Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

I began to write that in the car as Dr. Nash drove me home. Much of it is barely legible, a hasty scrawl. Dr. Nash said nothing as I wrote, but I saw him glancing at me as I searched for the right word or a better phrase. I wondered what he was thinking—before we left his office, he had asked me to consent to him discussing my case at a conference he had been invited to attend. “In Geneva,” he said, unable to disguise a flash of pride. I said yes, and I imagined he would soon ask me if he could take a photocopy of my journal. For research.

When we arrived back at the house, he said good-bye, adding, “I’m surprised you wanted to write your book in the car. You seem very… determined. I suppose you don’t want to miss anything out.”

I know what he meant, though. He meant frantic. Desperate. Desperate to get everything down.

And he is right. I am determined. Once I got in, I finished the entry at the dining table and closed my journal and put it back in its hiding place before slowly undressing. Ben had left me a message on the phone. Let’s go out tonight, he’d said. For dinner. It’s Friday…

I stepped out of the navy blue trousers I had found in the closet that morning. I peeled off the pale blue blouse that I had decided matched them best. I was bewildered. I had given Dr. Nash my journal during our session—he’d asked if he could read it and I’d said yes. This was before he’d mentioned his invite to Geneva, and I wonder now if that’s why he asked. “This is excellent!” he’d said when he finished. “Really good. You’re remembering lots of things, Christine. Lots of memories are coming back. There’s no reason that won’t continue. You should feel very encouraged…”

But I did not feel encouraged. I felt confused. Had I flirted with him, or he with me? It was his hand on mine, but I had let him put it there, and let him keep it. “You should continue to write,” he said, when he gave me the journal back, and I told him that I would.

Now, in my bedroom, I tried to convince myself I had done nothing wrong. I still felt guilty. Because I had enjoyed it. The attention, the feeling of connection. For a moment, in the middle of everything else that was going on, there had been a tiny pinprick of joy. I had felt attractive. Desirable.

I went to my underwear drawer. There, tucked at the back, I found a pair of black silk panties, and a matching bra. I put them on—these clothes that I know must be mine even though they do not feel as though they are—all the time thinking of my journal hidden within the closet. What would Ben think, if he found it? If he read all that I had written, all that I had felt? Would he understand?

I stood in front of the mirror. He would, I told myself. He must. I examined my body with my eyes and my hands. I explored it, ran my fingers over its contours and undulations as if it were something new, a gift. Something to be learned from scratch.

Though I knew that Dr. Nash had not been flirting with me, for that brief space in which I thought he was, I had not felt old. I had felt alive.

I do not know how long I stood there. For me time stretches, is almost meaningless. Years have slipped through me, leaving no trace. Minutes do not exist. I only had the chime of the clock downstairs to show me that time was passing at all. I looked at my body, at the weight in my buttocks and on my hips, the dark hairs on my legs, under my arms. I found a razor in the bathroom and soaped my legs, then drew the cold blade across my skin. I must have done this before, I thought, countless times, yet still it seemed an odd thing to be doing, faintly ridiculous. I nicked the skin on my calf—a tiny stab of pain and then a red plush welled, quivering before it began to trickle down my leg. I stemmed it with a finger, smearing the blood like treacle, brought it to my lips. The taste of soap and warm metal. It did not clot. I let it bleed down my skin, newly smooth, then mopped it with a damp tissue.

Back in the bedroom, I put on stockings and a tight black dress. I selected a gold necklace from the box on the dresser, a pair of matching earrings. I sat at the dresser and put on makeup, and curled and gelled my hair. I sprayed perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. And all the time I did this, a memory was floating through me. I saw myself rolling on stockings, snapping home the fasteners on a garter belt, hooking up a bra, but it was a different me, in a different room. The room was quiet. Music played, but softly, and in the distance I could hear voices, doors opening and closing, the faint buzz of traffic. I felt calm and happy. I turned to the mirror, examined my face in the glow of the candlelight. Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

The memory was just out of reach. It shimmered, under the surface, and while I could see details, snatched images, moments, it lay too deep for me to follow where it led. I saw a champagne bottle on a bedside table. Two glasses. A bouquet of flowers on the bed, a card. I saw that I was in a hotel room, alone, waiting for the man I loved. I heard a knock, saw myself stand up, walk toward the door, but then it ended, as if I had been watching television and, suddenly, the aerial had been disconnected. I looked up and saw myself back in my own home. Even though the woman I saw in the mirror was a stranger—and with the makeup and gelled hair that unfamiliarity was even more pronounced than it must usually be—I felt ready. For what, I could not say, but I felt ready. I went downstairs to wait for my husband, the man I married, the man I loved.

Love, I remind myself. The man I love .

I heard his key in the lock, the door pushed open, feet being wiped on the mat. A whistle? Or was that the sound of my breathing, hard and heavy?

A voice. “Christine? Christine, are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m in here.”

A cough, the sound of his jacket being hung up, a briefcase being put down.

He called upstairs. “Everything okay?” he said. “I phoned you earlier. I left a message.”

The creak of the stairs. For a moment, I thought he was going straight up, to the bathroom or his study, without coming in to see me first, and I felt foolish, ridiculous to be dressed as I was, wearing someone else’s clothes, waiting for my husband of who knows how many years. I wished I could peel off the outfit, scrape away the makeup, and transform myself back into the woman I am, but I heard a grunt as he levered a shoe off, and then the other, and I realized he was sitting down to put on his slippers. The stair creaked again, and he came into the room.

“Darling—” he began, and he stopped. His eyes traveled over my face, down my body, back up to meet mine. I could not tell what he thought.

“Wow,” he said. “You look—” He shook his head.

“I found these clothes,” I said. “I thought I would dress up a little. It’s Friday night after all. The weekend.”

“Yes,” he said, still standing in the doorway. “Yes. But…”

“Do you want to go out somewhere?”

I stood up then, and went over to him. “Kiss me,” I said, and, though I hadn’t exactly planned it, it felt like the right thing to do, and so I put my arms around his neck. He smelled of soap, and sweat, and work. Sweet, like crayons. A memory floated through me—kneeling on the floor with Adam, drawing—but it did not stick.

“Kiss me,” I said again. His hands circled my waist.

Our lips met. Brushing, at first. A kiss good-night or good-bye, a kiss for being in public, a kiss for your mother. I didn’t release my arms, and he kissed me again. The same.

“Kiss me, Ben,” I said. “Properly.”

“Ben,” I said later. “Are we happy?”