Читать книгу Her Perfect Lies - Lana Newton - Страница 10

From her balcony on the first floor, Claire watched as night bus after night bus pulled up opposite and groups of drunken passengers spilled out, stumbling, laughing and shouting. Claire envied them, wishing she too could be merry and carefree. It was past midnight and she’d spent most of the night staring at her mother’s face in the photograph, searching for answers. Eventually, she must have drifted off because she dreamt her mother stepped out of the picture and leaned over her. Angela’s lips moved but Claire couldn’t hear the words. She leapt up in her chair and looked around, half expecting to see her mother. But she was alone. All was quiet, and only the wind made the leaves whisper.

She returned to bed but couldn’t sleep, and at eight in the morning she got up. Gliding like a ghost from room to room, she felt like an actress hired to play a part of a stranger she had never met before. She questioned everything – the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she stood. Would the old Claire pause by the mirror as she made her way downstairs and study her face for a few seconds too long, as if she didn’t know it? Would she stand under the hot shower for five minutes, ten, fifteen, hiding from the world?

Waiting for her on the kitchen table was a note from Paul. Her heart quickened.

Breakfast in the fridge, someone from the hospital is coming to check on you at 9.30.

Gasping, Claire rushed back upstairs to get dressed and brush her hair. Only when she was satisfied with her appearance did she look inside the fridge where she found an omelette, a wilted tomato and a jar of olives. Ignoring the tomato and the olives, she ate the omelette cold.

A nurse was coming to see her. She wondered if it was someone she knew. It would be nice to see a familiar face. Claire wanted to know when her memory was coming back. She couldn’t get her life back if she didn’t remember anything about it. And she couldn’t fix her marriage if she didn’t know what was wrong between Paul and her. He might have told her they were the happiest of couples who never argued but she didn’t believe him. A happy couple didn’t behave like them, not touching, barely talking and not sharing a room. A loving husband would have visited her more often as she lay in her hospital bed, trying to make sense of who she was. Suddenly nauseous, she leaned on the edge of the dining table and closed her eyes, counting down from fifty to one, just like the nurses had taught her.

On twenty-five, she was breathing easier. On seven, the doorbell rang.

The man standing outside was dressed in a business suit and held a folder in his hands. He was small and wrinkled, and his prune-like face was stretched into a smile. He introduced himself as Dr Johnson.

‘A doctor? I was expecting a nurse,’ she said, clasping her hands nervously.

‘Is that why you won’t let me through the door?’ The doctor’s smile grew wider.

Claire realised she was blocking the doorway. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m not myself these days.’ She stepped aside and the doctor walked in.

‘That’s why I’m here. To make you feel more like yourself.’

‘You think it’s possible? Will I remember everything? How long will it take? I didn’t realise doctors made house calls.’ Claire was talking fast, tripping over her words. She paused and studied the doctor, who made himself comfortable on the sofa.

‘That’s a lot of questions. We usually don’t make house calls, you’re right. But I’m a friend of your husband’s.’

‘You knew me before the accident?’

Dr Johnson nodded but didn’t say another word, hiding behind his folder.

‘I’m so sorry. I forgot my manners, among other things. You must think I’m awfully rude. Would you like something to drink?’

A dismissive wave in reply. It was clear Dr Johnson didn’t believe in small talk. He got straight down to business. ‘So, Claire, I understand you returned home from hospital yesterday?’ As if for emphasis, his finger pointed at something in his file.

‘The day before yesterday.’ Claire sat down opposite the doctor. With his small glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he looked like he had all the answers. Surely he would be able to suggest something, give her a magic pill that would help her remember. All she had to do was ask, and he would fix her. That was his job, wasn’t it?

Dr Johnson looked up. ‘How are you finding it so far? Overwhelming, I would imagine.’

‘That’s an understatement, Doctor.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s a normal reaction in a patient with memory loss when returning to their normal life. Have you been feeling unusually agitated lately?’ When Claire nodded, he continued, ‘Again, completely normal, nothing to worry about.’ He wrote something on the chart. ‘What about headaches?’

Claire rubbed her aching temples. ‘Not as bad as before.’

‘Have you been feeling confused? Disoriented?’

