The Doll's House

‘The example we just talked through is often described as escapism. We’re all familiar with it. And the loss of huge chunks of memory where it involves things of little importance doesn’t cause us any anxiety. It’s different in Imogen’s case. Let me explain it this way.

‘Suppose one of you needs to pay a visit to the hospital to have a procedure done. You take time off work, arriving early at the hospital for your appointment. You receive a local anaesthetic. It all goes well. You get two stitches in your upper arm, because a wound hadn’t repaired correctly. Going home, you’re aware of a pain in your arm, but part of it still feels numb.’ They all sit silently, listening to her. ‘You get home. The anaesthetic is wearing off and, for some unknown reason, you’ve forgotten you’ve been to the hospital, or that you got two stitches in the arm. You’re in a considerable amount of pain, a pain you cannot ignore. You check your arm in the mirror. You see a bandage. There’s blood, and when you remove the bandage, you see the two large stitches. You’re still bleeding, although not excessively.’ Kate looked at them. ‘What’s the first thing you think?’

‘You’ve lost your marbles.’ Harry was the first to jump in.

‘Don’t say that, Harry.’ Mary Louise, aware of the implications.

‘It’s okay, Mary Louise. Harry’s point is valid. You’d be worried about more than the stitches. You might wonder if you’d lost your mind. Another couple of instances like that might cause you to really question your sanity. Not remembering, when the stakes are high, is frightening. It brings everything into question. Imogen may not remember things, but at least now she realises her loss of memory is simply that. Imogen has been through a great deal working her way to this point. None of us can underestimate what a difficult path it has been for her.’

Imogen, who had stayed quiet throughout, looked nervous when she asked, ‘Kate, will I ever remember why this has happened to me? Why I can’t remember large chunks of my past?’

‘I hope so, Imogen. I really do.’





Clodagh


Turning the corner onto the strand, I see Dominic waiting for me. Despite the intervening years, my brother stands in the same way he did as a teenager, shoulders back, both hands held tight in the front pockets of his jeans. He leans against the front garden wall of our house like he doesn’t belong there, or doesn’t want to. I’m not surprised he’s waiting outside. Whatever memories the house holds for him, they’re no longer part of who he cares to be. Neither he nor Martin seems to see anything in the house other than financial gain.

When I’m within a few yards of him, he reluctantly stands upright, looking like he plans to assist but not lead. He says nothing about my bruises, although I know he has noticed them.

‘Does Martin know you’re here?’

‘He’s not my keeper.’ I give him a look that says he should know better. ‘Anyhow, he wouldn’t care.’

‘I don’t know about that, Clodagh.’

‘What’s with you two buddying up? Has selling the house encouraged you on another business deal?’

‘Nope. You forget, I know Martin well. He walks a line I’m not easy with.’ His eyes shift to the side of my face where the bruises are now a murky purple and yellow mess. ‘I may have grown up with him, Clodagh, but I’m not the one who married him.’

‘You’re the one who struck up the friendship, back in the day when Martin wouldn’t have said boo to anyone, least of all you.’

‘The guy changed.’

‘Well, I guess I didn’t see that coming either.’

‘You thought you were marrying a softie.’

‘Let’s keep my marital affairs out of this.’ I look at the house, hearing the waves crash behind me. I feel about twelve years old again, bickering with my brother when there are far most important things to talk about. ‘Dominic, none of that matters now. Something strange is happening. With the regression bits keep coming back.’ I hear the desperation in my voice. ‘I’m remembering things from childhood, but I can’t put all the pieces together.’

‘Nothing strange is happening.’ His voice is controlled.

I want to throttle him, as if we’re kids. Instead I say, ‘Let’s go inside – it’s cold.’

Before I open the front door, he asks, ‘What are you looking for, Clodagh? What do you hope to achieve by coming back here?’

‘I don’t know. Some parts of my memory are coming back. Other parts are still missing. But I feel close to connecting with them. Does that ever happen to you, Dominic? Do you ever not remember and then get a sense that you’re so close to something it’s like an unlit fire waiting for a match to bring it to life?’

‘None of us remembers everything, Clodagh.’

‘No?’

‘Nobody does.’

I close the front door behind us, leaning against it. ‘Do you remember when Emmaline died?’

He doesn’t flinch. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You were only seven.’