Page 35 of Forgotten
Ash thanks her and as quickly as she appeared, she’s gone. Ash turns to look at me and the woman with the shortbread is quickly forgotten. He’s so handsome, it hurts everywhere.
This time I accept the hand Ash is offering as he leads me inside the most wholesome townhouse I have ever seen. The semi-detached extends on three floors and a tall hedge separates the entry from the neighbour’s.
“Please let me know before you have a heart attack,” Ash warns me with a kind smile.
I almost have one, but then I remember to breathe slowly and think of Dr. Bakari. This might not be my choice now but it was my choice at some point in my life. I remember to breathe when I see Ash’s living-room andspot the details that make itourliving-room: the records displayed on the wall, the toys on the floor, the black pillows on the orange couch. I remember to breathe when Ash guides me to the dining-room and kitchen, where I spot a black kettle and the black mixer my dad gifted me years ago. Both are a hard contrast to the colourful decor that clearly was chosen by Ash.
I almost choke when Ash drags me upstairs. I need to take multiple breaks but eventually we make it to the first floor. When Ash asks me if I want to see the second floor where Winnie has a bedroom and a playroom I shake my head. Walking is draining but stairs are the scariest so far and I don’t think I can manage another staircase.
There’s worry in Ash’s eyes but he says nothing and instead gives me his arm. I hold onto it as we continue the tour. I almost have a heart attack again when Ash shows me a large bedroom that clearly belongs to us, but I must breathe. I must think about my choices.
The walls are light blue, matching the bedsheets. There is a fireplace on the right of the bed and a giant mirror on the left, next to a big window. A basket with some colourful pillows and blankets is pushed to the side. Beside it, a tall plant. I have never been able to keep anything alive, so I know immediately this is not mine. Not my choice, not under my control. Yet something I must have agreed to.
Some things I do recognise as mine. Ash doesn’t say much to fill the blanks but he points at things sometimes, a shaky finger hopefully raised up. In our bedroom heshows me one of my guitars and in the hallway he shows me a family portrait of himself, Winnie and I. The frame is black and white and it’s nearly unpleasant hanging on the neat white wall. One side of me wants to stop time, take a photo to make sense of it later. I tell myself I don’t need to: everything is here. Everything belongs to me. To us.
Finally, we make it to the second bedroom, a neutrally decorated room with its own bathroom. The curtains are beige and the bed is facing the window. Opposite of it there is a creamy chair and another green plant in surprisingly good shape. Compared to the rest of the house, the room is deeply impersonal, out of a design magazine. A tall mirror, a soft carpet and a quote from Shakespeare framed above the bed.
I watch the beige comforter as Ash chooses his words carefully, “I didn’t know if you wanted to sleep in the same room, so I prepared you the guest room. Winnie is with your dad for a couple more days so you can get settled in.”
I blink back tears, grateful but at the same time, somehow, disappointed. “You don’t want to sleep with me?” I joke and it’s an intrusive thought that knots my stomach.
“Oh, I want nothing more,” Ash says and disappears down the stairs, leaving my cheek flushed and my heartbeat irregular.
It’s home, but it’s not.
After I wash my face in the beige bathroom I leave the guest room to go hunt for fresh clothes in the mainbedroom. Opening the closet, I immediately realise I have chosen the wrong side. A line of colourful shirts stares back at me, pinks and greens and even stripes that I would never wear. I spot a white shirt with yellow pineapples that I have seen Ash wear only once and a pile of graphic t-shirts, too. Right at the top, the University of Birmingham logo reminds me that Ash is the same person I have always known and that this isn’t some sort of alternative reality. Once again, I breathe.
I pick something black and safe from my side of the closet and leave the room hurriedly, closing the door behind me.
I wonder if in 2024 I have finally learned how to do laundry properly, with all the colours Ash wears. And the realisation that I must have is the most unsettling realisation of all. In 2024, Ashford Hale can use a washing machine. A sense of pride spreads in my chest, immediately followed by the bruising awareness that if asked, I would not be able to accomplish anything successfully in my current state.
I slump down the stairs and into the kitchen where I find Ash in front of a piece of toast, chewing on a biscuit. The tin that the woman brought earlier is open, abandoned to the side. Ash seems to be in the middle of making a sandwich but there is only cheese on the counter. It brings a smile to my face.
If I never could do laundry, Ash could never cook. He’ll just slap a cube of cheese on the toast and call it lunch and then complain he’s too skinny, never keeping any weight.
I walk behind him and open the fridge, determined to find something that will feed Ash better. I find it is fully stocked, something Ash would have never done, and I contemplate who might be helping him. Ash mentioned my dad being in town, earlier. The twins, too. Who else has been grocery shopping for us, or bringing shortbread snacks? I push the thoughts away and ignore the Tupperware boxes labelled “Winnie” and get out butter, ham and a tomato.
“Here, let me.” I push Ash away from the counter with my hips. Ash just stands there, watching me as I butter the bread and slice the tomato and arrange the ingredients together into a decent meal. I proceed to make one for myself too, skipping the meat. It’s only a sandwich but it is delicious after weeks of hospital food.
Biting into the bread, Ash looks timidly at me. “Thanks. Was feeling peckish,” he tells me with a mouthfull.
It should be disgusting but he just looks so serene, so relieved I’m back home with him. His long hair is wet from a shower and dampening the neck of his t-shirt. His blue eyes are narrow and unfocused and he looks thinner than I have ever seen him. I want to ask if he has been eating alright but judging by the meal he was making, I think I have my answer already.
Suddenly I need to be closer to him so I move into his space, placing a hand on the counter so that it almost brushes his side. Ash smells like soap and shampoo and he has a trail of crumbs on his upper lip that I feel the need to lick away. I think of kissing him again but I reallyshouldn’t, should I? It would be unfair, without knowing how I feel for him or how and why we got together. “Will you show me how to do laundry?” I blurt out needing to do something, anything, that will get me out of here.
Ash frowns, then his face relaxes. He lowers his half-eaten sandwich to the kitchen counter. “Of course.”
We make our way to the basement and as much as I have visited Ash’s house after he’s moved in, I cannot recall ever being down here. There is a large room that must serve as an office and a music studio. Ash closes that door as we walk by and he guides me to the utilityroom.
“This house has a lot of stairs,” I joke, losing the grip on Ash’s arm and grasping the washing machine instead.
Ash barks out a laugh and I think about kissing him again–in the basement against the washing machine–until he’s breathless and panting and the only sound out of his mouth is my name. One eyebrow raised and a tight-lipped smile, I become conscious of the way Ash is looking at me.
“Do I want to know or shall we proceed with the washing?” He teases me, biting his lip.
Right-o. Laundry. Focus.
If moving is tough, learning about appliances is dreadful. And boring. I agree to everything Ash tells me and once we’re done, I beg for a nap. We slowly make our way back upstairs, leaving the basement and the horrible washer gimmick behind.
