Her Perfect Lies (ARC) Page 3

Angela looked tiny next to Tony. She seemed lost in his embrace, and he hovered over her, holding her close as if he wanted the whole world to know she was his.

  Claire couldn’t stop looking at her mother. She was so beautiful, her eyes so kind, her features delicate. Suddenly she found herself unable to speak or smile at Gaby or think of anything else. Tears filled her eyes and she didn’t know why. To change the subject, she asked, ‘What about me and Paul? Are we happy?’

  Gaby seemed thrown off balance by her question. She emptied half her wine glass before she replied, ‘If you need to ask, the answer is probably no.’

  ‘We’re not happy?’ As if Paul’s cold smile and distant eyes hadn’t already alerted Claire that something was wrong.

  ‘Let’s just say, you have some issues.’

  ‘What kind of issues?’

  ‘It’s not my place to tell you.’

  ‘If you won’t tell me, no one else will.’

  Gaby stepped from foot to foot, as if she wanted to be anywhere but here, having this conversation with Claire. ‘Maybe that’s for the best. I have to run, anyway. I’m always late, to everything. How do I look?’

  Claire assured Gaby she looked fine, better than fine. But what she wanted to do instead was ask her friend not to go because for an hour in her grim morning she had laughter and joy. Gaby almost made her forget that she had forgotten her whole life. And for a brief moment with Gaby she felt hopeful. ‘Will you come back to see me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When the door closed behind her friend, Claire went up to her room. Climbing into bed and hugging Molokai, she reached for her mobile phone. It was as if her fingers once again had a life of their own. They knew exactly what numbers to press to unlock the phone. She looked through every photo until she came across the one she was looking for. Stroking her mother’s beautiful face with her fingertips, she struggled not to cry. Her mother was smiling at her as if telling her everything was going to be okay.

  Claire loaded her contact list, hoping to find her mother’s number. And there it was, listed under Angela, ten digits that just a few short weeks ago she had probably known by heart. She stared at the number, blinking rapidly, reading it out loud, rolling every syllable off her tongue, hoping it would trigger a shadow of recollection, a glimmer of hazy remembrance.

  Her whole body trembling, she pressed the call button. The phone rang and rang.

  * * *

  As Claire followed her husband across the hospital car park and through the front entrance, she realised she was petrified of the real world. She had spent a morning in that world and felt out of place, an outsider looking in. But at the hospital she was at home. As if this was where she belonged. Others had childhood memories, heartwarming and sweet, sometimes bitter, but always there to remind them that once there had been a different life, a different journey. They had memories of weddings, anniversaries and holidays by the sea. All Claire had was this place, with its closet-sized rooms, grim corridors and overworked staff. Nothing had changed here since the day before. It was still grey, shabby and depressing. So why did it feel so infinitely comforting to be walking down the familiar corridor?

  No one expected her to be herself here, she realised. No one expected her to be anything. She could just be. Wake up in the morning, eat her meals, wrinkling her face in disgust, have her meds. She didn’t have to make decisions because they were made for her, by the doctors and the nurses. And that was what she missed when she stayed inside her beautiful mansion wearing her designer clothes, living someone else’s dream life but feeling like a prisoner.

  She wished she could go back to her old room and remain like before, confined within her small world where nothing threatened her peace. She wished she could sit by the window, watching the oak tree outside, longing for a different life but not forced to go out there and live it. Could she stay with her father instead of going back to the alien house with a husband who treated her like a stranger? Of course, her father was a stranger to her, too. But she’d spent so long watching him, studying his face for clues, memorising his every feature, she felt she could open her mouth and recount every little detail of his life. His life was on the tip of her tongue, at the edge of her subconscious.

  On the drive to the hospital, she had asked Paul what her father was like. ‘He’s not the friendliest man in the world. I don’t think he likes me much,’ he’d said. ‘But he’s your father. He loves you.’ His answer wasn’t what she wanted to hear, and it didn’t match the inner picture of her dad she had painstakingly created over long hours of watching and thinking, so she put Paul’s words to the back of her mind, to that place where her other memories were hiding.

