The Forgetting(3)

As if in Pavlovian response, Livvy glanced down at the screen of her phone, checked that there were no messages from her mum. It was the first time she’d ever left Leo for an evening. A few times recently, Bea had suggested that she and Livvy go out for dinner, but Livvy had wavered, wondered if it was too soon, and Dominic had reassured her there was no rush. She couldn’t have missed tonight though; she hadn’t missed a single one of Bea’s birthday celebrations since they were children. And yet, even though she knew Leo would be fine with her parents, the experience of being apart from him was like having twine wrapped around her heart and tugged with gentle persistence.

Next to her, Dominic pushed back his chair, got to his feet, chimed his knife against his glass.

He smiled broadly, looked down one end of the table and then the other. ‘I know you’ve all known Bea a lot longer than I have, but I just wanted to say that it’s a real pleasure to be here tonight, celebrating my sister-in-law’s birthday with you all. So please join me in raising a glass and wishing Bea the happiest of birthdays, and many more to come.’

Dominic raised his glass to a chorus of well-wishing. Livvy glanced across the table in time to see a tight smile stiffen the corners of her sister’s lips. Disappointment twisted in Livvy’s stomach. She didn’t understand the tension between Dominic and Bea, wished they could like each other as much as she loved them both. But ever since Livvy had first introduced them sixteen months ago, she had been aware of an underlying friction between them, valiantly shrouded beneath exaggerated politeness.

Dominic sat back down, tilted his head towards Livvy. ‘What do you think about heading off soon?’

‘We can’t leave before dessert.’

‘Straight after then?’ He kissed her cheek, skimmed a thumb across her bare knee. ‘I’m sure Bea will understand, given the circumstances.’

Livvy felt a knot pull taut inside her chest at the thought of Dominic’s departure the next day. ‘Soon after, I promise.’





ANNA


LONDON

The man looks at me, and I cannot tell whether he is angry or sad.

‘Take a deep breath, my love. Don’t get upset. Everything’s going to be fine.’

I try to breathe but it is as though something is pressing down hard on my windpipe and I cannot get sufficient air into my lungs. There is a part of me that does not want to be instructed what to do by this man who claims to be my husband but whom I do not recall ever having seen before. I just want someone to explain why I am here and what is going on.

The curtain is pulled back and a young woman enters, hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck, stethoscope slung around the shoulders of her white coat.

‘Mrs Bradshaw? My name’s Dr Okonjo. I understand you’ve had a sustained period of concussion. How are you feeling now?’

The words reverberate in my ears, and my eyes dart towards the man who says he is my husband.

‘My wife’s very confused. She doesn’t seem to know who I am. I’m not sure she remembers anything about what happened.’

Dr Okonjo turns towards the man. ‘Mr Bradshaw?’

The man nods.

‘It’s very common for there to be some level of confusion after a head injury. Do you want to stand back and I can take a closer look?’

The man steps away from the bed, his back brushing against the curtain, a ripple undulating across its pleats. From somewhere outside the cubicle, a woman calls out for a nurse, her voice loud and aggressive, and something inside me cowers from the sound.

The doctor picks up the clipboard hanging at the end of my bed, reads whatever observations have been written about me, eyes darting across the page. Then she looks up, smiles, tucks the clipboard beneath her arm.

‘Mrs Bradshaw, can you tell me what happened to you?’

The question crouches in my ears as if waiting to see what I will do with it. I understand its meaning but cannot get the part of my brain that needs to answer it – the part of me that must surely know the answer – to open up and let me in. It is as though there is an impenetrable black box in my head, like the flight recorder of a crashed plane, but it is locked and tightly sealed and there is no way for me to access it. ‘The nurse told me I’d been in a car accident, but other than that . . . I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry. Can you tell me your full name?’

I look at the doctor, wonder if it is a trick question. ‘Anna Bradshaw.’ The name feels strange on my tongue, as though waiting for me to confess that the only reason I know it is because, between them, the nurse and the doctor have already told me.

The doctor glances down again at the notes, then back at me. ‘That’s good. And can you tell me your middle name?’

A thick fog swirls inside my mind and I am aware of panic eddying in my chest. I shake my head.

‘That’s fine. Can you tell me where you live?’

I close my eyes, implore my brain to hone in on whatever part of it holds that piece of information. But it is like stumbling in the dark, flailing for a switch to turn on the light, and finding nothing but a blank, empty wall beneath my fingers.

Opening my eyes, I tell the doctor that I am sorry, I can’t remember.

Behind the doctor, the man stands with arms folded across his chest, an expression on his face that I cannot decipher.