The Forgetting(7)

I nod, and a wave of relief washes across his face. There is relief for me too. Even though the doctor on his rounds this morning assured me that my short-term memory appears unscathed, I still worried that I might not recognise Stephen when he arrived, as though we are two adults on a blind date and our descriptions may not match reality.

For the first time I allow myself to examine my husband’s face properly. It is a kind face. Handsome, I think, and I assume I must have believed so once if I married him. There are lines around his eyes and I do not know whether they have deepened in the hours since the crash. His expression is thoughtful, thin lips accentuating the strong line of his jaw.

Scrutinising Stephen’s face, I realise something suddenly. ‘Have you got a mirror?’

Stephen looks at me, confused.

‘Please, I need a mirror. Can you find me one?’

Something shifts in Stephen’s expression and he nods, tells me he’ll be back in a moment. He returns with a small, square compact I assume he must have borrowed from one of the nurses.

I open it, bring it level with my eyes, look at my reflection for the first time since the crash.

The woman staring back at me is in her mid-thirties – older, perhaps, if her genes have been kind to her – and beyond the pale skin and anxious expression, she is, I think, attractive. Her chestnut hair is cut short, and there is something gentle in her face. It is the face of someone I would trust if I needed to call on the goodwill of a stranger.

Except the woman in the mirror is not a stranger. The woman in the mirror is me. And yet I would not have recognised myself had someone handed me a photograph.

The sense of dislocation is overwhelming and I part my lips, encourage the air in and out of my lungs.

‘Shall we put this away?’ Stephen does not wait for an answer as he prises the mirror from my fingers, snaps it shut, places it on the cabinet next to my bed. ‘How did you sleep last night?’

‘Really well, thanks. I slept for ages.’

‘That’s good. You need plenty of rest.’

There is a politeness to our interchange, like we are two strangers, each eager to make a good impression.

‘And do you . . . Have any memories come back to you?’ His question is hesitant, as though unsure it wants to be heard.

I shake my head, the knowledge of my impotence like a boulder lodged in my chest.

An expression I cannot read flashes across Stephen’s face before he pulls his lips into a purposeful smile. ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure they’ll come back soon.’ He pauses, holds out the bouquet of flowers to me. ‘I brought you these.’

I do not know why my hands do not immediately reach out to take them, why I feel myself shrink from them.

‘You’ve always loved white flowers and these are some of your favourites. I thought they might . . . help you remember.’ He looks awkward suddenly, as though he had been standing on stable ground but has just lost his footing.

‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’

He pulls up a chair, sits down, puts the flowers on the slim cupboard beside my bed. ‘Have any doctors been to see you today?’

I nod. ‘Just one. He asked me more questions to assess my memory. I don’t think I did very well.’

‘I’m sure you did.’

Stephen smiles reassuringly, but I cannot help feeling that this situation is topsy-turvy, that my brain has got its priorities confused. Because the more I manage to recall impersonal things – the name of a queen, the year of the Battle of Hastings – the greater the frustration that I cannot remember information that really matters. Cannot remember how long I have been married, where I met my husband, why we fell in love. Cannot remember where we live, what our house looks like, how we spend our weekends. Cannot remember my work, my friends, my family. It feels like a cruel act of fate to be able to remember facts about people I will never meet, moments in history I have never experienced, when I cannot recall a single detail about my own life.

‘So no one else has been to see you?’

I shake my head and then remember. ‘The police came to talk to me.’

‘The police? What did they want?’

I feel myself squirm as I recall the male officer’s impatience with me. ‘To know if I remembered anything about the crash.’

‘And do you?’

I shake my head. ‘I asked if they could tell me anything about it but they said they couldn’t because their enquiries are ongoing.’ It feels strange, having this quotidian conversation with Stephen, as though this is a normal Sunday and we are simply sharing our daily news. ‘The female officer did say you were lucky to get away with only a few bruises. She said it often happens in car crashes – that the driver walks away unharmed.’

I did not mean to sound pointed, but Stephen looks sad, and I feel something snag deep inside me: a scooping out, an excavation, panic whistling through me like wind between the trees. A sense of being lost, unable to grasp hold of anything that might help steer me in the right direction. I close my eyes, force myself to breathe against the narrowing in my throat, implore myself to remember something that might help me find my way back to myself.

When I open my eyes, Stephen is watching me, and I feel self-conscious suddenly. ‘How long have we been married?’ The question blurts from my lips and I see the same expression on Stephen’s face as when I confessed yesterday that I didn’t know his name: hurt, anxiety and something else I cannot put a name to. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . .’ I try in my head to articulate this feeling of disorientation, as though I have been dropped in a foreign location and do not know my route home. ‘I just can’t remember.’