Do You Remember

By Denise Carrol

He followed her home … and she let him in

Tanith Fellows is battling to cope with the death of her younger brother and, as a result, she's been taking more sleeping tablets than she probably should in order to ensure escape when she goes to bed.

Waking up one morning, she realises that she's wearing different pyjamas to those she went to sleep in and has vague recollections of a car accident.  When she gets up, she sees her treasured jade necklace smashed on the floor and realises that she's been assaulted, that someone's been in the house with her.  Everything is a blank though.  She can't remember a thing after she switched off the light.

Strange things start to happen in her house after that.  Photographs seem to be moving, clothing items seem to be rearranging themselves in drawers, her fridge is stocked with groceries she can't remember paying for and the wayward pyjamas from the night of her attack make a surprise reappearance.  Beyond exhausted, Tanith tries to ignore her increasing fear, putting all of this down to an over-stressed, often fuzzy, mind, something she's had a problem with since her MS diagnoses anyway.

She eventually realises, too late, that some of the things that have been happening around the house were signs from her brother and that she'd missed the message he was trying to send her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Carrol
• Release date: Jan 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224408894

Denise Carrol

I have worked in the communications field for almost twenty years and headed up the communications department at a large financial services organisation before leaving to teach and travel in the East for two years. Sitting down at my laptop one Sunday afternoon not too long after my return, I started an impromptu memoir of my time spent travelling and the writing bug bit. I also enjoy interior design and live in a home where I'm surrounded by flowers and bright, happy colours. I share my living space with my much-loved Maltese girl, Shugie, and Oscar, a very naughty (but also very sweet) cat that decided to move in with me two and a half years ago.

Book preview

Two

Mike hovers at the entrance to the hospital emergency rooms.  I can see him through the door to my single ward as the nurse has drawn back the curtain around my bed.  I find myself wondering why there’s a privacy curtain in a single-bed ward with a door.  It’s not as though there’s anyone else in here who can see me.

The emergency room is frenetic, more so than it’s been before.  How many times have I been here now?  But this time it’s not because of my eyes ... or the panic attacks ...

I can see an elderly gentleman fussing over his wife.  She’s broken her wrist and seems almost comatose from shock or something they’ve given her.  He’s wiping tears from his face and talking heatedly with a nurse, a rather odd juxtaposition to his injured wife’s stillness.  The nurse pats the man’s arm, points to his wife’s cast.  I wonder if they’re going to admit her.  She doesn’t seem in any state to go home and he doesn’t seem in any state to take care of her.

I watch as a young boy and his mother take a seat.  He’s holding a towel to his head and his mother look’s angry.  I try to lipread as she’s talking to him very sternly, manage to make out ‘stupid’ and ‘helmet’.  Maybe a skateboard accident?  A man sits down next to the boy, starts to fill out some paperwork.  He glances over at his irate wife, gives a half smile.  This irritates her even further and she looks away in a sulk.

Beeps and blips are sounding everywhere, one very insistently, like whoever is attached to the monitor has unhooked it or something’s come loose.  I want to scream, tell them to switch the bloody thing off.

The hospital disinfectant smell is too much for me.  I’ve smelt it too many times now.  The sterile white paint and floors feel like they’re bearing in on me, suffocating with their almost neon brightness.

The florescent lights are also painful to be under and I place my hand over my eyes, like I’m looking out to sea.  I want to ask Mike to bring me my sunglasses, but I don’t think he really wants to come in.  He’s giving me my privacy and I’m very grateful for that.  We’re not close enough for him to be with me through something like this.  I can’t believe things have ended up this way.  I think of my mother, picture her sitting next to me, try to feel her hand on mine, and then Danny, his caring, all-knowing eyes, and the tears start again.

Mike holds up a coffee cup and bottle of water and cocks his head to one side.  I shake mine in a ‘no’, the nurse has already given me some water, lowering my hand a little so that he can’t see me cry.  

Breathing deeply, I fight off the sobs that I know will overtake me if I allow them to come.  I close my eyes to block out the white searing off the walls around me, try to concentrate on the beeping of a monitor in the room next to mine, regular interval blips this time and then a more insistent sound.  Feet rush from the nursing station and I hear a curtain swish as it’s pulled back.

