Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
‘Where were you?’ asks Roger.
‘What happened to your eye?’ asks Kirk.
 I fob them off with a heap of nonsense about a work colleague who was leaving, a farewell meal and a late night, which concluded with me tripping over and smacking my face on the pavement.
‘Next time, answer your phone.’ Roger’s tone rubs me up the wrong way, and I serve him a verbal pushback.
‘I do have a job, y’know. Besides, you don’t need me to be here all the time. Don’t you have… data to analyse or something?’
‘I would if you could be so kind and return the canister to me, pretty please with sugar on top. This isn’t an open invite. Push me and find out what happens.’
 Kirk scrunches her face, annoyed by our bickering. ‘He’s going to, aren’t you?’ Kirk looks at me, encouraging me to appease Roger.
‘If you could ask your boyfriend to hurry the hell up, that’d be great,’ gnashes Roger as he paces into the control room. Kirk shoots me an exasperated look.
‘Alright. Alright,’ I nod, submitting.
We go again, this time venturing into my Dad’s memories. And if I thought my memories were depressing, his prove even worse.
 First up in my Dad’s greatest worst memories were the little details that he failed to mention (some with good reason): Failing his CSE exams whilst his friends had left school at fifteen years old to have long careers at the local car plant. His Mother’s dislike of the girls he dated (including the one he married, my Mum). One incident I did know of because the facts were undeniable: My parents got married, and Wayne arrived six months later. Or another way of putting it: Ivor and June got together, June got pregnant, and then they got married in record time.
 What I didn’t know about this situation is how their parents responded to the news of the pregnancy, and how my Mum and Dad found themselves in a situation where they were being told what to do and when to do it. I believe they would have got married at some point had Mum not been pregnant, but to see and feel the emotions of that time reduces what has always been a story told with a laugh and a wink to months of stress, arguments and jumping through other people's hoops.
 The many, long boozy nights spent schmoozing with business clients in tacky Soho drinking establishments, the work expenses account that was heavily abused, justified by the work Dad was bringing into the company. Except his boss didn’t see it that way, and Dad was fired. To add to his humiliation, Dad had to empty his desk and walk through the office; the eyes of his colleagues following his slow, silent departure. The shame didn’t stop there: repeated attempts at securing similar employment led to selling the family home and moving to somewhere less luxurious and more concrete-urban. It wasn’t exactly a shanty town by any means, but nor was it spacious, calm or clean.
 I got to see those long, long nights of self-berating assaults. How Dad believed he had failed us. Mum did her best to encourage him, but this downturn of events was always at the bottom of their repetitive arguments. There was always a heavy atmosphere, but Dad did all he could to get us out of what he saw as the despair of his creation.
 I saw it all. No wonder he practically lost his mind when I quit my job in the city.
 The music feed moves on to The Carpenter’s ‘Yesterday Once More’, which plays on a radio somewhere.
 I’m standing on the edge of my parents’ kitchen, watching my Mum as she washes up. I step a little further inside, certain that I can hear her talking. I then realise my Dad is also watching her. I wave my hands at my Dad, but I’m invisible to him.
 Mum is oblivious to both of us. She just talks to herself in a low, quiet, aggressive tone.
‘Waste of time. He doesn’t care about me. Don’t know why I bloody bother…’
My Dad moves into view, closing in for a closer inspection of his wife with a pained look on his face like he doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say when you hear your wife of fifty years bemoaning your marriage?
 A thought: If I’m in my Dad’s memory of my mum’s memory, he must have used Mum's DNA. How Dad sneaked this past Roger, I can't imagine. The wily old bastard did it, though. The more I think about Dad’s underhanded tricking of Roger and Kirk, the vision whisps and shimmers, following my thought process.
WAYNE
I’m looking through my Dad’s eyes as he stands before Wayne. Dad passes him a transparent bag with a vial inside.
 Wayne frowns at it. ‘What’s this for?’
‘I’m doing some research for our ancestry. You can mail off DNA samples and they can trace your history… where our descendants originally came from. But I need a blood sample. Just a little jab. Won’t take a sec, we can do it now, there won’t be any pain…’
 My eyes flutter open, and I’m standing outside my Dad’s house. The street looks different, confined by rows of Sycamores. The brown Vauxhall Nova on the driveway informs me it’s the mid-to-late eighties. I’m walking autonomously from the house, football holdall over my shoulder, lank hair obscuring my view. Yet I’m unable to brush it aside. Getting into the car, I check my reflection in the mirror: I’m Wayne, seventeen years old, and I’m wearing a football kit. Dad gets into the driver’s seat beside me.
‘I’m glad you’re so relaxed! This is the biggest opportunity you’re going to get, probably ever. These people won’t mess about. If they think you’re going to screw them about, they won’t give you the time of day. Told you to get out of bed!’ scowls Dad.
‘It’ll be fine. We’ve got plenty of time. Relax,’ I say. Well, Wayne says.
 A feeling of dread rises in my gut as the engine turns over, wheezing and spluttering. It fails to start. Dad tries again, slamming his palms on the steering wheel. He launches into another rant, which cuts off mid-way as the scene collapses to a new location: A football stadium.
