Chapter 17
Robyn stood in the bedroom, staring down at the suitcase, unsure as to whether she wanted to open it and find out what was inside. Or, more to the point, find out that she didn’t recognise any of her own possessions. She had given a very abridged version to Gayle of what the doctor had said.
Now the doctor’s words were ringing in her ears, sounding a warning bell. Perhaps if she opened it, and nothing clicked, then it would mean that her memory loss had a psychological rather than a physical cause. If that were true, she wondered if it had anything to do with the other news that Dr Jamieson had given her. She involuntarily put the palm of her hand on her tummy. At the time, she had been just so relieved not to be pregnant that the enormity of the situation hadn’t hit her. But now it had.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, nearly sliding off the very soft, springy mattress. Who was the father? What had she been doing, travelling along that road on Christmas Day? Why, for that matter, was she here in this place at all, spending the Christmas holidays alone? Had it had anything to do with the pregnancy? She took her hand away and looked down at her stomach. Then she glanced sideways at the suitcase. She hoped it held some of the answers.
She sat cross-legged on the bed in front of the old suitcase and ran her fingers along the creased brown leather, tracing its rough outline. She examined the old worn stickers with words partially obscured by time. She thought one said Tahiti, another Bombay. She wondered if she had visited these places, but the stickers looked far too old; the representation of flight attendants on one looked very dated. Besides, this case didn’t look like something a woman in her early twenties would own.
She glanced at the rucksack. Perhaps the suitcase wasn’t hers. That would explain why she didn’t recognise it. But the rucksack hadn’t jogged her memory either. Perhaps the old suitcase had belonged to someone in her family, and she’d kept it because it had a special significance.
When she had finished examining the case, she held her hands either side, with her thumbs on the old catches, ready to click them open. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and pressed her thumbs hard. She heard two clicks, not quite in unison. The lid was unlocked. She opened her eyes and lifted the lid. It was heavier than she had expected. She looked inside the case.
She breathed out.
Clothes. Just a crumpled assortment of clothes. What had she been expecting – a suitcase full of money?
Robyn plunged her hand into the suitcase, picking out a particularly drab piece of clothing.
She held it up. Do I really wear these? There was an assortment of clothes, mostly grey and black, like the outfit she was wearing. They looked as though they had come from a charity shop or a vintage clothing store. She picked out a grey tartan skirt, long stripy socks that she imagined wouldn’t have been out of place in the eighties, and a matching grey jumper that appeared too big for her but looked cosy and warm. She held them up. ‘At least this makes a change from black.’
Robyn continued to rummage through the suitcase to see if there was anything of interest besides the clothes. Her hand glided through the sea of clothes, and she felt something hard. Thrusting the pile of clothes to one side, she revealed a plain brown shoebox, almost as weather-beaten as the suitcase.
‘OK. I’m guessing there is the most grotesque pair of shoes in here.’ She lifted the shoebox out of the case. She glanced at the oversized, thick-soled army-style boots she had been wearing before she’d slipped them off to sit on the bed. She did not like them at all.
She’d discovered she didn’t much like her clothing style. Perhaps because I’m a student, this is all I can afford. Another thought occurred to her; maybe the bang on the head had changed her personality. It wasn’t a possibility she had thought to ask the doctor about in respect of her memory loss. She looked at her case, and the old shoebox, and thought how strange . She felt as though she was going through someone else’s things. It almost made her feel like an imposter; as though she had stolen someone else’s identity and was masquerading as Robyn.
She shook her head as she lifted the shoebox, thinking it would be lovely if it was full of cash. Even though Gayle had so kindly let her stay at her house, she couldn’t stay indefinitely, and even while she was there, she wanted to pay Gayle some money for room and board.
Robyn lifted the shoebox lid and was about to cast it to one side when something caught her attention. There was picture of a skull and crossbones drawn in thick black marker pen followed by the words, Private – keep out! written directly underneath the crossbones. Robyn held the lid closer to read a scribbled message underneath, this time in plain biro. If you go any further, you should be ashamed of yourself. Only a real creep would read someone else’s diary.
