Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

Last time. How did I do it last time? I went over to the bookcases that lined the wall of the dining room and, with the cigarette dangling between my lips, took down a book from the top shelf. There must be clues here. Surely?

I put the vodka down and turned the book over in my hands. I rested my fingertips on the cover, as if the book were delicate, and brushed them gently over the title. For the Morning Birds, it said . Christine Lucas. I opened the cover and flicked through the pages.

The image vanished. My eyes opened. The room I was in looked drab and gray, but my breathing was ragged. I dimly registered the surprise that I had once smoked, but it was replaced by something else. Was it true? Had I written a novel? Had it been published? I stood up; my journal slid from my lap. If so, I had been someone, someone with a life, with goals and ambitions and achievements. I ran down the stairs.

Was it true? Ben had said nothing to me this morning. Nothing about being a writer. This morning, I had read of our trip to Parliament Hill. There, he had told me I had been working as a secretary when I had my accident.

I scanned the bookshelves in the living room. Dictionaries. An atlas. A guide to do-it-yourself. A few novels, hardcover and, from their condition, I guessed unread. But nothing by me. Nothing to suggest I had had a novel published. I spun around, half-crazy. It must be here, I thought. It must. But then another thought struck me. Perhaps my vision was not memory but invention. Perhaps, without a true history to hold and ponder, my mind had created one of its own. Perhaps my subconscious decided that I was a writer because that is what I always wanted to be.

I ran back upstairs. The shelves in the office were filled with box files and computer manuals, and I had seen no books in either bedroom as I explored the house that morning. I stood, for a moment, then saw the computer in front of me, silent and dark. I knew what to do, though I did not know how I knew. I switched it on and it whirred into life beneath the desk, the screen lighting up a moment later. A swell of music from the rattling speaker by the side of the screen, and then an image appeared. A photograph of Ben and me, both smiling. Across the middle of our faces, there was a box. USERNAME, it said, and beneath it there was another. PASSWORD.

In my vision, I was touch-typing, my fingers dancing over the keys as if powered by instinct. I positioned the flashing cursor in the box marked USERNAME and held my hands above the keyboard. Was it true? Had I learned to type? I let my fingers rest on the raised letters. They moved, effortlessly, my little fingers seeking the keys over which they belonged, the rest falling into place beside them. I closed my eyes and, without thinking, began to type, listening only to the sound of my breathing and the plastic clatter of the keys. When I had finished, I looked at what I had done, at what was written in the box. I expected nonsense, but what I saw shocked me.

I stared at the screen. It was true. I could touch-type. Maybe my vision was not invention but memory.

Maybe I had written a novel.

I ran into the bedroom. It did not make sense. For a moment, I had the almost overwhelming feeling that I was going mad. The novel seemed to exist and not exist at the same time, to be real and also totally imaginary. I could remember nothing of it, nothing about its plot or characters, not even the reason I had given it its title, yet still it felt real, as if it beat within me like a heart.

And why had Ben not told me? Not kept a copy on display? I pictured it, hidden in the house, wrapped in tissue, stored in a box in the loft or the cellar. Why?

An explanation came to me. Ben had told me I had been working as a secretary. Perhaps that was why I could type: the only reason.

I dug one of the phones out of my bag, not caring which one, hardly even caring who I called. My husband or my doctor? Both seemed equally alien to me. I flipped it open and scrolled through the menu until I saw a name I recognized, then pressed the CALL button.

“Dr. Nash?” I said, when the call was answered. “It’s Christine.” He began to say something, but I interrupted him. “Listen. Did I ever write anything?”

“Sorry?” he said. He sounded confused, and for a moment I had the sense I had done something terribly wrong. I wondered whether he even knew who I was, but then he said, “Christine?”

I repeated what I had said. “I just remembered something. That I was writing something, years ago, when I first knew Ben, I think. A novel. Did I ever write a novel?”

He did not seem to understand what I meant. “A novel?”

“Yes,” I said. “I seem to remember wanting to be a writer, when I was little. I just wondered whether I ever wrote anything. Ben told me I worked as a secretary, but I was just thinking—”

“He hasn’t told you?” he said then. “You were working on your second novel when you lost your memory. Your first was published. It was a success. I wouldn’t say it was a bestseller, but it was certainly a success.”

The words spun in on each other. A novel. A success. Published. It was true, my memory had been real. I did not know what to say. What to think.

I said good-bye, then came upstairs to write this.

The bedside clock reads ten thirty. I imagine Ben will come to bed soon, but still I sit here on the edge of the bed, writing. I spoke to him after dinner. I had spent the afternoon fretful, pacing from one room to another, looking at everything as if for the first time, wondering why he would so thoroughly remove evidence of even this modest success? It did not make sense. Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Had I written about him, our life together? Or was the reason something worse? Something darker I could not yet see?

By the time he got home, I had resolved to ask him directly, but now? Now that did not seem possible. It felt like I would be accusing him of lying.

I spoke as casually as I could. “Ben?” I said. “What did I do for a living?” He looked up from the newspaper. “Did I have a job?”

“Yes,” he said. “You worked as a secretary for a while. Just after we were married.”

I tried to keep my voice even. “Really? I have the feeling I used to want to write.”

He folded his pages together, giving me his full attention.

“A feeling?”

“Yes. I definitely remember loving books as a child. And I seem to have a vague memory of wanting to be a writer.” He held out his hand across the dinner table and took mine. His eyes seemed sad. Disappointed. What a shame, they seemed to say. Bad luck. I don’t suppose you ever will now. “Are you sure?” I began. “I seem to remember—”

He interrupted me. “Christine,” he said. “Please. You’re imagining things…”

For the rest of the evening, I was silent, hearing only the thoughts that echoed in my head. Why would he do that? Why would he pretend I had never written a word? Why? I watched him, asleep on the sofa, snoring softly. Why had I not told him that I knew I had written a novel? Did I really trust him so little? I had remembered us lying in each other’s arms, murmuring our love for each other as the sky grew darker. How had we gone from that to this?

But then I began to imagine what would happen if I did stumble upon a copy of my novel in a cupboard or at the back of a high shelf. What would it say to me, other than Look how far you have fallen. Look what you could do, before a car on an icy road took it all from you, leaving you worse than useless.

It would not be a happy moment. I saw myself becoming hysterical—much more so than this afternoon, when at least the realization was gradual, triggered by a longed-for memory—screaming, crying. The effect might be devastating.