第 21 页

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t—”

Dr. Wilson took the sheet from me. “I understand, Christine. It’s upsetting. I—”

Panic hit me then. I stood up, but the room began to spin. “I want to leave,” I said. “This isn’t me. It can’t have been me, I—I would never hit people. I would never. I just—”

Dr. Nash stood, too, and then Dr. Wilson. She stepped forward, colliding with her desk, which sent papers flying. A photograph spilled to the floor. “Dear God—” I said, and she looked down, then crouched to cover it with another sheet. But I had seen enough.

“Was that me?” I said, my voice rising to a scream. “Was that me?”

The photograph was of the head of a young woman. Her hair had been pulled back from her face. At first, it looked as though she was wearing a Halloween mask. One eye was open and looked at the camera, the other was closed by a huge, purple bruise, and both lips were swollen, pink, lacerated with cuts. Her cheeks were distended, giving her whole face a grotesque appearance. I thought of pulped fruit. Of plums, rotten and bursting.

“Was that me?” I screamed, even though, despite the swollen, distorted face, I could see that it was.

My memory splits there, fractured in two. Part of me was calm, quiet. Serene. It watched as the other part of me thrashed and screamed and had to be restrained by Dr. Nash and Dr. Wilson. You really ought to behave, it seemed to be saying. This is embarrassing.

But the other part was stronger. It had taken over, become the real me. I shouted out, again and again, and turned and ran for the door. Dr. Nash came after me. I tore it open and ran, though where I could go I did not know. An image of bolted doors. Alarms. A man, chasing me. My son, crying. I have done this before, I thought. I have done all this before.

My memory blanks.

They must have calmed me down somehow, persuaded me to go with Dr. Nash; the next thing I can remember is being in his car, sitting next to him as he drove. The sky was beginning to cloud over, the streets looked gray, somehow flattened out. He was talking, but I could not concentrate. It was as if my mind had tripped, fallen back into something else, and now could not catch up. I looked out of the windows, at the shoppers and the dog-walkers, at the people with their strollers and their bicycles, and I wondered whether this—this search for truth—was really what I wanted. Yes, it might help me to improve, but how much can I hope to gain? I don’t expect that I will ever wake up knowing everything, as normal people do, knowing what I did the day before, what plans I have for the day that follows, what circuitous route has led me to here and now, to the person I am. The best I can hope for is that, one day, looking in the mirror will not be a total shock, that I will remember I married a man called Ben and lost a son called Adam, that I will not have to see a copy of my novel to know that I had written one.

But even that much seems unattainable. I thought of what I had seen in Fisher Ward. Madness and pain. Minds that had been shattered. I am closer to that, I thought, than I am to recovery. Perhaps it would be best if I learned to live with my condition, after all. I could tell Dr. Nash I do not want to see him again and I could burn my journal, burying the truths I have already learned, hiding them as thoroughly as those I do not yet know. I would be running away from my past, but I would have no regrets—in just a few hours, I would not even know that either my journal or my doctor had ever existed—and then I could live simply. One day would follow another, unconnected. Yes, occasionally the memory of Adam would surface. I would have a day of grief and pain, would remember what I miss, but it would not last. Before long, I would sleep and, quietly, forget. How easy that would be, I thought. So much easier than this.

I thought of the picture I’d seen. The image was burned into me. Who did that to me? Why? I remembered the memory I’d had of the hotel room. It was still there, just under the surface, just out of reach. I had read this morning that I had reason to believe I had been having an affair, but now realized that—even if that were true—I didn’t know who it had been with. All I had was a single name, remembered as I woke just a few days ago, with no promise of ever remembering more, even if I wanted to.

Dr. Nash was still talking. I had no idea what about, and interrupted him. “Am I getting better?” I said.

A heartbeat, during which I thought he had no answer, then he said, “Do you think you are?”

Did I? I couldn’t say. “I don’t know. Yes. I suppose so. I can remember things from my past, sometimes. Flashes of memory. They come to me when I read my journal. They feel real. I remember Claire. Adam. My mother. But they’re like threads I can’t keep hold of. Balloons that float into the sky before I can catch them. I can’t remember my wedding. I can’t remember Adam’s first steps, his first word. I can’t remember him starting at school, his graduation. Anything. I don’t even know if I was there. Maybe Ben decided there was no point in taking me.” I took a breath. “I can’t even remember learning he was dead. Or burying him.” I began to cry. “I feel like I’m going crazy. Sometimes I don’t even think that he’s dead. Can you believe that? Sometimes I think that Ben’s lying to me about that, as well as everything else.”

