About the book: Before I Go to Sleep book. Author: S. J. Watson. Publisher: Harper Paperbacks; Reprint edition. Publish date: (February 7, ). BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP S J Watson. and for lesforgesdessalles.info my mother. to Andrew Dell. this book would not have been written without the input of my gang . Nah dem internationalen Bestseller von S.J Watson Scott, managed to get hold of a proof copy of the book called Before I Go To Sleep by S J.
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So what if you lost yours every time you went to sleep? Your name, your Before I Go To Sleep. Home · Before I Go To . your identity, yo Author: S J Watson. Download Before I Go to Sleep PDF Book by S. J. Watson - One of the target audience contributors put him on the spot and asked about comparisons to the films. S J Watson. BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP. 3. LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY. • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG. Before I Go To Sleep 27/1/11 Page 3.
Please answer. I wonder if I had been keen to marry him at all. Plus I felt that memory might be like a muscle, something that can be strengthened through exercise. My choices have already been made. Another day would end. Not particularly.
Days and days of work. Or Keep out! Something has been added. Call me. Does the book I hold contain another? I open it. Anything he tells me now I will have forgotten by the time I wake tomorrow. I realize I trust him. In that book is a version of my past. On the playground I see a roundabout. I have had nothing else to do. I put it back on the table. He drains the last of his mug of coffee.
I remember my journal. Tests and things. On the inside of the front cover is a list of dates. I want you to know that. I mean? I have to get going. I notice his hair. A young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt comes in and glances over to where we sit.
What shocks and surprises. The sun shines weakly through the net curtains and I feel its dull warmth on my arms and thighs. I wonder if he is telling me the truth. It was the house in which I had grown up. The bath and toilet were through the kitchen. I will put it under the bed. I look at the clock on the bedside table.
Most days. I am forty-seven. Or a hormonal imbalance. He nodded. I had thought I was waking up in. I smiled then. Everything I did today. The doctor was called Nash. It was of me and him. He said we have been meeting for the last few weeks. Keeping a journal? I want to remember things. One of a woman who. I can hear my husband in the living room — the soft sigh of the sofa as he leans forward or stands up. I feel as if I am floating. In the film he handed me a pencil and asked me to draw shapes on a piece of paper.
I am writing this in private. Bags and bags. I swallowed hard. The three of us would walk deep into the forest and pick blackberries.
So this is my treatment? I thought. One of me. Thinking I still have a whole lifetime of choice ahead of me. Thinking I am still a child.
An amnesiac. In here. And then my mother would boil them to make jam. I thought of this morning.
I recognized as my mother. I must be remembering the effects of my weeks of practice even if I did not remember the practice itself. He asked if I remembered any small details.
Things like that. Ring me if you get confused. There was a long pause. I must write quickly. I will wake up tomorrow as I did this morning. When I had finished he seemed pleased. Half my life is behind me.
At first it seemed totally unfamiliar to me. Because I have no memory. Keep a journal or stay as I am. He must have sensed my disappointment. It came to me then. He called me this morning. I could see that I found it difficult. Structural or chemical. There are treatments for persistent amnesia.
The room is silent and the only light comes from the lamp on the bedside table — a soft orange glow. Will he go into the kitchen and make a sandwich or pour himself a glass of water?
Or will he come straight to bed? It is very rare. In secret. I imagine that soon I will hear the TV silenced. I told him what I remembered: I am sitting here. The film ended. What choice did I have. He asked me and I told him that I had never met him before.
Dr Nash closed his computer. There were jams up there. He slid a brown notebook across the desk towards me. She made her own. A video clip. I have the bedroom door closed. Its pages were blank. I told him what I could. According to Ben. And then I will find out. It had looked different. He played me a film. He asked me to describe the inside of the house. My choices have already been made. Right up until you go to sleep.
It is almost eleven. You can even doze and still remember things when you wake up. We used to pick the berries from a wood that we drove to. Waiting for my husband.
I will hide this book in the shoebox I have found. What happened? What is my history? I hear the clock in the living room chime. And so familiar.
He said nothing. I got out of the car. I will write more. I look at the photo of the home in which I grew up. He drove me back. Before you go to sleep.
