The Forgetting(68)

‘Well, obviously every case is different and it’s difficult – and often unhelpful – to generalise. But if a patient is coping well day-to-day, then learning about their past shouldn’t be disadvantageous. It’s all about the brain rediscovering old neural pathways and making new ones.’

She pauses, and I try to absorb what she is saying, try to match it to what Stephen has told me, but it is like trying to slot squares into a tile puzzle when all the pieces are different sizes.

‘So if I want to find out more about my life before the accident, I should? It won’t cause me any harm?’

‘I wouldn’t want to say anything definitively until I’d spent time with a patient, but generally my work is about trying to help patients remember, within a safe environment.’

I can hear she is on the verge of ending the call and I need to slip in one last question. ‘So is it likely that a doctor – in a hospital, say – would recommend not finding out about your past if you’re suffering from amnesia like mine?’

There is another pause, pregnant with speculation. ‘Obviously I wouldn’t want to second-guess another medical professional’s diagnosis, but in most cases of episodic memory loss, a gradual reacclimatising to familiar people and places is helpful.’ I hear the click of computer keys, wonder if it is my notes she is accessing or her next patient’s. ‘But I really would rather discuss this in person, when we meet. I think that will be much more productive.’ Her voice is warm, and she tells me she is looking forward to meeting me. I thank her, tell her I am too.

We say goodbye and the phone call ends. My thoughts scramble over one another, each eager to be heard, but there is one louder than all the others, looping around my mind like a music track on repeat: why would Stephen lie to me about the therapist cancelling the appointment?

I’m not sure I understand the rationale in telling you so little about the rest of your life. It’s almost like he doesn’t want you to remember.

Three days ago, I thought Zahira’s suggestion absurd. I felt certain that all Stephen’s decisions were in my best interests. Now I do not know what to think, what to feel. Where to turn.

If a patient is coping well day-to-day, then learning about their past shouldn’t be disadvantageous . . . In most cases of episodic memory loss, a gradual reacclimatising to familiar people and places is helpful.

Carla’s words hum in my ears, somewhere between a response and a challenge, and as I replay them, an idea takes shape in my mind: curves, forms, solidifies.

I know what it is I need to do.





LIVVY


BRISTOL

Leo sat on the sitting room rug next to her, watching her twist the button on his pop-up toy until the brightly coloured elephant sprung from its hiding place. Pressing his chubby palm down on the lid to close it again, he looked up at Livvy, smiled, and Livvy tried to reciprocate.

It had been over an hour since Dominic had stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.

Sitting up on her knees, Livvy pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped the sleep from Leo’s eyes, while the argument with Dominic repeated in her head like a film caught on a loop.

Anger burrowed its way under her skin as she remembered the feel of Dominic’s fingers tightening around her wrist. The recollection had an unreal quality to it, as though it belonged to a different time, a different marriage. She kept recalling the expression on his face – something beyond anger – but the memory was too painful to handle, like shards of glass. The soundtrack of their row recapitulated in her head, but still she couldn’t understand how they had segued into this: Livvy sitting at home alone with Leo, a quintet of angry red welts encircling her wrist.

The sound of a key in the front door made Livvy jolt. She stroked a finger across the plump roll of flesh at Leo’s ankle, pre-emptively reassuring him that it would be okay, even as dread churned in her stomach.

The hall door opened and then closed, and Livvy did not turn around.

‘I’m sorry.’

Dominic’s voice behind her was full of contrition, but Livvy was not yet ready to face him. A part of her feared that, when she did, she would find a different man to the one she had married.

‘I know what I did was wrong. I was angry with Bea, not you. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

A hand rested on Livvy’s arm and she shifted her body away from it.

‘What can I do to make this better? I love you. You know that. I’m sorry I let my frustration with your sister get the better of me. You know I’d never intentionally hurt you.’

He sat down beside her, close but not touching. Leo looked up at him, eyes wide and unsuspecting, and Dominic kissed the top of Leo’s head, ran his fingers across their son’s dark hair.

‘Talk to me, please.’

She could feel his eyes on her face but could not turn to look at him. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Scream and shout at me if you want. It’s only what I deserve.’

Livvy said nothing. She had no desire for another row, felt exhausted by their earlier conflict.

On the periphery of her vision, she saw Dominic reach out towards her. His fingers ran across the scarlet weals on her wrist, raised from her skin like miniature mountains, and she withdrew her hand.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘What do you think?’ She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.