What Alice Forgot

Chapter 4

A pparently Alice’s CT scan was “unremarkable,” which had made her feel ashamed of her mediocrity. It reminded her of her school reports with every single box ticked “Satisfactory” and comments like “A quiet student. Needs to contribute more in class.” They may as well have just come right out and written across the front: “So boring, we don’t actually know who she is.” Elisabeth’s reports had some boxes ticked “Outstanding” and others ticked “Below Standard” and comments like “Can be a little disruptive.” Alice had yearned to be a little disruptive, but she couldn’t work out how you got started.

“We’re concerned about your memory loss, so we’re going to keep you overnight for observation,” said the doctor with the red plastic glasses.

“Oh, okay, thank you.” Alice self-consciously smoothed her hair back, imagining a row of doctors and nurses with clipboards sitting next to her bed, watching her sleep. (She sometimes snored.)

The doctor hugged her own clipboard to her chest and looked at her brightly, as if she felt like a chat.

Oh. Gosh. Alice searched around for interesting topics of conversation and finally said, “So, did you ring my obstetrician? Dr. Chapple? Of course, you might not have had a chance . . .” She didn’t want the doctor to snarl, “Sorry, I was busy saving somebody’s life.”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “I did, actually. It seems Sam Chapple retired three years ago.” Alice couldn’t believe that Dr. Chapple was no longer sitting in his big leather chair, carefully noting down answers to his courteous questions in beautiful copperplate writing on white index cards. She really needed to get this . . . this problem sorted out once and for all. Pronto! Quick sticks! As Frannie would say. Was Frannie still alive in 2008? Grandmothers died. It was to be expected. You weren’t even allowed to be that upset about it. Please don’t let Frannie have died. Please don’t let anyone have died. “Nobody else in our family will die,” Elisabeth had promised when she was ten and Alice was nine. “Because it wouldn’t be fair.” Alice had believed every single word Elisabeth had said when they were little.

Maybe Elisabeth had died? Or Nick? Or Mum? Or the baby? ( I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat. )

For the first time in years, Alice had that feeling she used to get when she was little, after their dad died, that someone else she loved was about to die. She longed to gather everybody she loved and stow them safely under her bed with her favorite dolls. Sometimes the stress would become so overwhelming she would forget how to breathe and Elisabeth would have to bring her a brown paper bag to breathe into.

“I might need a bag,” Alice said to the doctor.

“A bag?”

Ridiculous. She wasn’t a child who hyperventilated at the thought of people dying.

“I had a bag,” she said to the doctor. “A red backpack with stickers on it. Do you know what happened to it?”

The doctor looked vaguely irritated by this administrative question but then she said, “Oh, yes. Over here. Would you like it?” She picked up the strange backpack from a shelf at the side of the room and Alice looked at it apprehensively.

The doctor handed it to her and said, “Well, you just rest up and someone will be along to take you up to a ward soon. I’m sorry there is so much waiting. That’s hospitals for you.” She gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder and quickly left the room, suddenly in a hurry, as if she’d remembered another patient who was waiting.

Alice ran her fingers over the three shiny dinosaur stickers on the flap of the backpack. They each had speech bubbles saying either “DINOSAURS RULE!” or “DINOSAURS ROCK!” She looked down at the sticker on her shirt and peeled it off. It was a definite match. She stuck it back on her shirt (she felt that she should for some reason) and waited for a feeling or a memory.

Did these belong to the Sultana? Her mind skittered away from the idea, like a frightened animal. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want a readygrown baby. She wanted her own little future baby back.

This could not be happening to her. But it is, so get a grip, Alice. She began to open the bag and her fingernails caught her attention. She held up her hands in front of her. Her nails were beautifully shaped and long and painted a very pale, beige color. Normally they were ragged and broken and rimmed with dirt from gardening or painting or whatever other renovation job they were doing at the time. The only other time they’d looked like that was for her wedding when she’d got her manicure. She’d spent the whole honeymoon flapping her hands at Nick, saying, “Look, I’m a lady .”

Apart from that, her hands still looked like her hands. Actually, they looked quite nice.

They were bare, she noticed. No jewelry. It was a little unusual that she wasn’t at least wearing her wedding ring, but perhaps she’d been in a rush when she was getting ready for her “spin class.”

She held up her left hand and saw that there was a thin white indentation from her wedding ring that hadn’t been there before. It gave her a disconnected feeling, like when she’d seen the feathery marks on her stomach. Her mind thought everything was still the same, but her body was telling her that time had marched on without her.