Voices, muffled, and I strain to hear what they’re saying, but can’t make anything out.  Someone is crying.  The person in the room next to me has someone who cares for them with them by their bedside.

Where is Ethan?

I’d called him from the car when Mike was driving me here and have tried him twice since.  The ride to the hospital had felt dreamlike, surreal, like it was happening to someone else, some poor SVU victim on a TV screen.  How many episodes had I watched where the victim sat, alone, in the police station, giving an account of what had happened to some stranger in a uniform?  No one she loved with her.

But I do have someone who loves me ... I shouldn’t be alone here ... Ethan should be here with me ...

Mike isn’t family, or my boyfriend.  How can I be going through something like this essentially on my own?  The urge to pinch myself comes over me again. 

My cellphone buzzes under my left hand and my heart lurches. 

Ethan.  Finally!

Tan?  Is something wrong? His voice sounds distant and I can hear wind howling in the background.

Does he know?  My stomach knots at the stupid thought, he can’t possibly know.  I realise I’m not sure how he’ll take it.  I don’t feel like I know anything about Ethan anymore.

I can picture him sitting at a desk wherever he is, like he sometimes does at my place, indecipherable drawings spread out in front of him, dark hair pushed upwards into dark, agitated spikes as he traces trench trajectories and other such things.  He always looks so handsome and professional, the consummate engineer, when he’s pouring over his work like that. 

Hi, babe.  Everything’s fine.  Why do you ask?  I’m not going to tell him.

My imagination again pans to a TV, the wife or girlfriend saying emphatically that they don’t want anyone to know what has happened.  I’d always wondered with, I now realise, ignorant, judgmental superiority, why the silly woman was in the relationship if she couldn’t tell her partner something like that, turn to them in such a time of need.  I know these things happen in real life, that it’s not all made up.  Why didn’t the woman realise she was wasting her time in the relationship?

Well, now I understand.  It’s not always that cut and dry.  Sometimes you just don’t know what the best thing to do is.

You called three times in the last ...  muffled sounds and whipping wind.  I wait as I hear him speaking to someone.  A masculine voice.  I notice my relief.

Sorry, Tan, the weather’s crazy down here today.  Winds are almost forty k’s, can you believe it?

I try to laugh, but the sound comes out weird.  A gurney rattles past my room loudly and someone is shouting for a Doctor Smythe or Smith. 

I cringe, squeeze my eyes shut in fright.  I also wasn’t going to tell him where I was.  I hope the sea noises drowned out the sound, that he didn’t hear it.  Another rattle sounds at my door, then another.  Someone calls for the doctor a second time.  

Are you in the hospital again?  The much-hoped-for touch of concern in his voice is completely obliterated by the word again.  The familiar impatience is there, his words coming out on an irritated sigh.  His mouth is probably turning down at the corners, I know that sound in his voice.

I’ve been raped, please come home ...

I can’t speak, my tongue suddenly dry and stuck in my mouth.  It’s nothing, really, I manage to croak.  They’re just looking at my eyes ...

Is it still the light?

It’s never stopped being the light ...

I miss you, I say, unable to stop myself.  I suspect this isn’t what Ethan wants to hear. 

A second or two’s pause on the other end of the line feels like a whole day.  But you’re okay?  Has someone driven you?

Mike’s here.

Are you still taking your anxiety meds?

Yes.  The clipped, business-like tone in his voice is difficult to listen to.  Painful.  I try to block out the sound out, concentrate instead on the words, but that doesn’t help much either.  He sounds like he’s giving his PA instructions or discussing what he’d like for lunch. 

Ethan and I had met ten months previously and it got hot and heavy very quickly.  I’d told him about my MS a month or so into dating and it hadn’t seemed to bother him.  In fact, just the opposite.  He’d said he wanted to be there for me, especially as I had no family left.  And I’d honestly believed him.

Until the first relapse he’d lived through with me, and this one had been a whammy.  The terrible light sensitivity has completely derailed my life and turned me into an anxiety-ridden wreck who can hardly get through the day.  Stumbling through life like a terrified deer in the headlights most of the time, I know I’m nothing like the woman he originally met.  The thought makes me sad and I know he knows it, that it weighs on him too.

