Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

Is it possible that with me stuck in my own hell Claire and Ben have sought solace in each other?

I look down. The phone lies dead in my lap. I have no idea where Ben really goes when he leaves every morning, or where he might stop off on the way home. It might be anywhere. And I have no opportunity to build suspicion on suspicion, to link one fact to another. Even if one day I were to discover Claire and Ben in bed, the next I would forget what I had seen. I am the perfect person on whom to cheat. Perhaps they are still seeing each other. Perhaps I have already discovered them, and forgotten.

I think this, and yet, somehow, I don’t think this. I trust Ben, and yet I don’t. It’s perfectly possible to hold two opposing points of view in the mind at once, oscillating between them.

But why would he lie? He just thinks he’s doing the right thing. I keep telling myself that. He’s protecting you. Keeping from you the things that you don’t need to know.

I dialed the number, of course. There was no way I could have not done so. It rang, for a while, and then there was a click, and a voice. “Hi,” it said. “Please leave a message.”

I knew the voice at once. It was Claire’s. Unmistakable.

I left her a message. Please call me, I said. It’s Christine .

I went downstairs. I had done all I could do.

I waited. For an hour that turned into two. I spent the time writing in my journal, and when she did not call, I made a sandwich and ate it in the living room. While I was in the kitchen—wiping down the countertop, sweeping crumbs into my palm, preparing to empty them into the sink—the doorbell rang. The noise startled me. I put down the sponge, dried my hands on the tea towel that hung from the handle of the oven, and went to see who it was.

Through the frosted glass I could see the outline of a man. Not uniformed; he was wearing what looked like a suit, a tie. Ben? I thought, before realizing he would still be at work. I opened the door.

It was Dr. Nash. I knew, partly because it could be no one else, but partly because—though when I read about him this morning, I could not picture him, and though my husband had remained unfamiliar to me even once I had been told who he was—I recognized him. His hair was short, parted, his tie loose and untidy, a sweater sat beneath a jacket with which it clashed.

He must have seen the look of surprise on my face. “Christine?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.” I did not open the door more than a fraction.

“It’s me. Ed. Ed Nash. Dr. Nash?”

“I know,” I said. “I…”

“Did you read your journal?”

“Yes, but…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”

He lowered his voice. “Is Ben home?”

“No. No, he’s not. It’s just, well. I wasn’t expecting you. Did we have a meeting arranged?”

He held back for a moment, a fraction of a second, enough to disrupt the rhythm of our exchange. We had not, I knew that. Or at least I had not written of one.

“Yes,” he said. “Did you not write it down?”

I hadn’t, but I said nothing. We stood across the threshold of the house that I still do not think of as my home, looking at each other. “Can I come in?” he asked.

I did not answer at first. I wasn’t sure I wanted to invite him in. It seemed wrong somehow. A betrayal.

But of what? Ben’s trust? I did not know how much that mattered to me anymore. Not after his lies. Lies that I had spent most of my morning reading.

“Yes,” I said. I opened the door. He nodded as he stepped into the house, glancing left and right as he did. I took his coat and hung it on the coat rack next to a rain slicker that I guessed must be mine. “In there,” I said, pointing to the living room, and he went in.

I made us both a drink, gave his to him, sat opposite with mine. He did not speak, and I took a slow sip, waiting as he did the same. He put his cup down on the coffee table between us.

“You don’t remember asking me to come over?” he said.

“No,” I said. “When?”

He said it then, and it chilled me. “This morning. When I rang to tell you where to find your journal.”

I could remember nothing of him calling that morning, and still can’t, even now he has gone.

I thought of other things I had written of. A plate of melon I couldn’t remember ordering. A cookie I hadn’t asked for.

“I don’t remember,” I said. A panic began to rise within me.

Concern flashed on his face. “Have you slept at all today? Anything more than a quick doze?”

“No,” I said, “no. Not at all. I just can’t remember. When was it? When?”

“Christine,” he said. “Calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“But what if— I don’t—”

“Christine, please. It doesn’t mean anything. You just forgot, that’s all. Everyone forgets things sometimes.”

“But whole conversations? It must have only been a couple of hours ago!”

“Yes,” he said. He spoke softly, trying to calm me, but did not move from where he sat. “But you have been through a lot lately. Your memory has always been variable. Forgetting one thing doesn’t mean that you’re deteriorating, that you won’t get better again. Okay?” I nodded, trying to believe him, desperate to. “You asked me here because you wanted to speak to Claire, but weren’t sure you could. And you wanted me to speak to Ben on your behalf.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You said you didn’t think you could do it yourself.”

I looked at him, thought of all the things I had written. I realized I didn’t believe him. I must have found my journal myself. I had not asked him here today. I did not want him to talk to Ben. Why would I, when I had decided to say nothing to Ben myself, yet? And why would I tell him I needed him here to help me speak to Claire, when I had already phoned her myself and left a message?

He’s lying. I wondered what other reasons he might have for coming. What he might not feel able to tell me.

I have no memory, but I am not stupid. “Why are you really here?” I said. He shifted in his chair. Possibly he just wanted to see inside the place where I live. Or possibly to see me, one more time, before I speak to Ben. “Are you worried that Ben won’t let me see you after I tell him about us?”

Another thought comes. Perhaps he is not writing a research paper at all. Perhaps he has other reasons for wanting to spend so much of his time with me. I push it from my mind.

“No,” he said. “That’s not it at all. I came because you asked me to. Besides, you’ve decided not to tell Ben that you’re seeing me. Not until you’ve spoken to Claire. Remember?”

I shook my head. I did not remember. I did not know what he was talking about.

“Claire is fucking my husband,” I said.

He looked shocked. “Christine,” he said. “I—”

“He’s treating me like I’m stupid,” I said. “Lying to me about anything and everything. Well, I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid,” he said. “But I don’t think—”

“They’ve been fucking for years,” I said. “It explains everything. Why he tells me she moved away. Why I haven’t seen her even though she’s supposedly my best friend.”

“Christine,” he said. “You’re not thinking straight.” He came and sat beside me on the sofa. “Ben loves you. I know. I’ve spoken to him, when I wanted to persuade him to let me see you. He was totally loyal. Totally. He told me that he’d lost you once and didn’t want to lose you again. That he’d watched you suffer whenever people had tried to treat you and wouldn’t see you in pain anymore. He loves you. It’s obvious. He’s trying to protect you. From the truth, I suppose.”