Time. She put her hands to her face. If she was supposedly sending out “invitations to her fortieth-birthday party,” if she was . . . thirty-nine —she mentally choked and gasped for air at the thought—then her face must be different. Older. There was a mirror over a basin in the front corner of the room. She could see the reflection of her feet, in their short white socks; one of the flurry of nurses had taken off the strange sneakers (chunky, rubbery things) and put them on the floor next to the bed. Alice could just hop out of the bed and walk over and look at herself.

Presumably it was against strict hospital regulations to get out of bed. She had a head injury. She might faint and hit her head again. Nobody had told her not to get out of bed, but they probably thought it was obvious.

She should look in the mirror. But she didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want this to be real. Besides, she was busy at the moment. She had to look through the bag. Quickly, she undid the buckles of the backpack and shoved her hand in. She pulled out . . . a towel.

A plain, innocuous, clean blue bath towel. Alice looked at it and felt nothing but embarrassment. She was fossicking through somebody else’s private stuff. Jane Turner had obviously picked up someone else’s bag and insisted it was hers without really looking at it. It was just like Jane. So bossy and impatient.

Well.

Alice examined her beautifully manicured fingernails again. She put her hand in the bag again and pulled out a plastic bag, folded flat. She opened it and emptied it onto her lap.

A woman’s clothes. Underwear. A red dress. A cream-colored cardigan with a single large wooden button. Knee-high beige boots. Small jewelry case.

The underwear was creamy lace-edged satin. Alice’s underwear tended to be flippant and faded; jolly seahorses on her pants and purple cotton bras that clipped at the front.

She held the dress up in front of her and saw that it was beautiful. A simple design of silky fabric with tiny cream flowers. The cream of the cardigan matched the cream of the flowers on the dress exactly.

She checked the label on the dress. An S for small. It wouldn’t fit her. She was a medium at best. It couldn’t be hers. She folded the clothes back up and opened the jewelry case, lifting out a fine gold necklace with a big topaz stone. The stone was too big for her taste, but she dangled it over the dress and agreed that it was an excellent match. Well done, whoever you are.

The other piece of jewelry was Alice’s gold Tiffany charm bracelet.

Alice said, “Fancy meeting you here.” She picked up the bracelet and laid it across her wrist and felt comforted, as if Nick had finally arrived.

Nick had bought this bracelet for her the day after they found out she was pregnant with the Sultana. He shouldn’t have spent that much because they were experiencing what Nick called “severe fiscal stress,” due to the fact that every single thing they did to the house ended up costing more than planned, but Nick said it could go on the balance sheet under “extraordinary items” (whatever that meant) because it was extraordinary that they were having a baby.

The Sultana had been conceived on a Wednesday night, which just didn’t seem exciting enough a night for such a momentous event, and the sex hadn’t even been that passionate or romantic. It was just that there had been nothing much on TV and Nick had yawned and said, “We should paint the hallway,” and Alice had said, “Oh, let’s just have sex,” and Nick had yawned again and said, “Mmmm. Okay.” And then they’d discovered there weren’t any condoms in the chest of drawers next to the bed, but by then the action was under way and neither of them could be bothered to get up and find one in the bathroom, and besides which it was a Wednesday and it was only once and, well, they were married. They were allowed to get pregnant, so therefore it wasn’t really likely. The next day Alice discovered there actually had been a condom in the back of the drawer if she’d bothered to stretch her fingers just a bit further but by then it was too late. The Sultana had already started doing what it needed to do to become a person.

The day after they did the eight positive pregnancy tests (just in case the first seven were wrong) Nick had come home from work and handed her a small gift-wrapped box with a card that said “For the mother of my child,” and inside was the bracelet.

To be honest, she loved that bracelet even more than she loved her engagement ring.

Of course, to be really honest, she didn’t actually love her engagement ring at all. She sort of hated it.

Not a single person in the world knew this. It was her only real secret, so it was a pity it wasn’t juicier. The ring was an Edwardian antique that had belonged to Nick’s grandmother. Alice had never met Granny Love, but she had apparently been formidable but adorable (she sounded dreadful). Nick’s four sisters, whom Nick called “the Flakes” because of their undeniably flaky tendencies, were crazy about that ring and there had been a lot of bitter remarks when Granny Love left the ring to Nick in her will. One or another of the Flakes was always grabbing Alice’s left hand and sniffing, “You just can’t get jewelry like that anymore!”