I think because of the photographs. Now I sit in bed. I will put it in the wardrobe. Ben is coming up the stairs. When I finished he put them away. An idea came to me. It looks so normal. A moment after he stopped the car I realized it was my own. We were pulling up in front of a house. I wondered where he had got these photos.
How did I get from there to here? I had to calm myself. I thought first. I hesitated outside the kitchen. Do it now. I realized he resembled a slightly older version of my father. I felt nervous. My name is Christine Lucas. He was right. He works during the week. Some part of me. I lay back in bed. Today is Saturday. I look at my watch and note the time.
A pale sliver of bacon swam in grease. I felt unable to grasp anything. I nodded. I expected to hear my mother downstairs cooking bacon. Something is wrong. Tidy up. We decided you should keep a journal. Nothing seemed real. I told him I would.
Have you written in it? My bag was at my feet and when I picked it up I realized the buzz seemed to come from there. Are you OK? He thinks I am resting but. Once I was alone. I was not sure I believed him. Much worse. I stared at it for a long moment. The bedroom was completely foreign. I sat on the edge of the bed in which I had slept. I remembered Ben telling me about the phone I have. He had not heard me come in. I expected the bed I was in to be single.
I have it. By the time I went downstairs I had seen the photographs around the mirror. I knew I was not a child. I was wrong. Would he be older. This morning I woke not knowing who I am. When my eyes flickered open I expected to see the hard edges of a bedside table. I have a little over an hour. Ben had his back to me. I looked at the house I was in — the one I now knew was my home — with eyes that had never known it before.
How would he sound? How would he move? How well had I married? A vision came from nowhere. A boxy wardrobe in the corner of the room and wallpaper with a muted pattern of ferns. I was about to meet him. I wanted to say. I could have done worse. I picked up the pillow to plump it and as I did something began to buzz. I felt scared. I think so. He turned round quickly. I have to write my journal. I saw that I had. It felt like snooping.
Ben has suggested we go for a walk this afternoon. Ben is downstairs. He told me that. It was brown leather and looked expensive.
For a moment I felt like running. His jaw had a strength that suited an older man. It was low. Marry in haste … I pushed the door open. There should be a notebook. We finished eating and I helped him tidy away the breakfast things. Have a look inside that. A few minutes later he followed me with two plates. What would he be like? Would he look as he did in the pictures? Or were they. I am not. When I found it. Is Ben around? I answered it. I want you to look in the wardrobe in your bedroom.
As I ate he explained how I survive my life. I lifted it out and unwrapped it. He explained about the phone I have in my bag. Keep myself busy. I should make it. He looked older than in the pictures upstairs — his face carried more lines. A woman — my mother? I have to write this down before I lose it.
He showed me where we keep our emergency fund — two twenty-pound notes. Completely flat. The book read like fiction. I get a drink and a sandwich and sit down with my notebook. Uncle Ted will pick you up at six. I am glad I have written it down. Something huge. And smaller than I imagined. I began to read. Images formed. I felt disappointed. The image vanished. I had remembered something. A lone jogger padded around a running track and I watched her for a while before the path took us beyond a tall hedge and up towards the top of the hill.
When were you going to tell me? I realized I was remembering.
The pen had slipped from my fingers. Less vivid. I will write more later. We have been out all afternoon but are back at home now. At first. Devoid of energy. Suddenly I was not sitting in a bedroom with a blank page in front of me but somewhere else. My heart raced in my chest. I will finish there. With lots and lots of grandchildren! He has the radio on and the sound of jazz drifts up to the bedroom where I sit. I can. I saw myself coming home. Ben is in the kitchen.
There I could see life. Yesterday I had described my old home. The vision had ended. Most of the benches were occupied. A dead fly. I speak. If I write quickly I should have time. Ben must have finished his paper. But not gradually. There were other.
Were those memories still there? Could I conjure more? I thought of my mother. He has called upstairs. I realized that somehow I knew that they are dead. A spark of electricity. It was as if the vibrancy of the past had leached all the life from the present.
Like my own face the view seemed both alien and somehow familiar. I seethe in silent fury. Colours and shapes.
The city sprawled before us under the low cloud. A dull orange carpet. A pen was tucked between the pages of the journal and almost without thinking I took it out. But then. It was not lost. I thought of my father. I smelt ketchup.
