Mark and Pat both burst into the bedroom.
Alyssa initially thought Pat took after her, but the worried look on their faces is so similar that she can now see Mark in there too.
“Al?” asks Mark.
“Mummy, you screamed,” says Pat.
“Sorry, baby,” says Alyssa. “Mummy has a headache.” Which is true, but not the reason she screamed. And this “mummy” talk does not at all feel natural.
Pat notices the book on the bed and picks it up. “What’s this?”
“Oscar Wilde. Selected poems,” says Alyssa casually.
“Is that why you screamed? Is it bad?” Pat smiles, full of hope. It’s a smile that demands a reply, a child’s prayer that everything is all right. Nothing is all right, though. The girl edges towards Alyssa and leans against her. It really is a wonderful smile, and Alyssa is lifted for a moment.
“Awful,” she says.
“You’ve never opened that book,” says Mark.
“I did today. Thou knowest all; I seek in vain; What lands to till or sow with seed—; The land is black with briar and weed; Nor cares for falling tears or rain. See?”
Mark raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. There is a spreading patch of red running down his neck, like sunburn.
“Pat, go downstairs. I’ll come see you later,” says Alyssa.
Pat dials her phone before she leaves the room, and her words fade as she stomps away.
Mark sits beside Alyssa on the bed. His weight causes her to list towards him, but she shifts away. He smells faintly of turpentine.
“Wilde isn’t that bad,” says Mark.
“Mark, I can memorise. I read the poem for the first time, and I can remember. Thou knowest all; I sit and wait, with blinded eyes and hands that fail. There’s nothing wrong with my fucking memory, Mark.”
“Except that you don’t remember anything.”
“Except that I don’t remember anything before today. But even that’s not true. I remember how to do things. I can make coffee and drive a car. Maybe. I haven’t tried. But I can’t remember us moving in here, or getting married, or even giving birth. I don’t feel like a mother. I don’t feel like a wife. I don’t feel like a woman.”
“Hang on, I’ve heard this one before. After Pat was born you said you didn’t feel like a woman.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, you looked in the mirror and your belly was all… foldy and stretch-marky.”
“I don’t remember that, but I don’t think it’s the same thing.”
Mark slides to the carpet and shifts position till he is kneeling in front of her. He holds her hands together and clasps them as if praying. It takes all of her will-power to resist pulling free, or keeping panic from her face.
“Whatever this is, we’ll get through it, all right? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
It is a kissing moment. Alyssa can feel it, the tug he feels for her, the concern, the cliché of it all. She steels herself for the inevitability and when it comes she does not part her lips to his questing tongue. She breaks the bond. His head seems enormous from this perspective. Why does this feel more like her comforting him, rather than the other way around?
“Mark, do I have a diary or journal or anything?”
“I don’t know. You do have a MyFace page. I’ll get the terminal.”
Alyssa does indeed have a MyFace page. Her implant logs her in, so she doesn’t have to remember any passwords. Mark wants to hang about, but she banishes him from the bedroom. The shimmering plasma display sharpens and she sees the avatars of her “friends” turning in 3D in a digital antechamber.
Alyssa Sutcliffe has three hundred and fifteen friends. She sees her own avatar, smiling, frivolous, not caring about memories or husbands that she does not recognise.
A lot of inane updates scroll over the screen continuously. What kind of society is it that causes people to be so isolated that they need the approval of strangers?
My child, pretending to be disembowelled!
My holiday snaps!!!!
This rapist met his accuser and you won’t believe what happens next.
This is weird.
Who is really running Aso Rock?
Rosewater should become an independent city state like the Vatican City—“like” if you support.
Nigeria’s best dressed strippers.
Alyssa scrolls through her friends. Nothing. Not even déjà vu. She looks at her private messages. The first one that catches her attention is a borderline flirty exchange with someone called Eni Afeni. She scrolls to the beginning of the chat. It has been going on for over a year.
Eni: what’s important is what you think about it.
Alyssa: I know that’s what it’s supposed to be but he’s my husband. Why would I spend so much time and money on my hair if he doesn’t notice?
