The merge, p.12
The Merge, page 12
‘Head-talk?’ Mum says.
‘The internal dialogue,’ Rosa-Liam explains. ‘The constant back and forth between Rosa and Liam. At first, it felt like a crowded room in my mind, both voices competing for dominance. But over time, as we worked through Stage Two, those voices blended into one harmonious thought process. That’s when I knew I was aligned, when I could think and feel as a single, complete person. I was terribly miserable before. I’m truly happy now.’
‘Merging fixed your anxiety?’ Lucas asks.
Rosa-Liam nods.
‘It’s gone?’
‘Yes. It’s gone.’
Lucas grins at Noah, who grins back. ‘That’s incredible.’
Rosa-Liam laughs. ‘It’s insane, is what it is. I wouldn’t believe it if it hadn’t happened to me. I honestly never thought I’d be happy again.’
I stare at them, trying to gauge how they must feel, how it would feel to have my anxieties erased, to no longer wake at night haunted by the memories of Dad’s death. How it would feel for Mum to no longer suffer from her confusion, no longer experience the pain of her past as if it were happening all over again. ‘You don’t worry about the things you used to?’ I ask.
Rosa-Liam shakes their head.
‘How does that work? How can your problems just disappear like that?’
Rosa-Liam’s eyes soften. ‘It’s not that the problems disappear, it’s that they are integrated into a new sense of self. The anxieties, the fears, they don’t vanish, but they lose their power.’ They look around the circle, at each of us hanging on their words. ‘In my experience, the Combine mind is considerably more stable than that of a non-Combine.’
I glance at Mum, seeing her as she was this morning, sitting on the sofa, lost in grief, clutching that cushion. What if we could keep the good parts of ourselves and get rid of the aspects we don’t like? Mum’s creativity, her warmth, the way she makes even the smallest moments feel like magic – could those parts stay, while the confusion and forgotten memories slip away?
‘How does the remembering work?’ Jay asks. ‘My memories are something I’m keen to hold on to.’ He looks at Lara. ‘We both are. Neither of us wants to forget. Do you have the memories from before… from both Rosa and Liam? Did you get to keep them all?’
Rosa-Liam nods. ‘They’re all here.’
‘Do you feel as though you were there when the memories occurred?’ Jay presses.
‘Absolutely. I was there.’
‘Not all of you,’ Jay says.
‘Yes. All of me.’
Lara raises her hand but doesn’t wait for an invitation to speak. ‘So, I’ll feel like I was there for Dad’s memories, even if I wasn’t?’ A shadow of distaste flickers across her face. ‘What about when he had sex with my mum? Will I feel like I was there too? That’s fucking gross.’
The question knocks me. Knowing we wouldn’t be going through with it, I hadn’t properly considered what merging with Mum would mean. Would I be burdened with her most private moments? The thought of experiencing her sexual memories makes my stomach churn. I don’t want any part of it.
Rosa-Liam clears their throat. ‘It’s not quite like that. You won’t feel as though you were physically there for those memories. It’s more like a deep understanding of your Partner’s experiences. You’ll have their memories, yes, but they won’t feel like your own lived moments. You can choose not to look.’
The room falls silent. Mum watches Rosa-Liam intently, as if trying to piece together who they are and why they’re here. ‘Is it confusing?’ she asks quietly. ‘Having all those memories? I struggle enough making sense of my own. I can’t imagine adding someone else’s into the mix. I have… I have Alzheimer’s, you see.’
Rosa-Liam offers a reassuring smile. ‘It’ll be clearer than ever for you, Laurie. Just as my anxiety was lifted, I’m certain your confusion will ease as well.’
As Rosa-Liam speaks, I find myself picturing a future where Mum is free from the fog of Alzheimer’s, where we could work together to recall her memories, and she could live without the constant weight of confusion.
I look at her, hunched over her notebook. Her pen moves quickly, her face tight with concentration as she races to capture a thought before it slips away.
