Chapter 17 #2
‘I wasn’t the person I was before the stroke.
Vicky was – still is, I suppose – ambitious.
We both were, had our future all mapped out.
But then’ – he runs a hand through his dark hair – ‘when it was clear that I… that I’d changed, she ended it, took her share of the money and I was left with a shop I couldn’t run and another waiting to be opened.
I think it highlighted that there were already problems in our relationship.
She tried at first, to stay, to help…’ He hesitates.
‘I thought I could still do it at first, thought I could fix it, fix me, the alexia, so I took out a loan to cover the rest. But now, now I avoid books, and the place where I have always felt like I belonged, feels like a prison.’ He looks back around the room, almost as if he can see this shop as he intended, filled with light and conversation, books filling the shelves, soft music and laughter coming from the bar.
He resets, his whole body shifting as though embarrassed that he’s spoken out loud by mistake.
I take off my gloves and set them beside me.
Jack glances down, eyebrows hitched then meets my eyes.
‘How about’ – I smile at the memory of the first time we met – ‘we be alone, but together?’
His eyes flash with recognition; I dip my head, offering him a small, encouraging smile.
‘That’s a terrible line, you know,’ he replies, but the light is back behind his eyes.
‘Really? I think it’s pretty great.’ I lift my kebab and take a small bite. It’s delicious. Jack takes a bite of his own as I swallow.
‘Good?’ he asks, covering his mouth before placing his back inside the container.
I nod. ‘Yes, you weren’t kidding.’
He reaches into the bag. ‘Water or…’ He squints at the label; his whole body tenses.
How did I miss how hard reading is for him?
I replay our time together and realise that it’s not only me who is good at hiding the truth about themselves from the rest of the world.
The liquid is pink. He looks up, body relaxing a touch.
‘I’m guessing pink lemonade? I pointed to it in the shop, looked like something you might like? It was the brightest colour.’
He looks at the label again then passes it to me.
‘Thanks.’ I smile and he gives me one in return, but it’s like the confidence has been knocked out of him. He takes another bite, the air thick with lost dreams and secrets.
‘How did it happen?’ I ask tentatively.
‘I honestly don’t remember.’
I take another small mouthful.
‘Anything?’
‘I’d been to the pub, had a few. Bumped into some guy and then… nothing until I woke up in the hospital.’
I swallow hard, the pitta bread too thick in my throat.
‘What did he look like?’
Jack frowns, looks off into the distance. ‘Pretty average really: medium height, medium build, blond hair.’ My heartbeat quickens. ‘He was pretty pissed about something… But that’s all I can remember. Well that and the pain at the back of my skull.’
‘So he hit you?’
‘Honestly? I have no idea. Maybe I tripped over. I’d had a fair few beers and a shot…
one for the road from my mate. All I remember is saying goodbye and then his face, the feeling of being pushed, and a pain that sounds like a crack.
That’s part of the problem with my reading.
When I try, it’s like the trauma of that night stops me.
I get a searing pain, right’ – he turns his head and points to the base of his skull – ‘here.’
‘Is there ever a chance it could get better?’ I suggest tentatively. ‘Like, with support or therapy, maybe?’
He hesitates, opens a bottle of water and takes a long pull, taking his time screwing the lid back on.
‘I’ve tried… I had a speech and language therapist but the words, they… won’t come. It’s exhausting, trying to read. And painful. But my father has found a specialist – Dr Levin, he’s had good results. Apparently.’
‘That’s great… isn’t it?’ He places the bottle on the windowsill, turns the label to face him, a finger skating across the ‘w’.
‘I guess I’m afraid.’
‘To try?’
‘To hope.’
We sit quietly, his eyes focused on the inside of the shop, mine focused on him.
‘Maybe I can help?’ He draws his eyes back to me. ‘If we talk about it some more, we might be able to get your memories back and then maybe you won’t feel that pain, maybe it won’t be so hard to try to read?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve tried. That’s all I remember.’
I lean in a touch. ‘Humour me?’ I encourage. ‘What was he wearing?’
Jack takes a bite and chews thoughtfully.
‘Black. All black.’
‘Like a leather jacket?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
I try to keep my composure. I try not to let my body react.
‘There is one thing… I think he might have had a scar on his eyebrow.’ He shakes his head as though trying to discount his own memories.
‘Here?’ I point to where the ‘scar’ was while knowing he shaved it in on purpose.
‘Yeah? How did you know that?’
My thoughts go back to that night. We’d gone for a walk after Luke had cooked me dinner. I had been thinking how kind he was being. He’d bought me flowers and had been so attentive that night and I’d figured it was the right time to tell him.
When we began to take the next step in our relationship, and things were more physical, I had tried to block out his thoughts in lots of different ways: reciting the alphabet backwards, singing in my head, anything to avoid hearing him.
Over the years, Tess and I had suggested many weird and wonderful methods to control it, but little snippets always managed to leak through.
And then I’d kissed him, and the first thing I’d heard – as I tried to focus on naming as many fruits as I could – was the name Becca, and the way she was more ‘into’ him. I’d pulled away fiercely.
‘You’re sleeping with someone else?!’
‘No!’
‘Don’t lie to me, Luke! I know you are!’
‘Well what did you expect? You hardly let me touch you and when we do, it’s like your mind is on a million different things. You make me feel like a waste of space.’
He’d shouted then, thrown in my face all the things that were wrong with me, how being with me was so hard, so weird and that I should learn a few things about how to make a man feel wanted.
Then I said the words that would wreck Jack’s life: ‘Don’t take the fact that you’ve been caught out on me. Take it out on someone else. I’m done.’
I was right. I didn’t get the image mixed up. It was my fault.