Page 64 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Lost. How so?’
‘I’m worried that my brain is blocking out something really awful. It can do that, right? I’ve read about it. When someone’s been through a terrible trauma and their brain just shields them from it.’
Hamza uncrosses his legs and recrosses them the other way. ‘There have been cases of that, yes.’
‘So what I want to know is, if my brain is taking me back to seven years ago when my husband had just tried to kill me, what the hell happened in the intervening years that is worse than that?’
‘I don’t think you should think along those lines, Shelley. I don’t think that’s what’s happening in this case.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘Because I know a bit about what your current life is like.’
‘I’m glad one of us does.’
‘Shelley, I understand this is hard. But your loved ones are just trying to do as you’ve asked. To let you piece it all together yourself.’
Which loved ones? Dee? Who else? How terribly sad that I can only think of one person who loves me. And then I think of my mum, remember that I asked someone to call her for me and it all came to nothing. But I have a phone now. I can do it myself, if I still want to.
‘Shelley, we can move forward in a couple of different ways. We can continue waiting for your memories to come back or we can show you photos and tell you things and go on your social media and basically try to fill in the gaps.’
‘I’m worried that if people just tell me, I’ll never know for sure whether I remember those things or just know them because I’ve been told.’
He nods and pushes his black-framed glasses up his nose. ‘I understand that.’
There is a temptation to ask for it all. To have it laid out in front of me and see what feels familiar. But I know, deep down, that I want to get there on my own. I want to fight my way back, not have it all handed to me.
‘I am remembering things,’ I say. ‘I remembered waking up from my first coma, and David’s trial.’
Hamza smiles a small smile, and I know he’s pleased. ‘That’s great. Anything else?’
I start to shake my head, but then I realise it’s not true. ‘I remember my friend Dee being pregnant. I remember playing with her son, Callum. I get flashes, like photographs. A red car. A kitten. I can’t piece them all together yet, and I don’t know what’s from my life and what’s from something I’ve seen on TV, but I feel like it’s happening, even if it’s very slow.’
‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘You know, it can be very disorienting to lose your memory. You’re coping admirably. I hope you’ll let me know if you need any extra support.’
When I get back to my bed, I send a message to Dee.
Am I in touch with my mum?
I stare at it for a while, thinking about the absurdity of it. Of not knowing the answer myself, and also of potentially not being in touch with my own mother. She replies quickly.
Can I call?
When I answer the phone, she doesn’t say anything for a minute.
‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘It’s bad,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you want to talk about it on the phone? I can come in later.’
But now I know there’s something, I need to know what. There’s a question lurking in the back of my mind, and I have to know the answer or I’ll go mad.
‘Is she dead?’
‘God, no! I’m sorry you thought that. It’s not that bad.’
I feel like something’s been pressing down on my chest, and it’s just been lifted off. I feel like I can breathe again.
‘She disappeared,’ Dee says. ‘A couple of years ago now. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. I think it was the only way she felt able to leave Mick.’
