Sometimes I Lie

Now

Wednesday, 28th December 2016 – Morning

It’s becoming harder to separate the dreams from my reality and I’m scared of both. Even when I do remember where, I don’t know when I am any more. Morning has broken and there’s no afternoon or evening any more either. I have escaped time and I wish it would find me again. It has a smell of its own, time. Like a familiar room. When it’s no longer your own you crave it, you salivate and you hunger for it, you realise you’d do anything to have it back. Until it is yours again, you steal stolen seconds and gobble up misused minutes, sticking them all together to make a delicate chain of borrowed time, hoping it will stretch. Hoping it will be long enough to reach the next page. If there is a next page.

I can smell my lost time. And something else. I have been alone for a while now. Paul has not returned and nobody has been in my room since I started counting the seconds. I stopped at seven thousand, which means I have been lying in my own shit for over two hours.

The voices come frequently, to wake me from my dream within a dream. They’re starting to sound familiar to me. The same nurses come into my room, check I’m still breathing and sleeping, then leave me alone again with my thoughts and fears. I’m not being fair, they do more than that. They turn me, I’m not sure why. I’m on my left side at the moment, which is how I liked to sleep when I had a choice in the matter. Having choices is something I used to do. Most of the shit is on the inside of my left thigh. I can feel and smell it. With my mouth forced open I can almost taste it and the thought makes me want to gag, but that’s just another thing I can’t do. The tube down my throat has become a part of me I barely notice any more. I picture myself as a newly invented Doctor Who monster: part woman, part machine; skin and bones entwined with tubes and wires. I want them to clean me before Paul comes back. If he’s coming back. The door opens and I think it is him, but the smell of white musk informs me it isn’t.

‘Morning, Amber, how are we feeling today?’

Let’s see, I feel like shit, I’m covered in shit, I stink of shit.

Why do these people keep talking to me? They know I can’t answer and they don’t really believe I can hear them.

‘Oh dear, don’t you worry, we’ll soon get you all cleaned up.’

Thank you.

Two of them clean me. They’ve never introduced themselves, so I don’t know their real names, but I’ve made up my own. ‘Northern Nurse’ sounds as though she is from Yorkshire. She has a tendency to mutter quietly to herself while she works and even then her vowels sound large in my ears. Her hands feel rough and rush to do their work. She scrubs my skin as though I am a dirty pan with stubborn stains and she sounds perpetually tired. Today she is accompanied by ‘Forty-A-Day Nurse’, the clue is in the name. Her voice is hoarse and low and she sounds permanently cross with the world. When she stands close to me, I can smell the nicotine on her fingers, taste it on her breath, hear it in her lungs. I listen to the sound of their plastic aprons while they clean me, the slosh of water in a bowl, the smell of soap, the feel of gloved hands on my skin.

When they are done, they turn me on my right side. I don’t like being on my right side, it feels unnatural. One of them brushes my hair, she holds it at the root, so the brush doesn’t pull. She’s trying not to hurt me any more than I already am. It reminds me of my grandmother brushing my hair when I was a little girl. Northern Nurse cleans the inside of my mouth with what feels like a small sponge, then she rubs some Vaseline on my lips, which feel dry and sore. The smell tricks my brain into thinking I can taste it. Sometimes she tells me what she is doing, sometimes she forgets. What I really want is some water, but she doesn’t give me any of that. I don’t know how long it has been now, but I’m already settling into my new routine. Funny how quickly we adapt. A flash of memory ignites and I think of my grandmother when she was dying. I wonder if she was thirsty. The wheels on the bus go round and round.

It is later, I don’t know how much, when he arrives. His voice crashes through the wall I have built around myself.

‘They let me go for now, but I know they think I hurt you, Amber. You have to wake up,’ he says.

I wonder why he didn’t say hello before he started making demands of me. But then I realise I didn’t hear him come in, he could have been here a while, he could have said more, perhaps I just wasn’t listening. His voice sounds as though he is doing a bad imitation of himself. I can’t quite interpret his tone, which seems wrong, given that I’m his wife. Surely I should know the difference between angry and scared. Perhaps that’s the point, perhaps they are the same.

