S. Watson - Before I Go to Sleep - A Novel

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You get upset.’

‘Upset?’

He said nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have the strength to tell me about Adam’s death. He looked defeated, somehow. Drained. I felt guilty, for what I was doing to him, what I did to him, every day.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I know he’s dead.’

He looked surprised. Hesitant. ‘You … know?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was about to tell him about my journal, that he had told me everything before, but I did not. His mood still seemed fragile, the air tense. It could wait. ‘I just feel it,’ I said.

‘That makes sense. I’ve told you about it before.’

It was true, of course. He had. Just as he had told me about Adam’s life before. And yet, I realized, one story felt real, and the other did not. I realized I didn’t believe that my son was dead.

‘Tell me again,’ I said.

He told me about the war, the roadside bomb. I listened, as calmly as I could. He talked about Adam’s funeral, told me about the salvo of shots that had been fired over the coffin, the Union Jack that was draped over it. I tried to push my mind towards memories, even ones as difficult — as horrific — as that. Nothing would come.

‘I want to go there,’ I said. ‘I want to see his grave.’

‘Chris,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure …’

I realized that, without memory, I would have to see evidence that he was dead, or else forever carry around the hope that he was not. ‘I want to,’ I said. ‘I have to.’

I still thought he might say no. Might tell me he didn’t think it was a good idea, that it might upset me far too much. What would I do then? How could I force him?

But he did not. ‘We’ll go at the weekend,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Relief mixed with terror, leaving me numb.

We tidied away the dinner plates. I stood at the sink, dipping the dishes he passed to me into hot, soapy water, scrubbing them, passing them back to him to be dried, all the time avoiding my reflection in the window. I forced myself to think of Adam’s funeral, imagined myself standing on the grass on an overcast day, next to a mound of earth, looking at a coffin suspended over the hole in the ground. I tried to imagine the volley of shots, the lone bugler, playing, as we — his family, his friends — sobbed in silence.

But I could not. It was not long ago and yet I saw nothing. I tried to imagine how I must have felt. I would have woken up that morning without any knowledge that I was even a mother; Ben must have first had to convince me that I had a son, and then that we were to spend that very afternoon burying him. I imagine not horror but numbness, disbelief. Unreality. There is only so much that a mind can take and surely none can cope with that, certainly not mine. I pictured myself being told what to wear, led from the house to a waiting car, settled in the back seat. Perhaps I wondered whose funeral we were going to as we drove. Possibly it felt like mine.

I looked at Ben’s reflection in the window. He would have had to cope with all that, at a time when his own grief was at its most acute. It might have been kinder, for all of us, if he hadn’t taken me to the funeral at all. With a chill I wondered if that was what he had really done.

I still didn’t know whether to tell him about Dr Nash. He looked tired again now, almost depressed. He smiled only when I caught his gaze and smiled at him. Perhaps later, I thought, though whether there might be a better time I didn’t know. I couldn’t help but feel I was to blame for his mood, either through something I had done or something I had not done. I realized how much I cared for this man. I couldn’t say whether I loved him — and still can’t — but that is because I don’t really know what love is. Despite the nebulous, shimmering memory I have of him, I feel love for Adam, an instinct to protect him, the desire to give him everything, the feeling that he is part of me and without him I am incomplete. For my mother, too, when my mind sees her, I feel a different love. A more complex bond, with caveats and reservations. Not one I fully understand. But Ben? I find him attractive. I trust him — despite thelies he has told me I know that he has only my best interests at heart — but can I say I love him, when I am only distantly aware of having known him for more than a few hours?

I did not know. But I wanted him to be happy, and, on some level, I understood that I wanted to be the person to make him so. I must make more effort, I decided. Take control. This journal could be a tool to improve both our lives, not just mine.

I was about to ask how he was when it happened. I must have let go of the plate before he had gripped it; it clattered to the floor — accompanied by Ben’s muttered Shit! — and shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. ‘Sorry!’ I said, but Ben didn’t look at me. He sank to the floor, cursing under his breath. ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, but he ignored me and instead began snatching at the larger chunks, collecting them in his right hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’m so clumsy!’

I don’t know what I expected. Forgiveness, I suppose, or the reassurance that it wasn’t important. But instead Ben said, ‘Fuck!’ He dropped the remains of the plate and began to suck the thumb of his left hand. Droplets of blood spattered the linoleum.

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

He looked up at me. ‘Yes, yes. I cut myself, that’s all. Stupid fucking—’

‘Let me see.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. He stood up.

‘Let me see,’ I said again. I reached for his hand. ‘I’ll go and get a bandage. Or a plaster. Do we—?’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he said, batting my hand away. ‘Just leave it! OK?’

I was stunned. I could see the cut was deep; blood welled at its edge and ran in a thin line down his wrist. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. He hadn’t shouted exactly, but neither had he made any attempt to hide his annoyance. We faced each other, in limbo, balanced on the edge of an argument, each waiting for the other to speak, both unsure what had happened, how much significance the moment held.

I couldn’t stand it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, even though part of me resented it.

His face softened. ‘It’s OK. I’m sorry too.’ He paused. ‘I just feel tense, I think. It’s been a very long day.’

I took a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to him. ‘You should clean yourself up.’

He took it from me. ‘Thanks,’ he said, dabbing the blood on his wrist and fingers. ‘I’ll just go upstairs. Take a shower.’ He bent forward, kissed me. ‘OK?’

He turned and left the room.

I heard the bathroom door close, a tap turn on. The boiler next to me fired to life. I gathered the rest of the pieces of the plate and put them in the bin, wrapping them in paper first, then swept up the tinier fragments before finally sponging up the blood. When I had finished I went into the living room.

The flip-top phone was ringing, muffled by my bag. I took it out. Dr Nash.

The TV was still switched on. Above me I could hear the creak of floorboards as Ben moved from room to room upstairs. I didn’t want him to hear me talking on a phone he doesn’t know I have. I whispered, ‘Hello?’

‘Christine,’ came the voice. ‘It’s Ed. Dr Nash. Can you speak?’

Where this afternoon he had sounded calm, almost reflective, now his voice was urgent. I began to feel afraid.

‘Yes,’ I said, lowering my voice still further. ‘What is it?’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to Ben yet?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sort of. Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Did you tell him about your journal? About me? Did you invite him to Waring House?’