Chapter 84
Rachel
A man is sitting with me, reading from a book. It might be about love, or maybe time, because it has a clock on the cover. But it’s hard to be sure, since I can’t really follow the storyline. There are too many characters, and I’m struggling to keep track of who’s saying what.
I prefer watching TV to reading now. There is a good channel I like, which has soothing films of parks and nature and stories about the nineties. It’s so much easier to understand.
The man keeps mentioning someone called Stevens, and someone else called Miss Kenton, and I can’t remember for the life of me who these people are. I glance around the living room, in case they are both here and I’ve forgotten, again.
As I turn in my chair, I feel the man looking at me.
‘Are you my grandson?’ I ask. He does have that air about him, with his scruffy jeans and ruffled hairdo, and the T-shirt that says Teenage Fanclub, which sort of gives him away.
He shakes his head. ‘We actually . . . used to be married, a long time ago.’
What a ridiculous thing to say. ‘You’re far too young for me.’
‘Well, yes. I am now, I suppose.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
It begins to rise again now. The worry that has been nagging at me for a while. ‘Have you seen my rings?’ I raise my left hand, agitation churning inside me. ‘I had two rings, and they’re missing. Someone must have taken them.’
As he starts to speak, my eyes stray to his wrist. He is wearing a watch, something silvery in steel. It looks familiar, somehow. I’m sure I saw it in a shop once, agonised over buying it.
‘I bought that,’ I say slowly, the memory returning to me in darts and flashes.
‘You did,’ he replies, following my gaze. ‘For my birthday, the year I turned thirty.’
I smile, feeling something warm beating in my belly. Happiness, I realise, because I so rarely get things right, these days.
Emma’s here now, but she doesn’t say hello. She is picking things off the coffee table, dirty cups and newspapers. I don’t know who they belong to. Not me: I can’t read the paper any more, because the words no longer make sense.
My sketchbook is open on my knee. I look down, but can’t make out what it is I’ve been trying to draw. A dog, maybe. But whose dog? There isn’t one here. So maybe it’s a watering can.
‘Have you seen my rings?’
Emma smiles, seeming not remotely concerned. ‘No, but we’ll look for them, okay? Why don’t you relax for a bit, while lunch is cooking?’
I used to cook quite a lot, but I’m not allowed to use the stove any more, ever since there was some sort of fire last year. There is now a big plastic sign that sits above it: DO NOT USE.
A man puts his head around the door, making me jump.
‘Are you here about the fire?’ I say, alarmed.
‘Mum, it’s Josh,’ Emma says. ‘There’s no fire.’
There is a memory fluttering at the back of my mind, to do with this man, but I can’t quite pin it down.
Then it comes to me. ‘Aruba.’ I’m sure he said we were going to Aruba: I have written it in my notebook.
His smile is gentle. People smile at me a lot nowadays, usually as a precursor to correcting me on something, or ordering me about. But I can tell this man’s smile is the kind I don’t have to worry about.
Suddenly, his face begins to blur with someone else’s. Emma’s father, perhaps? No, that can’t be right. This man is far too young. I really need to start writing these things down. Have I a notebook somewhere?
I tilt my head to get a better look at him, and a bulb in my brain flickers briefly to life, but then quickly blows again.
‘Aruba,’ he says. ‘Yes. We talked about going, once.’ But his voice scratches slightly, as though it’s hurting him to speak.
Maybe I’ll get some fresh air.
I stand up, then hesitate. I can’t quite remember the way to the garden. There are far too many rooms in this house. It reminds me of the hospital. I’m always getting lost.
‘Everything okay, Mum?’
Sometimes, Emma tells me to draw what I need. But that is ridiculous, obviously, because I’m not a child.
‘My rings,’ I say, lifting my left hand so she can see. ‘Someone’s stolen my rings.’
‘Ah,’ she says mildly, apparently not at all alarmed. Then, ‘Would you like some lunch?’
‘Yes,’ I say, tugging at my collar. It’s so stuffy in here. ‘I can’t remember when I last ate.’
‘Please,’ the man says.
Please what? I think.
Emma tells me lunch is ready, so I allow her to take me by the arm and help me up. But I feel exhausted: I can barely put one foot in front of the other. I’d really like a lie-down, or maybe to eat lunch from a tray on my lap. Is that really too much to ask?
Suddenly I feel the familiar sensation of beginning to topple. Emma gasps, and I hear a man’s voice saying, ‘Oh, easy, easy—’ and then there are hands beneath my armpits, and everything goes dark.
The next thing I know, I feel as though I’m underwater. I can hear people saying my name but I can’t open my eyes. I’ve wanted to shut them for a long time, I think. It actually feels quite nice.
Because I am so tired. Of everything. But mostly of trying to remember.
My husband drifts into my head again, though I can’t fully picture his face. Never mind. I’m sure someone will call him. I’m sure that when I wake up, he will be here.