Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The thirty-minute train journey passes with the shock of being woken from a deep sleep.
The gremlin behind my eyes squeezes my brain, enough to make me feel nauseous as I wobble from the station and down an unremarkable high street. The village consists of four connected roads, a general store, a stove supplier and a tyre fitter. I also count at least four pubs on my journey, which may prove convenient, depending on how the meeting goes. The house I’m visiting is across a bridge spanning a busy A-road, and the motion of fast cars unnerves and unsteadies me as if the bridge is doing its best to tip me over the side.
Dr Betterman’s house is situated down a dirt track, away from the rest of civilisation. The house requires work, or a tidy-up, at least. The lawn is a mat of long grass growing up and around a dead-looking Fiat Cinquecento.
I ring the doorbell. Nothing chimes inside the house, so I use the door knocker. I leave it a minute before knocking again. Nothing. I crouch at the letterbox, calling through.
‘Naomi? Dr Betterman? You might as well answer, I know all about you. I know everything.’
Moments later, I see blurry movement through the decorative glass panel in the door. The door opens, and there she is. Wild hair, reading glasses hanging down her long cardigan and wearing a pursed-lipped look.
As the kettle crackles to life next door in the narrow kitchen, I peruse the framed certifications on the wall of her home office. I’ve seen it all before. The sofa where my Dad sat. The pale green walls and dark wood desk. The stacks of books and piles of paperwork. The poster of the Maya Angelou quote: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people never forget how you made them feel.”
We sit down to a mug of tea and a plate of custard creams. Me on the sofa, her behind the desk. She nods at me to speak first. It’s only then that I realise that I don’t know what I want from her.
‘I stopped practising when I got divorced. Twelve years ago. Then I get a message from Roger Brommage. Facebook, of course. Barely use the damn thing… I went to Uni with Roger, not heard from him in years. Tells me about this new project of his. As with all things like this, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Then comes the realisation. Roger always hoped there was something between us, and I would suppose he saw the experiment as a way of impressing me. Of proving his value to me. I mean, he’s a nice guy and everything, but some people just can’t let go of an idea that is never going to happen.’
I asked the obvious question. ‘So why did you agree to help out?’
After a dignified silence, Betterman continues. ‘It didn’t seem right to leave your Dad’s memory in their possession after he passed… And now you’re here. You’ve been in your father’s memory, which is why you’re here. You know he became obsessed with everyone in his life. Fixated on his errors and behaviour. He knew too much. Saw too much. That’s why he got arrested. For picking a fight in a pub.’
‘That was because of Mum. Her condition was worsening. He was upset, had too much to drink…’
‘He told you that?’ asks Betterman.
‘Wayne did.’
‘The reason your Dad picked a fight in a pub was due to visiting a bad memory. A false memory. Real to him, though.’
My fingertips massage my forehead as I process this new insight, and I mutter ‘God’ to myself; aching for peace of mind.
Betterman continues. ‘Your Dad suspected that your Mum was having an affair. Years ago. He convinced himself it was true, and his memory of that moment in time sent him over the edge.’
‘They’ve got it all back to front. They should have made a machine to help people forget,’ I mutter as I bury my face in my hands. Composing myself, I look to Dr Betterman. ‘He liked you. He thought you were a good person.’
‘Same here. Then I found out he was viewing my memories. And you’re a real chip off the old block, aren’t you?’ Betterman’s words hang as she sips her tea. ‘You were supposed to do something about it. Stop the experiment. Not join in.’
‘Perhaps you should have explained yourself in the first instance?’ I say.
‘By the look of you, I’d guess the hallucinations have begun. So I’ll keep this quick and simple. Leave it alone. The side effects were the undoing of your Dad. His heart was in the right place, but his mind wasn’t. Not in the end, anyway,’ she says.
‘He thought he could help us.’
‘By reliving other people’s trauma? The damage was already done.’ Dr Betterman pauses. ‘Before he died… He wanted to see you.’
‘I know. My phone had all the missed calls. I couldn’t see the point in answering. I didn’t hate him. That was the point. I didn’t. Ever. He was a good person. We were just two different people, different eras, nothing either of us could do.
‘It is difficult to love someone when you’re not sure how they feel about you,’ she says. ‘Or how you feel. That’s why you’re here. You want me to tell you who you are.’
I snort fake amusement at the suggestion. She doesn’t know me well enough to make such statements.
‘You present an image of aloof wisdom and detached superiority, but you can’t get close to anyone because you feel inadequate like you don’t belong. Overlooked by your parents. Did you matter as much to them as your siblings did... Growing up in the shadow of your brother, the football wiz-kid. A sister who was treated like a Princess. A kid brother who was the adored baby of the family. You were either pleasing your parents or not. You had a well-paid job in the city for all the wrong reasons. A false sense of responsibility because your Dad lost his job and in turn the family home. You were a financial burden to your parents and you had to fix it. All that internalised fear of not knowing where you fit in… And it’s driving you mad, isn’t it? You always believed you were unlovable, it was something you did or an inherent trait that kept everyone away… but lately, you’re not so sure. Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it is everyone else who has a problem, not you. You’ll never know. You don’t understand people because you don’t understand yourself.’
I’ve heard as much as I can take, and head for the way out. But Dr Betterman isn’t finished. She’s following after me as I gesture an impudent hand for her to go away.
‘Your Dad was lonely, as was your mum. As are you. Your heart hardened to keep you protected, cultivating an unforgiveness in others and yourself. Only one girl managed to get through to you, through the low self-esteem, anger and confusion. And how did that end?’
