Small Forgotten Moments by Annalisa Crawford

Author:Annalisa Crawford [Crawford, Annalisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cornwall fiction;novels about memory loss in women;cornish village stories;cornish seaside;cornish coast;heart-wrenching stories;novels about art;novels about artists;novels about painting;novels about amnesia;novels about bad dreams;novels about drowning;novels about truth;apparitions and ghosts;women sleuths;female sleuths;mesmerizing book about a woman;beautiful epic love;intellectual womens novels;the dark heart of obsession
Publisher: Vine Leaves Press
Published: 2021-08-30T22:00:00+00:00

I type “Jo Mckye” into the search bar, unsure what I’m seeking.

No, that’s not true. I am sure: I’m searching for me. The real me. Not the shell. Not the empty vessel. I need to know who I was.

My name appears multiple times on the screen, but not all of the mentions are me. I scroll through—discounting the wrong ones—and click one for my university alumni page. There’s a small biography, no pictures. It gives brief details, nothing I’m not already vaguely aware of. Nothing useful.

Digging further, I discover archived articles about the course, videos of our end-of-year exhibitions, and interviews with some of the students. A couple of names are familiar only because of their subsequent success; none of the faces are, except Spencer. Candid, behind-the-scenes photos without acknowledgement of who’s in them form a decorative boarder. I scrutinize them, but none are of me.

Back to the search page, another result leads me to an art competition, with WINNERS 2009 in bright blue letters across the top. In this, I placed fourth with an entry called Girl and Rose. Shivers cascade around my body. I don’t want to click on the link. I don’t want to know who the girl is. Because I already do. My hand is on the mouse. I click. The page loads.

Zenna smiles back at me. An unformed version of herself. Undeveloped. I don’t recall the competition or the painting. Yet here she is, taunting me from the screen. Her hair is flowing across her shoulders, green in this picture. Her hair is never the same—it changes color and length, sometimes it hangs limply, at others it spreads out like the snakes of Medusa.

Her eyes are always the same—a curious shade of amber which doesn’t appear among my paints. They shine as though caught in sunlight. The longer I stare, the more they penetrate.

“I’m going to the Smugglers,” Mum calls up the stairs, and leaves immediately without inviting me.

I glance toward the door wondering what damage I’ve inflicted on our relationship this time, whether it’s the beginning of another breakdown. It’s all going wrong, and it’s all my fault. I lean back against my pillows. Perhaps it’s time to leave—I only planned to be here a couple of days, anyway. None of what I’d hoped for has occurred. I haven’t salvaged memories or admitted my amnesia. The longer I’m here, the more time that passes, the harder it is to bring up—like answering to the name Jess because I waited too long to correct an acquaintance. It’s sad, but there must be millions of people who don’t get on with their family—I’m not the only one.

Remember me.

“Leave me alone. Get out of my head!”

A little girl laughs, and I’m chilled to my bones.

***

In the middle of the night, I’m wide awake. An owl hoots, foxes cry, something screeches further along the valley and makes me shudder.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, evenly. Floating on the ocean, with Opera Pink mist swirling around me. To be more accurate, over the ocean—the mist holding me like a pair of hands.

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