Hindsight Read online

  “It’s none of my business dear. I will let your husband know that you are conscious again but he will have to wait until the doctor has seen you first.”

  “Really? But he’s my husband, can’t he just come up and sit with me?”

  “No dear!” The vehemence of her reaction surprises me. “A husband’s place is in the waiting room, or at home. They usually just get in the way. Doctor will be in soon,” she says, as she moves efficiently out of the door in a whirl of white.

  Well, my location has been verified, St Vincent’s Hospital — the place of my birth, in the future. How ironic. The next step is to confirm that it is actually 1961, that this really is happening, not that it would be wise to ask anyone. Being locked up in an asylum is definitely not on the agenda. My opportunity to freak out will come when the lights go out; even then it will be a very subdued, quiet, internal type of freaking episode.

  Once again my bladder speaks to me. Getting out of bed slowly — you’d be surprised how difficult it is to navigate with only one working eye — I find the toilet and remove the beige undies that clearly belong to someone’s grandmother. Pulling my undies down, a gasp of horror followed by a scream thunders out of me.

  Oh. My. God. As if the undies weren’t bad enough, I trip and stagger in the tiny bathroom, trying to outrun the small, furry creature that has crawled onto my lap and decided to live there. But there’s no escaping because it’s part of me, a bikini line gone wild. This garden hasn’t been tended to since the onset of puberty. I haven’t seen that amount of pubic hair since…ever.

  “Mrs Taylor?” The nurse knocks on the door. “We heard a scream, are you alright?”

  No, definitely not! Holy mother of God! There’s so much pubic hair that it could be braided into dreadlocks. I could shear it like a sheep and make a jumper out of it. Where’s my lovely, neat, clean Brazilian?

  “Mrs Taylor? Mrs Taylor, are you alright dear?”

  “Umm… yes, thanks. I just…um…tripped.”

  “You tripped? On what?”

  On my pubic hair, which is almost touching the ground. “Just on a…a…thing. Everything’s fine, thank you.”

  As the water runs over my hands, I notice that my formerly perfectly manicured hands are sans nail extensions and polish, same for my toes. The well of despair just got deeper. There’s a picture on the wall of a woman who looks very familiar — even similar to me. Perhaps she’s a relative. What an odd place to have a picture though. Oh no! Another gasp and small scream escapes. There’s no hope of stopping the sounds coming out of my mouth. That’s no picture, that’s my reflection in the mirror.

  “Mrs Taylor?” the nurse asks again from the other side of the door.

  My eyes are glued to the image before me. They’re not even capable of blinking. Oh. My. Fucking. God. There’s a mop of mousy brown hair that has not been cut, styled or highlighted. Mousy brown! No one has to live with mousy hair anymore, not since the invention of peroxide, so what the hell’s going on? My eyebrows are not professionally shaped, my skin is not glowing or rejuvenated and my lips are decidedly less pouty than normal.

  “Mrs Taylor?” She is more insistent this time.

  “Yes, all good thanks, Nurse. I just…umm…” Saw myself in the mirror without all my chemical and cosmetic enhancements and was horrified at my own plainness. My eyes and labourer’s hands explore my face, looking at all the little wrinkles, the blackish bags under my eyes, the open pores of my cheeks and forehead, the thinness of my lips in comparison to the real me, the few blackheads on my chin as well as the grayness of my skin, I feel the beginnings of depression take over.

  Oh no! Please no! Not the girls! As I open my top, my eyes are greeted by the sight of two size-seven feet on the cold lino floor. There’s nothing in-between the two most polar points of my body. Out of gasps and screams, nothing escapes other than a small, pathetic whine. They’re gone, my perfect D-cup breasts are gone. My pride and joys, the things that stop me dead in my tracks every time I walk past a mirror naked. My beautiful, perfectly shaped, nubile, pert breasts are gone. Chris wasn’t in favour of my boob job originally, but he soon changed his mind when he saw them; this kind of fakeness he doesn’t mind at all. Hypocrite. But they are gone and in their place are my real breasts, which look like the ears of a golden retriever, only hairless.