Mrs Royce has said that my stories are strong and moving. It seemed peaceful. Even so. I want to see my parents. It came alive. Where are they? What are they doing? I screw up the paper and throw it away. I could see the thrust of the Telecom tower. It is their fault. A piece of grit. I picked the pen off the floor and started writing this.
Whether that realization — that my parents are gone — triggered others. If I remember. It is still there. I had seen Dr Nash and he had given me this picture. I closed my eyes. A plastic car seat in navy blue and a faded pink potty. We did not go far. My father is driving us home. More real. It was then that it happened. I looked down at the book in my hand. I held it. That was written hours ago. When I close my eyes and try to will the image back.
I could see all the way across it to low hills in the distance. It looked abandoned. I found a photograph. Of course not. I opened my eyes.
Shall we walk? At least now it is not completely lost. I remembered nothing of what I had written. It was real. We headed for one just past the top of the hill and sat down. A yellow romper suit with a pink duck sewn on to the breast and press-studs up the middle. I sat in a bedroom. Not Dr Nash. I told him I was. Will you die? My parents. The house in which I had grown up. I will hide this book in the wardrobe. I am sitting in the back of the car.
We walked in silence. I know that eventually it will disappear. Back in the past — a past I thought I had lost — and I could touch and feel and taste everything. I am thirteen or fourteen.
I sighed and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. Driving home. It was odd to hear a decade that I could not remember living through summed up in two words. And intense. It was a lovely day. A dog barked somewhere. The scene hung for a moment. And then we went for our honeymoon. I began to recoil. Do you remember that? As you were getting ready that evening you found it.
He additionally spoke of how he intentionally averted all amnesia-associated testimonies as he wrote. PDF Books Online: Check All Books Here. Good eBooks to Read: Check Category wise Books Here.
Get Your Book Here. Your email address will not be published. Please enter an answer in digits: Sunday, April 14, Knowledge increases by sharing not by saving - Tell your friends and relatives about us, through social platforms or group chats. Home English Novels. Before I Go to Sleep by S. Watson , Suspense Books , Thriller Books. Share on Facebook Share on Twitter. Reviews of: This morning I had selected my underwear guiltily, searching through the pairs of knickers, balled together with tights and stockings, as if I was afraid of being caught.
I held my breath as I found knickers in silk and lace at the back of the drawer, items bought to be seen as well as worn. Rearranging the unused ones exactly as I had found them, I chose a pale-blue pair that seemed to have a matching bra and slipped them both on, before pulling a heavy pair of tights over the top, and then trousers and a blouse.
I had sat down at the dressing table to examine my face in the mirror, approaching my reflection cautiously. I traced the lines on my forehead, the folds of skin under my eyes. I noticed the blotches on my skin, a discoloration on my forehead that looked like a bruise that had not quite faded.
I found some make-up, and put a little on. A light powder, a touch of blusher. I pictured a woman — my mother, I realize now — doing the same, calling it her warpaint, and this morning, as I blotted my lipstick on a tissue and recapped the mascara, the word felt appropriate. I felt that I was going into some kind of battle, or that some battle was coming to me. Sending me off to school. Putting on her make-up. I tried to think of my mother doing something else. Nothing came.
I saw only a void, vast gaps between tiny islands of memory, years of emptiness. Now, in the kitchen, I open cupboards: I remember eating cheese on toast, boil-inthe-bag fish, corned-beef sandwiches. I pull out a tin labelled chickpeas, a sachet of something called couscous. How then do I survive, as a wife? I look up at the wipe-clean board that Ben had shown me before he left. It is a dirty grey colour, words have been scrawled on it and wiped out, replaced, amended, each leaving a faint residue.
I wonder what I would find if I could go back and decipher the layers, if it were possible to delve into my past that way, but realize that, even if it were possible, it would be futile.
I am certain that all I would find are messages and lists, groceries to buy, tasks to perform. Is that really my life? Is that all I am? I take the pen and add another note to the board. Pack bag for tonight? Not much of a reminder, but my own. I hear a noise.
Atune, coming from my bag. I open it and empty its contents on to the sofa. My purse, some tissues, pens, a lipstick. Apowder compact, a receipt for two coffees. A diary, just a couple of inches square and with a floral design on the front and a pencil in its spine.
I find something that I guess must be the phone that Ben described — it is small, plastic, with a keypad that makes it look like a toy. It is ringing, the screen flashing. I press what I hope is the right button.