  But now, as she was about to face the man who had known her since the day she was born, the man she remembered nothing about other than the shape of his nose and the curve of his mouth, she wondered why her husband would say something like that. Didn’t Paul and her dad spend time together, discussing football and weather over a pint of beer? Were there no family barbecues, Christmases and birthdays where sausages sizzled on the grill and intoxicated confidences were exchanged late into the night? Or maybe Paul not getting along with Tony was completely natural. Fathers didn’t always like to share their little girls with their husbands. And husbands were often intimidated by their fathers-in-law.

  As she turned the handle and pushed the door to her father’s room, she tried to calm her beating heart. She didn’t want the nurses at the reception area to hear it but how could they not? The thumping in her chest was deafening. It was like church bells ringing in her ears.

  Her mind was filled with snippets of imaginary conversations with her father. Would she know what to say? Would he know what to say? Would they be able to pick up where they had left off, even though she couldn’t remember anything? Her relationship with her father, was it instinctive? Was it in her blood, in his blood? Did it transcend crashing cars and lost memories? She didn’t want small talk with her father. She wanted him to tell her who she was.

  The door wouldn’t give in. She pushed and pushed.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ said Paul, pulling the door lightly, making her feel silly and a little light-headed. ‘Good luck. I’ll wait here for you.’

  ‘You aren’t coming in?’

  ‘I’ll give you two some privacy. In the meantime, I’ll speak to his doctor.’

  A part of Claire was relieved she was about to face her father alone. She felt a little less nervous meeting him unobserved. She didn’t want their relationship to be judged by an outsider, even if that outsider was her husband. She wanted to be alone with her dad, to find her own way back to him, to let him find his own way back to her.

  On tiptoes she walked in, sliding her feet as if she were on stage, performing a pas de deux she hadn’t yet mastered. She paused in the doorway, watching the man on the bed just like she had so many times over the past two weeks. Only this time everything was different. This time he was awake.

  She wondered if she would always remember this moment. Everything in her life was about to change. Or, rather, a little bit of her old life was about to come back.

  From where she stood she couldn’t quite tell whether he was sleeping. Not a part of him moved and his breathing was calm. Without the ventilator inhaling life into her father’s lungs, the room seemed quiet and lifeless. Tony was tall and broad-shouldered, a bear of a man, but he appeared frail, propped up on his pillows and leaning to one side. He didn’t seem to hear her. She took a few steps forward.

  He looked like an old man laid out on a white sheet, his stubble making his face look grey, his eyelids trembling like butterfly’s wings. Her heart pricked with pity.

  ‘Dad,’ she called out softly. She sounded high pitched and unsure of herself. Was she being presumptuous, calling him that? It didn’t feel unnatural. Quite the opposite, the word slipped out easily, on reflex. Yes, she didn’t know anything about him, but he wasn’t a stranger. He was blood. Shaking a little, her legs unrespon
sive as if they were filled with cotton wool, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of his bed.

  He didn’t stir. His eyes were closed. Just like all those other endless days in the hospital, she studied him in silence, trying to memorise the features that she had known since birth but that were completely unfamiliar to her. A straight nose, bushy eyebrows, wide cheekbones, a mop of grey hair that needed a comb.

  Suddenly, unlike all those other times she had sat here, he moved his arms in his sleep. Claire got up, her cheeks burning. She needed to cool down, feel cold water on her face. Slowly and uncertainly, as if she was learning how to walk, she made her way to the bathroom attached to his hospital room and leaned on the sink, watching her face in the mirror.

  ‘Good afternoon. How are we feeling today?’ came a loud voice. Claire peeked through the creak in the door and saw a doctor leaning over Tony. He wore a white coat over his business suit. There was a cold smile on his face, a smile of someone who was paid to care but didn’t.

  ‘Never better,’ croaked Tony. He sounded hoarse, like he was recovering from a bad cold.