I remember him leaving with the police. He doesn’t talk about that, no matter how much I wish that he would. Instead, he reads me the newspaper, says the doctor thought it might help. All the stories are sad and I wonder whether he skipped the happy ones or whether there just aren’t any happy stories any more. He stops talking altogether then, and I resent the words he doesn’t speak. I want him to tell me everything that has happened to him while we’ve been apart. I need to know. Time is marching on without me since it left me behind and I can’t catch up. I hear Paul stand and I try to fill in the gaps myself. The police can’t have arrested him, because he’s back here, but something is wrong. He’s still in the room but he’s been stripped of sound. I picture him staring at me and I feel self-conscious about how I must look to him now. All I ever seem to do is disappoint him.

I start to drift when there is nothing to hold on to. The voices in my head are louder than the silence in the room. The loudest is my own, reminding me constantly of all the things I have said and done, all the things I haven’t, all the things I should have. I can feel it coming. There are always ripples in the water before a big wave. I’ve learned already to just let it take me; far easier to surrender and let it wash me up when it’s good and ready. I fear one day the dark water will swallow me down for good, I won’t always be able to resurface. Switches are either on or off. People are either up or down. When I’m down, it’s so very hard to get back up and this is the furthest I’ve ever fallen. Even if I could remember my way back to normal, I don’t think I’d recognise myself when I got there.

‘I wish I knew whether you could hear me,’ says Paul.

I feel dizzy and, as I try to tune in to his words, they crackle and distort. His tone twists into something aggressive shaped and I hear the legs of his chair screech across the floor as he stands, like a warning. He leans over me, his face so close, examining my own, as though he thinks I’m pretending.

And then I feel large hands close around my throat.

The sensation lasts less than a second and I know instantly that what I felt wasn’t real, it can’t have been. A dark flash of a memory I’d rather forget perhaps, but even that doesn’t make sense, Paul wouldn’t do that. I try to make sense of what I just felt but I can’t remember what is real any more. Paul paces back and forth and I wish he’d be still. The effort required to listen to him walking around the room is exhausting. I don’t want to be afraid of my husband, but he’s not himself and I don’t know this version.

Claire arrives and a brief sensation of relief is obliterated by a wave of confusion. I expect them to argue again, but they don’t. I think he will leave now, but he doesn’t.

And when she was up, she was up.

There has been a shift of gear between them.

And when she was down, she was down.

It sounds like they hug each other. I stop myself hoping that she’ll ask what happened at the police station, it’s obvious from their conversation that she already knows.

And when she was only halfway up . . .

The plot thickens and continues on without me beyond this room.

She was neither up, nor down.

I feel jealous of what Claire knows. I feel jealous of everything.

When Mum and Dad first brought Claire home, all she did was cry. She needed so much of their attention and behaved in a way that demanded our lives orbit hers. Mum and Dad didn’t hear the tears I cried at night, they didn’t see me at all after that. I became the invisible daughter. Her screams in the night would wake us all, but it was Mum who got up to be with her. It was Mum who wanted Claire in the first place; I wasn’t enough for her, that’s clear to me now. Our family went from three to four, even though we couldn’t really afford it; there wasn’t enough love to go around.

Then

Tuesday, 20th December 2016 – Evening

I’ve been shopping. Food shopping this time. I unpack the frozen items first, then chilled, then the rest, rearranging things as I go, so that everything is where it should be. The larder requires the most work. I take everything out, every tin, jar and bottle. I wipe down all the shelves and start again, carefully arranging each item according to size, labels facing front. It’s completely dark by the time I’m finished. I can see the light is on in the shed at the top of the garden, which means Paul is still up there writing. Maybe he has turned a corner. I pop a bottle of cava in the fridge, it was a small victory at work today, but one worth celebrating. Project Madeline is most definitely off to a good start. I notice the half-empty white-wine bottle in the fridge door, I don’t remember seeing it there before. I don’t drink white wine and neither does Paul. Perhaps he used it for a recipe. I remove the offending bottle, pour myself a glass and start cooking. It tastes like cat piss, but I’m thirsty so I drink it anyway.

When the dinner is almost ready, I set places at the dining-room table we never sit at, put on some music and light a couple of candles. The only thing missing now is my husband. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s writing, but it’s past eight and I want to spend what’s left of the evening together. He won’t mind once he knows we’re having lamb, it’s his favourite. I head out into the garden, the cold slapping my cheeks. The lawn is a bit slippery in places and it’s hard to see where I’m going, the dim light from the shed struggling to light my way.