“Everything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “My novel. The attack. The reason I have no memory. Everything.”

“But why do you think he would do that?”

A thought came to me. “Because I was having an affair?” I said. “Because I was unfaithful to him?”

“Christine,” he said. “That’s unlikely, don’t you think?”

I said nothing. He was right, of course. Deep down I did not believe Ben’s lies could really be a protracted revenge for something that had happened years and years ago. The explanation was likely to be something much more mundane.

“You know,” said Dr. Nash, “I think you are getting better. You’re remembering things. Much more often than when we first met. These snatches of memory? They’re definitely a sign of progress. They mean—”

I turned to him. “Progress? You call this progress?” I was almost shouting now, anger spilled out of me as if I could no longer contain it. “If that’s what it is, then I don’t know if I want it.” The tears were flooding now, uncontrollable. “I don’t want it!”

I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to my grief. It felt better, somehow, to be helpless. I did not feel ashamed. Dr. Nash was talking to me, telling me first not to be upset, that things would be all right, and then to calm down. I ignored him. I could not calm down, and did not want to.

He stopped the car. Switched off the engine. I opened my eyes. We had left the main road, and in front of me was a park. Through the blur of my tears I could see a group of boys—teenagers, I suppose—playing soccer, with two piles of coats for goalposts. It had begun to rain, but they did not stop. Dr. Nash turned to face me.

“Christine,” he said. “I’m sorry. Perhaps today was a mistake. I don’t know. I thought we might trigger other memories. I was wrong. In any case, you shouldn’t’ve seen that picture . . .”

“I don’t even know if it was the picture,” I said. I had stopped sobbing now, but my face was wet; I could feel a great, looping mass of mucus escaping from my nose. “Do you have a tissue?” I asked. He reached across me and began to look in the glove compartment. “It was everything,” I went on. “Seeing those people, imagining that I’d been like that, once. And the diary. I can’t believe that was me, writing that. I can’t believe I was that ill.”

He handed me a tissue. “But you’re not anymore,” he said. I took the tissue from him and blew my nose.

“Maybe it’s worse,” I said quietly. “I’d written that it was like being dead. But this? This is worse. This is like dying every day. Over and over. I need to get better,” I said. “I can’t imagine going on like this for much longer. I know I’ll go to sleep tonight, and then tomorrow I will wake up and not know anything again, and the next day, and the day after that, forever. I can’t imagine it. I can’t face it. It’s not life, it’s just an existence, jumping from one moment to the next with no idea of the past, and no plan for the future. It’s how I imagine animals must be. The worst thing is that I don’t even know what I don’t know. There might be lots of things, waiting to hurt me. Things I haven’t even dreamed about yet.”

He put his hand on mine. I fell into him, knowing what he would do, what he must do, and he did. He opened his arms and held me, and I let him embrace me. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” I could feel his chest under my cheek and I breathed, inhaling his scent, fresh laundry and, faintly, something else. Sweat and sex. His hand was on my back and I felt it move, felt it touch my hair, my head, lightly at first, but then more firmly as I sobbed again. “It’ll be all right,” he said, whispering, and I closed my eyes.

“I just want to remember what happened,” I said. “On the night I was attacked. Somehow I feel that if I could only remember that, then I would remember everything.”

He spoke softly. “There’s no evidence that’s the case. No reason—”

“But it’s what I think,” I said. “I know it, somehow.”

He squeezed me. Gently, almost so gently that I could not feel it. I felt his body, hard against mine, and breathed in deeply, and as I did so, I thought of another time when I was being held. Another memory. My eyes are closed, just the same, and my body is being pressed up against that of another, though this is different. I do not want to be held by this man. He is hurting me. I am struggling, trying to get away, but he is strong and pulls me to him. He speaks. Bitch, he says. Slut, and though I want to argue with him, I do not. My face is pressed against his shirt, and, just like with Dr. Nash, I am crying, screaming. I open my eyes and see the blue fabric of his shirt, a door, a dressing table with three mirrors and a picture—a painting of a bird—above it. I can see his arm, strong, muscled, a vein running down its length. Let me go! I say, and then I am spinning and falling—or the floor is rising to meet me, I cannot tell. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me toward the door. I twist my head to see his face.