Things had started to cool four months ago (Isn’t the light thing in your head maybe?), culminating in the announcement that he he’d been called to a water reticulation project down at the coast and would be away for, hopefully, no longer than six to eight weeks.  He’d been gone for just over three and a half.

Good.  I’m far up north, so can’t get away right now.  I’ll try and fly up over the weekend.  No promises though.

He won’t come.  I try and force the thought from my mind, but I know it’s true.

How is it going down there?

Hectic, but I’m enjoying it.  The project’s massive.

I try to lighten my voice.  I’m glad.

The wind picks up again and I can hear a gruff-sounding voice calling something.  I’ve got to go Tans, but I’ll call you a bit later.  See that you’re settled in at home again.

No questions about what my neuro has said or how I’m feeling.

Just another one of my turns ...

Great.  I ...  I listen to dead air.

"Ms Fellows?"

Tanith, I say.

The doctor is young, probably not much older than I am, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and beautiful, but tired-looking, dark blue eyes.  Tanith.  I’m Doctor Siedland.

I nod my head, my heart suddenly crashing against my ribs.

The results.

The nurse that had administered the rape kit is standing next to the doctor.  Her expression is unreadable, as is Dr Siedland’s. 

The nurses name badge says Sister Bethany.  I hadn’t noticed that earlier.

How are you feeling? The doctor’s blue eyes are kind.

I’m okay, thank you.

Looking down at her chart, she clears her throat.  Evidence of recent sexual activity, very slight bruising, but no conclusive evidence of rape yet.  We’re still waiting on some test results.

How recent? I ask.

Within the last twenty-four hours.

My heart is thudding.  The last twenty-four hours.  But there’s no conclusive evidence that it was rape?  My voice sounds like a far-off thing, flat.  Like it’s someone else’s.

No trace under your nails ... no semen.  We’ve sent your nightie and underwear, as well as the bodily fluid swabs, to the lab for further analysis.

He used a condom.  I feel a mix of relief and disappointment.  Slim STD or AIDS risk.  No DNA either.

Bodily fluids?

Sweat and saliva, says the nurse, her eyes also soft.  The skin and mouth swabs.  She takes blood and talks about follow up testing in four to six weeks if initial tests come back clear.

I nod.

The doctor pulls a little stool to the side of my bed and sits down.  The nurse is watching closely.  

I avert my eyes as I know what is coming.

You’re going to have to report this to the police.  Get a case number.

And then what?

They try and find whoever did this.

But there’s no evidence ... A sob croaks from my chest and I try to suck it back, embarrassed.

The doctor looks over at the nurse, who fills another cup of water.  I take it, but don’t drink.  My hand is shaking too much to get it up to my lips.

Not yet.  Do you remember anything?

I shake my head.

Where did it happen?

I turn my head and look at her now.  In my bed, I think.  I don’t know ...

Did you go out?

I don’t know ...

Tell us what you do remember, says the nurse.

I went to bed early, at about five.  I was tired ...

Looking back down at her chart, the doctor says:  You’re Doctor Oakes’ patient.  You’ve had a rough time of it over the last few months, I see.

A tear slides down my cheek.  I’ve been battling with light sensitivity.

Doctor Siedland’s expression is empathetic.  I know she must be aware of the anxiety problems I’ve been having too.

I see Doctor Oakes prescribed sleeping tablets for you the last time you were admitted.  Are you still taking them?

I nod again.  I can’t sleep without them.  My GP, aware of my insomnia and other difficulties, has given me a three-month repeat.

And Urbanol for anxiety.

I take that in the mornings.  And whenever else I feel like I can’t cope.

How many sleeping tablets did you take?  Doctor Siedland lowers the chart.  I can see what she’s thinking.  Or am I just projecting?

Just one.  And that was true.  Last night.

Be careful with them Tanith, she reaches for my hand. Patients sometimes use them as an escape and that can be dangerous.

Is there anything we can do for you?  Anyone we can call? asks the nurse.

I have a friend in the waiting room. I try to smile.

Doctor Siedland stands.  If there’s anything you need, let us know.  I’ve put a rush on the rest of the tests.