‘I kept a diary?’ she squealed, both delighted and surprised. ‘Oh my god!’ she clapped her hands together. This was just what she needed to jog her memory.
As if that message might not be enough to deter an intruder, there was a further warning. Robyn read it out loud: ‘This diary is in an exact reference order, so I will know if anyone has so much as breathed on it.’ A miniature skull and crossbones ended the message.
Robyn discarded the lid, but not without taking a second glance at the skull and crossbones, which bizarrely gave her a pang of guilt, despite it apparently being her own diary, in her own writing. She put the lid down and leaned forward to examine the contents of the box. There was an assortment of jewellery – bangles and necklaces which didn’t look like real gold or silver. Robyn picked each one up, turning them over in her hands. She frowned. ‘How would I know real gold or silver from fake?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps my memory is coming back and I just know they’re pretty, but worthless.’
Robyn put a couple of the bangles on her wrist. She didn’t like them much, and cast them to one side, along with the fake jewellery. She focused on the scrapbook at the bottom of the shoebox instead. She carefully lifted it out of the box.
Robyn felt a ridiculous twinge of guilt that she was about to read a stranger’s diary. She toyed with the idea of putting it straight back and slapping the lid back on the box. She looked from the box to the lid and thought, I could wait until tomorrow, until my memory returns, or perhaps the day after. She knew that was silly. Why wait? In fact, wasn’t she in a unique position? How many people had the opportunity to stand back and look at themselves, evaluate themselves as a stranger might on their first meeting? Granted, you wouldn’t find out the most intimate details about a person from your first meeting, and they’d have to be an exceptional best friend to let you read their innermost thoughts. But what an experience it would be to find out about yourself. Perhaps she would discover things about herself that she did not much like. Her gaze drifted to the pile of clothes on the bed and the boots on the floor. But then, if so, what better time to start to change? To see her flaws just a stranger might without rolling out excuses for herself – perhaps a lousy childhood, or being bullied at school.
If she waited until the next day, and her memory came back, the opportunity might be lost forever.
Robyn’s mood suddenly changed from euphoria over the discovery of the diary to being downright scared of what she might discover in its pages. She was afraid that she might not like the person who had lain bare her intimate self in this scrapbook that was lying in a tattered old shoe box. But she was just a young woman, she reminded herself, and she had committed no heinous crime – so what was she so afraid of? She wondered how far back this diary went. She imagined that when she’d written this diary, she had just been a typical teenager laying bare her teenage angst, just like millions of other teens across the globe.
Robyn liked that thought. There was something oddly comforting about finding her diary. That in itself said she was just as ordinary as any other person her age. It was just that she was going through an extraordinary experience.
But it certainly wasn’t what Robyn had envisaged a diary to be. It wasn’t a hardback book with fancy gold lettering, announcing that it was a diary; one of the ones that sometimes came with a little lock and a tiny key that you eventually lost. Robyn wondered if that was a memory – perhaps she’d originally had one of those conventional diaries, with embossed lettering on its fancy cover, but she’d lost the key and had resorted to this old scrapbook.
Robyn eyed the diary in her hand. Still, there were some things about a diary that were a given, whether it was a fancy book or not.
Sitting on the bed, she gingerly opened it to the first page. Unexpectedly, there was no Dear diary , no date – in fact, no reference of any kind; just drawings and sketches.
‘So, I’m an artist.’ Robyn frowned. ‘I don’t get it. Why call it a diary when there’s nothing written inside?’ She turned the next few pages, still looking for some entries about her everyday life: her parents, her friends, a special friend – girl or boy. Just the sorts of things people wrote in their diaries.
She was beginning to feel frustrated.
