第 11 页

There are children in fancy dress—pirates, wizards, Vikings—and the adults are trying to organize them into teams for an egg-and-spoon race. I can see my mother on the other side of the street fastening a cape around Matthew Soper’s neck and, just below my window, my father sits in a deck chair with a glass of juice.

“Come back to bed,” says a voice. I turn around. Dave Soper sits in my single bed, underneath my poster of The Slits. The white sheet is twisted around him, spattered with blood. I had not told him it was my first time.

“No,” I say. “Get up! You have to get dressed before my parents come back!”

He laughs, though not unkindly. “Come on!”

I pull on my jeans. “No,” I say, reaching for a T-shirt. “Get up. Please?”

He looks disappointed. I didn’t think this would happen—which does not mean I didn’t want it to—and now I would like to be alone. It is not about him at all.

“Okay,” he says, standing up. His body looks pale and skinny, his penis almost absurd. I look away as he dresses, out of the window. My world has changed, I think. I have crossed a line, and I cannot go back. “Bye, then,” he says, but I don’t speak. I do not look back until he has left.

A voice in my ear brought me back to the present. “Good. More pictures now, Christine,” said Dr. Paxton. “Just look at each one and tell yourself what, or who, it is. Okay? Ready?”

I swallowed hard. What would they show me? I thought. Who? How bad could it be?

Yes, I thought to myself, and we began.

The first photograph was black-and-white. A child—a girl, four, five years old—in the arms of a woman. The girl was pointing to something, and they were both laughing, and in the background, slightly out of focus, was a fence with a tiger resting on the other side of it. A mother, I thought to myself. A daughter. At a zoo. And then, with a shock of recognition, I looked at the child’s face and realized that the little girl was me, the mother my own. Breath caught in my throat. I could not remember ever going to a zoo, yet here we were, here was evidence that we had. Me, I said silently, remembering what I had been told. Mother. I stared at the screen, trying to burn her image into my memory, but the picture faded and was replaced by another, also of my mother, now older yet not seeming old enough to need the walking stick on which she is leaning. She was smiling but looked exhausted, her eyes sunk deep in her thin face. My mother, I thought again, and other words came, unbidden: in pain. I closed my eyes involuntarily, had to force them open again. I began to grip the bulb in my hand.

The images came quickly then, and I recognized only a few. One was of the friend I had seen in my memory, and, with a thrill, I knew her almost straight away. She looked as I had imagined her, dressed in old blue jeans and a T-shirt, smoking, her red hair loose and untidy. Another picture showed her with her hair cut short and dyed black, and a pair of sunglasses pushed high on her head. It was followed by a photograph of my father—the way he looked when I was a little girl, smiling, happy, reading a newspaper in our front room—and then one of me and Ben, standing with another couple I didn’t recognize.

Other photos were of strangers. A black woman in a nurse’s uniform; another woman dressed in a suit, sitting in front of a bookcase, peering with a grave expression over the top of her half-moon glasses. A man with ginger hair and a round face; another with a beard. A child, six or seven—a boy eating an ice cream and then, later, the same boy, sitting at a desk, drawing. A group of people, arranged loosely, looking at the camera. A man, attractive, his hair black and slightly longish, with a pair of dark-rimmed glasses framing narrowed eyes and a scar running down the side of his face. They went on and on, these photographs, and as they did, I looked at them all and tried to place them, to remember how—or even whether—they were woven into the tapestry of my life. I did as I had been asked. I was good, and yet I felt myself begin to panic. The whir of the machine seemed to rise in pitch and volume until it became an alarm, a warning, and my stomach clenched. I could not breathe, and I closed my eyes, and the weight of the blanket began to press down on me, heavy as a marble slab, so that it felt like I was drowning.

I squeezed my right hand, but it balled itself into a fist, closing on nothing. Nails bit into flesh; I had dropped the bulb. I called out, a wordless cry.

“Christine,” came a voice in my ear. “Christine.”

I could not tell who it was, or what they wanted me to do, and I cried out again, and began kicking the blanket off my body.

“Christine!”

Louder now, and then the siren noise whirred to a halt, a door crashed open, and there were voices in the room, and hands on me, on my arms and legs, and across my chest, and I opened my eyes.

