‘I love you too.’ Livvy pulled her lips into a wide, confident smile.
Picking up the suitcase, Dominic headed out to his car, put the case in the boot, lowered himself into the driver’s seat. Starting the engine, he turned and waved before pulling away from the kerb.
Tightening her arms around Leo, Livvy held her son’s hand, waved back. She watched the black Toyota Prius shrink until it turned the corner at the far end of the road and disappeared out of sight.
For a few seconds she stood still, watching, as if awaiting a magic trick in which Dominic’s car might spring back into view like a rabbit pulled from a hat.
Turning to re-enter the house, she heard another car ignite its engine further along the quiet residential street. A blue Ford Fiesta drove towards her, and Livvy noticed the driver – an elderly lady with pure white hair, wearing a bright blue cardigan – staring at her as she neared. The car slowed as it passed, the driver’s concentration flitting between the road and Livvy’s front door, and for a moment their eyes locked. And then the elderly lady looked away, accelerated, and within seconds she had reached the end of the street and was gone.
For a few seconds, Livvy stood on the doorstep, contemplating Dominic’s departure, thinking about the days ahead. And then she headed back inside, into the kitchen to start preparing Leo’s dinner, and opened the BBC Sounds app to fill the room with the comforting music of Radio 2.
ANNA
LONDON
I glance up at the clock on the wall: five to two. In a few minutes, Stephen should arrive for visiting time. I am anxious for the seconds to move quickly, so numerous are the questions I have to ask him. Yesterday evening, as he sat with me in A&E, I was overwhelmed by the need for sleep, and awoke to find myself on the ward, the clock blinking into the darkness, telling me it was a little after midnight. This morning I stirred just before eight, my head still heavy as though someone had encased it in lead. Even now, there is effort in lifting it from the pillow, a constant pressure at my temples as if my brain is trying to squeeze into too small a space.
I close my eyes, try to expunge the pain, but it is like trying to shift concrete.
‘Anna. Are you okay?’
I open my eyes and Stephen is standing beside my bed, holding a bouquet of pure white flowers – freesias, roses, gerberas, gladioli, their names coming back to me without a second thought – and he is smiling broadly, trying to mask the concern ploughing a series of furrows across his forehead. He looks tired, dark rings haunting the skin beneath his eyes, and I feel a stab of guilt that I may be the cause.
‘It’s me, Stephen. Do you remember me from yesterday?’
I nod, and a wave of relief washes across his face. There is relief for me too. Even though the doctor on his rounds this morning assured me that my short-term memory appears unscathed, I still worried that I might not recognise Stephen when he arrived, as though we are two adults on a blind date and our descriptions may not match reality.
For the first time I allow myself to examine my husband’s face properly. It is a kind face. Handsome, I think, and I assume I must have believed so once if I married him. There are lines around his eyes and I do not know whether they have deepened in the hours since the crash. His expression is thoughtful, thin lips accentuating the strong line of his jaw.
Scrutinising Stephen’s face, I realise something suddenly. ‘Have you got a mirror?’
Stephen looks at me, confused.
‘Please, I need a mirror. Can you find me one?’
Something shifts in Stephen’s expression and he nods, tells me he’ll be back in a moment. He returns with a small, square compact I assume he must have borrowed from one of the nurses.
I open it, bring it level with my eyes, look at my reflection for the first time since the crash.
The woman staring back at me is in her mid-thirties – older, perhaps, if her genes have been kind to her – and beyond the pale skin and anxious expression, she is, I think, attractive. Her chestnut hair is cut short, and there is something gentle in her face. It is the face of someone I would trust if I needed to call on the goodwill of a stranger.
Except the woman in the mirror is not a stranger. The woman in the mirror is me. And yet I would not have recognised myself had someone handed me a photograph.
The sense of dislocation is overwhelming and I part my lips, encourage the air in and out of my lungs.
‘Shall we put this away?’ Stephen does not wait for an answer as he prises the mirror from my fingers, snaps it shut, places it on the cabinet next to my bed. ‘How did you sleep last night?’
‘Really well, thanks. I slept for ages.’
‘That’s good. You need plenty of rest.’
There is a politeness to our interchange, like we are two strangers, each eager to make a good impression.
‘And do you . . . Have any memories come back to you?’ His question is hesitant, as though unsure it wants to be heard.
I shake my head, the knowledge of my impotence like a boulder lodged in my chest.
An expression I cannot read flashes across Stephen’s face before he pulls his lips into a purposeful smile. ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure they’ll come back soon.’ He pauses, holds out the bouquet of flowers to me. ‘I brought you these.’
I do not know why my hands do not immediately reach out to take them, why I feel myself shrink from them.
‘You’ve always loved white flowers and these are some of your favourites. I thought they might . . . help you remember.’ He looks awkward suddenly, as though he had been standing on stable ground but has just lost his footing.
‘They’re lovely. Thank you.’
He pulls up a chair, sits down, puts the flowers on the slim cupboard beside my bed. ‘Have any doctors been to see you today?’
I nod. ‘Just one. He asked me more questions to assess my memory. I don’t think I did very well.’
‘I’m sure you did.’
Stephen smiles reassuringly, but I cannot help feeling that this situation is topsy-turvy, that my brain has got its priorities confused. Because the more I manage to recall impersonal things – the name of a queen, the year of the Battle of Hastings – the greater the frustration that I cannot remember information that really matters. Cannot remember how long I have been married, where I met my husband, why we fell in love. Cannot remember where we live, what our house looks like, how we spend our weekends. Cannot remember my work, my friends, my family. It feels like a cruel act of fate to be able to remember facts about people I will never meet, moments in history I have never experienced, when I cannot recall a single detail about my own life.
‘So no one else has been to see you?’
I shake my head and then remember. ‘The police came to talk to me.’
‘The police? What did they want?’
I feel myself squirm as I recall the male officer’s impatience with me. ‘To know if I remembered anything about the crash.’
‘And do you?’
I shake my head. ‘I asked if they could tell me anything about it but they said they couldn’t because their enquiries are ongoing.’ It feels strange, having this quotidian conversation with Stephen, as though this is a normal Sunday and we are simply sharing our daily news. ‘The female officer did say you were lucky to get away with only a few bruises. She said it often happens in car crashes – that the driver walks away unharmed.’