The nurse reaches for the bag with my change of clothes.  I shake my head and say I’m fine by myself.

I feel like I’m dressing a body I no longer know.  One that’s had sex with persons unknown and remained unconscious through it all.

Hi Tan – have just been told that I need to travel to the south coast tomorrow to take a look at a sister reticulation project down there.  Won’t be able to make it home this weekend. Sorry ☹

Are you on your way home yet?

Still no ‘how are you?’

Still no ‘I love you.’

Still no ‘I miss you.’

My expression must have given my hurt away as I sit staring, dumbfounded, at my ‘phone.  The lack of sympathy, or any real interest really, is breath stopping.

Is that Ethan?  The car has stopped at the robot just up from our complex and is taking an age to change to green.  My sunglasses are on, but my head is canter wheeling.  I will the thing to change so that we can move forward, I can get home.  All I want is to be left alone.  I feel bad thinking and feeling that way.  I can’t just tell Mike to leave, hot foot it inside and close the door in his face.

He can’t get away this weekend.  Has to go down to the south coast to look at another project.

I’m sure it’s not easy for him either, Tans, being so far away.  The WaterLine project is huge, he must be under a lot of pressure.  He’d be here if he could.  His tone belies his words, however.  I wouldn’t let work keep me away if my boyfriend had been raped.  I think that that’s probably more the truth of how he feels.

I haven’t mentioned anything about Ethan and my problems to Mike.  Mike has been so supportive over the last months, he’d never understand Ethan’s inability to cope.  His coldness.  His belief that things are all in my head.

My not telling Ethan the truth about what has happened is also something I haven’t shared.  How could I explain that?

If I had told Ethan the truth, would he have flown home?  Rushed to my side?  How have things gotten so messed up?

I guess. 

But I can understand that you want him here now ...

"Surely he doesn’t have to work the whole weekend?  My voice sounds brattish and I feel silly and childish.  Maybe you’re right ..." I add hurriedly.

And Ethan doesn’t know, after all.  He doesn’t think there’s any reason to rush to my side.  It’s ‘just my eyes’, after all. 

The light finally changes to green and Mike turns the car into our road.  He glances at me with a crooked smile.  Maybe he’ll surprise you and make a plan.  Let’s take it one step at a time.

Pulling under the carport, I’m relieved to hear him say.  I’ll walk you to your door, check in on you later.  You look exhausted.

Come in for a bit, I say.  I suddenly don’t want to go inside by myself.

Three

My hair smells coconutty and my skin is a hot pink under the pummeling water.  I know I’ve made the shower too hot, but the need to feel disinfected is overwhelming.  I allow the water to sluice over my shoulders for a last minute as I close my eyes and try to switch off my racing, overstimulated brain.

In for eight, hold for eight, out for eight.

Repeat.

I stand for another minute.  Then another.

Shaking off an overwhelming tiredness, I turn off the taps and step into what feels like a freezing afternoon.  I’ve now latched the bathroom window, but the air is frigid. 

I know it’s not cold, that it’s just me.

I wonder if I’m going into shock.

The mirror above my basin is foggy with steam, which I wipe away with my hand.  My dark hair, thankfully clean now, trails wetly down my back and I look exhausted.  My lip is a bit swollen.  Other than that, I look sort of normal.

How is that possible?

I touch the cut that the nurse dabbed with disinfectant after swabbing it.  Again, I think of who bit it.  How it got there.

Shivering, I towel myself off briskly, pulling on a pair of jeans and an old, baggy S & H sweatshirt from some team building or other.  Turning on the hair dryer, I enjoy its warmth.

I try to hard keep thoughts of Ethan’s absence from overtaking me.  The rape is something I push to the far recesses of my mind and am thankful that it’s staying there, for now.  I can’t cope with my gaping black crater of a memory, my self-inflicted nightmare.

As Mike said, one thing at a time.

One day at a time.

I look at the pile of green shards and broken stones now in a tidy heap on my dresser.  I know I’m not going to be able to throw them away.

You got it as a gift for your birthday! An ex-colleague and friend at S & H had exclaimed when I’d walked in on the Monday morning after my birthday.  I’d known that my office wouldn’t be quite ready, but knew that my mom would be excited for me to wear it.