Alice thought it was ugly. It was a big emerald set in the middle of a cluster of diamonds to look like a flower. It reminded her of a hibiscus for some reason and she’d never been a fan of the hibiscus, but what did she know, because every other girl in the world seemed to think the ring was divine , and apparently it was worth a small fortune.

And that was the other problem. This was the most expensive piece of jewelry Alice had ever owned, and Alice lost things. Constantly. She was always retracing her steps, emptying out garbage bins and calling up train stations, restaurants, and grocery stores to see if they had her purse or her sunglasses or her umbrella.

“Oh no ,” said Elisabeth when she heard that Alice’s ring was an irreplaceable family heirloom. “You’ll just have to—I don’t know—get it surgically attached to your finger?”

Most of the time, except for special events or if she was seeing the Flakes, Alice just didn’t wear the ring. She wore her plain gold wedding band, or nothing at all. She’d never really been a jewelry sort of person anyway.

However, she loved the gold Tiffany bracelet. Unlike the ring, it seemed to represent all the wonderful things that had happened over the last few years—Nick, the baby, the house.

Now she fastened the bracelet around her wrist, laid her head back against the white hospital pillow, and held the backpack close to her stomach. The thought crossed her mind that there were probably a million bracelets just like this one around and it could just as easily belong to somebody else. It wasn’t like she recognized anything else in the bag, but she knew it was hers.

She was starting to get angry with herself. Come on, now! Remember! Furious, she shoved her hand back in the rucksack and pulled out a black purse. It was a long, luxurious rectangle of black leather. Alice turned it back and forth in her hands. “Gucci,” it said, in tiny discreet letters. Goodness. She opened the purse and the first thing she saw was her own face staring back at her from a driver’s license.

Her own face. Her own name. Her own address.

Well, here was the proof that the bag belonged to her.

The photo was typically blurry, but she could see she was wearing a white shirt and what looked like long black beads. Long beads? Had she become the sort of person who wore long beads? Her hair was cut in a bob just above her shoulders and it seemed to have been colored very blond. She’d cut her hair! Nick had once made her promise to never cut her hair. Alice had thought that exquisitely romantic, although Elisabeth had made gagging sounds when she told her and said, “You can’t promise to still have a fourteen-year-old’s hairstyle when you’re forty.”

When you’re forty.

Oh.

Alice put a hand up to the back of her head. She’d been vaguely aware that her hair was pulled back in a ponytail before; she hadn’t realized that it was actually more of a pigtail. She pulled out the elastic band and ran her fingers through her hair. It was even shorter than in the driver’s-license photograph. She wondered if Nick liked it. In a minute, she would have to be brave and face herself in the mirror.

Of course, she was still pretty busy at the moment. No hurry.

She put the license back in the wallet and began to rifle through it. There were various credit and ATM cards with her name embossed on the front, including a gold American Express card. Wasn’t a gold Amex just a status symbol for the sort of person who drives a BMW? Library card. Health Fund card.

A plain white business card for a Michael Boyle, “Registered Physiotherapist.” The address was in Melbourne. She flipped it over and saw a handwritten message on the back.

Alice,

We’re all settled and doing OK. I think of you often and “happier times.” Call anytime.

M. xxx

She dropped the card in her lap. What did this Michael Boyle mean when he presumptuously referred to “happier times”? She didn’t want to have had happier times with a physiotherapist in Melbourne. He sounded awful. She imagined a balding, paunchy type with soft hands and moist lips.

Where the bloody hell was Nick?

Perhaps Jane had forgotten to call him. She’d been acting so strangely at the gym. Alice should just phone him herself and explain that this was pretty serious and she really needed him to leave work right now. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Suddenly she was desperate to get herself a phone and hear Nick’s lovely, familiar voice. She had a strange feeling as if it had been ages since she’d spoken to him.

She looked feverishly around the small room and of course—there was no phone. There was nothing in the room at all, except for the basin, the mirror, and a sign about how to wash your hands correctly.

A mobile phone! That’s what she needed. She’d only recently got her first one. It was an old one belonging to Nick’s father and it worked fine, except that it had to be held together with an elastic band. Something told her that she would probably have a more expensive phone by now, and when she opened the zippered pocket at the front of the bag, she saw she was right; there was a tiny, sleek, shiny, silver phone sitting right there as if she’d known it would be. (Had she? She couldn’t tell.)

There was also a leather-bound day planner, which Alice opened quickly, just to confirm that it was indeed 2008, noting with sick wonder that her own handwriting filled the pages. “2008,” it said in no-doubt-about-it black letters at the top of each page: 2008, 2008, 2008 . . .