 I’m standing on the sideline, watching a football team training on the pitch. A firm hand pushes into my back, and Dad growls into my ear as he points to the football coach. ‘Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him!’ urges Dad, as if his own life depends on Wayne’s potential career.
 I feel Wayne’s breathlessness as my own, his jittery limbs flushed with nerves as he approaches the football coach, who doesn’t acknowledge Wayne’s presence.
‘I’m…sorry. Sorry, I’m late. Our car wouldn’t start. The engine died. I’m really, really sorry. Promise,’ I say.
 The Coach remains stony and silent, avoiding eye contact. Nothing is said until I/Wayne can bear it no longer. ‘So...’
 Before I can utter another word, the coach speaks. ‘Fifty young men tried out this morning. Five of them showed a lot of promise. That was a good result. If you had been here on time, maybe there would be six names on the list. You were late. If you can’t even turn up on time for a try-out, what happens if a major team signs you? They want someone they can rely on. A professional.’
 The Coach walks onto the pitch, calling to the players. I stand stunned, feeling Wayne’s tears surging around my eyelids. Dad hurries up to me, but by the look on his face, he already knows the answer. His disappointment and anger intensifies on his face. He raises a stern finger, struggling not to rage at his son.
Don’t tell anyone about this is all my Dad can say as he paces back to the car, shaking the frustration from his fists.
There’s no consolation or commiseration. Just the overwhelming sensation of loss and pain. A knife in my chest and a tear in my psyche.
 But with all the will in the world, it’s just a memory. There’s nothing I can do to change anything.
The scene crushes to what looks like old 8mm film footage. A small girl dressed as a Princess, twirling with her tiara and sparkling wand. Playing Mummy with her doll in a pushchair. Photographs flick at an increasing rate, showing the progression of the little Princess to a sullen teenage school girl, to an aloof young woman posing for her Banking ID photo. The endless parade of boyfriends who didn’t live up to her expectations, all dumped by Brydie. Then comes her wedding photos, then the babies, the holidays to Disney World, until the sun sets and a distance grows between the family of four.
BRYDIE
My Dad blinks, and Wayne is gone, replaced by Brydie. She is also holding the same see-through plastic bag.
‘Can’t they just check your DNA? Why do you need mine?’ asks Brydie, with a look of puzzlement.
‘They can, but the more samples we have, the better the results. I don’t know, I’m only going on what they told me, I’m not a scientist. But apparently, it’s all true.’
 I recognise my new location as Brydie’s dining room. I place plates of roast chicken and potatoes in gravy before Clive and their boys, who are playing on their handheld consoles. I catch my reflection in an ornate silver mirror. I’m Brydie.
 Sitting opposite Clive, we eat in silence until I can bear it no longer. ‘How was your day?’ I ask.
Clive shrugs.
‘What, is that good, bad...’
‘I dunno,’ says Clive.
‘Okay.’
 After a short silence, Clive speaks without looking up from his dinner. ‘I was working through our monthly budget last night. We need to make a few savings. Supermarket bills are high. We used to spend sixty pounds each month.’
‘Before we had three children. Prices go up. I pay for the shopping, anyway,’ I say.
‘I’ve noticed we spend a lot of money on toilet paper. I would prefer it if we could manage our usage of this in a controlled manner. One sheet per visit.’
 I feel the weight of a stone rise in my chest to the back of my throat, desperate to say something. Watching Clive eat, hatred surges from my centre, as I fantasise about throwing my drink in his face. Smashing my plate over his head. Worse things. My hand reacts, knocking over a glass of wine which sends Clive recoiling. He berates me for being stupid and clumsy, yet I’m preoccupied with the fact I made my hand move. That I could exert control within a memory.
 Before I can process my newfound power, the scene becomes distant, as my view retreats to another time and place. An abortion clinic. I sit in a waiting room, already shattered by what’s about to happen. The loneliness of my decision crushes my heart and bones, there’s no alternative. I know Clive well enough to know he would blame me for getting pregnant, tell me we couldn’t afford another child, call me reckless and stupid. Why play out the inevitable, because there’s a strong sense that I’ve been here before. I feel Brydie’s yearning, see her dreams. Five children, and a husband who cares for and loves her.
ELLIOT
My Dad blinks again, Brydie is gone and now Elliot is present. Dad runs through the same conversation with him.
‘Ooooh! Are you checking if Mum’s been lying to you all these years?’ laughs Elliot. ‘You are my Dad, right?’
‘That’s not funny. Just get on with it. I’ve got to post it this afternoon,’ grumbles Dad.
 I’m standing in my parents’ kitchen, watching Mum make lunch as I sit on the work surface, feet dangling. I look down my body, stretching my t-shirt to check out the printed image: A Jurassic Park logo. I slide off the work surface, checking my reflection in a cabinet of glasses. I’m now Elliot, and I have something to say.