  ‘That’s good to hear. If it’s alright with you, I am going to ask you a few questions, just to see if your memory has been affected. Take your time to answer. There’s no rush. And don’t worry if you can’t remember something. It’s completely normal in your condition. Can we start with your name?’

  ‘Wright. Tony Wright.’

  ‘Very good, Tony.’ A machine gun fire of questions followed – what was his address, his date of birth, his occupation, his marital status, how long had he lived at his address, how long had he held his driver’s license, did he have any children, any pets, what did he enjoy doing. Her father responded in a lifeless voice but without any hesitation.

  And finally, ‘Do you know what happened on the day of the accident?’

  Tony spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I was in the car. That’s the last thing I remember.’

  ‘I expect the police will want to speak to you later today. They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’

  From the bathroom, Claire heard the bed creak. ‘Why?’ asked Tony.

  ‘There’s been a serious accident. Two people got hurt.’

  ‘Two people? I crashed into the motorway divider. No one else was involved.’

  ‘Your daughter Claire was with you.’

  A few seconds ticked by before Tony answered. ‘That’s not true. I was alone in the car.’

  Claire wished she could see her father’s face but from where she was hiding, it was impossible. Was his memory affected, just like hers? Was he confused, just like her?

  ‘Don’t worry, the police are treating it as an accident. I will tell them you don’t remember. You’ve been through a lot and—’

  ‘I remember perfectly well, Doctor. There was no one in the car with me.’ His voice rose as if he was angry. At the doctor? At the never-ending questions? Claire felt sorry for her father. What he needed was a rest, not an interrogation.

  As if he could read her mind through the bathroom door, the doctor said, ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. Please try and get some rest.’

  ‘Wait, Doctor. I can’t feel my legs. Why can’t I feel my legs?’ Tony’s voice quivered.

  Five seconds passed before the doctor replied. Claire knew how long it took because her gaze followed the silver-plated hand of the clock on the wall. In that time the doctor shuffled uncomfortably, averted his gaze, coughed. He didn’t meet Tony’s eyes when he said, ‘Your spine was severely damaged in the accident. We did all we could but …’

  ‘I can’t walk?’

  ‘I’m very sorry. With time and extensive physiotherapy there’s a chance, a small chance—’

  ‘Is there anything you can do? Operate, do something, fix it.’

  ‘We tried our best but the damage was quite severe, I’m afraid.’ The doctor was moving away from Tony. Imperceptibly, little by little, he was shifting towards the door. ‘There was nothing we could do.’

  ‘Nothing you could do?’ Tony sounded close to tears. Claire felt close to tears herself.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’

  The doctor left without another word. Claire glanced at the door, at her father’s back, at his heaving shoulders. She wondered if she could slip out without him noticing. Although she wanted to comfort him, to take him in her arms and make it all go away, she knew it was impossible. And she didn’t want to meet him for the first time when he was sobbing uncontrollably on his bed and all she felt was helpless and lost.

  Soon his crying subsided and his breathing became regular. Claire tiptoed past him to the door, turning the handle softly. She was about to walk out when she heard his voice. ‘Hello, Teddy Bear.’

  His voice was soft like a caress. She turned around. Tony had pulled himself up in bed and was watching her intently. With his mop of grey hair and bushy eyebrows, his crooked nose, like an eagle’s beak, and his narrow cheekbones, he looked moody, as if permanently disappointed with life – until he smiled. His smile transformed his face and made him appear attractive and kind. It made Claire’s heart feel lighter.

  ‘Hi, Dad. How are you feeling?’ She stepped from foot to foot, not sure what to do with her hands, then closed the door and walked back to his bed.

  ‘I’ve been better.’ He laughed like it was a joke only he could understand. ‘Come over here and give your old man a hug.’

  She leaned closer and he scooped her up in his arms, effortlessly pulling her to him. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘I’m heavy.’

  ‘Oh yes, as heavy as a feather.’

