The memories came in droves in the night.
Screaming – her own.
Shouting – everybody else.
As Julia half-dozed fitfully her remembrances held her down and whispered cruel things into her ears.
She saw her father’s face in the hospital, the light gone from his eyes. She saw him before that, at home when she had been a child, his strong, solid arms, a face full of lines that deepened into great crags when he laughed, his hands shaking slightly as he went about day-to-day tasks, his craftsman’s fingers thick and gnarled. Tinkering away in his shed, while her mother cooked for them all. The miniature garden in the wicker basket that he had made for her so that fairies might visit them, which had been a constant feature of her childhood, and which they had both continued to tend long after she stopped believing in magical creatures at the bottom of the garden. That miniature bucolic idyll had come to represent all the fundamental feelings that lay between them, shared without words.
She sat bolt upright with a pounding heart and tried to recover her breathing. Blearily, she wondered if the basket was still there in the garden; hoped fervently that it was. If it had gone, then, irrevocably, so had one more small part of her. But there was no way to find out without making that dreaded call home.
Gradually, she succumbed to a half-sleep again, until she was gliding through a Turkish beach resort, accosted by an old lady who spoke bad English but had kind eyes, who grabbed her hand, saying, ‘Wait, lady. I see man, he walk with you. Wait! Lady, wait!’ When she turned around the woman was frowning as though some invisible being were whispering something in her ear that was hard to understand. ‘He say you are lost soul.’ The woman turned big, heavily pencilled mournful eyes towards her, as if a hundred things suddenly made sense. Julia wanted to run from that knowing gaze, but it seemed the message wasn’t finished, and her legs were unaccountably heavy. ‘He say you lost somebody, but they will come back to you. So it okay,’ the woman smiled, tears in her eyes, bouncing Julia’s hand up and down in her own cold, gnarled grip. ‘They will come back to you.’
She came to again with a start, her whole body trembling. Was this a memory or a dream? She wasn’t sure – and that in itself frightened her. If it was more than a dream, then who was the message from? Her father? Who else would it be? And who did it refer to? Was it Alex, who had just come back to her in such an unforeseen and painful fashion?
She pictured her father’s face. Maybe he had forgiven her, now he could see everything up in heaven, and was paying the puppetmaster who dangled everyone’s lives beneath him so ruthlessly to do him this one big favour, to make the fates turn just once in the right direction. That way his daughter might become a truly earthbound person again, instead of just a wandering lost soul.
But then perhaps it was only a dream, came a cloudy thought, as her head grew heavier once more against the pillow.
Later on, in the hazy time between sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, more things came back to her; things she had pushed away for years. She had separated her life into two halves – Before and After – although she knew the line was really a lot more blurred than that.
One image replayed itself over and over: of Alex’s twisted face as he walked away from her. That had been After.
But, now and then, there was also Alex’s kind face, peering down at her.
Before.