Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

We sat on the bench and, for a long time, silently watched Toby playing soccer with a group of boys. I felt happy to be connected with my unknown past, yet there was an awkwardness between us that I could not shake. A phrase kept repeating in my head. Something to do with Claire.

“How are you?” I said, in the end, and she laughed.

“I feel like hell,” she said. She opened her bag and took out a packet of tobacco. “You haven’t started again, have you?” she said, offering it to me, and I shook my head, aware again of how she was someone else who knew so much more about me than I did myself.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

She began to roll her cigarette, nodding toward her son. “Oh, you know? Tobes has ADHD. He was up all night, and, hence, so was I.”

“ADHD?” I said.

She smiled. “Sorry. It’s a fairly new phrase, I suppose. Attention deficit and hyperactivity disorder. We have to give him Ritalin, though I fucking hate it. It’s the only way. We’ve tried just about everything else, and he’s an absolute beast without it. A horror.”

I looked over at him, running in the distance. Another faulty, fucked-up brain in a healthy body.

“He’s okay, though?”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. She balanced her cigarette paper on her knee and began sprinkling tobacco along its fold. “He’s just exhausting sometimes. It’s like the terrible twos never ended.”

I smiled. I knew what she meant, but only theoretically. I had no point of reference, no recollection of what Adam might have been like, either at Toby’s age, or younger.

“Toby seems quite young?” I said. She laughed.

“You mean I’m quite old!” She licked the gum of her paper. “Yes. I had him late. Pretty sure it wasn’t going to happen, so we were being careless…”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean—?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t say he was an accident, but let’s just say he was something of a shock.” She put the cigarette in her mouth. “Do you remember Adam?”

I looked at her. She had her head turned away from me, shielding her lighter from the wind, and I could not see her expression, or tell whether the move was deliberately evasive.

“No,” I said. “A few weeks ago I remembered that I had a son, and ever since I wrote about it I feel like I’ve been carrying the knowledge around, like a heavy rock in my chest. But no. I don’t remember anything about him.”

She sent a cloud of blue-tinged smoke skyward. “That’s a shame,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Ben shows you pictures, though? Doesn’t that help?”

I weighed up how much I should tell her. They seemed to have been in touch, to have been friends, once. I had to be careful, but still, I felt an increasing need to speak, as well as hear, the truth.

“He does show me pictures, yes. Though he doesn’t have any up around the house. He says I find them too upsetting. He keeps them hidden.” I nearly said locked away.

She seemed surprised. “Hidden? Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “He thinks I would find it too upsetting if I were to stumble across a picture of him.”

Claire nodded. “You might not recognize him? Know who he is?”

“I suppose so.”

“I imagine that might be true,” she said. She hesitated. “Now that he’s gone.”

Gone, I thought. She said it as though he had just popped out for a few hours, had taken his girlfriend to the movies or to shop for a pair of shoes. I understood it, though. Understood the tacit agreement that we would not talk about Adam’s death. Not yet. Understood that Claire is trying to protect me, too.

I said nothing. Instead I tried to imagine what it must have been like, to have seen my child every day, back when the phrase every day had some meaning, before every day became severed from the one before it. I tried to imagine waking every morning knowing who he was, being able to plan, to look forward to Christmas, to his birthday.

How ridiculous, I thought. I don’t even know when his birthday is.

“Wouldn’t you like to see him—?”

My heart leaped. “You have photographs?” I said. “Could I—”

She looked surprised. “Of course! Loads! At home.”

“I’d like one,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “But—”

“Please. It’d mean so much to me.”

She put her hand on mine. “Of course. I’ll bring one next time, but—”

She was interrupted by a cry in the distance. I looked across the park. Toby was running toward us, crying, as, behind him, the game of soccer continued.

“Fuck,” said Claire under her breath. She stood up and called out, “Tobes! Toby! What happened?” He kept running. “Shit,” she said. “I’ll just go and sort him out.”

She went to her son, crouching down to ask what was wrong. I looked at the ground. The path was carpeted with moss and the odd blade of grass had poked through the tarmac, fighting toward the light. I felt pleased. Not only that Claire would give me a photograph of Adam, but that she had said she would do so next time we met. We were going to be seeing more of each other. I realized that every time would once again seem like the first. The irony: that I am prone to forgetting that I have no memory.

I realized, too, that something about the way she had spoken of Ben—some wistfulness—made me think that the idea of them having an affair was ridiculous.

She came back.

“Everything’s fine,” she said. She flicked her cigarette away and ground it out with her heel. “Slight misunderstanding over ownership of the ball. Shall we walk?” I nodded, and she turned to Toby. “Darling! Ice cream?”

He said yes and we began to walk toward the palace. Toby was holding Claire’s hand. They looked so alike, I thought, their eyes lit with the same fire.

“I love it up here,” said Claire. “The view is so inspiring. Don’t you think?”

I looked out at the gray houses, dotted with green. “I suppose. Do you still paint?”

“Hardly,” she said. “I dabble. I’ve become a dabbler. Our own walls are chock-full of my pictures, but nobody else has one. Unfortunately.”

I smiled. I did not mention my novel, though I wanted to ask if she’d read it, what she thought. “What do you do now, then?”

“I look after Toby, mostly,” she said. “He’s homeschooled.”

“I see,” I said.

“Not through choice,” she replied. “None of the schools will take him. They say he’s too disruptive. They can’t handle him.”

I looked at her son as he walked with us. He seemed perfectly calm, holding his mother’s hand. He asked if he could have his ice cream, and Claire told him he’d be able to, soon. I could not imagine him being difficult.

“What was Adam like?” I said.

“As a child?” she said. “He was a good boy. Very polite. Well-behaved, you know?”

“Was I a good mother? Was he happy?”

“Oh, Chrissy,” she said. “Yes. Yes. Nobody was more loved than that boy. You don’t remember, do you? You had been trying for a while. You had an ectopic pregnancy. You were worried you might not be able to get pregnant again, but then along came Adam. You were so happy, both of you. And you loved being pregnant. I hated it. Bloated like a fucking house, and such dreadful sickness. Frightful. But it was different with you. You loved every second of it. You glowed, for the whole time you were carrying him. You lit up rooms when you walked into them, Chrissy.”

I closed my eyes, even as we walked, and tried first to remember being pregnant, and then to imagine it. I could do neither. I looked at Claire.

“And then?”

“Then? The birth. It was wonderful. Ben was there, of course. I got there as soon as I could.” She stopped walking and turned to look at me. “And you were a great mother, Chrissy. Great. Adam was happy, and cared for, and loved. No child could have wished for more.”