  Tears well up, making it difficult to take in the image in the mirror. So this is what it feels like to fall out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Utterly deflated, I drag my ugly arse back to my bed.

  The newspaper on the chair confirms the date — April 1st, 1961. So, now I can add ‘time traveller’ to my CV. Excellent. Maybe it’s a dream; a vodka-induced oblivion that generates incredibly realistic dreams. I pinch myself hard, then slap myself in the face twice just to test the theory. Surely we don’t feel pain in dreams? Unfortunately, the only thing that achieves, apart from pain, is a group of people staring at me, probably thinking that the crazy lady in the corner is in the wrong type of hospital.

  Amongst the group of people staring at me is a guy puffing away on a cigarette, wearing a deathly halo of smoke. What’s worse is that the lady he has come to visit is also smoking. If hospitals are places where sick people come to get better, why then are people allowed to smoke here? They probably don’t know about the dangers of passive smoking. There’s lots of things they don’t know yet, like computers, mobiles, JFK’s assassination, Rock Hudson being gay. Better watch what I say from now on.

  Then it finally hits me — this is 1961. I have travelled back to the year 1961 unknowingly and unwillingly. How the hell did that happen? Maybe it was the vodka, the stress from Chris’s decision, the shock, the wall, the fall, the … Jesus! It could have been caused by a million things, or a combination of everything, or nothing — perhaps it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when all the stars were in alignment or Jupiter was passing Mars. The point is that this time is not my own, there’s nothing familiar about this era, apart from my house and family. Thank God they came with me, or, should say, were already here. It appears that this life is normal to them. They know me and our life here, whereas my knowledge is non-existent.

  What about my real life, what’s happening there? What about my business and the contract? It could fall through if the real me is here and not there. Is there another me living there? Physicists believe that there could be millions of versions of ourselves living in parallel universes. It was on the Discovery Channel, so it must be true. What happens if the 1961 me runs into the real me here? Has she gone there, to my modern home? What if the me in my own home has disappeared and Big Al and Chris think I have up and left all together?

  Oh no! Anya is on the loose and my husband is without a wife to nag him to stay away from her. She’s probably moving in right now. What if, what if, what if.

  Oh God! The only outcome from thinking of all the possible scenarios and their consequences is insanity; then Mrs O’Shane will be my cellmate for eternity. Time to get myself together and switch into survival mode. Breathe deeply, slowly, be calm and think. Note to self — remember that you shine in times of crisis; usually other people’s crises. You can do this. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! My inner voice goes up an octave with each fuck. I could almost telepathically shatter glass at the moment.

  The biggest question of all is how the hell am I going to get back to my life before Anya becomes the new Mrs Taylor?

  Doctor Tomlinson’s visit takes nearly half an hour. His questions are difficult to answer without raising suspicion and finally he settles upon a theory that the memory loss I appear to be suffering may be a result of the fall and may be temporary. He needs to keep me under medical supervision until at least tomorrow in order to rule out the possibility of the fall being caused by a brain injury, like a small stroke.

  On the upside, this provides the perfect excuse for being clueless. People will have to explain everything, and possibly re-introduce themselves, which will go
a long way toward helping me fit in here; for however long it takes to find the way back home. On the downside, I am still in 1961.

  Chris comes up to see me after the doctor has left. He brings me a straggly bunch of yellow daisies wrapped in newspaper. They look as though he pinched them out of someone’s garden. His genuine concern is touching and comforts me in a strange way. Perhaps it’s because he’s familiar, some link back to my real life. Maybe it’s because he still finds me attractive, despite my hideousness and the fact that I’m wearing an unflattering hospital gown, propped up in a bed.

  “Sweetie, you really scared us; passing out twice and hitting your head both times. The doctor said that you are suffering from amnesia, so we’ll have to be patient with you until you start to remember things. Are you feeling better?” He takes me gently in his arms and hugs me like a soft doona. Then he lifts my chin and our lips touch. It’s something I thought that I would never feel again. It’s enough to breathe some life back into me.

