What Alice Forgot

  "Oh!" Her mother clasped her hands together rapturously, as if in prayer. "Oh, but that's wonderful--"

  "Mum!" Elisabeth said. "You must promise not to say one word about that to Roger or anybody else. She doesn't know what she's saying."

  "I do so," said Alice. She felt a bit drunk. "You can tell the whole world, Mum. Tell Roger. Tell the Flakes. Tell our three children. There is no divorce. Nick and I will work out whatever this thing is."

  "Wonderful!" cried Barb. "I'm so happy!"

  "You will not think this is wonderful when you get your memory back," said Elisabeth. "You've got legal proceedings going on. Jane Turner will have heart failure if you start doing this."

  "Jane Turner?" said Alice. "What's Jane Turner got to do with the price of fish?"

  "Jane is your lawyer," said Elisabeth.

  "A lawyer? She's not a lawyer." A memory flitted into Alice's head of some guy losing an argument with Jane at work and saying, "You should have been a lawyer," and Jane had said, "Yes, I'm perfectly aware of that."

  "She got her law degree years ago and now she specializes in divorce," said Elisabeth. "She's helping you--ah, divorce Nick."

  "Oh." How ridiculous, how stupid, that Jane Turner was helping her "divorce Nick." "A little Jane goes a very long way," Nick once said, and Alice agreed. How could Jane Turner have anything to do with their lives?

  "You and Nick are in the middle of a custody battle," said Elisabeth. "It's really serious."

  Custody battle. It sounded like "custardy" battle. Alice imagined herself and Nick flinging spoonfuls of sweet yellow custard at each other, laughing and shrieking and licking it off afterward.

  Presumably a custody battle wasn't as much fun as a custardy battle.

  "Well, that's off, too," pronounced Alice. (Why in the world would she want "custody" of three children she'd never met! She wanted Nick.) "We don't need a custody battle because we're not getting a divorce, and that's final."

  "Hooray!" said her mother. "I'm so glad you've lost your memory. This accident is going to turn out to be a blessing in disguise."

  "Well, there's only one tiny problem with all that, isn't there?" said Elisabeth.

  "What?"

  "Nick has still got his memory."

  Chapter 10

  "Nick?" said Alice.

  "Sorry, sweetie, it's just me again," said the nurse.

  They were waking her every hour to check on her and shine the light in her pupils and ask the same questions over and over. "Alice Mary Love. Royal North Shore Hospital. Hurt my head," Alice mumbled. The nurse chuckled. "Well done. Sorry about this. Go back to sleep now."

  Alice slept and dreamed of nurses waking her up. "Wake up! It's time for your salsa-dancing lesson!" said a nurse with a huge hat that was actually a profiterole cake. "I dreamed we were getting a divorce," said Alice to Nick. "And we had three children, and Mum married your dad, and Elisabeth was so sad." "Why the fuck would I care?" said Nick. Alice gasped and sucked her thumb. Nick peeled a piece of red confetti off his neck and showed it to her. He said, "Only joking!"

  "Nick?" said Alice.

  "I do not love you anymore because you still suck your thumb."

  "But I don't!" Alice was so embarrassed she could die.

  "What's your name?" shouted a nurse, but this was another one that couldn't be real because she was floating through the air, holding on to bouquets of pink balloons. Alice ignored her.

  "Me again," said a nurse.

  "Nick?" said Alice. "I've got a headache. Such a bad headache."

  "No, it's not Nick. It's Sarah."

  "You're not a real nurse. You're another dream nurse."

  "Actually, I'm a real one. Can you open your eyes and tell me your name?"

  Elisabeth's Homework for Dr. Hodges Hi, me again, Dr. Hodges. It's 3:30 a.m. and sleep feels like something impossible and stupid that only other people do. I woke up thinking of Alice and how she said to me, "You're such a good big sister."

  I'm not. I'm not at all.

