Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
I wake from a badly recollected dream. I canāt piece together any sense from it, but I can feel the emotion of it, so real inside my chest.
Ā I have no recollection of what Iām doing on the floor at the end of my bed, and as I prop myself upright, I see the open shoebox of mementoes of my time with Meredith. There are photos in my hand, all of Meredith. I poke through the box. Every last scrap of us is in here, and I canāt help but think of Meredith selecting these choice souvenirsā¦ was she sad? Happy to see the back of them? Was she relieved when she placed the shoebox on my parentsā doorstep and left without even ringing the doorbell?
Ā At the bottom of the shoe box is the card from Meredith. The āSomething to remember me by!ā card with a lock of her dyed-blue hair cellotaped to it. I study her swirly handwriting which seems so alive.
Ā Drafty floorboards under my bare feet creak as I limp along the hall to the kitchen. I open the fridge and peer in, moving on to the cupboards before returning to the fridge. I want something, but I donāt know what. I canāt be sure why Iāve come to the kitchen. What was it I wanted?
āPaul? Cāmere! Check this out!ā
Ā I close the fridge door, perturbed at the familiar voice of Mick bellowing from somewhere in the house.
Ā As I pace along the corridor to the living room, I question myself. I asked Mick to leave, didnāt I? No, I told him. I told him in no uncertain terms to get the hell out. Didnāt I?
Ā Mick is in the living room, shirt half-undone and looking abnormally tanned.
āWhat happened to you?ā I ask, unable to cope with the state of my friend.
āOh, you noticed the tan, eh? May have overdone it a tad, but itāll be fine when weāre in the club tonight. Got a couple of fillies called Kim andā¦ well, thereās two birds who want to spend some quality time with Uncle Mick and his trusty ward. The tan fades, but the memories will last for, oooh a few weeks at least.ā
āNo. No, I donāt want to,ā I wearily protest.
āNeither of us are getting any younger, but we need to keep moving on. Getting out there, mixing it up, trucking on with the business of living. Canāt be nostalgic about being young. I used to be nostalgicā¦ā Mickās words hang in the air before he exhales a sad, dreamy sigh. He snaps out from it, rubbing his stubbly chin. His eyes light up.
āAh! Check this out. Mick Nicholson, bringing home the bacon once againā¦ā
Ā Mick steps aside, revealing two leather recliners.
āState of the art. They play whale song through the head speakers. Sit, sit.ā
Ā Mick guides my fragile bones into the luxurious leather chair.
āJust relax. Close your eyesā¦ā sing-songs Mick, as I claw at a realisation.
āWait wait wait. I asked you to leave. I told you to move out,ā I recall, relaying the facts to Mick. Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā He screws up his face at the suggestion and continues messing with the remote control in his hand. āHold upā¦ here we go, ready?ā
Ā Mick aims a remote control, pressing a button. Deafening whale song blasts me between the eyes, ejecting me from the seat in a single, heart-racing manoeuvre. Mick struggles with the remote, turning down the ear-piercing mating calls.
āNot bad, eh?ā says Mick, mouth down-turned; self-satisfied.
āDonāt you remember yesterday? All thoseā¦ kids running around my house with theirā¦ phones andā¦ influenceā¦ā I sputter.
Mickās tone clouds over. āWell I thought thanks might have been in order. Honestly, what does impress you these days?ā
Ā I look to Mick to check if his words are being said in jest with that open face of his. Heās wearing his trademark incredulous scowl, which only appears when heās conversing with me.
Ā The reverberating cry of a whale forces my eyes to close, the sound actualising the pain inside my chest.
āJust let go,ā whispers Mick.
Ā I feel something caressing my limbs, then my face. The confusing sensation springs my eyelids upwards, to see the chair wrapping around me, cocooning me inside as The Locus once did. I gasp a final intake of air, as the world outside is shut out.
The sun blazes down on the abandoned industrial estate. I pace down the centre of the road, the safest distance from the increasing amount of homeless people buried under flattened cardboard and tarpaulin shelters. A disembodied voice rasps: āWhat are ya lookinā for? I can get it for yaā¦ā
My feet scuff to a standstill outside the decrepit laboratory. Thereās a queue of shambling people, slowly ambling inside. I wince, at a loss to what Iām seeing. I cautiously approach, trying to peer inside the building. I attempt to talk to one of the queueing people, but they look away. Someone mumbles for me to get to the back of the line, which I suppose I have no choice about.
Ā Eventually, I wind my way inside the building, along the dirty grey corridor to what looks like a waiting room. Everyone takes a number as they enter, and as soon as a seat becomes available I take it. It smells like something is decaying in the walls, at once metallic and fleshy. The back of my throat burns. I look around the room at the different people wearing the same complexion, drained of life. Wistful despair. Joyous anguish. Desperate for something glorious.
