The Memory Thief
By dafiniduck
- 371 reads
I no longer have a key. Of course not. I can't remember if they made
me give it back or simply changed the locks; it all happened years ago.
But even though this is all about how everything changed, some things
don't. And I can get in.
Behind the wall -which I climb over, no problem- is a small, tiled
courtyard. Pretty. I remember the days when the tree, right in the
middle of it, was a weed, stubborn enough to grow through the cracks in
the tiles. He thought, since it'd made it that far, he might as well
leave it to it. It looked kind of nice too, in spring, covered in those
tiny white flowers. Maybe it wasn't a weed at all. No matter. None of
us expected it to grow so tall and strong. But when it did, I was
delighted. It meant I could climb it and swing from its branches, and
my tomboy aspirations were fulfilled. It also meant I could finally
reach the upstairs bathroom window and sneak inside the house, when
everyone thought I was still playing outside. The upstairs bathroom
window that is always open.
I knock over a glass bottle of designer shampoo on my way in. It
smashes in the bath, tiny pieces of icy-blue glass mix with the silky
white liquid. I don't clean it up; it can always be blamed on cats. She
likes blaming things on cats, his wife. Spilt milk, broken things,
scratched furniture, allergies. Our cat was the first to go after she
moved in. Then it was shabby carpets, Beatles LPs, smoking in the
house, late nights. And soon, it was my turn.
The corridor is as I remember it: lined with bookshelves, full of
books. My friends used to ask 'Has he read them all?' and I'd nod,
proud, and say yes. He has. Every single one of them. There are more
downstairs, in the sitting room, unless they've moved them. The whole
house smells of books, that damp, comforting scent of leather, old age,
old ink. His books are his life. And so, I am told, are his children.
But I don't know about that. And that's why I'm here: to find
out.
I don't know what I'm looking for, exactly. It might be evidence, proof
of the past that we share, the past that he gave me. Or memories, kept
safe, here, in his home, to validate mine. It could be anything. All I
know is, if any of those memories are true, I will find me here.
And so it starts: first door on the left. I know his study is no longer
here but I miss it. His desk has been replaced by a cot, a baby monitor
where his Mac used to be. Where there were books (everywhere) there are
now nappies. Baby blue is, appropriately, the colour. Of everything.
His wife believes in colour schemes, blue for boys and pink for girls
and cream for parents with style. There is no pink in this house.
The next room belongs to somebody else. A two-year-old boy with blond
hair and too many toys. And it's all wrong. Twelve years ago, we had
chosen the furniture together, a desk with three drawers for my school
books, a bunk bed (pink) for me and my sister, a Persian rug donated by
his mother. An old jumper in the corner by the window for the cat. He
had smiled and knelt down to my height.
'This is your room now', he said. 'It will always be your room.'
I guess always doesn't mean what it used to.
We got a few years out of it and then one day, without notice or
explanation, it was a storeroom. They needed a place to keep his wife's
old dresses, after all. Our room was on loan to the dresses.
Temporarily. Until she brought the painters in and the blue paint out,
and the room gained a new inhabitant. First child, new child, better
child. This is yours now. Always.
The tears are almost welcome, but I've still to go downstairs.
The cosy sitting room has been confined to the memory of those no
longer welcome. The past tense is not in use here. I am the only one
who remembers, and I have learned to keep quiet.
There isn't a thing out of place. Even the toys seem to have been
positioned strategically to compliment the decor. The walls are adorned
with the work of well-known artists, 'friends' of the family. The
curtains match the tablecloth, match the carpets, match her idea of a
perfect home. There are pictures everywhere. On the shelves, on the
coffee table, on the windowsills, by the stereo, on the stereo. Smiling
faces with strangers' eyes, accusing me from every direction. The
Memory thief. But I have hope, and mathematics, on my side. I was
taught probabilities in school: I must be here, somewhere.
There are plenty of wedding photos, but I recognise none; I wasn't
invited. Both bride and groom are wearing white. The irony, I assume,
was wasted on their guests. They all enjoyed themselves, though. I
heard it was a great wedding, a very stylish affair. A credit to those
who believe in leaving the past behind. I often wonder if anyone
noticed an absence. If they did, nobody said a word.