  “Yes, much better,” I lie. “I’m fine to go home now, really, it’s nothing. Just a bit of a sore head. God, and my eye hurts like hell too. The pain meds must be wearing off.”

  There are gasps from the other people in the room; they’re all staring at me again. One lady clasps her hands over a child’s ears as if to protect him from foul language, just like Chris does when he takes Ethan to the footy. Was it me? What was so offensive? It’s not as though the ‘f-bomb’ was dropped.

  Chris holds my hand, stands and turns to address them, “Sorry folks, my wife has suffered a head injury. She’s not herself. I apologise for the blasphemy.”

  Blasphemy? Jesus, I wouldn’t have picked that one. Note to self: watch your language and do not take the Lord’s name in vain, which will be torture considering my alias is ‘Little Miss Blasphemy’. They mumble and mutter amongst themselves and a couple smile at Chris. What other words are inappropriate here: bum, darn, gosh? So much to learn.

  A siren sounds. It’s either an air raid warning or the end of visiting hours, hopefully the latter. I’ve had enough bombs today. To my surprise visitors are very compliant and start packing up to leave, making hasty goodbyes with kisses all around. Maybe the hospital security is a bit heavy-handed around here?

  “Don’t worry about a thing Jules, the boys are fine. Lily’s got them. I’ll pick them up tonight,” Chris says.

  “Lily? Who’s Lily?” Oh joy! We have a nanny, thank God for that.

  “Lily, from over the road. Your best friend?”

  “Oh, so, she’s not the nanny?” Damn.

  “Ummm, no Jules. She’s not. This must be part of the amnesia, although you and Lily are so close it’s impossible to think that you’d forget her.”

  How’s that, one day here and already there’s a best friend. Hopefully she’s a mad scientist who has a time machine stashed in her laboratory. This will be odd because there haven’t been too many friends in my life — the consequence of being a workaholic. The whole friend-etiquette thing is a mystery. Dash and Lauren are the closest things to friends, but Dash has to love me because we are sisters, and Lauren has to pretend to love me for the sake of her brother.

  “How many children do we have?” Chris asks.

  “Um, two?” It’s more of a question than an answer. Please don’t tell me we’re Catholic and have twelve children. If that’s the case, being Mrs O’Shane’s cellmate doesn’t sound too bad.

  “What do I do for a living?”

  “Oh, that’s easy! You’re an architect. You design renovations and extensions mainly, but you’d like to move into designing commercial buildings in the future.”

  He smiles that sexy Chris smile, but something is missing. His eyes don’t crinkle like normal, they hold a seriousness about them, a tiredness. He pushes my hair back behind my ear and kisses me gently, sending tiny butterfly shivers all over my body. How can those be the same lips that kissed Anya?

  A second alarm rings and people start to leave.

  He takes me in his arms and holds me like a fragile bird, whispering, “It’s all going to be OK, love. Don’t worry about anything. Just rest and you can come home tomorrow, OK?”

  “Sure you can’t smuggle me out now?” The warmth of his arms is sweet and the thought of being here alone scares me.

  “You need your rest, sweetie. Although, I will miss you. We haven’t had a night apart since Cal’s birth. I’m just going to speak with the Matron. I have to find out what time you’ll be discharged tomorrow,” he says

  “Can’t you just phone them in the morning?”

  He gives me a pitying smile and leaves the room.

  A new, older nurse comes in. “Your husband says that your memory loss is extensive, Mrs Taylor. Much more than we had originally thought. Is that correct?” Her directness is confronting, no greetings or small talk, she just launches straight in.

  “Is it?” Please don’t tell me the bit about twelve children is correct. “If he says so then I guess he must be right.” After all, he knows the 1961 me and would be a better judge.

  “You guess?” She wrinkles her forehead with distaste. “Dear, either you remember who you are and from whenst you came or you do not. Now, which is it?”

  “It’s a bit hard for me to answer that question, with my memory loss and all, Nurse,” I say.

  “Matron!”

  “What?”

