Before I Go to Sleep (33 page)

‘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 disturbing 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 cinema, 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 leapt. ‘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 towards us, crying, as, behind him, the game of football 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 and crouched 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 towards 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 towards 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 grey 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 didn’t 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 home-schooled.’

‘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 couldn’t 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.’

I tried to remember motherhood, my son’s childhood. Nothing.

‘And Ben?’

She paused, then said, ‘Ben was a great father. Always. He loved that boy. He would race home from work every evening to see him. When Adam said his first word Ben called everyone up and told them. The same when he began to crawl, or took his first step. As soon as he could walk he was taking him to the park, with a football, whatever. And Christmas! So many toys! I think that was just about the only thing I ever saw you argue about – how many toys Ben would buy for Adam. You were worried he’d be spoilt.’

I felt a twinge of regret, an urge to apologize for ever having tried to deny my son anything.

‘I would let him have anything he wanted, now,’ I said. ‘If only I could.’

She looked at me sadly. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. But be happy knowing that he didn’t want for anything from you, ever.’

We carried on walking. A van was parked on the footpath, selling ice creams, and we turned towards it. Toby began to tug at his mother’s arm. She leaned down and gave him a note from her purse before letting him go. ‘Choose one thing!’ she shouted after him. ‘Just one! And wait for the change!’

I watched him run to the van. ‘Claire,’ I said, ‘how old was Adam when I lost my memory?’

She smiled. ‘He must have been three. Maybe four, just.’

I felt I was stepping into new territory now. Into danger. But it was where I had to go. The truth I had to discover. ‘My doctor told me I was attacked,’ I said. She didn’t reply. ‘In Brighton. Why was I there?’

I looked at Claire, scanning her face. She seemed to be making a decision, weighing up options, deciding what to do. ‘I don’t know, for sure,’ she said. ‘Nobody does.’

She stopped speaking, and we both watched Toby for a while. He had his ice cream now and was unwrapping it, a look of determined concentration scoring his face. Silence stretched in front of me. Unless I say something, I thought, this will last for ever.

‘I was having an affair, wasn’t I?’

There was no reaction. No intake of breath, no gasp of denial or look of shock. Claire looked at me steadily. Calmly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You were cheating on Ben.’

Her voice had no emotion. I wondered what she thought of me. Either then or now.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But let’s sit down. I’m just gasping for a coffee.’

We walked up to the main building.

The cafeteria doubled as a bar. The chairs were steel, the tables plain. Palm trees were dotted around, an attempt at atmosphere ruined by the cold air that blasted in whenever someone opened the door. We sat opposite each other across a table that swam with spilled coffee, warming our hands on our drinks.

‘What happened?’ I said again. ‘I need to know.’

‘It’s not easy to say,’ said Claire. She spoke slowly as if picking her way through difficult terrain. ‘I suppose it started not long after you had Adam. Once the initial excitement had worn off there was a period when things were extremely tough.’ She paused. ‘It’s so difficult, isn’t it? To see what’s going on when you’re in the absolute middle of something? It’s only with hindsight we can see things for what they are.’ I nodded, but didn’t understand. Hindsight is something I don’t have. She went on. ‘You cried, awfully. You worried you weren’t bonding with the baby. All the usual stuff. Ben and I did what we could, and your mother, when she was around, but it was tough. And even when the absolute worst was over you still found it hard. You couldn’t get back into your work. You’d call me up, in the middle of the day. Upset. You said you felt like a failure. Not a failure at motherhood – you could see how happy Adam was – but a failure as a writer. You thought you’d never be able to write again. I’d come round and see you, and you’d be in a mess. Crying, the works.’ I wondered what was coming next – how bad it would get – then she said, ‘You and Ben were arguing, too. You resented him, how easy he found life. He offered to pay for a nanny but, well …’

‘Well?’

‘You said that was typical of him. To throw money at the problem. You had a point, but … Perhaps you weren’t being terribly fair.’

Perhaps not, I thought. It struck me that back then we must have had money – more money than we had after I lost my memory, more money than I guess we have now. What a drain on our resources my illness must have been.

I tried to picture myself, arguing with Ben, looking after a baby, trying to write. I imagined bottles of milk, or Adam at my breast. Dirty nappies. Mornings in which getting both myself and my baby fed were the only ambitions I could reasonably have, and afternoons in which I was so exhausted the only thing I craved was sleep – sleep that was still hours away – and the thought of trying to write was pushed far from my mind. I could see it all, and feel the slow, burning resentment.

But that’s all they were. Imaginings. I remembered nothing. Claire’s story felt like it had nothing to do with me at all.

‘So I had an affair?’

She looked up. ‘I was free. I was doing my painting then. I said I’d look after Adam two afternoons a week, so you could write. I insisted.’ She took my hand in hers. ‘It was my fault, Chrissy. I even suggested you go to a café.’

‘A café?’ I said.

‘I thought it would be a good idea if you got out of the house. Gave yourself space. A few hours a week, away from everything. After a few weeks you seemed to get better. You were happier in yourself, you said your work was going well. You started going to the café almost every day, taking Adam when I couldn’t look after him. But then I noticed that you were dressing differently, too. The classic thing, though I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I thought it was just because you were feeling better. More confident. But then Ben called me, one evening. He’d been drinking, I think. He said you were arguing, more than ever, and he didn’t know what to do. You were off sex, too. I told him it was probably just because of the baby, that he was probably worrying unnecessarily. But—’

I interrupted. ‘I was seeing someone.’

‘I asked you. You denied it at first, but then I told you I wasn’t stupid, and neither was Ben. We had an argument, but after a while you told me the truth.’

The truth. Not glamorous, not exciting. Just the bald facts. I had turned into a living cliché, taken to fucking someone I’d met in a café while my best friend was babysitting my child and my husband was earning the money to pay for the clothes and underwear I was wearing for someone other than him. I pictured the furtive phone calls, the aborted arrangements when something unexpected came up and, on the days we could get together, the sordid, pathetic afternoons, spent in bed with a man who had temporarily seemed better – more exciting? attractive? a better lover? richer? – than my husband. Was this the man I had been waiting for in that hotel room, the man who would eventually attack me, leave me with no past and no future?

I closed my eyes. A flash of memory. Hands gripping my hair, around my throat. My head under water. Gasping, crying. I remember what I was thinking.
I want to see my son. One last time. I want to see my husband. I should never have done this to him. I should never have betrayed him with this man. I will never be able to tell him I am sorry. Never
.

I open my eyes. Claire was squeezing my hand. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘I don’t know whether—’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Tell me. Who was it?’

She sighed. ‘You said you’d met someone else who went to the café regularly. He was nice, you said. Attractive. You’d tried, but you hadn’t been able to stop yourself.’