Is that Christine Lucas? My surname seems as strange as my first name had. I feel as though any solid ground I had attained has vanished again, replaced by quicksand. Are you there? Who knows where I am, who I am? I realize it could be anyone. I feel panic rise in me. My finger hovers over the button that will end the call. Dr Nash. Please answer. I feel my mind begin to spin. Have been. So this is someone else I have no memory of.
Why had Ben not mentioned this doctor before he left this morning? A couple of times a week, give or take. Another person I see regularly who has left no impression on me whatsoever. You could be anyone. The same could be said of the man I woke up with this morning, and he turned out to be my husband.
His voice softens. I know. He explains that our next appointment is today. I think back to what Ben told me this morning, to the list of jobs written on the board in the kitchen. How can he not? He would have told me! How can we do that? The thought of going out, without Ben, without him even knowing where I am or who I am with, terrifies me. Do you have it? It should be in your bag.
Two thousand and seven. Twenty years later than it should be. You should see our appointment. I wonder if Ben has read them, whether he looks through my things. I decide there is no reason he would.
The other days are blank. No birthdays, no nights out, no parties. Does this really describe my life? He explains that he will come and pick me up, that he knows where I live and will be there in an hour. It is old-fashioned, a large dial in a wooden case, edged with roman numerals. It reads eleven thirty. Next to it sits a silver key for winding it, something that I suppose Ben must remember to do every evening.
It looks old enough to be an antique, and I wonder how we came to own such a clock. Perhaps it has no history, or none with us at least, but is simply something we saw once, in a shop or on a market stall, and one of us liked it.
Probably Ben, I think. And then, tonight, when he gets home, I will tell Ben. Not when I rely so utterly on him. Unlike Ben, he does not seem entirely alien to me. I realize I almost find it easier to believe that I have met him before than I do my husband. I need to know what kind of progress he means. I mostly wanted to talk to you today, anyway. I was in the bedroom when he arrived and watched him park his car and lock it, saw him rearrange his hair, smooth his jacket, pick up his briefcase.
Not him, I thought as he nodded to the workmen who were unloading tools from a van, but then he walked up the path to our house. We could go there? The cold is biting and I pull my scarf tight around my neck. I am glad I have in my bag the mobile phone that Ben has given me. Glad too that Dr Nash has not insisted we drive somewhere. There is some part of me that trusts this man, but another, larger part tells me he could be anyone. A stranger. I am an adult, but a damaged one.
I am as vulnerable as a child. We reach the main road that separates the end of the street from the park opposite, and wait to cross. The silence between us feels oppressive. I had intended to wait until we were sitting down before asking him, but find myself speaking.
How did you find me? He is smiling. I wonder if I ask him the same question every time we meet. I heard about you through the literature on the subject, and tracked you down. There have been a couple of case studies written about you. I got in touch with the place where you were being treated before you came to live at home. Why did you want to find me?
I believe they can be helped; however, they require more intensive input than the usual one hour per week. I had a few ideas about how real improvements could be effected and wanted to try some of them out. The definitive work, you might say. He clears his throat. I believe we can discover a lot more about the way memory works than we already know.
I feel myself get anxious, uptight. Brain disorders. Tracked you down. I try to breathe, to relax, but find I cannot. There are two of me, now, in the same body: And you seem to know more about me than I know about myself.
Every day you wake up as if you are a young woman. Some days you wake as if you are a child. A doctor. The man at home is your husband. Since long before your amnesia began. We head there, and I take a seat at one of the chipped Formica tables while Dr Nash orders our drinks.
When he returns he is carrying two plastic cups filled with strong coffee, mine black, his white. He adds sugar from the bowl on the table but offers none to me, and it is that, more than anything, that convinces me we have met before. He looks up and asks me how I hurt my forehead. My make-up has clearly not covered it. He stirs his coffee. He looks up. At first your condition was so severe that you required round-the-clock care.
It has only been fairly recently that Ben felt he could look after you alone. He nods. There is a pause. We both sip our drinks. I think he must. He sighs, and closes his eyes. Yet he does not look untrustworthy. I want to believe he can help me. But he has always been extremely reluctant to let you see these professionals. He has made it very clear that you have had extensive treatment before, and in his opinion it has achieved nothing other than to upset you.