The necklace, with its tiny matching teardrop-shaped earrings that I had been able to afford, did look stunning with my dark green silk and I’d felt every inch the new manager. 

Tugging me over to the window, Desiree had wanted to see the beautiful stones in the light.  She’d also been very complimentary about how chic the earrings looked with my hair twisted at my neck and off my face. 

Who says I didn’t decide to splurge and buy it for myself? I’d said in mock indignation.

"Well, let’s see.  It was your birthday over the weekend and now you’re wearing it ... I suppose you could have bought it for yourself ..."

"It was my parents, I’d laughed.  I probably wouldn’t have splashed out on it for myself."

Well, you’re a merchandising manager now.  You need to look the part!

That’s exactly what my mom had said at the dinner.  Six months and eleven days before my parents’ car veered off the road on the way back from a long weekend at Sun City.  They’d hit a sandy verge for some reason, spun and rolled down an embankment into a stormwater ditch.  They’d both died on impact.

Almost four years ago and it still feels like yesterday.  I can still see my mom’s dancing eyes cross the dinner table and my dad filling up everyone’s champagne glasses. Frothy bubbles had spilled onto the white tablecloth and the waitress had dabbed it up with a smile.

Danny, whipping a shiny, silver-wrapped box with a big red bow out of a bag next to my mom’s chair.  From me!  Sliding the box over the table towards me, eyes like a naughty little boy’s, As you can see, mom and I shopped at the same place. 

I know the glittery packaging is purposefully deceiving and unwrap the gift with deliberate care that I know will drive him mad.  I pick at the sellotape securing the bow to the silver wrapping, eventually slide it off intact.  So pretty, I say sweetly.

Opening a nondescript cardboard box, I lift out a white mug with Boss Lady! written in blocky black lettering across its front.  There’s also a caricature of a red-business-suited woman teetering on impossibly high heels, dark hair billowing around her face, clutching a briefcase to her chest.  I can see I bit of a resemblance, I laugh.

There’s something else inside the box, says Danny.

I lift out a pen that’s almost an exact replica of the drawing on the mug.  The top clicker part has billowing dark hair and, when you depress the ‘head’, the pen nib looks like a heel.  I love this! I say.  It’s so typical Danny.

A sound from over my shoulder makes me look around to see the waitress back at our table.  A lit sparkler has been placed into a big slice of chocolate gateau cake.  My parents and Danny sing happy birthday and she joins in.  A few of the diners at surrounding tables clap. 

Danny leans in, slides a fork through my slice of cake.  Happy birthday, boss lady, he says before swallowing a chunk of chocolate.

My bedroom comes into focus again as I pull my thoughts back to the present.  I’ve stripped the bed and the duvet set and sheet are in a black plastic bag ready for the dustbin.

I want to spray my bed with insect repellent and douse it in bleach too.

I smile to myself.  Maybe that’s a bit extreme ...

Switching off the hair dryer, I hear Mike with the coffee cups downstairs. 

I want so badly to sleep, but that will have to wait for a while.

His laptop is open on the kitchen island and the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air.  I can see a beautiful vector image of a Chinese lantern on its screen and the start of a website design.  "I hope you don’t mind me rummaging around for the coffee and stuff.  Feeling better after a shower?

Thanks, I smile, plopping onto my stool on the opposite side of the granite slab.  A bit.

I look over at his laptop. 

I shot up to my unit.  I was only gone for a minute.

It’s not your job to look after me Mike ... I mumble, grateful beyond words to have him nearby.

Nonsense, he says.  I’ll be keeping a close eye on the place until Ethan gets back.  I’ll speak to the guards too.

He gets up to pour coffee.  How many sugars?  Mike usually visits at my place, I don’t think he’s made me coffee before. 

Two.  And creamer, not milk.  It’s in the container on the counter.

The one marked creamer? he laughs.  I laugh back, but the sound is hollow.  Did you manage to tidy up upstairs? Mike had offered to help, but that also felt a bit too close."

I did.  A necklace my parents gave me was broken ...

He broke a necklace?

"Smashed