Chapter Twelve
JESS
Waking up is like slowly floating to the surface from the bottom of a deep, deep ocean.
I gradually become aware of my surroundings – the duvet, pleasingly heavy and squashy on top of me, the air cool on the arm that’s flung above my head.
Even through my eyelids, I can tell it’s light outside.
I exhale and stretch, my right arm reaching across the sheet, but I find the other side of the bed empty.
I frown, too sleepy to crack my eyelids open. And then I remember.
Luke.
Walking out the door.
Maybe walking out of our life together.
I squeeze my eyelids closed and curl into a ball. No. I am not awake. This is not real. I will slide back into unconsciousness, where it all hasn’t happened. I try and will myself to fall back into the dream I was just having where we were only just beginning.
But … Oh, wow. The dream.
It was so weird. I don’t think I’ve ever had one that vivid.
Feeling slightly paranoid, I reach out and investigate the bed again.
I’m relieved to find smooth cotton under my palm instead of hard plaster and wallpaper.
I’m definitely not in a single bed. But the sheet beside me is cool, and I spiral back into feeling sick.
It’s not much of a choice is it? Heartbroken in the present day or confused and bewildered, reliving bittersweet memories from my past. I’m not sure which is worse.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m awake now, so my choice has been made for me.
I stretch, roll over, and sleepily part my eyelids, staring at the white ceiling above me. I lie there for a few minutes, just breathing, trying to work out what to do, where to go.
Where will he be?
At a hotel? Crashing at a friend’s? He might not have wanted to worry his parents about us just yet.
But do I actually want to find him? As much as watching him walk away took all the breath from my body, now the shock of that moment is waning, I’m not as angry with him as I was yesterday.
Being reminded of who we were when we were first together has robbed me of that.
Crap. It’s much easier to be furious with him than feeling this crushing sense of rejection, the weight of sadness sitting on my chest like a boulder.
But at least I can still be cross about him inviting Mum to our anniversary party. How could he do that? How could he spring that on me?
I get a flash of my mother’s face before I turned and stalked away.
I’d been studiously trying to avoid looking her in the eye, but it seems I noticed anyway.
She looked stricken. Not pathetic, as I’d often seen her when she was in an alcohol-induced haze but devastated.
Broken. By me and my refusal to even acknowledge her.
But there are reasons for that too. And she knows that.
I’m not sure what to do about Luke, but I do know that I need a cup of tea.
I throw back the duvet, plant my feet on the floor and stand up.
But that’s when the earth seems to shift on its axis once again.
Where I’m expecting to see a framed print of a Picasso line drawing on the wall in front of me, there’s a door.
My old dressing gown is hanging on one of the hooks, along with a whole host of scarves I’d forgotten I owned.
Wait. What … ?
It’s not … I’m not … I’m not back at home. I’m somewhere else.
Again.
And I recognize this place.
I reach out and gingerly touch one of the scarves. The soft cotton seems real enough beneath my fingertips. But how can this be? Am I still dreaming?
I grab the dressing gown and put it on, knotting the sash as I exit the bedroom and walk down the hallway, hardly noticing how cold the floor is beneath my bare feet.
As I approach the kitchen, I become aware of the steamy roar of a kettle just about to boil.
I arrive at the threshold just in time to see Hannah throwing a teabag into a mug.
She looks up as I stand in the doorway, open-mouthed.
‘Want one?’
I nod. And then, before she can pull another mug from the cabinet, I rush over to her and fling my arms around her.
She laughs. ‘Oh … okay!’ And then her arms come around me and she’s warm and solid and just … Han. She has no idea how pleased I am to see her. This is how we became friends, when we rented rooms in a house in Catford for a couple of years.
I straighten my arms, keeping my grip on her, so I can look at her face. Yes, it’s definitely Hannah. But younger. She’s wearing the nose stud she abandoned after she got married, and her skin is smoother, especially around her eyes and on her forehead.
‘So, are you dropping by the party this evening or not?’ Hannah asks as she breaks away from me and continues making a cup of tea for us both. All I can do is stare at her, watch her move.
‘Party?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten!’ I retort, not knowing why I feel the need to keep a certain level of pretence going.
I also have no idea what kind of party it is.
But if I’m going to a party, then Hannah is too.
Han loves a party. ‘What are you wearing?’ I ask her.
Hopefully, her answer will give me some clues as to how I should dress myself.
She gives me a knowing look as she pours boiling water into each mug. ‘You have totally forgotten. Just as well you have me as your back-up memory!’
She’s right. I’m very grateful for what’s inside her brain right now. I intend to mine it for as much information as possible.
‘I’m not going,’ she says.
‘You’re not?’
Her forehead crinkles as she squeezes a teabag against the edge of my mug with a spoon. ‘Your family have only met me once. Why would they invite me?’
Oh. It’s a family party. I rack my brains. Whose anniversary, birthday, or engagement could it be?
‘I was only asking because you weren’t sure if you could fit it in before you went out for your big romantic meal with Luke.’
Inside my skull, I have the sensation of things dropping into place, areas of thought and memory connecting themselves. At first I have no idea what these inklings are, but then they come more sharply into focus. ‘What year is it?’
Her eyes narrow in confusion.
‘Just … humour me.’
‘Exactly the same year it was when you went to bed last night – twenty-fifteen.’
What feels like a blast of hot air passes through my body as I process her answer. 2015. I blink, unable to think of anything else but those numbers for a few seconds, but then I add, ‘And what date?’