 I pour myself a drink of water, as Mum butters slices of bread. Words are on the tip of my tongue, and I know I have to speak out. I keep waiting for the right moment, but there isn’t one.
‘Mum…’ She doesn’t hear me, my voice cracking; dry and trembling. ‘Mum… I… can I tell you something?’
 Mum cuts the sandwiches into quarters, not saying anything. Just ‘hmm-ing’, caught up in her task.
‘Mum… I think I’m gay,’ I say, heart now pounding.
 I await her response, but she doesn’t even look up from making lunch. She slides a plate across the work surface for me to take, saying nothing more than ‘Don’t tell Dad, whatever you do.’
 And that is that. My blood drains from my head to my toes, my confession negated and my spirit suppressed. The memory image freezes sharply; jarring.
ME
I’m at the university, phone in hand. Dad’s ringing me. I reluctantly answer.
‘Yeah, hi Dad. Make it quick. I’m about to go in. My next lecture is in five minutes. Yep. Yeah, I received it. What’s it for? Yeah, I know how DNA testing works, I’ve seen the TV show. W—why—Dad, I’m not sticking a needle in my arm just so you can have my blood. I’m not doing it! Because I don’t like sticking needles in my flesh. How do I know what they’re going to do with my DNA? Look, I’m not having this conversation right now. I’ll send you a… nose hair or something. No, not right now. I told you, I’m at work. Yes. Yeah, look, I’ve got to go. I’ll stick it in the post… I dunno, a few days. Yeah. Alright. Bye.
 I hang up, exhaling hard with exasperation.
 I see myself as a ten-year-old on Christmas Eve, packing a small backpack with pocket money, chocolate and my favourite toy dog. I wrap myself up in a hat, gloves, scarf and coat, and creep downstairs. I loiter by the living room door, seeing my parents with my brothers and sister, watching a Christmas celebration from Westminster Cathedral with a teenage Aled Jones. Nobody turns to notice me.
 I remember this Christmas well. For reasons unknown, I spent the entire time crying. Couldn’t stop. I had to sneak off to the bathroom just so I could cry in peace without anyone asking what was wrong. That was the thing - I didn’t know what was wrong, only that I felt desperately sad and couldn’t stop myself from sobbing.
 Quietly, I turn the latch on the front door. Slotting my door key in, I close the front door and turn the key so as not to make a sound. Outside in the cold, I pace up the driveway to the pavement. I follow my ten-year-old self as he passes semi-detached houses aglow with multi-coloured Christmas lights. I see my younger self halt about ten houses away from home, concealing himself behind a tree. I see my younger self look through me, back to our parents’ house. Waiting.
 I remember doing this. Wondering if I ran away, how long before they would even notice I’d gone? Younger me stands at the tree until the cold begins to bite. He gives up, trudging back to his house, silently entering as if he had never left.
DAD
Now I see Roger. In my Dad’s hand is a metal canister. He hands it to Roger, who opens it to inspect it. Chilled air escapes, as Roger counts the DNA samples inside before closing the lid.
‘Alright, Ivor. Good job. Let’s see if this works.’
 The vision blurs like tears welling in my eyes. A hand moves close, wiping them away, only it’s not my hand. The image becomes clear, and I’m sitting opposite a dark-haired woman, who I recognise from my Dad’s funeral. The mystery woman who gave me the canister of DNA samples.
 I stand up, stepping out of my Dad’s body. We’re in a messy, homely room. Dim light. Numerous framed certificates hung upon the wall. My dad is sitting on a sofa, sobbing a guilty confession to the sympathetic woman who can only be the person named on the wall of accolades: Dr Naomi Betterman.
‘We’d grown apart… She didn’t love me… I don’t know if she even liked me by the end…’
 The response comes from an unexpected voice. Kirk. ‘Your Dad loved your Mum. The things he told me… he meant it.’
 Like waking from a dream, my senses swooshes as my awareness updates. I look at my surroundings. I’m back in the lab. Back in real life. I think.
 As my presence of mind settles, I speak. ‘I can’t make sense of it. Were my parents merely tolerating each other, for the sake of their children? I don’t know what to believe anymore…’
My parents got divorced. Yours didn’t is Kirk’s glib response, and she knows it. Kirk leans closer to me, double-checking that Roger is preoccupied through the control room window.
‘Listen… I would never say this in front of you-know-who, but memories can be false. Roger insists that all memories come from a place of truth, even if they are distorted…
‘Then how do I know what I’m seeing is real? I ask.
‘They’re your memories,’ says Kirk.
‘Which are subjective,’ I say. ‘I need to speak to Doctor Betterman.’
 The mention of that name makes Kirk overcast. Eye contact broken, she smiles awkwardly. ‘That’s… not a good idea. We don’t even know where she is, so I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.’
I shouldn’t have said anything. Now Kirk knows what’s on my mind, and no doubt she’ll tell Roger. Rather than push it, I play the long game. Over the next few excursions into my Dad’s memory, I focus on Betterman’s name.
 Through my Dad’s interactions with her, I’m soon in possession of all I need to know about Dr Naomi Betterman, and where she lives.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023