With her thumb holding back all the pages, she slowly let them flick by until she came across something. There was a sketch of a coffin, and a girl standing, head bowed, beside it, a church in the background. Robyn stared at the sketch. ‘So, if that’s me, then someone I knew died.’ Robyn grimaced. ‘Well, that’s depressing.’ What was also depressing was that despite seeing her own diary entries, she still couldn’t remember a thing.
She continued absently flicking through the pages in case anything jogged a memory. She stopped at the last page, which had a pencil sketch of a bookshop. She knew it was a bookshop because it said Wilbur’s Bookstore on a sign above the door, and there were books in the window along with the outlines of two women.
She furrowed her brow, closed her eyes, and concentrated hard, trying to remember. ‘Is that me and a friend? Or just two random, or even imaginary, people I’ve drawn in? Perhaps the bookshop isn’t even real.’
Robyn opened her eyes and exhaled. Nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind. It was useless. She tossed it aside in frustration. Sure, she could wait for her memory to return, but why wait when the answers should be here? She recalled Dr Jamieson’s advice just to be more relaxed about it and her mind would do all the work for her.
She stared at the so-called diary and realised the contents were meaningless unless her memory returned. She was about to replace it in the box when something fell out of the diary onto the bed. Robyn picked up a small, thin booklet with a plastic cover. She turned it over in her hands. The words Instant Saver were written in bland white lettering.
Bemused, Robyn opened the first page. Her name and what appeared to be an account number were printed in light grey type on the inside cover along with the name and branch address of the bank.
‘It’s a savings account.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, this meant she had some money.
She flicked through the pages in the passbook to find the last entry.
Robyn gasped and dropped the passbook. She scrambled off the bed, backing away until she was standing with her back right up against the bedroom door, her hand feeling for the doorknob as though she were about to bolt right out of the room.
She clamped both hands to her mouth. She started to giggle, then caught herself. She shook her head and walked back to the bed. She was acting like an idiot. She was sure she must have misread the figure in the passbook. The day had taken its toll. She was tired. She was disorientated. And she didn’t trust anyone at the moment, least of all herself.
She plucked the passbook off the bed and slowly opened it, flicking the pages slowly until she came to the centre page, where the typewritten entries stopped abruptly halfway down the page. Robyn’s eye settled on the last entry. This time she counted the zeros in the sum that had been deposited into her account.
Robyn closed the savings book, placed it back in the scrapbook, and put it back in the old shoebox, replacing the lid. The skull and crossbones now looked darker and even more menacing. She put the shoebox back in the suitcase and whipped the lid on quickly. It clunked shut. She flipped the catches and pressed hard until she heard them click. It was locked. She breathed out.
She walked to the easy chair at the far end of the room and sat staring into space.
The suitcase really was full of money, as it turned out.
But this time, the image of the old tatty suitcase full of bank notes, just like in the movies, no longer filled her with a sense of excitement and wonder.
Instead, her newfound treasure filled her with dread.
She glanced at the rucksack and frowned. She didn’t feel in the mood to open it and find more surprises. Although when Gayle had deposited it in the corner of the room, she’d spied an article of clothing peeping out from the top of the bag where it had been unfastened, presumably by the police, checking the contents. She guessed it was just full of more clothes that she would not like one bit.
Looking at her clothes and her poor excuse for a diary, she was the last person she would have expected to have that kind of money. Once again, the question came to mind: where had she been going in such a hurry on Christmas Day? She must have been in a hurry to crash her car like that. The police officer didn’t mention she’d been speeding – but how would he know unless the speedometer had got stuck on the speed she’d been travelling when she crashed into David’s car?
Or did he crash into me? she wondered. She furrowed her brow, wondering why she’d thought that. She was the one who’d caused the accident – she must have been, otherwise David would have owned up. She imagined that if she’d been speeding, he hadn’t mentioned that fact to the police.
Robyn breathed a heavy sigh and sat back down on the bed. She picked up the pile of letters from her mother. From amongst the letters, a few cards fell out. She picked them up. They were postcards from far-flung countries. Looking at the postmarks on the letters, it appeared her mother had been travelling for the best part of a year, although whether she’d touched base in England during that time, Robyn had no clue.