Naturally he wanted to spare you — and himself — from any more upset. I did approach Ben first. We spoke on the phone.
I even asked him to meet with me so that I could explain what I had to offer, but he refused. So I contacted you directly. He looked down at his drink. I waited until you came out of the house and then introduced myself. Just like that? I had to persuade you that you could trust me. I suggested that we should meet once, just for one session. I said I would explain to you why I wanted you to come and see me, and what I thought I could offer you. You felt that was better.
Though progress is somewhat difficult to quantify exactly. But lots of memories seem to have come back to you over the last few weeks — many of them for the first time, as far as we know. And there are certain truths that you are aware of more often, where there were few before. Or me. That is the progress he is talking about. Perhaps he means I can make it to the shops or a library without a chaperone, though right now I am not even sure that much is true.
In any case, I have not yet made enough progress for me to wave it proudly in front of my husband. Not even enough for me to always wake up remembering I have one. It is almost empty. There are voices from a small kitchen at the back, the occasional rattle as the water in an urn reaches boiling point, the noise of children playing in the distance. It is difficult to believe that this place is so close to my home and yet I have no memory of ever being here before.
Anything at all? As far as I know I am meeting you for the first time today. It seems you know more on some days than on others. Yet I can remember some things from years ago. My childhood. My mother. I remember being at university, just. Possibly I ask the same thing every week. Possibly we have exactly the same conversation. Here we can store huge quantities of information, and retain it for a seemingly indefinite length of time. We now know that these two functions seem to be controlled by different parts of the brain, with some neural connections between them.
There is also a part of the brain which seems to be responsible for taking short-term, transient memories and coding them as longterm memories for recall much later.
I would have been like that once, I suppose; sure of myself. So if, for example, the sufferer has a motor accident, they may not remember the accident, or the days or weeks preceding it, but can remember everything up to, say, six months before the accident perfectly well. People with this condition live in the moment, able to recall only the immediate past, and then only for a small amount of time.
It is as if we each have our lines, have rehearsed this conversation often. Generally you have no consistent memory of anything that happened since your early childhood, but you seem to process new memories in a way I have never come across before.
If I left this room now and returned in two minutes most people with anterograde amnesia would not remember having met me at all, certainly not today. But you seem to remember whole chunks of time — up to twenty-four hours — which you then lose. It suggests you are able to transfer things from short-term to long-term storage perfectly well. I guess that means I am lucky. The room goes quiet. The air feels still, and sticky. When he speaks his words seem to echo off the walls. Disease, trauma, drug use.
The exact nature of the impairment seems to differ, depending on the part of the brain that has been affected. An accident, he had said. A bad accident. At first I wonder if he is going to consult his notes, but instead he passes it across the table to me. Better than I can.
About what has caused your condition, especially. But other things as well. It is brown, bound in leather, its pages held closed by an elastic band. I take that off and open it at random. The paper is heavy and faintly lined, with a red margin, and the pages filled with dense handwriting. I asked you to keep it. I told you to write whatever you like in it.
I thought it might help you to maintain a thread of memory from one day to the next. Plus I felt that memory might be like a muscle, something that can be strengthened through exercise. More or less. What secrets might I have? That it was time. I am excited. A journal. A link back to a lost past, albeit only recent.
Embarrassed, I think. I wonder if he is telling me the truth, what the book contains. I want you to know that. On the inside of the front cover is a list of dates. Page after page. Days and days of work. I wonder how I found the time, but then think of the board in the kitchen and the answer is obvious; I have had nothing else to do.
I put it back on the table. A young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt comes in and glances over to where we sit, before ordering a drink and settling at a table with the newspaper. I feel as though I am invisible. We walk back the way we had come. The sky has clouded over and a thin mist hangs in the air. The ground feels soggy underfoot; it feels like walking on quicksand. On the playground I see a roundabout, turning slowly even though no one is riding it. No, we normally meet in my office.
We do exercises. Tests and things. I have to get going. Julie and I have plans this evening. I notice his hair, cut short, neatly parted, and the way his shirt has a vertical stripe that clashes with the horizontal one on his pullover.
I realize that he is only a few years older than I thought I was when I woke this morning. We got engaged. I keep forgetting. These are the details I should remember, I suppose. The little things. Perhaps it is these trivialities I have been writing down in my book, these small hooks on which a whole life is hung. I feel like I ought to ask more questions, ought to show more interest, but there is little point. Anything he tells me now I will have forgotten by the time I wake tomorrow.
