BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP PDF
Before I Go To Sleep: A Novel. Read more Miles to Go Before I Sleep: A Survivor's Story of Life After a Terrorist Hijacking. Read more. Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel. Home · Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel Miles to Go Before I Sleep: A Survivor's Story of Life After a Terrorist Hijacking · Read more. S J Watson. BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP. 3. LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY. • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG. Before I Go To Sleep 27/1/11 Page 3.
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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. [PDF] Download Before I Go To Sleep Pdf Click button below to download or read this book. Description Memories define us. So what if you lost. BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP S J Watson. and for myavr.info my mother. to Andrew Dell. this book would not have been written without the input of my gang .
He hugs her to comfort her and almost kisses her, but she pulls back and then sees her doctor's name tag and his first name is Mike. She runs from him but he catches her and administers a sedative, leaving her at home. He tells her later that she was upset and he's sorry but he doesn't feel he can treat her anymore, because he has feelings for her and her memories are causing her to project what happened onto him.
Christine learns that, several years after her attack, Ben had placed her in an assisted care facility and divorced her, then had a change of heart and brought her home to live with him.
Christine learns that Claire had been trying to contact her at the care facility, unaware that Ben took her away. Christine obtains Claire's phone number and meets her. Claire reveals that Christine had embarked on an affair prior to her attack, while Ben and Claire had a one-time sexual encounter, due to their shared grief at Christine's memory loss.
Feeling obliged to keep Ben and Christine's marriage intact, Claire ended contact. Claire gives Christine a letter written to her by Ben. He asked Claire to give it to Christine should she ever be well enough to read it. Adam was unable to understand her memory loss every morning, and when Adam would insist things happened that Christine could not remember she would get upset. Adam had begun to be afraid of her. Out of gratitude for his love and care, Christine decides to let Ben see the videos she has made on the digital camera.
However, Ben angrily accuses Christine of having an affair with Nasch, strikes her, and storms out. On the telephone, Claire tells Christine that Ben claims to not have seen Christine for several years. Claire asks Christine to describe the "Ben" she is living with, and they realize he is not Ben.
Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson PDF : eBook Information
Christine is beginning to have more limited memories as things happen around her. Christine attempts to escape the house, but "Ben" renders her unconscious. The next morning, Christine again awakens with no memories but she finds the camera and sees her entry saying she loves "Ben" and wants to make a life with him. He then visits Nasch at the hospital and tells him to stay away from Christine. That night, "Ben" takes her to a hotel close to where she had been found.
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. 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.
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. We used to pick the berries from a wood that we drove to. The three of us would walk deep into the forest and pick blackberries.
Before I Go to Sleep
Bags and bags. And then my mother would boil them to make jam.
One of a woman who, after a few moments, I recognized as my mother. One of me. I told him what I could. When I finished he put them away. He drove me back. He said nothing. An idea came to me. We were pulling up in front of a house.
Amoment after he stopped the car I realized it was my own. Before you go to sleep. I got out of the car. Now I sit in bed. Waiting for my husband. I look at the photo of the home in which I grew up. It looks so normal, so mundane. And so familiar. How did I get from there to here? What happened? What is my history?
Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel
I hear the clock in the living room chime. Ben is coming up the stairs. I will hide this book in the shoebox I have found. I will put it in the wardrobe, right where I have told Dr Nash it will be.
Tomorrow, if he rings, I will write more. Saturday, 10 November I am writing this at noon. Ben is downstairs, reading. He thinks I am resting but, even though I am tired, I am not. I have to write this down before I lose it. I have to write my journal. I look at my watch and note the time.
Ben has suggested we go for a walk this afternoon. I have a little over an hour. 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, a yellow lamp.
A boxy wardrobe in the corner of the room and wallpaper with a muted pattern of ferns. I expected to hear my mother downstairs cooking bacon, or my father in the garden, whistling as he trims the hedge. I expected the bed I was in to be single, to contain nothing except me and a stuffed rabbit with one torn ear. I was wrong. The bedroom was completely foreign. I lay back in bed. Something is wrong, I thought. Terribly, terribly wrong. By the time I went downstairs I had seen the photographs around the mirror, read their labels.