Shut up is the best I can do as I walk to the front door.
‘It’s an uncomfortable feeling, having someone inside your head, isn’t it?’ says Betterman.
I’m almost at the end of the driveway when Betterman calls out from the front door.
‘He lied to all of us, y’know.’
I’ve heard enough, and snap. ‘I know my Dad better than you ever did!’
‘I’m not talking about your Dad,’ she says, which is enough to make me stop and face her.
‘He lied to your Dad, me. And he’s lying to Roger too, but he’s too hung up on proving himself to admit it. I only know his surname. Mywoods. I don’t know anything more than what your Dad told me. In all honesty, I thought he was making it all up.’
I’m already plotting my next move as I walk on.
Betterman calls out one last time. ‘You have to stop! Nothing good will come of it!’
Mywood’s name holds me in deep distraction, as Kirk and Roger prep The Locus. I watch Kirk load the DNA sample into The Locus, my eyes lingering on her woolly cardigan, and the rogue strand of hair from her head that has probably become attached. I wonder how easy it would be to pinch a hair sample and find out all I need to know about Mywoods. The possibilities are vast, and once inside The Locus I meditate on their names: Kirk, Roger… Mywoods.
I’m confident that The Locus is in my command now, but upon entering my Dad’s memory, all I can see is pink. Pink of every shade. Magenta hills, perfectly curved like a cartoon backdrop. Bubblegum-coloured buildings. Candyfloss trees. Flamingos in top hats and monocles. Where the hell am I? Pink elephants wade in a chocolate lake, and monkeys made of fudge swing from liquorice trees. Tiny dogs fly around the sky on fuchsia clouds.
It takes a moment before I realise that I’m standing in the same spot as my Dad. This is his memory of watching Elliot’s memory. Disturbed that my Dad and I are overlapping, or that I’m “inside” him, I step out from Dad’s translucent form as a ghostly voyeur.
We see a five-year-old Elliot running towards us down a rocky-road road. Elliot dashes through us, and my Dad and I both turn in synchronicity to see where Elliot is going in such a hurry. We both wear the same expression of bizarre amusement, as we see young Elliot run into the arms of a life-size version of his old teddy, Charlee.
My Dad and I exhale disbelief at finally seeing what little Elliot had been seeing all those years ago. All those times when Elliot was staring off into space or playing with his toys, this is where his mind went: A make-believe world of his design. Wayne and I used to tease Elliot about “Charlee-land”, but now I get it. I understand why our little brother would say he wanted to stay here forever: because it’s a darn sight happier than the real world.
“The real world” overcasts “Charlee-land” like rolling clouds of doom. My Dad and I now find ourselves in our old family home. We see Wayne and me, both in our early/pre-teens, grabbing our jackets and kicking our trainers on in a hurry. Young Elliot follows us like an excitable puppy.
‘I wanna come too!’ protests young Elliot.
‘No! You’re too young. You’ve got to stay here. You won’t be able to keep up with us. We’re riding to the other side of the forest. Mum and Dad won’t let you, anyway,’ states Wayne, matter of fact.
I look at my Dad, to check his expression. I can’t talk to him, he’s oblivious to my presence - after all, this is his memory - but I can see he’s troubled by what he’s viewing.
‘It’s not fair,’ moans Elliot.
Wayne raises a warning fist to Elliot’s face.
‘Shut up, you baby. Touch my stuff while I’m gone and I’ll flush Charlee down the bog. Got it?’
Wayne raises a clenched fist to Elliot (and Charlee, who is in Elliot’s arms), scaring him into compliance.
I see my younger self and Wayne abandon our kid brother at the front door, slamming it in his face. Elliot sits on the hallway carpet. His sulking becomes sobbing, and soon he’s crying to himself at the bottom of the stairs.
I see the memory of my Dad - the invisible watcher - crouching next to his young son, desperate to console him, but unable to.
‘Don’t cry… don’t be sad, son,’ says my Dad, his hand passing through Elliot, unable to make physical contact.
The images morph into a warped view of Elliot, now about seven or eight, rushing downstairs with a piece of paper in his hand. He presents it to our Dad, who is sitting in his chair watching Formula 1 racing on the television.
‘I’ve written a story!’ declares Elliot, proudly.
‘That’s nice,’ says Dad, eyes not moving from the screen.
‘It’s about a dog who loses his bark, but then he takes some medicine and gets better.’ says young Elliot, proudly.
‘Oh,’ says Dad, barely registering any interest.
‘I’ll leave it here for you to read,’ says Elliot, sliding his story onto Dad’s lap, trying not to get in the way of the television.
‘That’s great, mate…’ Dad trails off, still fixed on the racing.
The scene blurs out, pulling focus to young Elliot, now in his bedroom, sitting in the middle of the floor. He plays with his favourite teddy, but his heart isn’t in it. I’ve not seen that tatty thing for years, and I feel like I’ve reconnected with a long-lost relative.
In the silence and emptiness, Elliot starts to sob. He opens the top drawer, taking a small handkerchief; Orange outlined with cartoon images of crying clowns. Elliot stares at the clowns, tears rolling down his face.
I hear my Dad speak. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
I see the ‘ghost’ of my old Dad edge closer to Elliot, unable to comfort him. All Dad can do is speak over him. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone.’
Young Elliot turns as if he could hear the words. He tilts his head, curiously. It’s like he’s staring directly at my Dad.
‘Can you see me? Elliot? Can you see me?’ asks Dad, excitement increasing in his voice. ‘Elliot? Elliot!’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023