Could I really bring her back? Could I take her dementia from her, just as Rosa-Liam’s anxiety was taken? The possibility feels both hopeful and terrifying. All I have to do is decide. If Mum were her old self again, fully able to grasp what merging meant, what would she want? Would she choose for us to go through with this, to spend the rest of our lives together? Or would she want me to fight?
For the first time, I wonder if merging could actually be the answer.
Not just for her, but for us.
Laurie
Mary and I have spent so much of our lives sitting in camping chairs. She moved to London as soon as she was old enough to leave home, and camping chairs were the first thing she bought, one for her and one for me. For a long time, they were her only items of furniture, aside from the air-mattress her parents had begrudgingly let her take. Every weekend, I’d catch the train to London, and we’d haul the chairs to Primrose Hill. We’d spend the day drinking warm cans of beer, speculating about our futures, laughing about nothing.
When the sun set, we’d fold the chairs and carry them home.
Sometimes we discussed the possibility of her buying more furniture or framing the art we’d taped up, but it was only ever make-believe. Mary didn’t need anything else. The day Stuart, who later became her husband, moved in and insisted on decorating, Mary and I watched as he nailed cheap prints to the walls, lurid landscapes and splashy street art, ruining her home with his ‘vision’.
Today, we’ve set up on the path in front of St Michael’s. Mary’s propped the small collapsible table between our chairs and set out paintboxes, brushes, a roll of paper towel and a jar of water. No easels today. We’ve opted for our sketchbooks, balanced on our knees.
The church’s brick is warm and uneven, its edges softened, rounded by time. Arched stained-glass windows scatter fractured colours onto the path, shifting as the sunlight moves.
I dip my brush in the water and let the paint bloom across the page in soft, translucent waves. I layer ochre and sienna. The colours bleed together, creating a hazy background that mirrors the texture of the church bricks. As I work, I wonder what’s happening inside, beyond the glass. I picture someone kneeling in a pew, their hands clasped tightly, pleading with God to hear them. To help. The faint murmurs of their prayer rising to the vaulted ceiling.
For two years following Mitchell’s death, I attended church every Sunday. After my childhood, I never thought I’d set foot in a church again, but I found myself needing God. I needed the insistence of the congregation that Mitchell was, without a doubt, spending eternity with Him in heaven.
I pause to apply suncream, watching as Mary blends a little crimson into the pale blue wash of the sky. She has a distinct style, yet it has become increasingly similar to my own. Our recent paintings could easily be muddled up. In a way, I suppose we’re merging. How could we not, after fifty years of painting together?
‘It’s getting worse, Mary,’ I say, returning the suncream to my bag.
‘Tell me about it.’ She frowns at her sketchbook. ‘My sky is irrecoverably muddy.’
‘Not my painting, my brain.’
Mary looks up, her paintbrush hovering above her sketchbook.
‘I have these moments of blankness where it’s like part of my brain has been erased.’
‘What did the doctor say last week at your check-up? Amelia mentioned new medication.’
I frown. ‘I remember the appointment, but I can’t really…’ I shake my head. ‘See what I mean? It’s there – the memory – but I can’t get at it. I know I went. And afterwards I know we went to a café. The one in the bookshop by the clock tower. But I can’t remember what happened at the doctors, or what was said. That part’s been rubbed out. I had something tasty. something warm. At the café, I mean.’ I tap my foot, trying to bring the memory into focus. What was it I ate? I click my fingers when it finally comes to me. ‘I had a freshly baked scone, Mary.’
She nods.
‘Mary?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t want Amelia to waste her life worrying about me.’
‘She’s your daughter, Lor. Of course she’s going to worry about you.’
‘I don’t want her to be like me, like I was.’
Mary plunges her paintbrush into the water, darkening it to a deep blue as she swirls her brush clean. ‘Your mother was so lucky to have you.’
‘Nothing about my mother was lucky.’
Mary rips off a sheet of paper towel and begins drying her brush. ‘How is the merging preparation going, Lor?’
