The Forgetting(15)
The kitchen is a sea of white: white cupboards, white work surfaces, white tiles. Even the floorboards have been painted white. Only the oak table pushed against one wall breaks up the visual monotony. Every inch of the room is sparkling clean and the effect is almost dazzling, like stepping off an aeroplane into the glare of foreign sun. It strikes me that I cannot imagine cooking in here, cannot imagine daring to chop tomatoes or slice a loaf of bread for fear of creating a mess. And then the thought springs to mind that I do not know whether I am a competent cook, whether it is something I enjoy doing or if it is a daily chore. Whether, in fact, it is Stephen who takes responsibility for our meals.
‘How do you feel?’
My breath quickens and I wish I were able to respond truthfully without disappointing him. ‘A bit . . . strange.’ It is an understatement, but I do not know how to describe this sense of disorientation.
‘Shall I show you upstairs? Perhaps you’ll remember something up there?’ His voice is hesitant and I sense his optimism dwindling.
I nod, and he leads me up the stairs, highlighting the narrowness of the tread and the extra lights in the hallway to mitigate against falls in the dark, as if he is an estate agent and I a potential buyer.
At the top of the stairs, a square hatch looms above our heads.
‘The loft ladder’s pretty treacherous – I need to get someone to come and fix it – so don’t venture up there if I’m not here.’ He ushers me into the bathroom directly ahead, another room all in white: a toilet, a sink, a shower over the bath. Functional, compact.
Next door is a tiny bedroom – the second bedroom, Stephen tells me – with a window overlooking the patio garden. The houses that back onto ours are so close that I can see a family photograph – a man, a woman, a babe in arms – hanging on a neighbour’s wall. Our second bedroom is full of cardboard boxes, each sealed with parcel tape.
‘I know, you don’t have to say it. How have we still not got around to unpacking all these boxes despite having lived here for over a year?’ There is a smile in Stephen’s voice and I feel a sudden rush of reassurance that he is here, by my side, that I am not having to manage this alone. ‘Every weekend we promise ourselves that we’ll finally tackle all this’ – he swoops an arm across the room – ‘and every weekend we somehow manage to find something more interesting to do. We could probably just throw the lot away – we clearly don’t need it.’ He laughs and I find myself smiling in spite of the worry churning in my stomach.
‘Let’s look next door and then the tour’s complete.’ He takes hold of my hand, squeezes my fingers, and I hope he knows how grateful I am for his patience. How sorry I am that he is having to guide me around our home as if I am viewing it for the first time.
The walls in our bedroom are painted pale blue and it would be tranquil were it not for the bed taking up most of the floor space. It seems that a lot of our furniture has delusions of grandeur.
The room smells of fresh linen and I am touched that Stephen has been so thoughtful, putting on new sheets for my return. And yet, at the sight of the bed, with its high wooden headboard and crisp white duvet cover, I am aware of something pulling taut across my chest.
I realise with a sudden jolt that tonight – in less than ten hours’ time – I will be climbing into bed with the man currently standing next to me. We will spend the night side by side, on the same mattress, beneath the same duvet, in almost unimaginable intimacy. And the thought of it – the thought of sharing a bed with a man whom I can no more remember than if I’d met him for the first time two days ago – fills me with such overwhelming panic that my lungs seem to shrink, my chest contracting, the walls of my throat narrowing until I am struggling to breathe.
‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
Stephen wraps an arm around my shoulders, guides me towards the edge of the mattress, and I sit down, try to slow my racing heart.
‘There was always a chance that coming back home was going to be difficult. I know how much you’d hoped it would help you remember. But you’ve got to let things take their course. Like the doctor said, it may just take time. But I’m here for you. We’ll get through this together.’
Stephen’s words swim in my ears and I know he is being kind, but his kindness exacerbates my sense of failure.
‘God, I forgot to give you this.’ He fishes in his trouser pocket, pulls out a piece of tissue folded into a small square. ‘I was right, the nurses had kept it safe while you were having your CT scan and just forgot to give it back.’ Unwrapping it, he reveals a slim platinum band. It takes a moment for me to realise what it is, but then I take it from him, feel the weight of it in my hand, heavier than it looks, shinier than I expected. Easing the ring over the knuckles of my fourth finger, I wait for something to happen: some burst of memory, some flash of recollection. Twelve years I have been wearing this ring and I feel sure that it must contain some residual memory. I close my eyes, willing something to come – the music to which I walked down the aisle, the cutting of the cake, our first dance – but there is nothing. Just a dark, empty chasm where my past should be.
The tears are warm as they slip down my cheeks. Stephen holds my hand and I let him, his touch like that of an intimate stranger. We sit quietly on the bed, in a house that does not feel like my home, while a voice whispers in my ear: What if your memories never return? What then?