Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

What then? Had the oil burst into flames as I took the call, or had I wandered back into the living room, or up to the bathroom, with no recollection of ever having begun to cook dinner?

I don’t know, can never know. But it was kind of Ben to tell me that it had been an accident. Domesticity has so many dangers for someone without a memory, and another husband might have pointed out my mistakes and deficits, might have been unable to resist taking the moral high ground. I touched his arm, and he smiled.

I thumbed through the handful of photographs. There was one of Adam wearing a plastic cowboy hat and a yellow bandanna, aiming a plastic rifle at the person with the camera, and in another he was a few years older; his face thinner, his hair beginning to darken. He was wearing a shirt, buttoned to the neck, and a child’s tie.

“That was taken at school,” said Ben. “An official portrait.” He pointed to the photograph and laughed. “Look. It’s such a shame. The picture’s ruined!”

The elastic of the tie was visible, not tucked under the collar. I ran my hands over the picture. It wasn’t ruined, I thought. It was perfect.

I tried to remember my son, tried to see myself kneeling in front of him with an elasticated tie, or combing his hair, or wiping dried blood from a grazed knee.

Nothing came. The boy in the photograph shared a fullness of mouth with me, and had eyes that resembled, vaguely, my mother’s, but otherwise he could have been a stranger.

Ben took out another picture and gave it to me. In it, Adam was a little older—maybe seven. “Do you think he looks like me?” he said.

He was holding a football, dressed in shorts and a white T-shirt. His hair was short, spiked with sweat. “A little,” I said. “Perhaps.”

Ben smiled, and together we continued looking at the photographs. They were mostly of me and Adam, the occasional one of him alone; Ben must have taken the majority. In a few, he was with friends, a couple showed him at a party, wearing a pirate costume, carrying a cardboard sword. In one, he held a small black dog.

There was a letter, tucked among the pictures. It was addressed to Santa Claus and written in blue crayon. The jerky letters danced across the page. He wanted a bike, he said, or a puppy, and promised to be good. It was signed, and he had added his age. Four.

I do not know why, but as I read it, my world seemed to collapse. Grief exploded in my chest like a grenade. I had been feeling calm—not happy, not even resigned, but calm—and that serenity vanished, as if vaporized. Beneath it, I was raw.

“I’m sorry,” I said, handing the bundle back to Ben. “I can’t. Not now.”

He hugged me. I felt nausea rise in my throat, but swallowed it down. He told me not to worry, told me I would be fine, reminded me that he was here for me, that he always would be. I clung to him, and we sat there, rocking together. I felt numb, totally removed from the room in which we sat. I watched him get me a glass of water, watched as he closed the box of photographs. I was sobbing. I could see that he was upset, too, yet already his expression seemed tinged with something else. Resignation, it could have been, or acceptance, but not shock.

With a shudder, I realized that he has done all this before. His grief is not new. It has had the time to bed down within him, to become part of his foundations, rather than something that rocks them.

It is only my grief that is fresh, every day.

I made an excuse. I came upstairs, to the bedroom. Back to the closet. I wrote on.

These snatched moments. Kneeling in front of the closet or leaning on the bed. Writing. I am feverish. It floods out of me, almost without thought. Pages and pages. I am here again now, while Ben thinks I am resting. I cannot stop. I want to write down everything.

I wonder if this is what it was like when I wrote my novel, this pouring onto the page. Or had that been slower, more considered? I wish I could remember.

After I went downstairs, I made us both a cup of tea. As I stirred in the milk, I thought of how many times I must have made meals for Adam, pureeing vegetables, mixing juice. I took the tea back to Ben. “Was I a good mother?” I said, handing it to him.

“Christine—”

“I have to know,” I said. “I mean, how did I cope? With a child? He must have been very little when I—”

“—had your accident?” he interrupted. “He was two. You were a wonderful mother, though. Until then. Afterward, well—”

He stopped talking, letting the rest of the sentence disappear, and turned away. I wondered what it was he was leaving unsaid, what he’d thought better of telling me.

I knew enough to fill in some of the blanks, though. I might not be able to remember that time, but I can imagine it. I can see myself being reminded every day that I was married and a mother, being told that my husband and son were coming to visit me. I can imagine myself greeting them both every day as if I had never seen them before, slightly frostily, perhaps, or simply bewildered. I can see the pain we must have been in. All of us.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”

“You couldn’t look after yourself. You were too ill for me to look after you at home. You couldn’t be left alone, even for a few minutes. You would forget what you were doing. You used to wander off. I was worried you might run yourself a bath and leave the water running, or try and cook yourself some food and forget you’d started it. It was too much for me. So I stayed at home and looked after Adam. My mother helped. But every evening we would come and see you, and—”

I took his hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just find it hard, thinking of that time.”

“I know,” I said. “I know. How about my mother, though? Did she help? Did she enjoy being a grandmother?” He nodded and looked about to speak. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I said.

He took my hand. “She died a few years ago. I’m sorry.”

I had been right. I felt my mind begin to close down, as if it could not process any more grief, any more of this scrambled past, but I knew I would wake up tomorrow and remember none of this.

What could I write in my journal that would get me through tomorrow, the next day, the one after that?

An image floated in front of me. A woman with red hair. Adam in the army. A name came, unbidden. What will Claire think?

And there it was. The name of my friend. Claire.

“And Claire?” I said. “My friend, Claire. Is she still alive?”

“Claire?” said Ben. He looked puzzled for a long moment, and then his face changed. “You remember Claire?”

He seemed surprised. I reminded myself that—according to my journal, at least—it had been a few days since I had told him I had remembered her at the party on the roof.

“Yes,” I said. “We were friends. What happened to her?”

Ben looked at me, sadly, and for a moment I froze. He spoke slowly, but his news was not as bad as I feared. “She moved away,” he said. “Years ago. Must be nearly twenty years, I think. Just a few years after we got married, in fact.”

“Where to?”

“New Zealand.”

“Are we in touch?”

“You were for a while, but no. Not anymore.”

It doesn’t seem possible. My best friend, I had written, after remembering her on Parliament Hill, and I had felt the same sensation of closeness when I had thought of her today. Otherwise, why would I care what she thought?

“We argued?”

He hesitated, and again I sensed a calculation, an adjustment. I realized that, of course, Ben knows what will upset me. He has had years to learn what I will find acceptable and what is dangerous ground for us to tread. After all, this is not the first time he has had this conversation. He has had the opportunity to practice, to learn how to navigate routes that will not rip through the landscape of my life and send me tumbling somewhere else.