You blame me for the gaps. I know you do. You can’t keep denying it, Amelia. It doesn’t help anything. And I agree with you. It’s happened. I know it has. Every forgetful moment, every lost thought. It’s dementia. I’ve plagued you. I’ve condemned you to a life of suffering all because I was too weak to say no.

  Nathan has filled the washing machine with our bedding. We can hear its mechanical mumbling. He’s putting on the clean sheet, smoothing out the creases and checking the corners. He glances at us, smiles. He’s calmed down.

  Once satisfied with the bed, he slips his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. ‘I’ve made you some por­ridge. It’s in the kitchen on the hotplate. I thought you should have a proper breakfast this morning, something to keep you going for your assessment. I’ve got a good feeling about today.’

  We don’t share in his good feeling. It’s been less than a week since our last test, since Dr Swanscombe was here, observing us, her dark eyebrows knitted together in a permanent frown. On three occasions, Nathan has believed us ready to venture beyond the apartment. Each time, Dr Swanscombe has sub­jected us to intensive testing. We’ve had our blood taken, our eyes examined, our tolerance to noise levels and temperature variations tested. We’ve endured medical health screenings and adaptability tests. Each time, the process has exhausted us. And, each time, we’ve failed.

  ‘Hurry up and eat your porridge, Lor.’

  We jump, our spoon clattering onto the table. Our mother is sitting opposite us, holding a bloody tea towel to her head. She’s more silhouette than substance, featureless but unmis­takably her. She’s wearing a dressing gown, the collar stained red. We blink, and she vanishes.

  We focus on the spoon, its smooth bright metal. The curve and contour of its design, the weight of it in our hands. This is real. This is our anchor. Concentrate hard enough, and we’ll stay grounded.

  But then she’s back, sitting beside us, her features still impossible to make out. The lines of her face blur and shift. ‘We don’t want you being late for school,’ she says, bending to collect shards of a smashed plate. ‘Help me, Lor. Let’s get this picked up before he notices. Before he gets angry.’

  ‘Laurie-Amelia.’ Nathan’s voice cuts through, his grip firm on our arms, holding them to our sides. ‘Breathe with me.’

  We do as instructed, matching his deep breaths. Eventually, our mother melts away. What remains is the bowl, our bowl, shattered on the floor.

  We’re standing in the kitchen opposite Dr Swanscombe, who is peering intently at our charts. She’s a tall woman, and the purple tunic makes her shoulders appear menacingly broad. ‘Your bloods are good,’ she says, her untamed eyebrows arch­ing slightly, ‘as is your mobility. You’re considerably stronger than you were last week, and Nathan tells me your appetite has returned to normal.’

  We nod. Eating has become easier. We try to be demo­cratic about food, alternating between our favourites, but it’s difficult to know what they are anymore. Working out our combined palate has required perseverance and patience. Many of our favourite flavours when we were separate, we now can’t tolerate. The smell of fresh fish, for instance, or the bitterness of coffee.

  ‘Your physio reports are especially pleasing.’ Dr Swanscombe’s large finger moves along the notes. Her nails are sensibly filed, rounded and neat. ‘Your improvement is quite commendable.’

  Again, we nod. We’re steady on our feet now and have no trouble carrying things anymore. The first time Dr Swanscombe observed us, we dropped the water jug and drenched her trousers.

  ‘Perhaps you could show me your progress so I can see for myself. How do you feel about walking without your stick, Laurie-Amelia? It might be best to try in the lounge. The car­pet will cushion you should you fall.’

  That seems counterintuitive. We’ll take more care, pay closer attention, if we walk on a hard surface.

  Tell her that, Mum. Go on. Try to speak.

  We try, but no words form. We lick our lips and try again. Nothing.

  Dr Swanscombe’s eyebrows converge at the centre. ‘I thought you said they were making progress with their speech, Nathan.’

  ‘I never specified—’

  She raises her large hand, silencing him. ‘I wonder what would happen if you refused to voice those trickier thoughts, Laurie-Amelia, the ones you’re struggling to articulate.’

  Is she telling you to ignore me?