‘Fine, I think.’ I watch as the paper towel turns translucent. ‘It’s difficult for me to remember. So much happens in the sessions, so many people talk about complicated things. All the information just blurs together.’
‘Are you using your notebook?’
‘Oh, yes. Good idea.’ I reach into my handbag. The notebook already looks worn, despite my only having had it for a couple of months. The leather cover is faded and creased and there’s an ink stain in the corner. I turn to my most recent notes.
Questions for Saturday’s interview:
PREPARE ANSWERS THIS WEEK
1. Can you tell me about your earliest childhood memories?
2. How would you describe your relationship with your family during your formative years?
3. Can you recall any specific challenges or traumas from your childhood that may have had a lasting impact on you?
4. How would you describe your relationship with your parents?
5. Are there positive or negative memories associated with specific places from your past?
6. Can you share any experiences that shaped your identity or sense of self during adolescence?
7. Are there specific memories that you find particularly vivid or emotionally charged?
8. How would you describe your romantic relationships throughout different life stages?
9. Are there any recurring themes or patterns in your memories that you’ve noticed over time?
10. Are there specific memories that you feel have had a lasting impact on your emotional well-being?
Mary looks at me expectantly. ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ I get a pencil from my bag and start to scribble down answers.
‘Did it help?’
‘Did what help, Mary? Sorry, I can’t talk right now. There’s something I’ve got to get sorted.’ I focus on working my way through the questions as Mary continues painting. She’s uncharacteristically quiet.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask once I’ve finished.
‘I am okay, Lor. It’s just… I find it hard when I think about what you and Amelia are doing. I know it’s the modern world and I need to get used to it. And I love Amelia for being so intent on saving your memories. It just… it concerns me, that’s all. You know it does.’
I’m unsure if I’ve been in this room before. The weeks are passing so quickly that it’s increasingly difficult to remember what I’ve done. Something about the room feels familiar, and yet I’m not entirely sure what it’s used for. The walls are an icy blue, and a small walnut desk sits against the far wall. On the shelf beside me are framed photographs of teenage girls holding trophies. They’re fair-haired and wearing football kits streaked with mud. Mitchell always hoped Amelia would grow to take an interest in football, that she’d come round to the notion of supporting West Ham one day.
Amelia and I are sitting on brown leather armchairs opposite a man on a matching sofa. Nathan, Support Worker. He scratches at a mark on the armrest as he talks. Amelia listens intently, nodding along.
I must not have been in this room before. I like to think I’d remember the large oil painting on the wall behind the sofa. It’s of Bangkok, before the temples were submerged. In the painting, a woman sits in front of a temple, her legs crossed, her feet bare. Her expression is joyful, as though she’s just seen someone she loves. I turn to a new page in my notebook and write a large title. Painting of Bangkok. I underline it twice. It seems important, somehow.
‘Laurie?’ the man says. ‘Are you following along?’
I look up from my page, blinking. I’d not realised I was supposed to be listening.
‘The sessions are really taking a toll on Mum,’ Amelia says, her hand finding my knee. ‘She’s started falling asleep as soon as we get home. I know there’s nothing abnormal about being tired after a long day, but it’s strange seeing Mum so tired. She’s never tired. Not like this.’ She lifts her hand from my knee. ‘When Mum’s tired, Nathan, she zones out. So she might appear to be more forgetful than she actually is.’
I eye Amelia. I can always tell when she’s lying – the subtle shift in her voice, a change in inflection that’s given her away since she was a child. Like that Christmas when she insisted, far too sweetly, that she hadn’t peeked at her presents. I remember how she tore into the wrapping paper with just a touch too much enthusiasm, and the exaggerated gasp of surprise over the new water bottle. ‘I had no idea,’ she said, her voice too high-pitched to be genuine, hugging the bottle like it was a doll. ‘This is just what I wanted.’