  As she relaxed into his arms, she thought he was surprisingly strong for someone who was bedridden and unable to move. He smelt of hand sanitiser and soap, hospital smells she found familiar and reassuring. His heartbeat was a comfort against her chest. For a few seconds he didn’t let go. And she didn’t want him to.

  ‘Ask me again,’ he said, finally releasing her.

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘How I’m feeling.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she repeated like an obedient daughter.

  ‘After a hug like that? Like a million dollars!’ He winked and patted the bed next to him, urging her to come closer. His fingers wrapped around hers, squeezing tightly. ‘So what did I miss?’ he asked, smiling brightly. He had a good smile. It was kind. It inspired trust. Paul had got it all wrong, she thought. Her father wasn’t unfriendly. He was warm and welcoming.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. After the accident, I lost my memory. I was in the hospital with you for a long time.’

  ‘What accident?’

  ‘Our accident.’

  ‘I know they keep saying you were with me. But they are wrong. It was just me in the car that day.’

  ‘But if I wasn’t with you …’ She hesitated. ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. Did you say you lost your memory?’ His eyes appraised her, taking her in. She was glad she had made an effort with her appearance. Her hair was tied back into a bun as if she was about to perform on stage. Heavy mascara made her look older, more mature. A layer of powder concealed the dark shadows under her eyes, making her appear less vulnerable. But her father seemed to look right through the mask. The look of concern on his face made her heart beat faster, happier. ‘Have they done any tests? What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘All they do is tests. I’m convinced one guy is writing his PhD paper on me. I don’t mind, as long as he helps. But all he seems to care about is the sound of his own voice.’

  ‘So it could be a while?’

  ‘No one really knows.’ She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore. To change the subject, she asked, ‘What happened on the day of the accident? Were you speeding? Tired?’

  ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? In my line of work, I have to believe in luck. And every now and again luck turns its back on you.’

  ‘In your line of work? What is it that you do?’ She felt silly asking this qu
estion, as if she was an impostor, pretending to be this stranger’s daughter. And yet, she knew she was his daughter. She could feel the pull, the connection between the two of them, a lifetime of memories waiting to be discovered.

  ‘I take calculated risks for a living.’ He fell quiet, as if lost in thought. It was almost like he didn’t want to tell her. He cleared his throat before saying, ‘I run the family business for your mother. When your grandfather was alive, I was his right-hand man. Then I took over from him. But enough about me. How have you been?’

  She shrugged. ‘Like a fish out of water. I don’t remember anything about myself.’ To her horror, she started to cry and couldn’t stop.

  He pulled her close, enveloping her in his arms. Instantly she felt better. ‘I wish your mother was here,’ he said. ‘She’d know what to do.’ There was a wistful expression on his face. He must miss Mum so much, she thought. How could he not, when even Claire missed her and she didn’t even know her.

  ‘Where is Mum? She hasn’t visited us in hospital. I was wondering …’

  ‘She had to go away for a couple of months.’

  ‘Away where?’ How could she be away at a time like this?

  ‘She’s in California, looking after her elderly aunt.’

  ‘Tell me something about her. What is she like?’

  ‘Your mother is the kindest person I know. Everyone loves her. When she’s around, she makes you forget all your sorrows. The day I met her was the luckiest day of my life.’ His eyes were dreamy, as if he was no longer in the drab hospital room but somewhere far away where there was no sorrow, only joy. ‘Would you like to see a photo of her?’

  ‘More than anything.’

  ‘I always keep one in my wallet. It’s on the table over there.’ Claire passed the wallet to her father. His hands were shaking, from nerves or maybe because he was unwell, and he dropped the wallet. The contents spilled out all over the floor, his bed and his lap. Claire helped him collect coins, bank notes, loyalty cards for shops and cafés, a lighter, a silver chain – and a family photograph of the three of them. Earmarked and yellow around the edges, it looked like it had been repeatedly unfolded, examined and re-folded. ‘This was taken on a holiday in Paris. You were 15.’