Today is all I have. To the coast. He turns to leave, but then looks back at me. To carry on with your treatment, I mean. I remember my journal, the appointments that we had pencilled in between now and the end of the year. I realize I trust him, and I am glad. Call me, whenever you like. I make a cup of coffee and carry it into the living room. From outside I hear the sound of whistling, punctured by heavy drilling and an occasional burst of staccato laughter, but even that recedes to a gentle buzz as I sit in the armchair.
The sun shines weakly through the net curtains and I feel its dull warmth on my arms and thighs. I take the journal out of my bag. I feel nervous. I do not know what this book will contain. What shocks and surprises. What mysteries. I see the scrapbook on the coffee table. In that book is a version of my past, but one chosen by Ben.
Does the book I hold contain another? I open it. The first page is unlined. I have written my name in black ink across its centre. Christine Lucas. Or Keep out! Something has been added. Something unexpected, terrifying. More terrifying than anything else I have seen today. There, beneath my name, in blue ink and capital letters, are three words. There is nothing I can do but turn the page. I begin to read my history. I am forty-seven. An amnesiac.
I am sitting here, in this unfamiliar bed, writing my story dressed in a silk nightie that the man downstairs — who tells me that he is my husband, that he is called Ben — apparently bought me for my forty-sixth birthday.
The room is silent and the only light comes from the lamp on the bedside table — a soft orange glow. I feel as if I am floating, suspended in a pool of light. I have the bedroom door closed. I am writing this in private. In secret. I can hear my husband in the living room — the soft sigh of the sofa as he leans forward or stands up, an occasional cough, politely stifled — but I will hide this book if he comes upstairs. I will put it under the bed, or the pillow.
I look at the clock on the bedside table. It is almost eleven; I must write quickly. I imagine that soon I will hear the TV silenced, a creak of a floorboard as Ben crosses the room, the flick of a light switch. Will he go into the kitchen and make a sandwich or pour himself a glass of water? Or will he come straight to bed?
Because I have no memory. According to Ben, according to the doctor I met this afternoon, tonight, as I sleep, my mind will erase everything I know today. Everything I did today. I will wake up tomorrow as I did this morning. Thinking I am still a child. Thinking I still have a whole lifetime of choice ahead of me.
And then I will find out, again, that I am wrong. My choices have already been made. Half my life is behind me. The doctor was called Nash. He called me this morning, collected me in his car, drove me to an office. He asked me and I told him that I had never met him before; he smiled — though not unkindly — and opened the lid of the computer that sat on his desk.
He played me a film. Avideo clip. It was of me and him, sitting in different clothes but the same chairs, in the same office. In the film he handed me a pencil and asked me to draw shapes on a piece of paper, but by looking only in a mirror so that everything appeared backwards.
I could see that I found it difficult, but watching it now all I could see was my wrinkled fingers and the glint of the wedding ring on my left hand. When I had finished he seemed pleased. I smiled then, but did not look happy. The film ended. Dr Nash closed his computer.
He said we have been meeting for the last few weeks, that I have a severe impairment of something called my episodic memory. Structural or chemical, he said. Or a hormonal imbalance. It is very rare, and I seem to be affected particularly badly.
I thought of this morning, when I had woken with no adult memories at all. Most days. There are treatments for persistent amnesia, he said — drugs, hypnosis — but most have already been tried. Right up until you go to sleep. He slid a brown notebook across the desk towards me. In here. Its pages were blank. So this is my treatment? I thought.
Keeping a journal? I want to remember things, not just record them. He must have sensed my disappointment. What choice did I have, really? Keep a journal or stay as I am, for ever. Ring me if you get confused. Things like that. At first it seemed totally unfamiliar to me, but then I saw the worn step that led to the front door and suddenly knew.
It was the house in which I had grown up, the one that, this morning, I had thought I was waking up in. It had looked different, somehow less real, but was unmistakable.
I swallowed hard. He nodded, and told me that most of my early memories are unaffected. He asked me to describe the inside of the house. I told him what I remembered: The bath and toilet were through the kitchen, at the very back of the house. He asked if I remembered any small details. It came to me then. There were jams up there, too. She made her own.