‘Good evening, resident writer,’ I say in a silly deep voice as I open the door. My smile soon fades when I realise the shed is empty. I stand there for a while, looking around as though Paul might be hiding, then I glance back outside, peering around the garden in the darkness as though he might jump out from behind a bush and yell, Boo!

‘Paul?’ I don’t know why I’m calling his name, when my eyes have already informed me that he is clearly not here. I feel panic rise up my chest and tighten around my throat. He isn’t in the house either, I’ve been home for a couple of hours now, I would have seen or heard him. My husband who is always here has gone and I’m so consumed by myself, I didn’t even notice he was missing. I must not overreact. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and a tendency to fear the worst in any given situation. I’m sure there will be a simple explanation for Paul not being here, but the voices in my head are less optimistic. I run back to the house, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass.

Back inside, I call Paul’s name again. Nothing. I call his mobile. I hear a faint ringing sound from upstairs. Relief floods through me as I realise it is coming from our bedroom, maybe he’s having a nap, perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. I run up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, smiling at my own ridiculous panic. The bed has been made and he isn’t in it. He never makes the bed. Confused for a moment, I dial his number again. The familiar ringtone begins, I’m in the right room, but the sound is coming from the closed wardrobe. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the handle. I tell myself I’m just being silly; I’m sure there is a perfectly normal explanation for all of this – Paul isn’t in the wardrobe, we’re not children playing hide and seek and this isn’t some horror film where there’s a body in the cupboard. I twist the handle and open the door to his wardrobe. Nothing. I dial his number again and see the glow of the phone through the pocket of his favourite jacket. The mystery of the missing phone is solved, but not the missing husband. I spot an expensive-looking pink gift bag, partially hidden beneath the row of jeans and cotton tops that Paul calls his ‘writing uniform’. I pull it out and stare inside, carefully unwrapping the tissue paper hiding its contents. The black satin and lace feel foreign on my fingertips, the sort of thing I used to wear. A Christmas present for me perhaps. Not the sort of thing he normally buys. The bra looks a bit small and I check the label. It’s the wrong size, I hope he’s kept the receipt.

I come back downstairs in a daze and make sure the oven is off. In the middle of my routine, the now-empty bottle of white wine catches my eye and produces a moment of recognition. It’s one of Claire’s favourites. She’s been here. I put my hand over my mouth, run to the kitchen sink and throw up. When nothing more will come, I spit, turn on the tap and wipe my face with a tea towel. I check the oven three times, then grab my bag, quickly checking the contents. ‘Phone. Purse. Keys,’ I say, deliberately, out loud when my eyes confirm their presence, as though things are only real when we speak them. I start to leave but stop in the hallway, opening the bag again. ‘Phone . . . Purse . . . Keys,’ I say, more slowly this time, my eyes resting on each item long enough for me to believe what I’m seeing. Even so, I check them one last time before closing the door behind me.

Claire lives just under a mile away. It’s not too far to walk, but I should have worn a coat – it’s freezing. I hug my arms around myself as I march along, staring at the pavement. I get a faint whiff of gas as I pass a row of houses that all look the same; it snakes up my nostrils then down inside my throat, making me feel nauseous, so that I walk a little quicker. Claire has lived on this road for a long time, they own the house now, as well as the garage next door, where David works. The street is so familiar to me that I could walk from here to her front door with my eyes closed. But I don’t. My eyes are open and the first thing I see is Paul’s car. It’s quite distinctive. A second-hand green 1978 MG Midget, lovingly restored to its alleged former glory. He bought it with the advance for his first novel and he loves it almost as much as I hate it.

I march up the drive with a tightness in my chest, feeling like I might have stopped breathing altogether. I have a spare key for Claire’s house in my handbag but feel uncomfortable just letting myself in. She gave it to me, hoping it would prompt an exchange. It didn’t.

I ring the bell repeatedly, wanting to get this, whatever it is, over and done with as soon as possible. The cold hurts my hands and I can see my breath. Inside, I hear a child start to cry and I see the blurry image of an adult getting bigger through the frosted glass. Claire’s husband yanks the front door open and greets me with the kind of expression I reserve for door-to-door salesmen. I’m not sure why we don’t get along. It isn’t that we don’t have anything in common – we have Claire – so maybe it’s the opposite.

‘Hello, Amber. Thanks for waking the twins,’ he says, without even the hint of a smile. He doesn’t invite me in. My brother-in-law is a big man with small amounts of time and patience. He’s still wearing his overalls.