“It’s okay,” said Dr. Nash in my ear. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Once they’d calmed me down with reassurances that everything was fine—and given me back my handbag, my earrings, and my wedding ring—Dr. Nash and I went to a coffee bar. It was along the corridor, small, with orange plastic chairs and yellowing Formica-topped tables. Trays of tired pastries and sandwiches sat wilting in the harsh light. I had no money in my purse, but I let Dr. Nash buy me a cup of coffee and a piece of carrot cake and then selected a seat by the window while he paid. Outside was sunny, the shadows long in the courtyard of grass. Purple flowers dotted the lawn.

Dr. Nash scraped his chair under the table. He seemed much more relaxed, now that the two of us were alone together. “There you go,” he said, setting the tray in front of me. “Hope that’s okay.”

I saw that he had selected tea for himself; the bag still floated in the syrupy liquid as he added sugar from the bowl in the center of the table. I took a sip of my drink and grimaced. It was bitter and too hot.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. At first, I thought he was talking about the coffee. “I had no idea that you would find it so distressing in there.”

“It’s very claustrophobic,” I said. “And noisy.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I dropped the emergency button.”

He said nothing, but instead stirred his drink. He fished the tea bag out and deposited it on the tray. He took a sip.

“What happened?” I said.

“Difficult to say. You panicked. It’s not that uncommon. It isn’t comfortable in there, as you said.”

I looked down at my slice of cake. Untouched. Dry. “The photographs. Who were they? Where did you get them?”

“They were a mixture. Some of them I got from your medical files. Ben had donated them, years ago. I asked you to bring a couple from home for the purposes of this exercise—you said they’d been arranged around your mirror. Some I provided—of people you’ve never met. What we call controls. We mixed them all up together. Some of the images were people you knew at a very young age, people you should, or might, remember. Family. Friends from school. The rest were people from the era of your life that you definitely can’t remember. Dr. Paxton and I are trying to find out whether there’s a difference in the way you attempt to access memories from these different periods. The strongest reaction was to your husband, of course, but you reacted to others. Even though you don’t remember the people from your past, the patterns of neural excitation are definitely there.”

“Who was the woman with red hair?” I said.

He smiled. “An old friend, perhaps?”

“Do you know her name?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. The photos were in your file. They weren’t labeled.”

I nodded. An old friend. I knew that, of course—it was her name I so wanted.

“You said that I reacted to the pictures, though?”

“Some of them, yes.”

“That’s good?”

“We’ll need to look at the results in more detail before we really know what conclusions we can draw. This work is very new,” he said. “Experimental.”

“I see.” I cut off a corner of the carrot cake. It, too, was bitter; the icing too sweet. We sat in silence for a while. I offered him my cake and he declined, patting his stomach. “Have to watch this!” he said, even though I could see no reason for him to worry yet. His stomach was mostly flat, though it looked to be the sort that would develop a paunch. For now, though, he was young, and age had hardly touched him.

I thought of my own body. I am not fat, not even overweight, yet still it surprises me. When I sit, it takes a different shape from the one I am expecting. My buttocks sag, my thighs rub together as I cross them. I lean forward to reach for my mug and my breasts shift in my bra, as if reminding me that they exist. I shower and feel a slight wobbling of the skin under my arms, barely perceptible. There is more of me than I think; I take up more space than I realize. I am not a little girl, compact, my skin tight on my bones; not even a teenager, my body beginning to lay down its fat.

I looked at the uneaten cake and wondered what will happen in the future. Perhaps I will continue to expand. I will grow pudgy and then fat, bloating up and up like a party balloon. Or else I will stay the same size as I am now, never getting used to it, instead watching as the lines on my face deepen and the skin on my hands grows as thin as that of an onion, and I turn into an old woman, stage by stage, in the bathroom mirror.

Dr. Nash looked down to scratch the top of his head. Through his hair I could see his scalp, more obvious in a circle at the crown. He won’t have noticed that yet, I thought, but one day he will. He will see a photograph of himself taken from behind, or surprise himself in a changing room, or his hairdresser will make a comment, or his girlfriend. Age catches us all out, I thought as he looked up. In different ways.

