Ben goes on. “I teach in a high school nearby. I’m head of department, now.” He says it with no hint of pride.
“And me?” I say, though, really, I know the only possible answer. He squeezes my hand.
“You had to give up work. After your accident. You don’t do anything.” He must sense my disappointment. “You don’t need to. I earn a good enough wage. We get by. We’re okay.”
I close my eyes, put my hand to my forehead. This all feels too much, and I want him to shut up. I feel as if there is only so much I can process, and if he carries on adding more then eventually I will explode.
Then what do I do all day? I want to say but, fearing the answer, I say nothing.
He finishes his toast and takes the tray out to the kitchen. When he comes back in, he is wearing an overcoat.
“I have to leave for work,” he says. I feel myself tense.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll be fine. I’ll call you. I promise. Don’t forget today is no different from every other day. You’ll be fine.”
“But—” I begin.
“I have to go,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’ll show you some things you might need, before I leave.”
In the kitchen he shows me which things are in which cabinet, points out some leftovers in the fridge that I can have for lunch, and an eraser board screwed to the wall next to a black marker pen tied to a piece of string. “I sometimes leave messages here for you,” he says. I see that he has written FRIDAY on it in neat, even capitals, and beneath it the words laundry? walk? (take phone!) tv? Under the word lunch, he has noted that there is some leftover salmon in the fridge and added, salad? Finally, he has written that he should be home by six. “You also have a diary,” he says. “In your bag. It has important phone numbers in the back of it, and our address, in case you get lost. And there’s a cell phone—”
“A what?” I say.
“A phone,” he says. “It’s cordless. You can use it anywhere. Outside the house, anywhere. It’ll be in your handbag. Make sure you take it with you if you go out.”
“I will,” I say.
“Right,” he says. We go into the hall and he picks up a battered leather briefcase by the door. “I’ll be off, then.”
“Okay,” I say. I am not sure what else to say. I feel like a child kept out of school, left alone at home while her parents go to work. Don’t touch anything, I imagine him saying. Don’t forget to take your medicine.
He comes over to where I stand. He kisses me, on the cheek. I do not stop him, but neither do I kiss him back. He turns toward the front door, and is about to open it when he stops.
“Oh!” he says, looking back at me. “I almost forgot!” His voice sounds suddenly forced, the enthusiasm affected. He is trying too hard to make it seem natural; it is obvious he has been building up to what he is about to say for some time.
In the end it is not as bad as I feared. “We’re going away this evening,” he says. “Just for the weekend. It’s our anniversary, so I thought I’d book something. Is that okay?”
I nod. “That sounds nice,” I say.
He smiles, looks relieved. “Something to look forward to, eh? A bit of sea air? It’ll do us good.” He turns back to the door and opens it. “I’ll call you later,” he says. “See how you’re getting on?”
“Yes,” I say. “Do. Please.”
“I love you, Christine,” he says. “Never forget that.”
He closes the door behind him, and I turn. I go back into the house.
LATER, MID-MORNING. I sit in an armchair. The dishes are done and neatly stacked on the drainer, the laundry is in the machine. I have been keeping myself busy.
But now I feel empty. It’s true, what Ben said. I have no memory. Nothing. There is not a thing in this house that I remember seeing before. Not a single photograph—either around the mirror or in the scrapbook in front of me—that triggers a recollection of when it was taken, not a moment with Ben that I can recall, other than those since we met this morning. My mind feels totally empty.
I close my eyes, try to focus on something. Anything. Yesterday. Last Christmas. Any Christmas. My wedding. There is nothing.
I stand up. I move through the house, from room to room. Slowly. Drifting, like a wraith, letting my hand brush against the walls, the tables, the backs of the furniture, but not really touching any of it. How did I end up like this? I think. I look at the carpets, the patterned rugs, the china figurines on the mantelpiece and ornamental plates arranged on the display racks in the dining room. I try to tell myself that this is mine. All mine. My home, my husband, my life. But these things do not belong to me. They are not part of me. In the bedroom I open the closet door and see a row of clothes I do not recognize, hanging neatly, like empty versions of a woman I have never met. A woman whose home I am wandering through, whose soap and shampoo I have used, whose dressing gown I have discarded and slippers I am wearing. She is hidden to me, a ghostly presence, aloof and untouchable. This morning I had selected my underwear guiltily, searching through the pairs of panties, balled together with tights and stockings, as if I was afraid of being caught. I held my breath as I found panties in silk and lace at the back of the drawer, items bought to be seen as well as worn. Rearranging the unused ones exactly as I had found them, I chose a pale blue pair that seemed to have a matching bra and slipped them both on, before pulling a heavy pair of tights over the top, and then trousers and a blouse and finally a sweater.
I had sat down at the dressing table to examine my face in the mirror, approaching my reflection cautiously. I traced the lines on my forehead, the folds of skin under my eyes. I smiled and looked at my teeth, and at the wrinkles that bunched around the edge of my mouth, the crow’s feet that appeared. I noticed the blotches on my skin, a discoloration on my forehead that looked like a bruise that had not quite faded. I found some makeup, and put a little on. A light powder, a touch of blush. I pictured a woman—my mother, I realize now—doing the same, calling it her war paint, and this morning, as I blotted my lipstick on a tissue and recapped the mascara, the word felt appropriate. I felt that I was going into some kind of battle, or that some battle was coming to me.
Sending me off to school. Putting on her makeup. I tried to think of my mother doing something else. Anything. Nothing came. I saw only a void, vast gaps between tiny islands of memory, years of emptiness.
Now, in the kitchen, I open cabinets: packages of pasta, packets of a rice labeled ARBORIO, cans of kidney beans. I do not recognize this food. I remember eating cheese on toast, macaroni and cheese, corned beef sandwiches. I pull out a can labeled CHICKPEAS, a packet of something called couscous. I do not know what these things are, less how to cook them. How, then, do I survive as a wife?
I look up at the eraser board that Ben had shown me before he left. It is a dirty gray color; words have been scrawled on it and wiped out, replaced, amended, each leaving a faint residue. I wonder what I would find if I could go back and decipher the layers, if it were possible to delve into my past that way, but realize that, even if it were possible, it would be futile. I am certain that all I would find are messages and lists, groceries to buy, tasks to perform.
Is this really my life? I think. Is this all I am? I take the pen and add another note to the board. Pack bag for tonight? it says. Not much of a reminder, but my own.