If I were really exhausted, like Amelia’s saying, wouldn’t we have discussed it? She’s been so good at keeping track of my lifestyle choices and how they correlate to the disease. Perhaps tiredness is something we have spoken about. I can’t recall. I flick back through the notebook, searching for any mention of sleep.
Skimming the pages is overwhelming. There’s so much in there that I know, but also a great deal that I don’t remember. Certain words stand out. Nathan – this man – is in here a lot.
‘Laurie?’ Nathan says. His tone tells me this isn’t the first time he’s said my name.
‘Sorry.’ I look up from my notes. ‘Yes?’
‘I asked if there was anything you’re especially worried about? Amelia was just speaking about the fear she has of letting you down if the Merge fails.’
I look at Amelia. She’s staring at her lap, a crease between her eyebrows that I haven’t noticed before. I wonder what I’ve done to upset her this time. I’m always getting it wrong, always making her storm off and slam her bedroom door. Parenting is so difficult. We never seem to get it right.
‘Is there anything specific you’re worried about, Laurie?’
‘I worry about a lot of things,’ I say. ‘I worry about all of this merging nonsense.’
‘Nonsense?’ Nathan repeats, his eyebrows raised. ‘What in particular are you worrying about?’
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve asked, actually.’ I start searching for the list of questions I’ve written. I remember writing them. I flick through the pages. The sheer volume of information in my notebook is astonishing. I read as I search. There’s so much in there that I recognise, but also a great deal that I don’t remember. Nathan – this man – is in here a lot.
‘Mum,’ Amelia says gently, ‘can I help you find what you’re looking for?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll find it, Amelia. Just be patient with me.’
I stop flicking when I come across a note I’ve underlined repeatedly:
Combine has a hidden agenda!
‘What is Combine’s hidden agenda?’ I ask, holding the notebook up. ‘I have it written down here, you see.’ I show Amelia the page, and she reads over my scribbles.
‘Hidden agenda?’ Nathan repeats. ‘Who told you that Combine has a hidden agenda, Laurie?’
‘Lara,’ Amelia says dryly. ‘All these notes are about a conversation you had with Lara, Mum. She doesn’t want to be here doing any of this, remember? She’s not the most trustworthy source of information.’
Nathan leans forward slightly. ‘Amelia’s right, Laurie. It’s important to consider the source of our information. Lara’s perspective is valid, but it’s one of many. I wouldn’t advise going to her for clarification on the merging process. The only agenda Combine has is to prevent the deterioration of humanity and, all being well, rid the world of currently incurable diseases.’
I eye the microphone on Nathan’s collar. ‘Why are you wearing that?’
‘For the recordings.’ He smiles. ‘You’re wearing one, too. So is Amelia.’
I glance down, expecting him to be wrong. But there it is – small, black, clipped neatly to the neck of my dress. A microphone. I frown. How long has it been there? How much has it heard?
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mum. It’s to help you, to help us both. We can listen back to the recordings, remember? You’ve done lots of these interviews, Mum. You spent an hour with Nathan earlier, just the two of you. Don’t you remember?’
I shake my head.
‘Not to worry,’ Nathan says. ‘Perhaps I’ll play you a recording once we’re done here. I’ll ensure you’re alone, so Amelia doesn’t hear.’
‘I don’t mind Amelia hearing,’ I say. ‘What are these recordings?’
‘They’re your innermost thoughts and feelings, any secrets you’re keeping from Amelia. You sit with me as you listen back to them. Do you remember any of this?’
I shake my head again.
Nathan smiles kindly. ‘Well, we’ll make sure you have some time to listen later. The more you listen, the easier it becomes to share your deepest thoughts. The more you confront the parts of yourself you wish to keep hidden, the easier it will become to share yourself freely with your Partner. Do you understand?’
I nod, though I don’t understand.
‘Is there anything you want to talk about, Laurie? Any feelings you have that you’d like to share with Amelia?’
I look at her, and she nods encouragingly. ‘Go on, Mum. Share with me. I’ll be finding out all your secrets in a few weeks anyway. You may as well tell me some of them.’