‘I don’t remember who I am. Of course I’m disoriented and confused.’

‘That’s—’

‘Perfectly normal. I know. Most of the time I feel afraid. Like something bad is about to happen. I think it’s my meds. They make me paranoid. Sometimes I wonder if I should stop taking them.’

Dr Johnson appraised her for a few seconds before replying, ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

‘No, of course not. Forget I said anything. And please don’t mention it to my husband.’

Dr Johnson nodded. ‘Let’s do some short-term memory tests, shall we? To check your progress.’

What progress, Doctor? she wanted to say. But before she had a chance, three pictures appeared in front of her, with names written underneath. Dr Johnson instructed Claire to look at them for a few seconds and then flipped the cards over. On the other side were the same images without the names. Claire had to pick the names out of a long list. Some of them were similar to one another, with a difference of one or two letters. There was a number next to each name. Claire didn’t know what the numbers meant, nor did she ask. She wanted the test over and done with. She wanted to be alone, so she could go through the photo albums and find another photograph of her mother. But she did her best to match the names to the pictures, on the off chance that by some miracle it would help recover her memory.

Dr Johnson nodded at every answer, his face impassive. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Finally, he took the pictures of people away, only to replace them with pictures of vegetables. Claire had to memorise them and then pick names from a long list. ‘Verbal new learning,’ he explained.

‘And what do you expect me to learn from this, Doctor?’

‘You don’t need to learn anything. I need to assess how well you’re doing.’

Not only did Claire manage to answer every question but she recorded a close to perfect score. Better than 90 per cent of Dr Johnson’s patients. The doctor looked unimpressed when he told her that. ‘You’re doing great, Claire.’

‘You think I’m doing great, Doctor? Then why do I feel so …’ She couldn’t think of the right word. Empty, lost, desperate? All of the above?

‘You don’t feel like yourself. It’s understandable and to be expected. You have what’s known as post-traumatic amnesia. It’s generally caused by a severe head injury.’

Claire nodded while suppressing the desire to laugh in doctor’s face. Tell me something I don’t know. But what she said instead was, ‘These other patients of yours. The 10 per cent who did better than me on the tests. Have they recovered? Can they remember?’

‘Some of them.’

‘So what’s the prognosis?’

‘The good news is, this type of amnesia is usually temporary.’

Claire perked up. This was good news indeed. ‘How long?’

‘The human mind is incredibly complex. You could wake up tomorrow and remember everything. Or it could take years.’

‘Or it could never happen?’

‘It’s impossible to tell. You were unconscious for a long time. That could affect the duration of your amnesia.’ Claire must have looked disappointed because something resembling pity appeared Dr Johnson’s face. Pity was not what she wanted to see. She looked down into her hands. The doctor continued, ‘All we can do is stay positive. Do you have a strong support network? Family, friends?’

Claire thought of Paul’s cold eyes as he collected her from the hospital. She thought of her missing mother. ‘I have my father. And my best friend.’

‘That’s a good start. You’ll need all the support you can get. Try to immerse yourself in familiar activities. Anything could trigger your memory, anything at all. People, experiences, sounds. Scents can work particularly well.’ Dr Johnson stood up.

‘Is there anything else we can do?’

‘There isn’t much, unfortunately. No reliable treatments at this stage, I’m afraid.’

‘What about unreliable? Hypnosis, maybe?’

‘Some people believe hypnosis can help. But they are in the minority. We certainly don’t recommend it. The mind is a tricky fragile thing. It’s best not to influence it with something so intrusive.’ The doctor shrugged apologetically. ‘There is no foolproof solution. Find out what you’ve enjoyed before the accident. These experiences might act as a catalyst, and before you know it, you’ll remember.’

Claire wished she knew what she had enjoyed before the accident. She made a mental note to ask Gaby. And then it occurred to her – she loved to dance! Yes, that was it. ‘When can I go back to work?’ Suddenly it felt like the perfect solution. She had been dancing since she was a little girl. What could be more familiar? She thought about how easily she seemed to remember the movements. If only she could dance again, her mind might catch up with her body.

‘You were a ballet dancer, were you not?’