I knew I was not a child, not even a teenager, and had worked out that the man I could hear cooking breakfast and whistling along to the radio was not my father or a flatmate or boyfriend, but he was called Ben, and he was my husband.
I hesitated outside the kitchen. I felt scared. I was about to meet him, as if for the first time. What would he be like? Would he look as he did in the pictures?
Or were they, too, an inaccurate representation? Would he be older, fatter, balder? How would he sound? How would he move? How well had I married? A vision came from nowhere.
A woman — my mother? Marry in haste … I pushed the door open. Ben had his back to me, nudging bacon with a spatula as it spat and sizzled in the pan.
He had not heard me come in. He turned round quickly. Are you OK? I think so. He looked older than in the pictures upstairs — his face carried more lines, his hair was beginning to grey and receding slightly at the temples — but this had the effect of making him more, rather than less, attractive.
His jaw had a strength that suited an older man, his eyes shone mischief. I realized he resembled a slightly older version of my father. I could have done worse, I thought. Much worse. I nodded. Here, take this. A few minutes later he followed me with two plates. A pale sliver of bacon swam in grease, an egg and some bread had been fried and sat on the side. As I ate he explained how I survive my life. Today is Saturday, he said. He works during the week; he is a teacher.
He explained about the phone I have in my bag, the board tacked on the wall in the kitchen. He showed me where we keep our emergency fund — two twenty-pound notes, rolled tightly and tucked behind the clock on the mantelpiece — and the scrapbook in which I can glimpse snatches of my life.
He told me that, together, we manage. I was not sure I believed him, yet I must. We finished eating and I helped him tidy away the breakfast things. Once I was alone, my head spun, full and empty at the same time.
I felt unable to grasp anything. Nothing seemed real. I looked at the house I was in — the one I now knew was my home — with eyes that had never known it before. For a moment I felt like running. I had to calm myself. I sat on the edge of the bed in which I had slept. I should make it, I thought. Tidy up. Keep myself busy. I picked up the pillow to plump it and as I did something began to buzz. It was low, insistent. A tune, thin and quiet. My bag was at my feet and when I picked it up I realized the buzz seemed to come from there.
I remembered Ben telling me about the phone I have. When I found it, the phone was lit up. I stared at it for a long moment. Some part of me, buried deep, or somewhere at the very edge of memory, knew exactly what the call was about. I answered it. Christine, are you there? Is Ben around? I want you to look in the wardrobe in your bedroom. Have a look inside that. There should be a notebook.
We decided you should keep a journal. Do it now. He was right. Inside, on the floor, was a shoebox — a blue box with the word Scholl on the ill-fitting lid — and inside that a book wrapped in tissue. I lifted it out and unwrapped it. It was brown leather and looked expensive. I have it. Have you written in it?
I saw that I had. My name is Christine Lucas, it began. I felt nervous, excited. It felt like snooping, but on myself. There, crouching on the floor by the open wardrobe, the bed still unmade, I began to read. At first, I felt disappointed. I remembered nothing of what I had written.
Not Dr Nash, nor the offices I claim that he took me to, the puzzles I say that we did. The book read like fiction. But then, tucked between two pages near the back of the book, I found a photograph.
The house in which I had grown up, the one in which I expected to find myself when I woke this morning. It was real, this was my evidence. I had seen Dr Nash and he had given me this picture, this fragment of my past. I closed my eyes. Yesterday I had described my old home, the sugar jar in the pantry, picking berries in the woods.
Were those memories still there? Could I conjure more? I thought of my mother, my father, willing something else to come. Images formed, silently. Adull orange carpet, an olive-green vase.
Ayellow romper suit with a pink duck sewn on to the breast and press-studs up the middle. A plastic car seat in navy blue and a faded pink potty. Colours and shapes, but nothing that described a life. I want to see my parents, I thought, and it was then, for the first time, I realized that somehow I knew that they are dead. I sighed and sat on the edge of the unmade bed. A pen was tucked between the pages of the journal and almost without thinking I took it out, intending to write more.
