I ignore Mark; I dab a generous amount of antiseptic on the wound (he winces again) and wind a bandage round his finger. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again with a frown.
I kiss his finger before rising from the table and picking up my iDiary from the kitchen counter. I place my right thumb on its fingerprint-recognition sensor, causing its purple LEARN YESTERDAY’S ENTRY NOW diode to stop flashing. I scroll down to the final entry. Last night, I wrote:
11:12: Woke up feeling awful. Burden of knowledge hangs on shoulders. Spent hour crying in bed. Found Mark asleep in study at 12:25; woke him up and gave him present I bought—even though his birthday’s a week from now. Broke down in tears again, went back to bed. Neglected all household chores—even gardening. Skipped lunch and dinner. Mark kept coming to bedroom with worried face to tell me that everything will be back to normal tomorrow. He’s right. Yesterday’s nightmare will be gone in the morning. Surfaced for a banana, usual pills, and two large single malts at 21:15 before returning to bed.
An accurate if skimpy description of what happened yesterday. But the entry does not explain why I cried. It only suggests that yesterday’s unhappiness was triggered by something that happened two days ago. Something nightmarish. I scroll over to my penultimate entry:
Thunderstorm until 9:47. Took Nettle for walk afterwards. Lunch consisting of roast beef and potatoes at 13:30, taken in conservatory on my own. Mark wanted lunch in study so he could continue writing. Headed over to Grange Road at 16:50 for long chat with Emily over tea and crumpets. Evening uneventful. Mark headed back to study to do more writing. Curled up in front of television with microwaved leftovers.
I’m disappointed, even bemused, by the entry. I’d assumed that it would shed some light on the reasons behind yesterday’s misery. But the entry is terse, even opaque. I scour its contents again only to draw a blank once more. Mark might know what happened two days ago. Unlike me, he’s a Duo who remembers both yesterday and the day before. This is what makes him different from most of us. This is why he thinks he’s superior.
“I remember spending most of yesterday crying,” I say, noting that the frown on Mark’s face has not lifted. “But I can’t figure out why.”
Our eyes meet. There’s a dark glint in Mark’s pupils, one I’m unable to fathom. Is it anger? Grief? Or fear?
He turns away from me and stares at my moth orchid for several seconds before replying.
“You forgot to take your medication two evenings ago,” he says. “This caused a relapse yesterday.”
He must be right. Fact: I’ve been taking two types of drugs since 7 April 2013, as prescribed by Dr. Helmut Jong of Addenbrooke’s Hospital. Lexapro and Pristiq. Two of the former and one of the latter, each day. I reach for the medicine container on the counter, sifting through my mind again for more relevant details. Fact: I traveled to Newnham Pharmacy at 14:27 on 1 June 2015, to pick up the most recent round of pills, bearing another prescription from Dr. Jong. Sixty and thirty respectively, enough for a month.
I count the pills inside the gray container. There should be fifty and twenty-five of each. Instead, there are fifty-two and twenty-six remaining.
“You’re right,” I say, sighing. “I forgot to take my pills.”
Mark grunts before getting up from his chair. I detect a slight softening of the tension around his shoulders.
“I’ll clear up,” he says.
As Mark bustles around the kitchen with a dustpan and brush, I move to the fridge and pull out a bottle of milk. My stomach’s growling. I heap cornflakes into a bowl. I settle down at the kitchen counter with a spoon before turning on the radio. Static crackles in the room; a jingle for a car-insurance-comparison website chimes moments later. Mark has swept away the last of the shards. He has also decided that he still wants his tea; he’s taken out a mug and plopped an Earl Grey tea bag into it.
“Good morning, East Anglia,” says a male voice on the radio. “This is the news at eight. The queen has given her royal assent to an act of Parliament designed to encourage more mixed marriages between Monos and Duos, who, as the 2011 census has shown, now form seventy and thirty percent of the population respectively. Entrenched cultural prejudices have long deterred these unions from taking place. Only three hundred and eighty-nine mixed marriages were registered in Britain in 2014.”
I steal a glance at Mark. He’s stirring in a lump of sugar with a more cheerful upturn of his lips, though only by the tiniest of fractions. I know why he’s pleased. The news must bode well for his ongoing MP campaign. Fact: He had the guts to wed Mono Claire Bushey twenty years ago despite strong opposition from his family. He’s a Duo in touch with the needs, hopes, and fears of the Mono masses of Britain. He is married to one.
“Recent scientific studies have proved that a Mono-Duo couple has a seventy-five percent chance of conceiving Duo children.”
Children. Fact: I want a baby. My heart’s crying out for a little one to care for and love. But how will I have a baby when sex has dried up in my marriage?
“The government believes that an increased proportion of Duos will heighten Britain’s economic competitiveness and productivity,” continues the newscaster. “It has supported the Mixed Marriage Act, a piece of legislation granting tax advantages to Mono-Duo partnerships. The act is expected to come into effect on the fifteenth of February in 2016.”
If only they knew. Facts matter. I’ve forced myself to learn them, whether I like them or not.
Fact: Monos married to Duos are subjected to daily reminders of their memory limitations. This dooms them to a state of chronic inferiority. This is probably why I’ve been on antidepressants for years. Yet I dare not contemplate the thought of leaving the man who ignored society’s biggest taboo to marry me, as my prospects would be poorer if I did. Fact: Mark received an advance of ￡350,000 for On Death’s Door, his most successful novel. We live in a Newnham mansion overlooking the Cam. Six bedrooms, a conservatory, and a 1.4-acre garden. Two vacations to the Caribbean each year, flying first class. If I’d married a fellow Mono, I’d still be a waitress at Varsity Blues.
The newscaster is now gabbling about the result of yesterday’s football fixture between England and Germany.
I sigh, taking another spoonful of cereal. I crunch the flakes; their syrupy sweetness coats my tongue. My life is idyllic—but only on the surface. The facts say as much. If only there were a child in my life. The void is getting wider as the years pass—I’m thirty-nine now. And if only I could remember things as Mark does. Our memory gap separates us like an unbridgeable chasm.
The newscaster is saying something about Cambridge. I prick up my ears.