  We still care about each other, of course we do. It's not that. We'd never forget each other's birthdays. In fact, there's a weird sort of silent competition going on to see who can give the best present each year, as if we're always jostling for the role of most generous, thoughtful sister. We see each other pretty regularly. We still have a laugh. We're just the same as a million sisters. So I don't even know exactly what I'm talking about. It's just that it isn't the same as when we were younger. But that's just life, isn't it, Dr. Hodges? Relationships don't stay the same. There isn't time. Ask Alice! She converted to the role of busy North Shore Mum like it was a religion.

  Maybe if I'd been more vigilant? Perhaps it was my responsibility as the older sister to keep us on track.

  But the only way I've been able to get through the last seven years is by wrapping myself up like a package with a tighter and tighter string. It's so tight that if I'm talking about anything (other than how to write the perfect direct-mail package), I feel as though there is something constricting my throat, as if my mouth doesn't open wide enough for proper, unthinking conversation.

  The problem is the rage. It's permanently simmering, even when I'm not aware of it. If I hurt myself unexpectedly, or drop a punnet of blueberries all over the kitchen floor, it bubbles over like boiling milk. You should have heard the primeval scream of rage when I banged my forehead against an open cupboard door the other day when I was unpacking the dishwasher. I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the fridge and sobbed for twenty minutes. It's pretty embarrassing.

  Before Alice and Nick split up, I sometimes felt there were unforgivable words hovering on the tip of my tongue whenever I spoke to Alice, words like: "You think the world begins and ends with you and your perfect little family and your perfect little life and you think stress is finding the perfectly color-coordinated cushions for your new $10,000 sofa."

  And I feel like scribbling those things out because they're nasty and not even true. I don't think those things at all, but I could have said them, I could still say them, and if I did, those words would have been there in both our memories forever. So it was safer to say nothing and pretend, and she knew I was pretending and she pretended too, and then we forgot how to be real with each other.

  That's why when she called me to say that Nick had moved out, it was as shocking as a death. I had no idea, no inkling they were having troubles. There was the indisputable evidence that we didn't share secrets anymore. I should have known what was going on in her life. She should have been asking me for wise, sisterly advice. But she didn't. So I've let her down as much as she let me down.

  And that's why, when I got the news about Gina, I couldn't think what the right thing was to do. Should I phone Alice? Should I drive straight over? Should I call and ask first? I couldn't think what Alice would want. I was worrying about the right etiquette, as if this was someone I didn't know very well. And OF COURSE I should have driven straight to her, for God's sake. What was wrong with me that I even had to think about it?

  As we were walking out of the hospital, Mum said to me in a diffident, un-Mumlike voice, "I guess she doesn't remember anything about Gina, either, does she?" And I said, "I guess not." Neither of us knew what to say about that.

  How do you find the thread that started it all and follow it all the way back through the tangles of phone calls and Christmases and kids' parties, right back to the beginning when we were just Alice and Libby Jones? Do you know, Dr. Hodges?

  Anyway ... maybe I should try and sleep.

  No. Can't even fake a yawn.

  Tomorrow I'm going to the hospital to pick up Alice and take her home. They're expecting to discharge her by 10. She just seemed to take it for granted that I would be the one to come and get her. If she were her normal self, she would be making a point of not relying on me. She only takes favors from other school mums, because they can be repaid with complicated playdate arrangements involving their children.

  I wonder if she'l
l have her memory back by tomorrow. I wonder if she will feel embarrassed by the things she said this afternoon, especially about Nick. I wonder if that was her real self, or her old self, or just a confused, banged-on-the-head self. Deep down, is she devastated about the divorce? Was that a glimpse of what she's really feeling? I don't know. I just don't know.

  The doctor I spoke to seems confident that she'll have her memory back by the morning. She was one of the nicer doctors I've met in my years of doctors. She actually looked me in the eyes and waited till I'd finished speaking before she spoke. But I could tell she was just focused on the fact that Alice's CT scan didn't show any sign of what she called "intracranial bleeding." She blinked a bit when I said Alice doesn't remember the existence of her own children, but she said people can have a wide variety of responses to concussion and that rest was the best thing. She said as her injury heals, her memory will come back. She seemed to be implying that they'd already gone above and beyond what they'd do in a normal concussion case by keeping her overnight for observation.