  ‘I’m not suggesting you ignore the thoughts,’ she says, as though she’s heard. ‘Just that you don’t speak them aloud. You need a reason to force those words out. Right now, there’s no need for that part of your brain to connect with your vocal cords. If you stop speaking for that part of yourself, those thoughts will have to find another way out.’

  It’s not as though I don’t want to speak, or that I’m not trying hard enough. No matter how much effort I put in, the words never… solidify – never become anything more than thoughts. You refusing to talk for me will only frustrate us. It won’t make me try any harder. It’s impossible for me to try harder, Amelia. Tell her. Tell her we’re trying our best.

  ‘We’re trying our best.’

  ‘We?’ Dr Swanscombe purses her lips. ‘I don’t want to hear you referring to yourself in the plural, Laurie-Amelia. You must embrace your singularity.’ She taps her temple. ‘If you’re not bonded in here, how can you possibly be bonded’ – she points at her mouth – ‘in here?’

  We nod. We know she’s right, but it’s so difficult. It feels inauthentic to pretend we’re one combined being. We’re not. Not yet, at least.

  ‘Can we walk… Can I walk – in the kitchen?’

  ‘Why the kitchen?’

  ‘I’ll take greater care if the surface is hard. I’ll pay more attention if there’s a bigger chance of hurting myself.’

  Thank you, Amelia.

  Dr Swanscombe assesses the precision of our foot placement as we walk slowly around the lounge. We walk heel to toe, our arms outstretched for balance, just as she instructed. ‘Very good,’ she says eventually. ‘You’re wonderfully coordinated, remarkably steady compared to the last time I observed you. You’ve clearly been putting in the hours, Laurie-Amelia.’

  We nod. We have worked hard. Even when we’ve wanted nothing more than to stay tucked up in bed, we forced our­selves to attend the physio sessions. We haven’t missed a single one. Whenever one of us has groaned about going, the other made sure we got there.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Dr. Swanscombe gestures to the sofa before settling herself on the footstool. She begins flicking through the documents in her folder, moistening her finger with her tongue every few pages. ‘I must say, I’m pleasantly surprised by how much you’ve progressed this past week. Last time I visited, you insisted on wearing your sunglasses. Now look at you, not even a squint and the lights are on full. I always find it remarkable how suddenly Combines can take a positive turn.’

  Nathan’s nodding eagerly. ‘I told you, Doctor. They’ve come on leaps and bounds. Only yesterday—’

  ‘Here we are.’ Dr. Swanscombe pulls a green plastic card from a clear wallet. She rummages in her bag for a lanyard and slips the card into the attached transparent pocket before handing it to us. ‘You must wear this at all times when you’re outside your apartment. It grants you access to communal spaces and serves as your identification. On the back of your card, you’ll find your apartment number and emergency con­tact information should you require it.’

  ‘You mean… I’ve passed? I’m allowed out?’ ‘Congratulations, Laurie-Amelia.’

  We stare at the photograph on the ID card. It’s of us – of Amelia – wide-eyed and smiling. We have no memory of the picture being taken. The white background provides no clues, nothing to help us retrieve the memory. We’re wearing a plain black t-shirt, one that stirs no recollections. ‘When was this taken?’

  Nathan quickly takes the lanyard from us and slips it round our neck. ‘Just before your Merge, Laurie-Amelia. Congratulations. I knew you could do it.’

  I have no voice. How can we be ready to venture outside when I can’t speak?

  ‘You’re sure I’m ready? What about the part of me that can’t speak?’

  Dr Swanscombe begins gathering her belongings. ‘Consider my suggestion about not voicing those other thoughts. I think it could prove an effective method to get your whole self conversing.’

  Our watch beeps. So does Nathan’s. Our medication reminder. Nathan silences his watch, and we do the same. Dr Swanscombe thanks us for our sacrifice, and we thank her for her faith in us. We see her to the door as Nathan prepares our pills. She nods stiffly before walking away.

  A strange woman.

  We watch her go.

  We leave our hair wet, the way we like it when we sleep. We never enjoyed the feeling of wet hair before, never found a damp pillow comforting like we do now. We didn’t used to overheat at night.