I held it, poised over the page, and closed my eyes to concentrate. It was then that it happened. It came alive.
But not gradually; this was a jolt. A spark of electricity. Suddenly I was not sitting in a bedroom with a blank page in front of me but somewhere else. Back in the past — a past I thought I had lost — and I could touch and feel and taste everything.
I realized I was remembering. I saw myself coming home, to the house I grew up in. I am thirteen or fourteen, eager to get on with a story I am writing, but I find a note on the kitchen table. Uncle Ted will pick you up at six. I get a drink and a sandwich and sit down with my notebook. Mrs Royce has said that my stories are strong and moving; she thinks I could turn them into a career. I seethe in silent fury. It is their fault. Where are they? What are they doing? I screw up the paper and throw it away.
The image vanished, but straight away there was another. More real. My father is driving us home. I am sitting in the back of the car, staring at a fixed spot on the windscreen.
A dead fly. A piece of grit. I speak, not sure what I am going to say. When were you going to tell me? Will you die? Of course not. With lots and lots of grandchildren! I opened my eyes. The vision had ended, was gone. I sat in a bedroom, the bedroom I had woken up in this morning, yet for a moment it looked different. Completely flat. Devoid of energy, as if I was looking at a photograph that had faded in the sun. It was as if the vibrancy of the past had leached all the life from the present.
I looked down at the book in my hand. The pen had slipped from my fingers, marking the page with a thin blue line as it slid to the floor. My heart raced in my chest. I had remembered something. Something huge, important. It was not lost. I picked the pen off the floor and started writing this.
I will finish there. When I close my eyes and try to will the image back, I can. My parents. Driving home. It is still there. Less vivid, as if it has faded with time, but still there. Even so, I am glad I have written it down. I know that eventually it will disappear. At least now it is not completely lost.
Ben must have finished his paper. He has called upstairs, asked if I am ready to go out. I told him I was. I will hide this book in the wardrobe, find a jacket and some boots. I will write more later. If I remember. That was written hours ago. We have been out all afternoon but are back at home now.
Ben is in the kitchen, cooking fish for our dinner. He has the radio on and the sound of jazz drifts up to the bedroom where I sit, writing this. If I write quickly I should have time. We did not go far, and parked the car by a low, squat building. It looked abandoned; a single grey pigeon sat in each of the boarded windows and the door was hidden with corrugated iron. Shall we walk? I thought of my father, of his death and the fact that I had remembered a little of it at least.
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. There I could see life; a little boy flew a kite while his father stood behind him, a girl walked a small dog on a long lead. The city sprawled before us under the low cloud. It seemed peaceful. And smaller than I imagined; I could see all the way across it to low hills in the distance. There were other, less familiar, landmarks, too: a glass building shaped like a fat cigar, a giant wheel, way in the distance.
Like my own face the view seemed both alien and somehow familiar. Most of the benches were occupied, by people alone or in couples. We headed for one just past the top of the hill and sat down. I smelt ketchup; a half-eaten burger lay under the bench in a cardboard box. Ben picked it up carefully and put it in one of the litter bins, then returned to sit next to me.
He pointed out some of the landmarks. It was odd to hear a decade that I could not remember living through summed up in two words. I must have missed so much. So much music, so many films and books, so much news. Disasters, tragedies, wars. Whole countries might have fallen to pieces as I wandered, oblivious, from one day to the next. So much of my own life, too. The wind gusted up the hill, cold against my face. A dog barked somewhere. He put his arm around my shoulder.
I began to recoil, then remembered he is not a stranger but the man I married. Do you remember that? What did I study? I saw myself in a library and recalled vague ideas of writing a thesis concerning feminist theory and early twentieth-century literature, though really it was just something I could be doing while I worked on novels, something my mother might not understand but would at least see as legitimate.
