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“It’s good to see you too, Diana,” she said, as she stepped into the kitchen. “Is Ben around?”
“So, so lovely,” Diana murmured, beaming at her. “And yes, Ben’s just upstairs changing. He’ll be down in two ticks. Will you stay for tea?”
“No, sorry, I’ve already had it. I just was hoping to chat to Ben for a bit.” To her horror, her voice wobbled slightly, and Diana’s face softened into sadness.
“Oh, my dear, is it Peter? Have you heard anything?”
“No, not yet.” With heroic effort, Rachel managed to compose her face and moderate her voice into a semblance of matter-of-fact normality. Since when had she become so emotional? Oh, wait, she knew the answer to that. Since coming home. “We have an appointment tomorrow to discuss the MRI results.”
“Oh, my dear.” Diana shook her head slowly. “I can only hope…” she began, and then trailed off, and Rachel thought that was where they all were. They could only hope.
“Rach.” Ben came in, hair damp from the shower, smelling delicious, and Rachel was suddenly, intensely glad she came.
“I wondered if you fancied a walk?” she blurted. “Maybe up the hill?”
He glanced outside at the darkness fast encroaching and then gave an easy shrug. “All right, sure.”
Rachel loved him for his answer, especially when she realised she was feeling just the tiniest bit unhinged, or maybe unmoored. She hadn’t been aware that was how she was feeling when she’d walked over, only that she’d wanted to see Ben. But now, as they set out into a twilight evening, the warmth of the day long gone, she realised she was definitely feeling unhinged. Unmoored. Un-everything.
“What’s going on?” Ben asked affably enough as they set up towards the hill.
“I don’t know.” Rachel managed a shaky laugh. “I’m just feeling…strange, I suppose.”
Ben frowned, his expression barely visible in the gathering darkness. “Strange?”
“Dad’s MRI results are tomorrow. The doctor’s office called today, saying he wanted to discuss them. It’s not going to be good news, is it?”
“No,” Ben replied briefly, and Rachel was glad he hadn’t prevaricated. “But that’s not just it, is it, Rachel?” he asked gently. “I mean…you’ve known about that for a bit, that it was coming.”
“No, you’re right.” She folded her arms, cupping her elbows with her hands, as they continued up the hill, her feet finding the way in the darkness without needing to look. “It’s more than that.” Ben waited for her to continue, while Rachel tried to sort through her jumbled thoughts. “Coming home has shaken me up,” she finally admitted, feeling her way through the words. “I thought I knew how everything happened. I thought the way I remembered things was the right way. The only way, even.”
“Well, how you remembered something might be how you experienced it,” Ben pointed out, and Rachel nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. She really was feeling confused.
“Yes, but what if I can’t trust my memories? I read somewhere that our memories are terribly faulty—wethinkwe’re remembering the truth, and we become more and more convinced that we are, but actually we’re just remembering the last time we remembered something, and the emotions associated withthatrecollection, not the actual event.” Her voice was becoming faster and faster, higher and higher. “And so,” she continued, practically squeaking now, “the more we remember a particular thing, whatever it is, the more we are convinced that we’re remembering it correctly, and the more inaccurately we’re remembering it. How screwed up is that?”
“You lost me a little there,” Ben answered after a moment, “but I think I get the gist. We can’t trust our memories.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Well, that makes a kind of sense, doesn’t it? Everything is coloured by our emotions.” He paused. “And this is upsetting you because—?”
“Because it makes me question everything,” Rachel blurted. She’d had no idea she was going to say that—feelthat—until the words came out of her mouth, and she knew, absolutely, that they were the right ones.
Ben stopped, turning to face her. “Everything?” he asked quietly.
“Well, mostly everything. Was my mum as unhappy as I remember her? Was my dad as distant? Were you as—as cool?”
His mouth twisted wryly. “Um, yes to the last one?” he said, and she let out a distinctly wobbly laugh.
“Was I as miserable?” she made herself continue. “Because I’ve painted this picture of myself, of my childhood, and I don’t know if it’s completely accurate anymore. At least, I’m starting to wonder, based on what Harriet’s said. What you’ve said. What I’ve started to remember.”
“Okay.” Ben rubbed his jaw. “Well, if your childhood wasn’t as miserable as you remember, surely that’s a good thing?”
“Is it?” Rachel burst out. “Because I stayed away as much as I did because I thought it was.” The words seemed to ring through the still night air. “It’s juststrange,” she confessed, her voice a throb of emotion, “to start to question everything. And then to start to wonder if you made mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes, Rach.” Ben drew her into his arms, which was exactly where she wanted to be, her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek pressed to his chest. “You can second-guess your life forever, all the decisions you made, all the feelings you felt, but it doesn’t change the way things are now. Wasn’t it you who said we were going to stop rehashing the past?”
“I want to,” she whispered. “I just want to make sure I’ve remembered it right first.”