She read the postcards and opened the remainder of the letters. Inside each of the unopened letters, along with a note about her mother’s current destination, and how much she was enjoying her travels, was a cheque addressed to her, and an invitation to join her mother at that destination.
Briony stared at one of the cheques. ‘That’s generous,’ she remarked. She guessed it was enough to cover air fares, accommodation and spending money. The letters and postcards didn’t mention her father. Perhaps they’d split up, or she’d grown up in a single-parent household. ‘Oh, god – it’s so frustrating. Why can’t I remember?’
Robyn had a sudden thought. She reached for the suitcase and got out the old shoebox. She took out the savings book again and flicked through the pages. She picked up the letters that had already been opened and noted the date at the top of the letter, along with the address of a hotel or guesthouse, and the comment at the bottom of each letter saying that another cheque was enclosed.
She cross-referenced those dates – give or take a day or two – and noted that the cheques had been paid into her savings account, but there had been no withdrawals. That answered her question – she had not seen her mum, or had a holiday with her, in all the months her mum had been away. The question was: why hadn’t she? It wasn’t like she was at work and didn’t have the time; most university courses had generous holidays. And it wasn’t like she didn’t have the money.
It looked as though she had never intended to go, otherwise she imagined she probably wouldn’t have deposited the money into a savings account which might not be easily accessible. Surely she had a current account too.
It occurred to her that if she could visit the bank where she had a savings account, she might find that she had a bank account with them too – one with a bank card.
A shrill sound jolted Robyn out of her reverie, and out of her chair. She stood, her head darting around the room.
The single long, shrill sound came again. Robyn saw the phone and unclenched her hands. She stood up as the sound died and walked to the bedside table. She hovered over the phone. It rang again and she picked up the old-fashioned, matt-black receiver, which was heavier than she had expected. She looked at it before putting it to her ear.
Robyn coughed. Her throat felt dry. ‘Hello,’ she said meekly.
‘Lunch is served.’ Gayle’s try at a posh city voice came across in a flat tone.
Robyn eyed the suitcase. She hesitated for some time before she replied, ‘I’m sorry, Gayle, but I feel a bit tired. I’ll skip lunch and just have a bite to eat this evening if that’s alright.’
She waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she realised Gayle must have already put the phone down. ‘Damn!’
That meant she had to offer her apologies in person, which she didn’t feel like doing. Perhaps if she didn’t emerge from her room, Gayle would assume she was having a nap. Robyn doubted this. More than likely, Gayle would think there was something wrong. She would most certainly come and check on her. She imagined it was a condition of her discharge that she had someone to keep an eye on her after the head injury. For some unfathomable reason, Robyn didn’t want Gayle to visit her room and see the suitcase again. She was afraid she might not be able to contain herself, and might blurt, ‘I’m rich, and I have no idea why.’
Robyn walked to the bedroom door and reached for the doorknob, but then she decided there was something she wanted to do before leaving the room. Kneeling down, she slipped the suitcase under the bed. She returned to the door and opened it. As she was shutting it behind her, she glanced back into the room, her eyes darting to the bottom of the bed, to the valance that was barely concealing the hiding place of the old brown suitcase. Of course, she knew that if somebody wanted to find her suitcase, then once they had looked in the large double wardrobe, the next place would be under the bed. But it just made her feel more comfortable that it was out of sight, almost – although she couldn’t imagine Gayle rifling through her stuff. She reasoned that if the suitcase wasn’t on show, and someone had to drag it out from under the bed, it would take time, which would be a deterrent.
Closing the door, Robyn realised she was being paranoid. This memory loss business was obviously getting to her. She was still worried about that ridiculously large deposit in her savings account. But the money is in a bank, so it must be bona fide – right? She nodded to herself as she walked down the stairs, but she still didn’t feel very hungry. Instead, she just felt scared. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened on Christmas Day; something before the car accident.