  We get into bed and pull the duvet up over us, sitting with our back against the headboard. We remove our wedding and engagement rings and place them on the bedside table. We can’t seem to get used to wearing the jewellery at night. It upsets us. We’d never have removed them before. So long as you don’t let me forget to put them back on in the morning. Mitch would be devastated if we lost them. I would be devas­tated. We mustn’t lose them, Amelia.

  We’d like to remove our watch, too. The strap feels con­stricting when we’re trying to sleep. Claustrophobic, even. But we must wear it. It records our sleep and gives us a score upon waking. We’ve never tracked our sleep before. Neither of us were particularly good sleepers, and knowing we’d had a bad night before a long day at work wasn’t appealing. ‘Every Combine requires a minimum of ten hours sleep a night,’ Nathan told us when we complained about wearing the watch at night. ‘Preferably more. Without enough sleep, your recov­ery will take significantly longer. Your brain must be fully recharged to align. It’s why I insist you nap most days.’

  The lanyard is on the bedside table beside the rings. We pick it up and stare at the photograph. Who do you think took the picture? Nathan? Or a professional photographer? We bring the photograph closer to our eyes, searching for a clue, a detail that might unlock the memory. We look so happy. But there it is again. That nagging, unshakable feeling that we didn’t want this, that our being here is due to a terrible misunderstanding. We close our eyes, willing the memory to surface, a glimpse of that final day.

  Nothing.

  I can’t bear it. I can’t stand the fact that I’m erasing your memories. We must tell them. We must ask for help. There has to be a way of reversing this. My body isn’t underground yet.

  Our legs tingle. A faint, buzzing current fuelled by anxiety. The thought of my body – Mum’s body – our body – lying cold and lifeless in storage, waiting for the burial it deserves. We shake our head, refusing to let the panic settle.

  Nathan has told us repeatedly to stop catastrophising. ‘The memories will return,’ he always says. ‘Everyone struggles at first, Laurie-Amelia. You’ve just got to keep trying, keep willing those moments to come back to you, and they will. You’ll see.’

  As though summoned, Nathan enters the room. He hands us our tablets and a glass of water. We’ve lost track of how often medicine is given to us. We’ve no idea how many pills we swallow each day. At first, we tried to count, but it proved impossible. There are so many pills that at times we feel we can’t swallow any more. Like this morning, when a part of us rejected them. We blocked our throat and spat them out. Nathan closed his eyes, barely containing his frustration. ‘You’re only hurting yourself, Laurie-Amelia.’ He used a tissue to pick up the partially dissolved tablets. ‘Without medication, you’ll find the merging process intolerable. Far worse than this heartburn you’re complaining about, I can assure you.’

  This time, we swallow the tablets easily. Nathan takes the empty glass from us, then turns off the light and switches on a white noise machine in the corner of the room. It’s something that never used to soothe us, but now we find it essential to quieten our mind. When we’re trying to drift off, our head­talk can become tense.

  Nathan checks that our watch has sufficient battery life. He pats us on the shoulder like a proud father. ‘Well done, Laurie-Amelia,’ he says. ‘I knew you could do it. You get a good night’s rest. We’ve an adventure waiting for us tomorrow.’

  We’re in the woods. Or is it a park? We’re surrounded by trees and twisted branches. We’re being chased. There’s laughter. It’s coming from us. Giggles erupting like bursts of confetti.

  Are we playing tag? Or stuck-in-the-mud?

  We sprint, our boots churning up splashes of water and mud that clings to our legs. A large hand extends towards us from the sky. We speed up, slipping on the wet ground.

  Our laughter morphs, distorts, becomes a cry.

  We continue to run but lose our footing. A sharp pain shoots up our leg. The trees twist and dissolve, and we’re running, stumbling down the driveway towards our house, holding a small child.

  The front door.

  We reach it, but the hand is back, closer now. It grabs for us. We duck.

  Our ankle throbs. The child screams. But we keep running. Muddy footprints mark our passage through the doorway and up the stairs. We reach the bedroom. Slam the door shut. We take a deep breath, daring ourselves to look at our ankle. We see bone.

  We crumple, and so does the child. His lungs give out.

  Below, beneath the floorboards, lies our mother.

  Trapped.

  ‘Mum?’

  Then she’s gone. Downstairs. With him.