Ā I look at the person next to me. A man with oily skin and a heavy aroma of staleness. His gaze lingers on the floor, his chest rises and falls slowly like he might just slide off his chair dead any second. Nobody is speaking, so I lean closer and whisper to the man.
āWhat is this place?ā
Ā He turns his head, assessing me. āThat stone in your chest that ya canāt swallow? This place will fix it.ā
Ā I struggle not to drift off to sleep in the airless waiting room, and mercy arrives. My number is called by a woman who looks half-nurse/half-wasteland warrior, complete with a Mohawk. I raise a hand and she flags me over without a second glance. I follow her into a dimly-lit room lined with rows of mattresses; as many as can fill the space. Machines on wheels hook up wires to the bodies on the mattresses. All of them wear rubbery goggles with pink lenses. Itās homemade and unclean, but the faces on the bodies beam with joy. Most of them. Some weep pitifully.
Ā The nurse points to a vacant mattress. I lower myself, not wanting to make any physical contact with the soiled mattress for fear of disturbing a billion bedbugs. Iām unnerved by the twitching bodies on either side of me.
āMoney up.ā
Ā I reach for my wallet, but before I can ask how much, the nurse snatches it from me and helps herself. She tosses my wallet back to me.
āWhat are they doing?ā I ask, but deep down I know.
Ā A āDoctorā in a grubby-looking white coat steps through, chewing gum as he counts the money from the nurse.
āAlright, hereās the deal. You go under for twenty minutes. After that, you get out. Any trouble and youāre out for good, got it?ā
Ā I nod like a good boy as the Doctor continues.
āYou want your own memories, or can we tempt you with a few select picks, as modelled by the gorgeous Debbie here?ā
Ā The Nurse hoists up her skirt to reveal a row of vials, strapped to the inside of her leg.
āSports stars, film stars, rock stars, TV celebritiesā¦ or if you prefer darker stuffā¦ā
Ā I decline. Just my own, thanks.
Ā The Doctor hands me goggles with pink lenses and tells me to put them on and to lie down. As I position myself on the grimy mattress, the Nurse wheels the rusty-looking box closer, placing wired pads on my forehead.
āClose your eyes. Say hi to Grandma.ā
Ā Everything goes blank. A sound echoes from far away, increasing in clarity as it moves closer. Heels clicking on tarmac.
Ā My eyes open to see Meredith walking towards me, slowing to a halt. Her tired expression turns to reluctant recognition. I look around and see that weāre outside her workplace, in the car park. I also see myself, standing opposite Meredith. He waves, holding a small trinket bag aloft.
āSaw this. Thought of you.ā
Ā Meredith peers into the bag, removing the gift. The Butterfly. The other-me tilts his head slightly, as do I. Both of our eyes blink repeatedly, processing the cloud of deja-vu. A curious recall fixes upon my face as if I have been here before.
āWhatās this for? Paul?ā
Ā Meredithās uneasy tone of questioning snaps me and the other-me out of our daydream.
āHuh? Doā¦ do you ever get deja vu? Like, this moment has happened before?ā
āIt has.ā
Ā I look at myself with a disgusted cringe. No wonder she got creeped out by me.
Ā Meredith hands back the butterfly to the other-me and walks away without a word. We both catch up with Meredith at her car as she opens the door to get in.
āI was thinking of handing in my notice. Take a year out, see something real. You always said I should.ā
āDonāt do anything on my account,ā says Meredith, before getting into her car.
Ā I stand, somehow amazed at how this moment hasnāt turned out as I had hoped. Words stutter with disbelief, even though Iām pretty certain Iām actually smiling.
āMy Dad died today,ā I say, even though she canāt hear me.
Ā Meredith winds down the window a fraction. āYou canāt do this anymore. Donāt look like that.ā
I stare incredulously at the other-me, urging the wet blade of grass to say something meaningful to Meredith. I yell at the idiot to be real. Say something true.
Ā The words blurt from the other-me: āI love you,ā Then - āSorryā.
Ā I claw at my eyes, shaking my head at the useless excuse for a human.
Ā Then something unexpected occurs. Meredith steps out of the car. The other-me attempts to speak, but she raises her hand to his mouth, looking into his eyes. Her arms snap around him, pulling him tight as she buries her face into his chest.
Ā I am glued to the spot at the sight of this embrace. This was the ending I always longed for, and one that I would give my right arm to feel.
Ā A gut punch wakes me. Gasping, I splutter as reality crashes the dream. Hands haul me to my feet, and I realise Iām being dragged; feet scraping against the tiled floor.
Ā Face down on the pavement, I crawl to a broken brick wall where I prop myself up. People pass by, and it takes me a while to realise all of them are Meredith. In the confusion of the swirling vortex of the real world, a hand grasps my shoulder to steady me.
āWe did it. We did it!ā Roger roughs up my shoulder with his firm grip, pleased to see me.
Copyright Ā© Andrew Wright 2023