Claire nodded, for the first time feeling excitement and anticipation warming her from the inside like burning coals.

‘Not yet. No strenuous exercise. Although you’re physically strong, mentally you’re extremely fragile. As you improve over time, you can start challenging yourself – slowly. Remember, baby steps.’

‘I can’t stay here, cooped up in this house, not knowing what to do with myself.’

‘It might be frustrating at times, but rest is what you need right now.’

‘Please don’t tell Paul I want to go back to work. I’ll tell him when the time is right. I don’t want him to worry.’

Dr Johnson nodded. ‘I’ll visit once a month to see how you’re getting on.’

‘Oh,’ said Claire, suddenly nervous. What was the point, if there were no treatments and no definite prognosis? If there was nothing they could do, why even try? ‘How will it feel when I start remembering? Will it all come back at once?’

‘It’s more likely you’ll experience islands of memory. You’ll remember certain things, perhaps those that have made the most impact on you in the past.’

‘What about everything else?’

‘Once you start remembering, it’s a good sign. Other memories will follow.’

‘And what if they don’t?’

‘That is also possible. No one can tell for sure. The human mind—’

‘Is complex. Yes, you’ve said.’

‘Remember, stay positive. In the meantime, I want you to start a diary. Write down anything that comes to mind. Ideas, memories, thoughts. Anything could help.’

He said goodbye, leaving Claire standing in the doorway, watching his retreating back, unsure what to do next. After he disappeared, she did as she was told – she found a blank notepad and sat by the piano. As her hands played a melody she didn’t recognise, she thought of something to write in her new diary.

What did the doctor say? Thoughts, memories, ideas? After two hours, there was only one question in Claire’s notebook, written in a square childish handwriting:

What happened on the day of the accident?

* * *

In the afternoon, Claire played the piano until she could no longer see from the tears in her eyes. As Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture filled the room, she could sense memories within her reach but when she tried to grasp them, they melted away like fresh snow in spring. Being here, in this house she didn’t remember, looking at the stranger in the mirror and knowing nothing about her filled her with dread she couldn’t understand or control. She didn’t know what it was she was afraid of, but she was afraid nonetheless. If only her father was here. He would know exactly what to say to make her feel better.

The moment her piano fell silent, Claire heard a noise. Molokai bounced up in the air and barked, disappearing into the living room. Claire slid off her chair and softly tiptoed after him. The living room was empty but she could sense a presence. She wasn’t alone. There was someone in the house.

The dread was no longer a low current running through her. Suddenly she could think of nothing else. Would Molokai be able to protect her if … if what? If there was an intruder in the house? If she had a secret enemy she knew nothing about? Her head was spinning and the walls were closing in on her. She couldn’t see anything around her. All she could do was scream.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Miss.’ She felt pair of strong arms lifting her off the floor. ‘I’m Nina, your housekeeper.’

Claire opened her eyes cautiously and saw a round woman dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, carrying a mop. She looked like she was in her thirties but could have easily been younger or older – she had one of those faces that seemed ageless. The woman was staring at Claire with her mouth open. She was the one who looked alarmed.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry.’

She longed to put her head on the woman’s chest and cry her heart out. There was something maternal about her.

‘Oh no, Miss. Don’t be sorry. You have panic attack. You not well. I know you have memory problem. Mr Paul tell me. But I know how to make you feel better. You come and sit. I make you something.’ The woman sounded foreign. Claire could hardly understand her.

Nina led Claire to a chair and, after making sure she was comfortable, proceeded to the kitchen. Claire heard the fridge door open and close, the sound of a knife on a cutting board and then a loud noise of a kitchen appliance, perhaps a juicer or a blender. Relieved and a little embarrassed, she put her head into her hands and tried to slow her breathing but her heart was racing and she felt dizzy and nauseous.

Five minutes later, Nina emerged with a glass of juice. ‘Your favourite. Apple, watermelon, kale, ginger. It will make you good as new.’

To make Nina happy, Claire took a sip, her hand shaking so badly, the glass rattled against her teeth. She forced her voice to sound normal. ‘So, Nina, where are you from?’

‘Scotland.’

‘You don’t sound like you’re from Scotland.’