She stopped flipping the pages and picked up the shiny phone, breathing shallowly, as if a huge metal bar had been plonked across her chest.

Could she even work this strange phone? She was hopeless at working out how to use new appliances, but her elegantly manicured fingers seemed to know what to do, pushing the silver buttons on either side of the phone so it snapped open. She punched in the number for Nick’s direct line and held the phone up to her ear. It rang. Please answer, please answer. She felt like she would burst into sobs of relief at the sound of his voice.

“Hello. Sales Department!”

It was a young girl’s voice, frothy with good humor. Someone in the background was roaring with laughter.

Alice said, “Is Nick there at the moment? Nick Love?”

There was a slight pause. When the girl spoke again, she sounded as though she had just been sternly reprimanded. The laughter in the background stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, you’ve come through to the wrong extension, but I could put you through to Mr. Love’s personal assistant if you like.”

Alice paused, diverted by the fact that Nick had a “personal assistant.” How posh.

The girl continued, as if Alice had argued with her: “Mr. Love is actually in Portugal this week, so his PA would be the best person to help you.”

Portugal! She said, “What’s he doing in Portugal?”

“Well, it’s some sort of international conference, I think,” said the girl uncertainly. “But if I could just put you through—”

Portugal, and a personal assistant. He must have got a promotion. They’d have to have champagne!

Alice said (cunningly!), “Um, could you remind me of Mr. Love’s position with the company?”

“He’s our general manager,” said the girl in an everyone-in-the-world-knows-that tone.

Good grief.

Nick had the Motherfucking Megatron’s job.

That was more than one promotion. That was a giant superhero leap up the corporate ladder. Alice was filled with giggly pride at the thought of Nick strutting about the office, telling people what to do. Wouldn’t people just laugh at him?

“I’m putting you through to his PA now,” said the girl firmly. The phone clicked and began to ring again.

Another female voice answered smoothly. “Mr. Love’s office, this is Annabelle, how can I help you?”

“Oh,” said Alice. “This is Nick’s wife, ah, Mr. Love’s wife. I was trying to get hold of him, but, ummm . . .”

The woman’s voice turned razor sharp. “Hello, Alice. How are you today?”

“Well, actually . . .”

“As you’re aware, Nick isn’t back in Sydney until Sunday morning. Obviously if there is something that absolutely can’t wait, I can try to get a message through to him but I’d really prefer not to disturb him. His schedule is frantic.”

“Oh.” Why was this woman being so mean? She obviously knew her. What could Alice have done to make her dislike her so much?

“So, can it wait or not, Alice?” She wasn’t imagining it; this was real live hatred she was hearing. The pain in Alice’s head got worse. She wanted to say, “Hey, lady, I’m in hospital. I came here in an ambulance !”

“I wish you wouldn’t let people stomp all over you,” Elisabeth was always telling her. Sometimes, long after Alice had forgotten the incident, Elisabeth would say, “I was up all last night thinking about what that woman in the chemist’s said to you. I can’t believe you just took it —you’ve got no backbone!” Alice would drop to the floor, all jelly-like, to demonstrate her lack of backbone, and Elisabeth would say, “Oh for God’s sake.”

The problem was, Alice needed more warning when it came to being assertive. These sorts of situations were so unexpected. She needed hours to really think things through. Were they really being nasty, or was she just being sensitive? What if they’d just found out they had a terminal disease that morning and were entitled to be in a bad mood? She was about to mumble something pleading and pathetic to Nick’s PA when, against her will, her body began an unfamiliar sequence of actions. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Her stomach muscles clenched. She spoke and didn’t recognize her own voice. It was taut and tart and decidedly snooty. “No, it can’t wait,” she said. “It is urgent. There has been an accident . Please ask Nick to call me as soon as possible.”

Alice couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d found herself doing a triple backflip.

The woman answered, “Fine, Alice, I’ll see what I can do.” Her contempt was still palpable.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Alice hung up and said, with the phone still to her ear, “Cow. Bitch. Slut .” She spat the words out of the side of her mouth, like poisonous pellets.

She swallowed. Now that was even more surprising; she sounded like a tattooed girl who quite liked the occasional catfight.

The mobile rang in her hand, making her jump.

It must be Nick, she thought, awash with relief. Once again, her fingers knew what to do. She pressed the button with the green phone symbol and said, “Nick?”

A child’s voice she’d never heard before said crossly, “Mum?”