  I felt strangely guilty leaving Alice there at the hospital. She seems so much younger. That's the thing about this I couldn't seem to get across to the doctor. It's not just Alice being confused. It's like I am literally talking to 29-year-old Alice. Even the way she talks is different. It's slower and softer and less careful. She's just saying whatever comes into her head.

  "Did I have a thirtieth birthday party?" she asked me before we left and I couldn't for the life of me remember. But then on the way home in the car I remembered they had a BBQ. Alice had a big pregnant belly and they were right in the middle of renovations. There were ladders and paint tins and gaping holes in walls. I remember standing in the kitchen helping Alice and Nick put candles in the cake, when Alice said, "I think the baby has the hiccups." Nick pressed his hand to her stomach and then he grabbed my hand and held it over her stomach so I could feel the freaky fishy movements too. I have such a clear memory of both their faces turned to me, their eyes shiny, flushed with the excitement and wonder of it all. They both had flecks of blue paint in their eyebrows from painting the nursery. They were lovely. They were my favorite couple.

  I used to secretly watch Nick listening to Alice when she told a story; that tender, proud look he got on his face, the way he laughed harder than anyone else when she said something funny or typically Alice. He got Alice, the way we did, or maybe even more so than us. He made her more confident, funnier, smarter. He brought out all the things that were there already and let her be fully herself, so she seemed to shine with this inner light. He loved her so much, he made her seem even more lovable.

  (Does Ben love me like that? Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe in the beginning. All that shiny love stuff doesn't seem relevant anymore. That's for other younger, thinner, happier people, and besides which, it's not actually possible for a dried apricot to shine.)

  I miss the old Nick and Alice. When I think of them standing in that kitchen, putting candles on the cake, it's like remembering people who I once knew, who moved to another country and didn't keep in touch.

  At 4:30 a.m. Alice woke with a start and the thought clear in her head: I never asked Elisabeth how many children she has.

  How could she not know the answer to that question? But more important, how could she have forgotten to ask it when she didn't know? She was a selfish, self-obsessed, shallow person. No wonder Nick wanted to divorce her. No wonder Elisabeth didn't look at her in the same way anymore.

  She would ring Mum in the morning and check with her and then she would pretend that of course she hadn't forgotten the existence of Elisabeth's children (just her own) and say, "Oh, by the way, how is little thingummybob?"

  Except she couldn't be sure Mum still had the same phone number anymore. She didn't even know where Mum lived. Had she moved into Roger's cream-and-chrome apartment with its harbor views? Or had Roger moved into Mum's house with the doilies and knickknacks and potted plants? Either possibility seemed ludicrous.

  The girl in the cubicle next to her was snoring. It was a thin, whiny sound like a mosquito. Alice turned over on her front and pushed her face hard into the pillow, as if she were trying to suffocate herself.

  She thought, This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

  But actually, she couldn't even be sure of that.

  Elisabeth's Homework for Dr. Hodges After we left the hospital this afternoon, Mum and I went over to Alice's place to meet Ben and the kids. We all had pizza for dinner. (Thankfully Roger had a Rotary meeting; I was not in the mood for Roger. I can't think of anyone ever being in the mood for Roger, except for Mum, presumably, and Roger, of course.) We didn't tell the children that Alice had lost her memory. We just said she'd hit her head at the gym but she was going to be fine. Olivia clasped her hands together and said, "Darling Mummy! This is an absolute tragedy!" and I could see Ben's back shaking with suppressed laughter as he stood at the cutlery drawer. Madison curled her lip and said contemptuously, "So, does Dad know about this?" and then stomped up to her bedroom as if she already knew what the answer would be. Tom waited till Olivia was busy at the kitchen table with crayons and glitter making a huge getwell card for Alice before silently taking me by the hand and leading me into the living room. He sat me down and looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Okay, tell me the truth. Has Mum really got a brain tumor?" Before I could answer, he said, "Don't lie! I'm a human lie detector! If your eyes look up to the right, that means you're lying." I had to make a superhuman effort not to look up to the right.