‘Well, I am. But before then, Russia. I left to escape cold.’

‘You went to Scotland to escape the cold?’

‘Nowhere as cold as Russia,’ explained Nina. ‘Not even Scotland. We have snow nine months a year.’

Nina wiped the table, while Claire carried her empty glass to the sink and started washing it. ‘No, no, I do that,’ said Nina, rushing to Claire’s side and wrestling the glass from her as if she was afraid she would instantly lose her job if Claire as much as lifted a finger.

‘I don’t mind helping,’ said Claire.

Nina looked at her like she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You sit, relax. I’m very sorry for your accident. You not yourself, Miss.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You even look different. Expression in your eyes, it change.’

Intrigued, Claire asked, ‘What was I like before?’

‘Honestly? You walk around like world owe you favour. This is first time you speak to me.’

‘How long have you worked here?’ It occurred to Claire she didn’t like the sound of her old self very much. What kind of person didn’t speak to someone who cleaned and cooked for her?

‘I am with you and Mr Paul three years now. Since you move into house.’ Nina’s cheeks jiggled as she dried the glass with a tea towel. Her face was plump, like she had eaten too many Russian blinis. ‘So it is true? You not remember anything?’

Since she’d woken up in hospital, Claire had seen this reaction many times. It was a mix of pity and curiosity. She wanted none of it. She cleared her throat and asked, ‘Nina, did you ever meet my mother?’

‘Of course I meet her. She come every week.’

Claire stared into space, lost for words. ‘What is she like?’ she muttered.

‘You not know what your mother is like?’

Claire looked at the stain on the floor where Nina had spilled a bit of juice. ‘She went away for a while. I haven’t seen her since the accident. And since I don’t remember anything …’

‘I cannot believe your mother go away at time like this. She loves you so. You always complain she crowd you, call you too often. Every time you sick, she move in. You hate it.’

‘She sounds lovely,’ whispered Claire.

‘Your mother is beautiful gentle person. Always nice words to say to me. Even let me borrow her dress.’ Sitting next to Claire, Nina added, ‘The only one she not like is Mr Paul. Do not worry. When your mother come back, she make everything better.’

‘Wait, what did you say?’

‘When?’

‘About my mother and Paul?’

‘They no get along. I always see them argue.’

‘Argue about what?’ exclaimed Claire.

But Nina didn’t seem to hear. She was chattering away, while her mop never stopped moving. ‘I think it is matter of mind. Your brain protects you from traumatic memories. But if strong mind, you can overcome.’

‘You mean, like mind over matter? If I try hard enough, I’ll get my memory back?’

‘Exactly.’

Claire wondered if perhaps Nina was right and all she had to do was force herself to remember. In vain she probed the void inside her head. No matter how traumatic the memories, she wanted them back. Every single one.

Nina stopped in the middle of the kitchen, put her mop down and said, ‘What you want for dinner, Miss Claire? I go to market. I cook.’

‘Anything, Nina. I don’t mind. And thank you.’

While she waited for Nina to return from the market, she opened her walk-in wardrobe and examined row after row of designer clothes in awe. She tried on a gorgeous Dior dress and a high-heeled pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. The dress made her look sophisticated, glamorous like a movie star, messy hair notwithstanding. This beautiful house and expensive clothes, was it really her life? She felt like an impostor as she posed in front of the mirror.

Then again, what did she know about herself?

Judging by the photos Paul had shown her and the Amazon jungle of flowers in her hospital room, she was a woman who had many friends. She was popular, social and liked to entertain. She was a woman who danced for a living. That required discipline and determination. She must have been hardworking and dedicated. She was a woman who wouldn’t even speak to her housekeeper, as if she was beneath her.

Shuddering, Claire turned away from the mirror.

To take her mind off her dark thoughts, she decided to search her room. Her chest of drawers was filled to the brim with personal belongings. Old envelopes, cinema tickets, coins, all clues to who she was, all in disarray. The drawers were at odds with the rest of the house – like an island of chaos in her otherwise perfect universe. She rifled through various items that had once defined her life but no longer meant anything to her. There were dozens of old programmes featuring Claire in a white tutu, graceful like a swan and just as delicate. ‘Claire Wright as Cinderella’, she read. ‘Claire Wright as Sugar Plum Fairy’. She spent a long time looking through each programme, touching the photos, feeling them through her fingertips.