  “I beg your pardon, not ‘what’! I am the Matron, not the nurse!” she says.

  Of course, that should have been obvious, seeing as she has the charisma of a bulldog. Now the visitors’ speedy exit makes sense. Who needs security when this Matron is haunting the halls?

  “Sorry, Matron.”

  “What is it you don’t remember?”

  What sort of a stupid question is that? If I remembered what I don’t remember then I wouldn’t be suffering memory loss, now would I?

  “What do you mean, Matron?” I ask.

  “Mrs Taylor, tell me where your memory is short — is it your birthday, names of your children, where you live, what you had for breakfast, your maiden name? I need to get an idea of whether it is short term or long term memory you have difficulty with.”

  It’s not really the memory loss that’s bothering me, Matron. It’s the whole freaking time travel/parallel universe concept, but if we discuss that you’ll arrange for a padded van to come and take me to the institution that will house me until my last breath.

  “It’s hard to say really, Matron. Perhaps more of it will come to light after settling in at home again. You will be discharging me tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “We shall see about that, Mrs Taylor. I will inform the Doctor. Now, take your tablets, lights out in twenty minutes. Patients need their rest.” And with that she’s gone, thankfully. Any nightmares tonight will be accredited directly to her.

  I get up to visit the loo again and hear voices from the Matron’s office across the hall.

  “Her husband says the memory loss is disturbing, Doctor,” says the Matron. “Apparently she’s quite out of character, fantasising about having a job, etcetera.”

  “Hmmm,” he says. “Considering the history I’d like a second opinion.” He exhales loudly. “I’ll contact Dr. Holman at Kew Asylum now and ask him to come over tomorrow. I think it’s better to be safe than sorry in this instance.”

  Kew Asylum? The nuthouse? Mrs O’Shane’s residential address?

  “I couldn’t agree more, Doctor, particularly seeing as there are children involved.”

  “Dr. Holman will admit her to the asylum for a short term stay to start off with if he believes that is in her best interests.”

  Holy shit! My heart skips a beat and then rolls around in my chest cavity like an iron ball.

  “Very good, Doctor,” the Matron says. “I will get the forms now, in preparation for her transfer to Kew.”

  Oh my God. They’re looking at committing me to an asylum tomorrow! Tears begin to fall down my face as I think of being locked away, perhap
s indefinitely. If I can’t manage to convince this doctor tomorrow that everything is OK, they will lock me up and throw away the key. I’ve read the history books and know how people with psychiatric illnesses were treated. They were used for experiments, surgeries, even electric shocks. They were medicated into a zombiod status. Even women who had postnatal depression were locked away. If they commit me tomorrow, I will never get home. Never, because my life will be spent in some dank, dark cell surrounded by truly disturbed people, sad people, lost people…and I will be one of them…and Anya will take my family and Chris will let her because his wife has left forever.

  True to the Matron’s word, the lights are out twenty minutes later. The silence and darkness are eerie. The large thick windowpane warps the moonlight, shadows move across the floor and walls like floating spirits. The hospital looks as though it was built around the turn of the nineteenth century, with high ceilings and intricate cornices. It makes me think about all the souls who have stayed here before me. How many of them have been in my position? Surely this has happened to someone else, somewhere in the world, it can’t just be me. What a shame they don’t have a support group. Perhaps they do, inside Kew Asylum.

  Listening to the sound of hushed feet pad across the floor outside, the muted voices murmuring through the walls, it occurs to me that what is needed is a plan of action, or survival. Remaining calm and in control is the only way to go. Raising suspicion will only result in relocation to the nuthouse. Whatever happens, I have to play the part of 1961 Juliette well; the performance has to be Oscar-worthy. It’s my only chance of getting back home.

  The little sleep I got last night was punctuated by horrific dreams of being thrown into an asylum, my skin translucent and covered with sores, black and rotting teeth surrounded by bleeding gums, hair like a bird’s nest falling out in clumps around my filthy, bare feet. After each dream I would wake, my heart pounding and the nightgown clinging to my body with rivulets of sweat.