She shakes her head, bemused but not pissed off, as she heads to the fridge to fetch the milk.
‘Han … ? What date?’
When her face appears from around the fridge door, she looks more worried than anything else. ‘Seriously, Jess. How much did you have last night? I’m started to get a bit worried. It’s not like you to drink like that.’
I know, I know … But I can’t tell Hannah the truth, can I? Firstly, she wouldn’t believe me and, secondly, I’m not sure if I know what the truth is myself. I must look fairly pathetic, because she relents and answers me. ‘May the fourteenth.’
Staring straight ahead, I pull out one of the chairs by the small square dining table and my backside meets it with a thump.
I knew she was going to say that, but I also didn’t know she was going to say it at the same time.
May the fourteenth. Exactly one year after the day I lived yesterday.
How is that possible? What is happening to me?
But now I know exactly what party I’m supposed to be going to. The twins’ birthday is on the eighteenth, so their celebrations often fall around that date. Hannah is watching me as she leans against the counter, sipping her tea. ‘Are you okay? Did you and Luke have a fight?’
I stare ahead, feeling hollow inside. ‘Something like that.’ And the last thing I want to do is go out with Luke this evening.
Not just because he’s planned the most stupidly romantic dinner and it would just be too soul-gutting to sit opposite him after all that’s happened, but because I remember exactly what Luke did on this night in 2015 – he asked me to marry him.
I go to work at Dobson’s because I don’t know what else to do, but I hardly get anything done, partly because I’m struggling to remember what used to be routine tasks, but also because I can’t stop checking my phone.
I’m waiting for a call I remember getting this afternoon, but I can’t recall the exact timing.
At 2.45 p.m. my phone lights up with my stepmother’s name. Finally! I snatch it up. ‘Hi Lola!’
I know what she’s going to ask, but I can’t interrupt her to let her know that, so I’m going to have to wait for her to spit it out.
‘Jess! Praise Jesus you picked up. I know you often let it go to voicemail when you are at work.’
I usually would. I did last time, if I remember rightly.
‘I’m glad I picked up too,’ I tell her, and I am.
I regret not getting closer to Lola and the girls over the years, but I always felt like the fifth wheel when I rocked up to their house and stayed over.
They seemed such a perfect family unit on their own.
Why would they ever need me to intrude upon it?
And the secrets kept a wall between us too, I realize now. Not my secrets, but Mum’s. Maybe I should have told them how hard it was, how alone I felt, but I think I’d just unconsciously adopted my mother’s proclivity for sweeping everything under the rug. Deny, deny, deny.
‘With God’s grace, you said you may be able to attend the girls’ birthday party this afternoon?’ Lola says hopefully.
‘Of course!’ Even though I’d been a bit irritated Dad and Lola had scheduled it the same day as my one-year anniversary with Luke the first time around.
You would have thought a Thursday night would be safe, but I remember something about a teacher training day, meaning their school will be closed tomorrow.
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ Last time I’d dropped in as a duty visit and fled as soon as possible so I could go and get ready for my big romantic night with Luke.
But this is my chance. This is my get-out.
‘We have eight girls for a sleepover – the twins and three friends each – and before that we have pizza and cake, a karaoke session and then a movie to, hopefully, get them all settled before bedtime. My sister was going to help me with it, but she has come down with a stomach bug that has been going round her school.’
Lola’s sister is a teacher, so that makes sense.
‘I wondered … ’ she pauses, and it makes me sad that she’s hesitating to ask for my help ‘… if you could be here to help when we serve the food? I think it’s going to be … What does your father say? I think it’s going to be “mayhem”.’
‘Eight seven-year-olds sounds like a lot,’ I tell her. ‘Why don’t I just stay all the way through?’
‘Oh, I cannot ask you to do that!’
‘Sure you can. And, anyway, you’re not asking, I’m offering.’
‘But are you not celebrating your anniversary with Luke this evening?’
I take a breath. Now’s my opportunity. ‘Yes … but we’ll have been together a year whether we eat a meal together tonight or not. It won’t take anything away from it if we postpone until tomorrow.’
‘No … No, Jess … Honestly. I do not want you to change your plans. There may be someone from church I can ask … ’
There is. Was. Whatever tense we’re supposed to be in, it doesn’t matter. One of the ladies from her Bible study stepped in last time and they all had a whale of a time, adults included. But it doesn’t suit my purposes to let that happen tonight.
‘I’m sure. And don’t feel bad. I’d love to share this moment with my sisters, and besides … ’ I smile to myself as I prepare to roll out one of my husband’s favourite phrases ‘ … family is family.’
Despite Lola’s protests, I assure her I’ll be there to help wrangle the seven-year-olds later, and before I put my phone down, I shoot off a text to Luke. I don’t risk calling him. Too many conflicting emotions I don’t want to feel might be triggered if I do that.
I just want to get through this bizarre dream – or whatever it is – with as little fuss as possible.
If I’m going to take a break from my disaster of a life for a few days, then I’m going to do it properly.
I’m going to take myself out of the situation that’s causing me all this distress as much as possible.
How can I even begin to work out how to go forward unless I do that?
Besides, I don’t want to feel sad or angry or hopeless or rejected. I don’t want to feel anything at all.
So sorry, I type. Family emergency. I need to help with the twins’ birthday party this evening. Can we do dinner tomorrow instead?
And then I press ‘send’ and let out a huge sigh of relief.