  It was sort of a fun night. I don't know why. A fun night at poor Alice's expense.

  Oh, a yawn! A precious, proper yawn! I've got to go now, Dr. Hodges. It might be sleep.

  As the sky began to lighten outside the hospital Alice fell into her deepest sleep of this long, strange, fragmented night. She dreamed of Nick sitting at a long pine table she'd never seen. He shook his head, picked up a coffee mug, and said, "It's always about Gina, isn't it? Gina, Gina, Gina." He drank from the coffee mug and Alice felt pure dislike; she turned away from him to wipe vigorously at a dried grease spot on a granite countertop.

  In her sleep, Alice twitched so violently the bed moved.

  She dreamed she was standing up in a small, darkened room, and Elisabeth was lying next to her, looking up at her with a frightened face, saying, "What does she mean there is no heartbeat?"

  She dreamed of a giant rolling pin. She had to push it up a hill while thousands of people watched. It was important that she make it look easy.

  "Good morning, sleepyhead!" said a nurse. Her bright, bubbly voice was like glass breaking.

  Alice jumped and gasped for air as if she'd been holding her breath.

  Chapter 11

  Frannie's Letter to Phil I'm back again, Phil.

  It's six a.m. Still dark outside, and chilly. Brrrrr! I'm writing this in bed.

  Barb called again last night to say that Alice is fine. They've done a CT scan apparently, whatever that is, and everything looks normal, although evidently Alice is suffering some memory loss. When she woke up, she thought she was still together with Nick!

  Now Barb is celebrating because she thinks they'll get back together. She has become so irritatingly optimistic ever since she took up salsa dancing.

  I think reconciliation is unlikely. Alice was here on Monday (which was lovely, although I do sometimes feel as though I'm a chore being crossed off her list, but perhaps that's unfair). I asked her about Nick and the most repellent expression crossed her face. She became quite ugly with hatred.

  After she left, I was thinking about the first time Alice brought Nick around to meet me. They'd come straight from the beach, their feet sandy, their hair still wet, smelling of the sea. They were sitting on the couch chatting politely with me, not touching, or so it seemed, except that I happened to glance down and I saw that their hands were lying next to each other on the couch, and that Nick was caressing Alice's little finger with his own. I remember being shoc
ked by a feeling of pure envy. I wanted to be Alice, young and lovely, feeling the secret caress of a handsome boy's fingertip.

  Isn't it strange and sad what time can do? What became of those passionate young people?

  But what do I know about marriage? It's a mystery to me. I assume it's a matter of compromise. Negotiation. Give and take.

  Actually, I remember seeing Alice and Nick, after another trip to the beach, except by this time they had three children and there was certainly no fingertip caressing. Something had obviously happened (to do with Olivia, I think) and you could have cut the air with a knife. They were talking to each other in those terrible, icily polite voices I've noticed couples use in public when they're arguing.

  Do you ever wonder, Phil, what sort of a marriage we would have had?

  Would we have fought? For example, you always said you didn't mind that I had the more senior position, but perhaps that wasn't really true and it would eventually have become a problem for us. They say that men are defined by their work.

  Do you know I've been writing to you now for over three decades? That's longer than a lot of marriages. Longer than Alice's marriage.

  May I share another quibble with you about that fellow? That Mr. Mustache? Last night, I was in the dining room for dinner and he was sitting at the same table. He asked if any of my own family were performing at the Talent Night. I said that my "honorary granddaughter" would be dancing.

  Mr. Mustache wanted to know what I meant by "honorary."

  I briskly gave him the facts. I said that I had lived next door to a young family, and that when the father died suddenly of a heart attack the mother wasn't coping especially well and I stepped in to help out, as she had no other family. Eventually I became a sort of "pseudo" grandmother.

  I didn't tell him how the shattered, white faces of those poor little girls are imprinted on my memory forever. I didn't tell him about the many days I had to drag their mother out of bed. (Once I got so frustrated, I actually pinched poor Barb, quite hard, on the arm. Isn't that dreadful! I was tough back then.)