And then, under the old cinema tickets, under the brochures and the programmes, she came across a brown envelope. Intrigued, she peered inside at what seemed like an official document. One by one she pulled the papers out of the envelope and spread them on her bed. ‘Divorce on the ground that the marriage has broken down irretrievably,’ the papers said. Claire read it a couple of times, her brain refusing to process what it saw at first. Did she and Paul file for divorce? Although the names on the documents confirmed it, she didn’t want to believe it.

So Gaby had told her the truth. They did have issues. But why would Paul lie to her? Why would he say they were happy together when clearly they weren’t?

Claire shoved the papers under her bed as far as they would go and sat on the floor, her back against the wall. The silence was deafening. She felt the dizziness again, the darkness closing in on her, the scream rising in her chest. She didn’t want to be alone. What she needed was to hear a friendly voice, to talk to someone who cared. She forced herself to get up and change back into her casual clothes, then she walked downstairs and called her father. He didn’t answer for a long time. She almost hung up.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked when she finally heard his voice. ‘You sound like you’ve been sleeping.’

‘I wish. Right now I’m playing chess with myself.’

‘You are? And how is it going?’

‘Very well. I think I might be winning.’

‘That’s good to hear. Have you eaten?’

‘They gave me porridge. Gruel for breakfast.’

‘I hope they’re looking after you.’

‘Today they took me to the common room. It was like having a picnic on Brighton Beach. Wish you could remember those. We would go every August, just the three of us. We would dress up in our summer best. Your mother would prepare baskets of delicious food. We’d spread our blanket on the pebbles and race each other to the water. Then we would play badminton and cards.’ His voice sounded far away, lost in a dream.

Claire felt relief flooding her body. The darkness retreated. Tentatively she smiled. ‘Let me guess. You always won?’

‘Of course. Unless we played charades, in which case your mother won. She was quite the actress. I often tell her she missed her calling. She should be on TV.’

‘Hope you made friends in the common room. Someone to play chess and share your porridge with.’

‘I won’t share my gruel with anyone but you. When are you coming over?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘Can’t wait!’

She thought of her dad as she played the piano, hoping her brain would catch up with her fingers and remember this melody, or that one, or the next. And she thought of her husband, who told her they were in love, when he hadn’t once smiled at her or showed her any affection or even seemed concerned. She tried not to think of the divorce papers signed by both of them that were now hiding under her bed. Soon, Nina returned from the market. Claire concentrated on the noises in the kitchen, on oven door slamming, pots clanking and water running. Anything not to think. Finally, Nina’s dishevelled head appeared in the studio. ‘Food ready. Your favourite chicken fajitas. You need anything?’

‘No, no,’ said Claire. ‘I’m okay, Nina. Go home and relax.’

In the afternoon, she swam in the pool and sat in front of the TV, finally falling asleep to the reruns of Bless This House. When she woke up, Paul was home. Absentmindedly he inquired about her day but didn’t seem interested in her response. His back was turned as he took his coat and boots off. All she wanted was to ask him about the documents under her bed. Would he tell her the truth? He had already lied to her once. ‘I found …’ she began.

But Paul wasn’t listening. ‘Have you taken your medication today?’

Suddenly he was leaning over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. Drowsy and disorientated, she tried to get up so she wouldn’t have to look up into his face when she spoke to him. ‘Of course.’ Did the doctor tell him she didn’t want to take her medicine anymore? She shuddered.

‘Next time, wait for me to get home.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to see you take it.’

She thought she had misheard. ‘You want to see me take my medication?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t trust me to do it? I’m a grown-up, Paul. I can take care of myself.’

‘You’ve been through a lot. I need to make sure you’re okay.’ He didn’t look at her when he said that. Picking up a plate, he loaded it with food and locked himself in his study. Claire turned the lights off and sat in the dark, waiting for him to come out so she could ask him about their impending divorce and how it fit into his story of a perfectly happy marriage. At ten o’clock, when there was still no sign of him, she went to bed. She hadn’t touched the fajitas.