“Oh,” he said, with a cheeriness that sounded forced. “I brought you something. A gift. Well, not really a gift, just something you might like to have.” He reached down and retrieved his briefcase from the floor. “You’ve probably already got a copy,” he said, opening it. He took out a package. “Here you go.”

I knew what it was even as I took it. What else could it be? It felt heavy in my hand. He had wrapped it in a padded envelope, sealed it with tape. My name was written in heavy black marker pen. CHRISTINE. “It’s your novel,” he said. “The one you wrote.”

I did not know what to feel. Evidence, I thought. Proof that what I had written was true, should I need it tomorrow.

Inside the envelope was a single copy of a book. I took it out. It was a paperback, not new. There was a coffee ring on the front and the edges of the pages were yellowed with age. I wondered if Dr. Nash had given me his own copy, whether it was even still in print. As I held it, I saw myself again as I had the other day; younger, much younger, reaching for this novel in an effort to find a way into the next. Somehow I knew it hadn’t worked—the second novel had never been completed.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

I put it underneath my coat, where, all the way home, it beat like a heart.

* * *

As soon as I got back to the house, I looked at my novel, but only quickly. I wanted to write as much as I could remember in my journal before Ben came home, but once I’d finished and put it away, I hurried back downstairs to look properly at what I had been given.

I turned the book over. On the cover was a pastel drawing of a desk, upon which sat a typewriter. A crow was perched on its carriage, its head cocked to one side, almost as if it were reading the paper threaded there. Above the crow was written my name, and above that, the title.

FOR THE MORNING BIRDS, it said. CHRISTINE LUCAS.

My hands began to shake as I opened the book. Inside was a title page, a dedication. For my father—and then, I miss you.

I closed my eyes. A fluttering of memory. I saw my father, lying in a bed under bright white lights, his skin translucent, filmed with sweat so that he almost shone. I saw a tube in his arm, a bag of clear liquid hung from an IV stand, a cardboard tray and a tub of pills. A nurse, checking his pulse, his blood pressure, and he not waking up. My mother, sitting on the other side of his bed, trying not to cry while I tried to force the tears to come.

A smell came then. Cut flowers and low, dirty earth. Sweet and sickly. I saw the day we cremated him. Me wearing black—which I somehow know is not unusual—but this time without makeup. My mother, sitting next to my grandmother. The curtains open, the coffin slides away, and I cry, picturing my father turning to dust. My mother, squeezing my hand, and then we go home and drink cheap, fizzy wine and eat sandwiches as the sun goes down and she dissolves in the half-light.

I sighed. The image disappeared, and I opened my eyes. My novel, in front of me.

I turned to the title page, the opening line. It was then, I had written, with the engine whining and her right foot pressed hard against the accelerator pedal, that she let go of the wheel and closed her eyes. She knew what would happen. She knew where it would lead. She always had.

I flicked to the middle of the novel. I read a paragraph there, and then one from near the end.

I had written about a woman called Lou, a man—her husband, I guessed—called George, and the novel seemed to be rooted in a war. I felt disappointed. I don’t know what I had been hoping for—autobiography, perhaps?—but it seemed any answers this novel could give me would be limited.

Still, I thought as I turned it over to look at the back cover, I had at least written it, got it published.

Where there might have been an author photograph, there was none. Instead, there was a short biography.

Christine Lucas was born in 1960, in the north of England, it said. She majored in English at University College London, and has now settled in that city. This is her first novel.

I smiled to myself, feeling a swell of happiness and pride. I did this. I wanted to read it, to unlock its secrets, but at the same time I did not. I was worried the reality might take my happiness away. Either I would like the novel and feel sad that I would never write another, or I would not, and feel frustrated that I never developed my talent. I could not say which was more likely, but I knew that one day, unable to resist the pull of my only achievement, I would find out. I would make that discovery.

But not today. Today I had something else to discover, something far worse than sadness, more damaging than mere frustration. Something that might rip me apart.

I tried to slip the book back in the envelope. There was something else in there. A note, folded into four, the edges crisp. Dr. Nash had written on it: I thought this might interest you!

I unfolded the paper. Across the top, he’d written Standard, 1986. Beneath it was a copy of a newspaper article, next to a photograph. I looked at the page for a second or two before I realized that the article was a review of my novel and the picture was of me.