children. Callum and Hayley were seated at the table; they were watching her, waiting.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was quiet and quivery. ‘I’m truly sorry.’ And said again more firmly. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  Callum grunted supportively while helping himself to more cereal, but Hayley held her mother’s gaze.

  ‘I’ve known since I was a kid that away from the piano Ramsay wasn’t worth the time of day.’ Callum went to speak but Hayley stopped him. ‘Don’t bother to defend him, Cal, he doesn’t need you to look after him.’ And turning again to her mother, ‘And he never needed you.’

  He never needed you.

  These words from her own daughter cut far deeper than any humiliation she could produce herself. She didn’t bother to protect or defend herself; when you’ve been a fool and everyone knows it, you forfeit your rights.

  Fortunately the attacks were finished. ‘Dad can be a pain sometimes,’ Hayley now said, ‘but he’s never had eyes for anyone but you.’ She walked around the bench and gave her mother a hug. ‘Go make him happy. Yourself too.’

  Zoe was on the road before the worst of the morning traffic, and once she entered the highway heading out of the city she had a clear run. She turned on the radio but had no patience for the puerile games up in Canberra; she switched to the classical music station, but the piece was gratingly saccharine; she shoved in a CD of opera favourites, the melodrama grated even more; then the new low-voiced Joni Mitchell, all sweetness and breathy violins but no edge. In the end she gave up and switched the sound system off.

  Her brain was on fire, her heart was racing. It was nervousness, but also euphoria – like going on a first date with someone you’re keen on, and strangely thrilling when it’s your husband of twenty-plus years. She allowed herself to sink into the mesmerising stretch of highway, the bright sun, the blue sky, the mood unbroken even when the traffic increased at the Geelong bypass. And then she was in the country, the sun-bleached landscape, cows sheltering in the shade of trees, and the jumble of beach scrub growing thicker and thicker, and finally, around a bend and at the top of the rise, the first sight of the ocean. It was glorious, heaven on earth – Elliot’s words every time they reached this point.

  A few more kilometres and she pulled into a roadside lookout and parked the car. She lit a cigarette and stood leaning against the safety rail overlooking the sea. The cliffs were giant clay-coloured pleats curving back the way she had driven and forward to where she was going. The breeze off the ocean was slight, the water foamed on the rocks below then stretched smoothly blue to the horizon. Elliot said this ocean was particularly special because Antarctica lay on the other shore. She had always made a point of correcting him; Tasmania, she said, blocked its way. But despite her meanness, she had always understood that he simply was airing his fascination of Antarctica. For years he had wanted to visit there, and on a number of occasions had actually planned trips, but each time she had found an excuse not to go: the Antarctic season stretched from November to March and Ramsay usually came home for the summer. Now she would suggest they make the trip south.

  She finished her cigarette and returned to the car. She followed the curves and hair-pin twists down to the little hamlet of Moggs Creek where the road dropped to sea level. Dotted near the water’s edge were joggers, and small groups of people fishing from the shore. And then the last curly climb.

  It’s not yet ten and she expects to find Elliot on the verandah with his book and coffee, dressed in bathers ready for his walk on the beach. He’ll hear her car on the gravel, he’ll know immediately it is her, and so, too, will Addie, who’ll run down the drive to greet her. She’ll see Elliot standing on the verandah as she rounds the bend in the drive, she’ll see his surprise, his pleasure too. While she parks he’ll make his way down the stairs and there he’ll be, opening the car door and helping her out. He’ll know why she is here, that finally she has come to her senses. Although he’ll also be tentative – after so many years of waiting he won’t take anything for granted. She’ll take his hand – his hands have always been so soft – and step forward to embrace him.

  They return to the verandah together. There’s coffee left in the pot, he pours her a cup and they sit close and talk. She strokes his arm, his face. He hasn’t shaved for days, the bristles are long and soft. His book is turned face down on the table, it’s a collection of Anne Sexton.

  ‘Sexton knew all about love,’ she says.

  He smiles and nods.

  ‘Will you read to me?’

  He is still smiling. He does not pick up the book. He takes his time. He’s rehearsing silently. Then from memory he recites Nikki Giovanni’s ‘Just a New York Poem’. She listens closely, he’s marvellous to watch, his own gaze tilts to the trees beyond, his voice is pitched low for her. The poem is achingly familiar. His reading makes her cry.

  ‘You never cry,’ he says.

  She changes into her beach clothes and the two of them walk together down the drive along the road to the beach path and from there onto the sand.

