Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

‘Memory is the way we use our past experiences to understand the present,’ I say. ‘Memories are created when our brains encode, store and retrieve events.’

‘That is a textbook answer.’ He straightens his neck. Smile gone. ‘You said you remembered the inmate, Michaela Croft talking suddenly in a Scottish accent, about her mentioning Father Reznik. And then you say he was a former intelligence officer. You even say you recall codes, numbers that you do not remember learning.’

‘Yes.’

‘Think about it. The beating, for example. Your memory is recalling an event, a traumatic incident. An incident that, in my opinion, could not have occurred as you recall it. A fabrication.’

‘No. This is not make-believe.’ A bird lands on the window ledge, beats its wings, rapid, frenzied, as if it were about to topple. Then it falls still, takes two steps, flies away.

‘You said Michaela also mentioned something called Callidus.’

I turn my head from the window. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I know what I know.’

‘You see, Maria, here’s where I have a problem. How could Michaela have ever known about Father Reznik? And this Callidus? Our brain can change what we remember-it is how we cope with trauma. So, in the end, what we think happened is different to what actually occurred. And we recall people as different to how-or who-they really are.’

‘No. You are wrong. With this, you are wrong. I know my facts. I know what has happened.’

‘You are questioning a scientific theory? You? A doctor?’

‘No, I…’ I falter. What is he trying to do to me? To my mind, my sanity? ‘I understand the science,’ I say, voice quiet.

‘So understand that it applies to you. That perhaps your memory is not what you believe it to be. Take your notepad. You say you write everything down-it’s your obsession. But to say you don’t recall learning the data you have recorded is absurd.’

‘That’s not true.’

He smiles. ‘No? Then, Maria, there’s only one conclusion.’ The smile vanishes. He narrows his eyes. ‘The information you are recording is purely made up.’

‘What? No!’ I tap my hands now hard on my lap. Banging. I don’t like him, this so-called therapist. He cannot continue to voice these types of opinions. No one understands me. No one.

Kurt sits forward. ‘I know this is difficult for you to see, the complex emotion involved, but, Maria, as a doctor, ask yourself this: is your memory reliable?’ He searches my face. ‘How can you believe what you heard that day in the cell? Our memories encode events. Our memories can change facts into something else. That’s how they store the data, how they process everything we see and do-by modifying it. There’s simply too much to cope with otherwise.’ He tilts his head. ‘For example, say there was a loud bang. Our brain may convert that sound into a colour, instead, and that is how we remember it-as a colour, not a sound. We may even forget the bang altogether. To that end, how can you be certain, for example, that your mind hasn’t altered a London accent into a Scottish one, plucked a long-distant name from the air, in order to protect itself from trauma? In order to cope?’ He pauses. ‘How do you know if this intelligence officer thing is true?’

My hands go still, my breath rasps, unsteady. I am suddenly beginning to doubt myself. ‘What…what are you saying?’

‘I am saying that you have been traumatised by your prison experience. Your brain has encoded the beating, has changed it and stored it as something different, and so now, when you attempt to recall what happened, you remember it in another way. Your mind has created a new memory.’

‘You…’ But I close my mouth, as if the words have all dried up, a desert, just sand, tiny grains of sand. I want to cry, but I can’t.

Kurt leans forward. ‘Would you like some water?’

I shake my head, too scared to speak, not trusting that my own voice will remain calm. Not trusting that my hands won’t find his neck.

Kurt pours a drink for himself. The liquid trickles into the tumbler, and the curve of it reflects in the sunlight, wobbling water on the wall, a swirl of blue and lemon. Fresh. Innocent. As he holds the glass, I force myself to look at it. It is still the same glass. There. Real. But what Kurt said, the science of the memory, it has touched me, entered my hardwiring, my internal computer system now, and I cannot let it out. Because what if he is right?

What if everything I remember, everything I believe, is wrong?

I draw in deep breaths, try to quell my panic, think of my father, this time of his office, of the oak-slab desk I would slip under when we played hide-and-seek, his laughter, when he found me, filling the room like the boom of a cannon.

Slowly, I open my eyes, my heartbeat now a little calmer, and rest my gaze on the ceiling. I frown. Is that what I think it is? I check again, but it has disappeared now. There one minute, gone the next.

‘Maria?’

‘Just a moment.’ I shut my eyes, rub them, then reopen and blink. A chill crackles down my veins, because what I saw once, then couldn’t, is back.

I touch my forehead. A spider. One spider in the corner of the room.

I stand by the phone bank and hold the receiver. It has slid from my palms twice already, my nerves visceral, unforgiving. I cannot get the words out of my head: Disappointed. Guilty. What if she will always feel that way about me, my mother? Where does that leave me? And when I ask her the question, finally, after all these years, what will she do? Did it really happen? Did I really see them kiss?

‘You okay, Doc?’ Patricia says, standing to my left.

I nod, but I am not okay. I am scared of what my mother’s answer will be. I am scared because I do not trust my brain.

The phone line crackles.

‘Maria?’

I freeze at the sound of my mother’s voice. It instantly takes me back to our home in Salamanca. I close my eyes, picture my mother seated on the patio, the wrought iron table set with a fresh pot of coffee, her fan by her side to fend off the early morning heat, her hands bony, her ballerina-like build upright, poised, ready. I sniff. A scent of oranges and Chanel No 5.

‘Maria? Darling, talk to me. Are you well?’ She speaks in Castellano, our mother tongue, our homeland Spain. I draw in a breath and speak it back to her.

‘Mama,’ I say, ‘it is me.’

A shriek. ‘Oh, my darling! My poor baby. How are you? Why have you not contacted me before? Why wait until now?’

The sound of her voice crashes like a wave, breaking all over me. I gasp, shocked at how much relief floods my body just by hearing her voice. ‘I have not been…’ I stall, gulp in a breath.

‘It is okay, my child. It’s okay.’

I sniff. ‘Prison is very loud, Mama.’

‘Are they helping you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘How?’

‘There is a psychiatrist. Dr Andersson. She is-’

‘What does she look like?’

I pause. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I look at Patricia. She smiles.

‘Oh, you know me,’ my mother says, ‘I like to know who is looking after my daughter, like to know every single detail. To picture it, if you will. Her hair, for example. What colour hair does she have?’

‘Blonde.’

‘Long?’

‘Yes. She is Swedish.’ Total silence. ‘Mama?’ A crackle echoes then a sharp bang.

‘Maria? Sorry. I dropped the telephone.’

I start to bite my nails. Something is not right. ‘Mama, I have a question that I need to ask you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Something I remembered about Father Reznik.’

She does not reply. Only the rasp of her breath fills the line. ‘Maria, my dear,’ she says finally, ‘he left. I’m so sorry, I know you adored him, but people leave. That’s just the way the world works. It wasn’t your fault, I have told you this. Your therapist from when Papa died told you this.’