It is there that memory fails me again. Though I remember looking at his face, I cannot remember what I saw. It is featureless, a blank. As if unable to cope with this vacuum, my mind cycles through faces I know, through absurd impossibilities. I see Dr. Nash. Dr. Wilson. The receptionist at Fisher Ward. My father. Ben. I even see my own face, laughing as I raise a fist to strike.

Please, I cry, please don’t. But my many-faced attacker hits anyway, and I taste blood. He drags me along the floor, and then I am in the bathroom, on the cold tiles, black and white. The floor is damp with condensation, the room smells of orange blossom, and I remember how I had been looking forward to bathing, to making myself beautiful, thinking that maybe I would still be in the bath when he arrived, and then he could join me, and we would make love, making waves in the soapy water, soaking the floor, our clothes, everything. Because finally, after all these months of doubt, it has become clear to me. I love this man. Finally, I know it. I love him.

My head slams into the floor. Once, twice, a third time. My vision blurs and doubles, then returns. A buzzing in my ears, and he shouts something, but I can’t hear what. It echoes, as if there are two of him, both holding me, both twisting my arm, both grabbing handfuls of my hair as they kneel on my back. I beg him to leave me alone, and there are two of me, too. I swallow. Blood.

My head jerks back. Panic. I am on my knees. I see water, bubbles, already thinning. I try to speak but cannot. His hand is around my throat, and I cannot breathe. I am pitched forward, down, down, so quick that I think I will never stop, and then my head is in the water. Orange blossom in my throat.

I heard a voice. “Christine!” it said. “Christine! Stop!” I opened my eyes. Somehow, I was out of the car. I was running. Across the park, as fast as I could, and running after me was Dr. Nash.

We sat on a bench. It was concrete, crossed with wooden slats. One was missing, and the remainder sagged beneath us. I felt the sun against the back of my neck, saw its long shadows on the ground. The boys were still playing soccer, though the game must be finishing now; some were drifting off, others talked, one of the piles of jackets had been removed, leaving the goal unmarked. Dr. Nash had asked me what had happened.

“I remembered something,” I said.

“About the night you were attacked?”

“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”

“You were screaming,” he said. “You kept saying, ‘Get off me,’ over and over.”

“It was like I was there,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologize. Do you want to tell me what you saw?”

The truth was I did not. I felt as if some ancient instinct was telling me that this was a memory best kept to myself. But I needed his help, knew I could trust him. I told him everything.

When I had finished, he was silent for a moment, then said, “Anything else?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t remember what he looked like? The man who attacked you?”

“No. I can’t see that at all.”

“Or his name?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing.” I hesitated. “Do you think it might help to know who did this to me? To see him? Remember him?”

“Christine, there’s no real evidence to suggest that remembering the attack would help.”

“But it might?”

“It seems to be one of your most deeply repressed memories—”

“So it might?”

He was silent, then said, “I’ve suggested it before, but it might help to go back there . . .”

“No,” I said. “No. Don’t even say it.”

“We can go together. You’d be fine. I promise. If you were there again . . . Back in Brighton—”

“No.”

“—you might remember then—”

“No! Please?”

“—it might help?”

I looked down at my hands folded in my lap.

“I can’t go back there,” I said. “I just can’t.”

He sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe we’ll talk about it again?”

“No,” I whispered. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He smiled but seemed disappointed. I felt eager to give him something, to have him not give up on me. “Dr. Nash?” I said.

“Yes?”

“The other day I wrote that something had come to me. Perhaps it’s relevant. I don’t know.”

He turned to face me.

“Go on.” Our knees touched. Neither of us drew away.

“When I woke,” I said, “I kind of knew that I was in bed with a man. I remembered a name. But it wasn’t Ben’s name. I wondered if it was the name of the person I’d been having the affair with. The one who attacked me.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “It might have been the beginning of the repressed memory emerging. What was the name?”

Suddenly I did not want to tell him, to say it out loud. I felt that by doing so I would be making it real, conjuring my attacker back into existence. I closed my eyes.