I wake to the sound of screaming, a shrill note of confusion and despair.
‘Oh Chloe,’ wails my mother, tears smeared across her face. ‘What happened?’
In those first moments, I’m not sure. The dream of being with Joshua at the beach is still with me, so strong in my mind I can almost smell the salt water. It’s my old life, right there, still lurking beneath the surface. It gives me renewed confidence that I must be able to remember other details about the person I used to be if only I try. But as I look up to see my mother’s familiar red hair dangling over the telephone clutched against her ear, the past is gone, a memory turned to dust.
‘Peter?’ she cries into the phone. ‘Peter, Chloe’s hurt. She’s bleeding. She’s…’ She pauses, and I imagine Peter—whoever he is—telling her to slow down. ‘Well I don’t know. How could I know that? Please just come and see her.’ She is getting irritated. Desperate. ‘Please, Peter. I can’t get hold of him and I don’t know whether to call an ambulance. He won’t be back for hours. You have to come. Chloe, don’t move,’ she instructs. ‘Lie back down. Peter’s on his way.’
I recognise Peter as soon as he arrives. He’s the resident doctor in Rusperford. It’s the flushed cheeks and messy hair; I’ve seen him like this before. I remember that he once became the talk of the village after being suspended. He came to the house red-faced like now, demanded to speak with my father. I recall the two of them arguing on the driveway, my mother having to separate them before it ended in a fight. In the end, Peter left, shouting about it being my father’s fault. I can remember my parents arguing about it afterwards, my mother telling my father that the allegations were false. Something about fraudulent prescriptions and misuse of opiates.
‘Chloe, hello. How are you feeling now?’ He removes the saturated tissue that my mother has been holding to my bleeding wound, before helping me to move through to the living room couch. ‘Do you remember what happened? Did somebody do this to you?’
I shake my head. ‘I cut it while out walking. On a tree branch. I fainted, that’s all.’ I try to sit forward but find that everything feels fuzzy, my head a fug of delirium. I look up at my mother. ‘A journalist called, wanted to talk to me. Honestly, though, I’m fine. You didn’t give me a chance to explain.’
‘But what about all that?’ she asks, pointing at the pile of broken china on the floor.
‘That was something else,’ I say, and she shares a look with Peter. I know they both understand who is responsible for it. Neither of them asks me any more questions after that.
Peter opens his black bag, pulls out some fresh gauze swabs and begins dabbing at my cut cheek. ‘Can you pass me that saline, Evie?’ he asks. My mother hands him a small vial. He inspects the label and snaps off the top, squirts the contents at the wound. The saline runs over my face, and I notice a few pinkish drips falling on my jeans. ‘And I think Chloe could use a glass of water. Why don’t you fetch her one?’ My mother heads into the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry to send her away,’ Peter whispers once she has left the room, ‘but she doesn’t do too well with things like this.’ He pulls a small pack from his bag. ‘It’s quite deep. You need a couple of stitches. Are you feeling brave?’ He takes my lack of resistance as a positive sign and pinches out a crescent-shaped needle from a sterile pack with a pair of forceps. He holds onto my face and I grit my teeth as he pierces the skin around the wound. By the time my mother arrives back with the glass of water, he has completed three quick stitches and has got a fresh dressing in place. ‘That should do it,’ he says. ‘Those stitches will dissolve in due course, but you might want to call by the surgery at a later date for me to have another look.’
‘Stitches?’ my mother cries, water sloshing from the glass. ‘Oh goodness me, Peter. Was it really that bad? I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have—’
‘Everything is fine, Evie. Relax. Chloe didn’t feel a thing, did you?’ I shake my head. The pain of the needle was nothing compared to the pain of when I awoke in hospital.
After asking me a few questions about the time and date, recording my blood pressure and providing me with a prescription for some extra antibiotics, which he assures me are a precaution rather than anything else, he makes his excuses to leave. My mother follows him out. I can’t see them from where I’m sitting on the couch, but I can hear the mutterings of conversation, just too quiet for me to make out. I’m sure it must be about me, and, determined to avoid any more secrets, I stand up and head towards the hall.
As I arrive at the doorway, the pearly light of an early winter’s afternoon is just strong enough to illuminate the tableau. My mother looks anxious, sad maybe, her head hanging down against her chest. Is it about me? Is my injury worse than I think it is? But then Peter reaches towards her, a gentle hand brushed against her cheek. It’s nothing really, just the briefest of moments. But still, it’s something I didn’t expect. Something illicit. I can tell by the way she raises her hand to his, as if she can’t bear the thought of him letting go. But I’m stunned not only because of this exchange, but also because of the feelings it stirs within me. I have been in the same situation, I think, the comforting touch of a hand that shouldn’t have been on me. A hand that belonged to somebody other than my husband. Is that what Ben wants to talk to me about? Is that what he meant when he said he wants things to go back to what they were, that he needs me? My cheek feels alive at the mere thought of it. I slip back into the room, sit quietly on the couch.
My mother follows me in just a few minutes later. ‘What a fright you gave me,’ she says. But I say nothing, my mind still a jumble. I’m trying to remember what it is that I’ve remembered, what part of my life this sensation is linked to. And who. But I can’t reach anything more concrete. I feel blind to the truth. ‘I think we both need a nice cup of tea. What do you say?’ I nod my head and force myself to smile.
I dream of you, Chloe, do you know that? In my dreams we are together, just you, me and Joshua. Doing normal things. Last night I dreamed of Christmas, of him coming downstairs and opening his presents. It’s because I saw some fairy lights; I guess they set me off. On another night, before you tried to end things, I dreamed of us all at the beach. You know that thing he does where he stacks pebbles into tiny cairns, like a hill walker marking a route?
I watched him once, playing with the rocks as you were sitting there near the shore. He built five different piles that led you across the beach, under the pier. Remember? It was June, I think. Maybe early July. You never told me what he led you to, of course, but after you left the beach I wandered down to the shore, found a starfish. I like to think that’s what he showed you, on that bright sunny day when you looked so sad. What had happened to make you blue? Why didn’t you let me make things right?
That hurt, you know, seeing you like that and not being able to do anything about it. I felt useless, as if I had no power. So I kept that starfish, tucked it in a drawer at home where it shrivelled up and dried out. When I look at it now, I’m reminded of my failings, times you’ve been sad when I wasn’t there to make it right. I’ll never let that happen again. Once we are together again, I promise I’ll never let you go.