  And now, as she drives past the beach path, she slows down just to check he’s not already waiting for her. The path is empty, no one is there. A little further on she makes the right turn into their driveway.

  She’s careful not to run into Addie, but there’s no Addie. And there’s a scattering of things on the verandah table, but no Elliot. And a car is parked in her space, a car she doesn’t recognise. Could she have made a mistake? Could Elliot have escaped somewhere else? Might he have lent the cottage to friends? But he never lends the cottage. Whose car is it? Whose car? Her breath pulls hard, she feels faint, how much more of a fool can she be? When suddenly it comes to her. A hire car! With his own car at home in the garage, Elliot would need to hire a car.

  She parks and walks towards the house. She’ll wait for him on the verandah, he won’t be long, soon everything will be all right. There are two mugs and two plates on the outdoor table, and an empty coffee pot. The pot for two. Maybe Elliot was hungry and decided on a second serving of toast, and he always has two cups of coffee with his breakfast. She glances again at the strange car. The rationalisations are weakening. She forces herself to walk inside the house. Here is all the clutter missing from their Melbourne home – Elliot had insisted on it, he wanted a place, he said, that was casual and relaxed, a place where he could put his feet up on the couch without her grumbling. She takes in the hotchpotch of furniture, the prints on the walls, the books, the bowl of shells, all the ornaments the children have given them for various Christmases and birthdays, and separating from the familiar jumble she sees some knitting, a stack of DVDs, a handbag. She picks up the handbag. It is not leather. She leafs through the contents: wallet, glasses case, two pens, a pencil, diary, phone, a shopping bag in a purple pouch. Her mind has stilled. Zipped away in a separate compartment are lipstick, mints, a pill box, another pen. She sifts through the DVDs, they are all Hollywood romances, old ones – The Philadelphia Story, Roman Holiday, Charade – and not quite so old – Sleepless in Seattle and Annie Hall – and some quite recent ones – Crazy, Stupid, Love, The Wedding Singer, Love Actually. Elliot likes movies with guts and edge, movies that undercut traditional narrative – Altman, Herzog, the Coen Brothers – he’d never suggest they see a Hollywood romance, never. She picks up the knitting, such fine even knitting (she can’t knit, she can’t sew) and sees herself – it happens in slow motion – pulling the stitches from the needle and unravelling the garment row by neat row. She replaces the knitting on the coffee table, straightens up, draws in her breath, walks past the bedroom with her eyes averted, and enters the bathroom. She finds moisturiser, deodorant,
hand cream, all supermarket brands. She avoids her own face in the mirror.

  At last to the bedroom. There are four pillows in two stacks leaning against the wall. The pillows carry the shapes of two backs. Two people have been sitting up in bed. On the left side, Elliot’s side, are his books, on the right side there’s an old Margaret Drabble she recognises from the bookshelf in the living room and an anthology of poetry called Staying Alive. She opens at the bookmark. It’s a poem by Charles Wright called ‘Clear Night’. There is a stanza that has been underlined.

  I want to be bruised by God.

  I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.

  I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.

  I want to be entered and picked clean.

  And written beside the poem in a hand she does not recognise: I JUST WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING.

  The book and markings are confusing but not the situation.

  She returns to the living room; she is still carrying her keys. She takes a last look around. She leaves the house, she has never felt so defeated. She returns to the car. She drives away quickly without looking back.

  Chapter 17. Spoils of Memory

  1.

  On Sunday morning Elliot awoke in Beth’s bed for the last time. Sounds drifted up the hall from the kitchen where she was making breakfast. He rolled over on to her pillow, breathed in her perfume and the scent of her hair. Remember this, he told himself, remember all of this. He had showered the night before knowing what the morning would bring. Now he dressed quickly, gathered his few belongings and left the room. Just beyond the doorway he hesitated, and whether to cement it more firmly in memory or just make a proper leave-taking, he turned and re-entered.

  Scott’s books were still stacked on his bedside cabinet. Elliot had been interested in a couple of the histories, but Beth’s reluctance when he had asked to borrow the Milosz had stymied further requests. So the books remained as they had been on his first night here. But the crystal water glass had been removed to accommodate Elliot’s own, and the blue striped handkerchief together with the wristwatch had disappeared into the top drawer of the cabinet. Now Elliot opened the drawer and replaced them where he had first seen them, next to the books. The photograph of Scott that had been on Beth’s bedside table was lying face up on a nearby shelf. He was about to put that back in its place too, when he realised this wasn’t his business, not his business at all. He left the photo where it was and put the handkerchief and watch back in the drawer.