‘I’m so sorry, David, I wasn’t thinking. This might sound a bit strange but is Paul here?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Should he be?’ He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes. Being married to my sister has aged him. She calls him David so we do too, but everyone else calls him Dave.

‘His car is here,’ I say. David peers past me at the car on the garage forecourt.

‘Yes, it is.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and when I don’t say anything in response his frown deepens, as though it might break his face. He looks down at my feet and I follow his stare. I’m still wearing my slippers. Two grubby felt pug faces look up at me, their stitched eyes seem full of equal amounts of wonder and pity. They were in the kids’ section at the supermarket, but they fitted and I liked them.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

I think about his question and give him the most honest answer I can come up with. ‘No, not really. I don’t think I am. I need to talk to Claire. Is she home?’ He stands up a bit straighter and looks confused, then something ugly spreads across his features.

‘Claire hasn’t been here all day. I thought she was with you.’

Before

Wednesday, 13th November 1991

Dear Diary,

I’ve been ten for a whole month now and I’m not sure double figures feels any different really, even though Mum said it would. There’s still loads of stuff I’m not allowed to do, I’m still quite short and I still miss Nana every day. I’m so angry with Mum for lots of reasons, but especially because of what she did at parents’ evening tonight. She went on her own because Dad had to work late. Mum said he might sleep there again; he’s been working really hard lately. Because she didn’t have Dad to talk to, she got chatting to some of the other parents at school. When she got home, she was all excited, not because of my brilliant grades like a normal human being, but because she’d met Taylor’s mum and was so pleased to find out I’d made such a good friend. She went on and on about it, asking why I hadn’t mentioned Taylor. I said I didn’t want to talk about it and we sat in silence for a while.

Once Mum understood that I was in a not-talking mood, she got up from the table and made herself a Mojito. I don’t know what’s in it, but she calls it her ‘happy drink’. She made me a lemonade with lots of ice and a bit of mint on top so that my drink looked like hers. I took the mint out when she wasn’t looking. Then she got some chicken in breadcrumbs and crinkle-cut chips out of the freezer, which is my absolute favourite dinner that she makes. She got the ketchup from the cupboard and turned it upside down, then set just two places, using Nana’s best plates. Because Dad wasn’t there, she carried the little TV into the kitchen from his study and we watched Coronation Street while we ate, rather than having to try to think of things to say to each other. We were sort of having a nice time but then, just after her third Mojito (I was only counting how many in case it’s the Mojitos that are making her fat), she ruined everything.

‘So I’ve got a surprise for you, because you’re doing so well at your new school,’ she said. Her eyes were a little bit closed, the way they are when she drinks, so that she looks really sleepy even if it’s the middle of the day. I asked if it was dessert and she said no and looked all serious, asking if I had forgotten what the dentist had said about my teeth and sugar. I hadn’t forgotten, but I didn’t really care. Nana always made something for dessert; and not from a packet, she actually made things. Chocolate cake, Victoria sponge, sticky toffee pudding, apple crumble with custard. They all tasted amazing. Now that I think about it, Nana didn’t have any teeth left at all, she had fake ones that she kept in a glass by the bed when she slept. I’d still rather eat cake, even if my teeth do fall out like Nana’s. Mum asked if I was listening, which she does when I’m thinking so hard about something that I don’t hear what she says any more. I nodded, but didn’t reply out loud as I was still a bit cross that we weren’t having afters of any description. Then she smiled, with her eyes still half closed.

‘I asked Taylor’s mum if Taylor could come here to play one night next week. And she said: “Yes.” Won’t that be nice?’ She finished her drink and put the glass back down on the table, then looked at me with a big, stupid smile on her fat face. ‘We’ll do it on a night when your dad is at work, so it’ll be just us girls. It’ll be fun, you’ll see!’ I was so mad, I couldn’t think of anything at all to say to her. I stood up from the table, without being excused, then ran up the stairs to my room, picked up the doorstop and closed the door. I even left some of my crinkle-cut chips. I thought I was going to cry, but nothing happened.

Taylor cannot come here. I haven’t decided whether we should even be proper friends yet. I’m so angry with Mum. There are so many things I hate about her but these are the three biggest reasons I can think of at the moment:

1. She drinks too much.

2. She lies all the time, like when she says we won’t have to move again.

3. She wishes I was like the other kids.

I’m not like the other kids. Mum has ruined everything. Again.