Eni: I would notice.
Alyssa: I know you would.
And:
Alyssa: it’s really about fit. As long as you can feel it going in, and the fella knows what he’s doing, it’s usually all right.
Eni: boys don’t believe that. It’s all about size. Stop me if this gets too personal.
Alyssa: lol! No, itz all right. Now you have me curious.
Eni: me too. My curiosity is visible.
Alyssa: er…
Alyssa cringes at this and most of the rest of it. There is a lot of whingeing about Mark, although the conversation never stays on him. Reading it, she feels discomfort at the cheesiness of some of the messages, but no matrimonial guilt at all, and she does not recognise this Alyssa person who is chatting.
Alyssa: I don’t care so much for political feminism. I fight my own corner. I work hard and go home to my family. I don’t need to prove I am a Woman ™. Why would I even have to?
Status update: I love my husband!!! (Shrill desperation in the declaration. Warning to keep competitors off? Reminder to Mark if he’s listening? Weak.)
Status update: New phone firmware update. I heart the new interface!
Status update: Sorry, I can’t be bothered to vote if Aso Rock is only concerned about the well-being of black citizens. I count too! I pay tax.
Status update…
Alyssa massages her temple.
There are no private messages with Mark. What did he mean, I’m not going anywhere? Were they having problems?
That feeling of nausea overwhelms her and she crosses to the bathroom, but nothing comes up. It is a nausea of the soul, rather than the gut. She is trying to purge something spiritual. She feels a wave of sadness, of grief. She sees Alyssa in the mirror and this is not who she is.
“Fuck you,” she says.
The reflection mocks her by being Alyssa.
She looks at her hands, examines each one, each line, the ridges on her fingertips, the lines. She twists her rings and sees the tan line and damaged skin underneath. She scratches at it, but it’s too tough.
Nausea.
This isn’t real. This is not real at all. None of it.
She snatches a bottle of perfume and throws it at the mirror, shattering her reflection. She picks a large shard and draws it along her forearm skin, shocked by the pain, but waiting for the blood to well up.
Not real.
The blood seems red enough. She holds the wound open, allowing it to pool and spill over the sides of her forearm on to the floor. It is not too deep, though it still hurts. There is no pulsating fountain of blood, just a stream. She can’t hear the drops on the floor, but she is aware of them. The nausea is gone, though.
She rolls up a wad of tissue and staunches the wound, then ties some fabric around her forearm to keep it in place. She rummages and finds a better dressing, then she cleans her bloody fingerprints and the blood on the floor. The wound stings, protesting each movement, but Alyssa doesn’t mind. She puts on a long-sleeved pullover.
She is at least sure of one thing: she is not this Alyssa Sutcliffe person.
This gives her distance, and makes it easier to read the MyFace page. The conversations with Eni are jejune, and teach her nothing. Some friends talk about various get-togethers over the years. Alyssa laments to a friend called Ester about Pat’s accent. Apparently the little girl speaks like a Nigerian, with a local accent, while Alyssa’s people are from Dorset, England.
Ester: But she IS Nigerian, Ali. How else do you expect her to speak?
Alyssa: I don’t know. I expected my words to rub off on her.
Ester: You’re outnumbered. Mark speaks like that too. Besides, what’s wrong with speaking like a Nigerian?
Alyssa: Nothing. I don’t know. I just… you want your child to sound like you.
Later she hears light laughter from downstairs and she tiptoes to the top of the stairs to listen. Mark’s low-pitched voice says something and Pat giggles in a higher pitch. She descends one stair and sits on it, watching father and daughter. Pat is on his lap and Mark has his arms around her and is whispering into her ear. They look immeasurably happy and Alyssa feels warm for a minute.
She could… stay. Live with this family, pretend to be Mrs. Alyssa Sutcliffe, wife, mother, admin manager. It is a good family, a good life. Their badinage shows it.
She shrugs the impulse off. That would be a lie, and whoever she is favours the truth. She will get to the reality of the matter, no matter what it takes.
The blood has seeped through her makeshift bandage, and she goes to change it without alerting the Sutcliffes below.