  There’s the sound of flesh meeting flesh. Her cries.

  Then it stops. All is calm. We float upwards.

  We welcome you to another beautiful day of healing and growth.

  Up, up, floating like a bubble.

  Nurture your merged mind, body and spirit as you con­tinue on your journey of transformation. Let us support one another, uplift one another and celebrate each small victory along the way.

  We sit up, gasping for breath. Who was that man chasing us?

  But the moment we ask, we forget.

  We hadn’t anticipated the tranquillity of the world beyond the apartment. Nathan advised us to wear our sunglasses for our first outing, and through our lenses the corridor has a gentle, golden hue. Arched windows stretch along the walls, interspersed with delicate brass sconces. Soft classical music drifts from hidden speakers.

  We walk slowly, Nathan’s elbow tightly gripped in our left hand, our walking stick in our right. The indents left by the walking stick create a pattern on the plush carpet. We pass our neighbours’ apartments, each door adorned with cursive brass lettering displaying the inhabitant’s name. The names curl beneath the apartment numbers like a smile: Lucy- Elizabeth lives at number 32, Annalisa-James at number 33, Gary-Eleanor at number 34. We pause to consider the others who willingly merged. The names smile back at us, content in their decision.

  ‘Well done, Laurie-Amelia,’ Nathan says, gently pulling us forward. ‘Keep on going.’

  Nathan reminds us of someone from our childhood. It’s his height, we think, the sense of safety he provides. The recollec­tion takes a moment to solidify. Then it comes, just like that, the outline of him, perfectly clear in our mind.

  Walter Green was his name. He lived opposite in a small bungalow. He put me up whenever I wasn’t able to go home. He never asked questions, at least not to me. He just let me sit with him, playing board games until it was time for bed. I got to be very good at draughts… Sometimes he took me to school the next morning. He called the police once. My mother hated him for doing that, but I never did. I liked knowing he was there, looking out for us.

  Our stomach knots with unease. I wish you’d told me about all of this sooner. I’m so sorry, Mum.

  We push the memory away before it’s able to take hold. It’s surprisingly easy, just as Nathan said it would be. ‘Really, Laurie-Amelia,’ he assured us, helping us into our coat, a long black duffel sent from Mary to keep us warm in the cold weather. ‘You’ll find your new surroundings more inter­esting – more stimulating – than the memories of the past, and they’ll win out. You’ve become too accustomed to your apartment. It’s no wonder the memories consume you in here. You’ve been holed up inside for too long.’

  We didn’t like to ask him exactly how long it’s been. It’s November, we know that much. But how far into November are we? How many weeks, or months, have we been trapped inside with only Nathan for company? If only we could remember the journey from the infirmary to the apartment. Just a whiff of the weather would help. Were we stretchered, do you think? Or wheeled? I doubt we could have walked. Perhaps we were carried?

  At the end of the corridor, a large window offers a view of the garden lined with evergreen bushes. It’s been snowing. Not a great amount, just enough to dust the grey stone path that winds through the garden and leads to the pond. We wonder if it contains koi, their marbled bodies colouring the water like living strokes of paint.

  ‘There are over three hundred acres to explore,’ Nathan says. ‘Much of the grounds here are forested, which is a real treat. Some Villages, the more urban ones, have very little nature for Combines to enjoy. Now, Laurie-Amelia.’ His eyes soften the way they do when he’s trying to comfort us. ‘Being reunited with your friends will no doubt cause you some upset and confusion. You’ll have conflicting ideas of these people, differing recollections. My advice is that you don’t let the memories overwhelm you when they come. Remember the grounding work we’ve been practising. When you find yourself thinking back, focus on something in the here and now. A smell, or a physical sensation. Today, for this walk, try to be entirely present.’

  The elevator dings, announcing its arrival. Nathan turns, tugging gently at our arm, but we remain where we are, staring out at the garden, our heart suddenly on overdrive. We press our palm against the window. ‘Albie,’ we whisper. ‘Why is he…’ But then he vanishes. There’s no one there. Albie isn’t by the pond, isn’t tossing bread to the fish. A hallucination? Our stomach knots again, tighter this time. Albie was no more there than our mother was at breakfast yesterday morning.

 

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