Page 51 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘It wasn’t a dream, was it?’
‘What?’
‘That you have a baby. Do you have a baby, Dee?’
She nods slowly. ‘Well, he’s more of a child now. Callum. He’s four.’ She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds me a photo, and I see a little boy with Dee’s wild hair and her deep brown eyes and someone else’s jawline. I think he looks a bit familiar but I can’t be sure whether I just want that to be the case.
‘Who’s his dad?’ I ask. And before she speaks, I know the answer.
‘Liam.’
I think about that night, when David pushed me. When Liam and Dee had just been on a date, and he told me he really liked her. That was the thing that had pushed David over the edge, wasn’t it? The leaning in, the whispering. Even though I know, now, that all that happened seven years ago, it’s hard to adjust to that fact.
‘Did you marry him?’ I ask.
She nods again.
‘Was I…?’
‘There? Of course. You were my Maid of Honour.’
‘Can I see a photo?’
She scrolls through her phone again until she finds one, and then she shows it to me. She is breath-taking in a champagne-coloured fifties-style dress with a full skirt, her hair big and bouncy, her eyes shining. And next to her, there’s me, my dress electric blue, both of our bouquets in my hand, my eyes on her.
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, and there are tears in my voice.
‘Does it make it worse, looking at photos?’ she asks, putting her phone away. ‘Or do you think it might help? That it might jolt something loose? Can you tell I have no idea how memory works?’
Through my tears, I smile. ‘I have no idea either.’ I consider her question for a minute. It’s hard, seeing these things I can’t remember, but it’s great, too.
‘Keep showing me things,’ I say. ‘But can we take it slow? It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Yes, I think that’s plenty for now.’
‘Tell me about your son.’
She looks up at the ceiling, as if reaching for information about him.
‘His name is Callum. He’s tall like Liam but cheeky like me. And his favourite things are Fireman Sam, the colour yellow, sausages and dinosaurs.’
‘Those feel like the things you’d tell someone you’ve never met before,’ I say.
She pauses. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Shell. This is hard. Let me think. He can’t say lamppost. Says langhost. It’s my fault because I think it’s cute so I don’t correct him. He’s just started at school and his teacher says he’s not great at sitting still but his imagination is incredible. He does these drawings – big scenes with stick figures and robots and funny-looking animals – they’re all bright colours and strange shapes. He spends days on them. Doing a bit, then running off to kick a ball or play with his dinosaurs, then coming back. You have one on your kitchen wall.He’s just starting to understand so many things about the world, and when I really think about it, it blows my mind. He wants to understand everything, and to see everything. It takes us forever to walk to school because he’ll stop to look at a ladybird or pick up a stone or ask where Santa lives in the summer. He’s been asking about you, and I had to explain what a coma is. He’s making you a card. And he asked me to tell you that he will come in and play Snap with you when you are better enough. That’s how he phrased it. I’ve been waiting to tell you that.’
She comes to an abrupt stop and I go back over everything she’s said. Searching for familiarity, for recognition. And it’s there, I think. It’s cloudy, and confused, but it’s there.
There’s so much I want to ask her. About David, and the attack, and what happened after it. About the existence of my marriage. About my life since, my work, about the pub. About our friendship. She mentioned my kitchen wall. Does she mean the one in the flat above the Pheasant?
‘What’s happening inCoronation Street?’ I ask instead, because it’s easier.
And she smiles and tells me about unfamiliar character names and far-fetched stories, and I laugh, and it feels for a few minutes like an ordinary stretch of time with my best friend. If I can block out the surroundings, and the circumstances. And I think I can, for a little while. But when I can tell that she’s getting ready to go, I force myself to ask her the most important question.
‘Dee, is David really in prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do I – I mean, did I – go to see him?’