There are quite a few pictures of the baby, too, smiling, sleeping,
eating, but his brother is the real star of this home. In the two years
of his life, their first son has presented them with a thousand Kodak
moments. All of them, it seems, have been captured and framed, for
everyone to admire. From his first bath to his first word, every single
moment this child's life is on display. 'Less is more' is a concept
that has obviously passed these proud parents by. You can never have
enough pictures of your first-born.
There is one. Tiny, and hidden behind a poster-sized snapshot of the
happy family. My sister and I, our heads close together, smiling at the
camera, beyond the camera, to the man who held it. It was years ago,
when my sister still had her baby teeth and I had curls in my hair.
Before the days of blue paint and designer shampoo. Before we grew,
like that weed in the courtyard, and took everyone by surprise. Before
our hearts were broken by the man who promised to protect us from
broken hearts. The bastard. I pick the picture up; it fits in the palm
of my hand. If this is what I was looking for, why do I feel worse for
finding it?
A key is turned in the lock, and I freeze. He is here.
'You're back', I say.
'You're here' he observes, accurately.
'Bathroom window' I offer.
'Ah' says the poet, articulate as always.
'I thought you'd be away until tomorrow' says the thief, to justify her
presence.
'Something came up' he explains. 'Work.'
'I was looking for something.'
'Did you find it?'
'I don't know.'
'Can I help you?'
'Maybe.'
'Tell me.' He looks nervous, like he knows what comes next. I certainly
don't.
Then I do.
'I thought parents don't forget', I accuse.
'I haven't.'
'I thought they never lie.'
'Sometimes they do.'
'I thought they never make mistakes.'
'But I have,' he sighs, 'haven't I?'
'Yes.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I know.'
'Is that enough?' he asks, his tone a combination of hope and
doubt.
I hold the picture up to his face.
'Is this enough?'
'You're more to me than that. Both of you. It could never be
enough.'
'You could try. It could be a start.'
He holds his hand out and looks at me with eyes the same as mine. I
place the tiny silver frame in his palm, and he puts it back on the
shelf. In the front.
'Come sit down with me' he says.
Reluctantly, I join him on the sofa. He offers me a cigarette and, for
a few minutes, we smoke in silence.
'You mean more to me than you know' he starts. 'You are my first, but
he' he points at his golden boy, framed gold on the coffee table, 'is
hers.'
'So?'
'It's hard for her to accept it. A lot to deal with. An ex-wife, two
grown-up children... She can never be part of my past.'
'And we can't be part of your future?'
'You are.'
'Where are we, then?'
'Here.' He taps the side of his head. 'Here.' He pats his chest.
'Here.' He puts his arm around me. I lean into him and close my
eyes.
'You,' he whispers in my ear, 'and your sister, are my daughters.
Nobody can change that. You're my little girls. Always.'
'What does always mean?'
'Forever.'
That's what I thought it meant. Satisfied, I fall asleep.
I wake with a smile. There is light coming through the cracks in the
shutters; it is morning. My back aches from sleeping on the lumpy sofa
and my fingers are stiff, clutched around something small and hard. The
picture frame.
He was never here.
I get up, stretch, make myself a coffee. I accompany it with a
cigarette. I glance at my watch: ten o'clock. It's time to go. I leave
my cup, unwashed, in the sink and walk to where I found my picture, to
put it back. And then I change my mind and place it on the table, next
to those of his sons. The four of us, together, brothers and
sisters.
Maybe he'll notice before she does. Maybe he'll know why I was here.
Maybe he'll call me, and we'll go for a coffee, in one of those obscure
little shops he meets his friends. Maybe we'll sit there together, have
a cigarette, talk about poetry, the weather, my sister's progress in
school. Maybe we'll share the stolen memories, and I'll no longer be a
thief. Maybe he'll stop the waiter as he's rushing by, loaded with
coffee cups, point at me and say 'This is my daughter.' My proud,
embarrassing father.
Maybe he'll notice.
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