The scene hung for a moment, shimmering, so real I could almost touch it, but then Ben spoke and it vanished. I would see you all the time. At the library, in the bar, whatever. I would always be amazed at how beautiful you looked, but I could never bring myself to speak to you. And intense. You would sit for hours, surrounded by books, just reading and taking notes, sipping from cups of coffee or whatever. You looked so beautiful. I never dreamed you would ever be interested in me.
But then one day I happened to be sitting next to you in the library, and you accidentally knocked your cup over and your coffee went all over my books. You were so apologetic, even though it hardly mattered anyway, and we mopped up the coffee and then I insisted on buying you another. You said it ought to be you buying me one, to say sorry, and I said OK then, and we went for a coffee.
And that was that. I could not, and felt the hot stab of sadness. I imagined how every couple must love the story of how they met — who first spoke to who, what was said — yet I have no recollection of ours. The usual, you know? I finished my degree, and you finished your Ph.
Who asked who? Tell me how it happened. He looked away, into the distance. You shared a house, but you were hardly there at all. Most of your time you would spend with me. It made sense for us to live together, to get married. Expensive soap, the kind you really liked, and I took off the cellophane wrapper and I pressed an engagement ring into the soap, and then I wrapped it back up and gave it to you.
As you were getting ready that evening you found it, and you said yes. It sounded messy, a ring caked in soap, and fraught with the possibility that I might not have used the bar, or found the ring, for weeks. But still, it was not an unromantic story. Anyway, we got married the following year. In a church in Manchester, near where your mother lived. It was a lovely day. The sun shone, everyone was happy. And then we went for our honeymoon. To Italy. The lakes. It was wonderful. Nothing would come.
I understand. We lost a lot of things. After the marriage, the honeymoon? We were very happy. Awedding, a honeymoon, a marriage. But what else was I expecting? What else could there have been? The answer came suddenly. I realized with a shudder that that was what seemed to be missing from my life, from our home. There were no pictures on the mantelpiece of a son or daughter — clutching a degree certificate, white-water rafting, even just posing, bored, for the camera — and none of grandchildren either.
I had not had a baby. I felt the slap of disappointment. The unsatisfied desire was burned into my subconscious.
Even though I had woken up not even knowing how old I was, some part of me must have known I had wanted to have a child. Suddenly I heard my own mother, describing the biological clock as if it were a bomb. My ambitions would disappear and all I would want to do was have children. It happens to everyone. Or something else had happened instead.
I looked at my husband. My memory. It all came back to that, in the end. I looked out across the city. The sun hung low in the sky, shining weakly through the clouds, casting long shadows on the grass. I realized that it would be dark soon.
The sun would set, finally, the moon rise in the sky. Another day would end. Another lost day. It was not a question. He held my hands in his, rubbing them, as if against the cold. For himself, or me? I could not tell. I let him rub my hands, hold my fingers between his. I realized that, despite the confusion, I felt safe there, with this man. I could see that he was kind, and thoughtful, and patient. No matter how awful my situation, it could be so much worse. He looked at me, the expression on his face one of pain.
Before I Go to Sleep
Pain, and disappointment. I fixed my eyes on a little girl riding a tricycle in the distance. Possibly I ask him every day. I realized this time is different. This time I will write down what he tells me. He took a deep breath.
You were on your way home, a short walk. There were no witnesses. You were very badly injured. Both legs were broken. An arm and your collarbone. I could hear the low beat of the city. Traffic, a plane overhead, the murmur of the wind in the trees. Ben squeezed my hand. I could remember nothing of the accident, and so did not feel angry, or even upset.
I was filled instead with a kind of quiet regret. An emptiness. A ripple across the surface of the lake of memory. He squeezed my hand, and I put mine over his, feeling the cold, hard band of his wedding ring. I felt myself go cold.
It was a hit-and-run. I thought of what I had read of my meeting with Dr Nash. A neurological problem, he had told me. Structural or chemical. A hormonal imbalance.
I assumed he had meant an illness. Something that had just happened, had come out of nowhere. One of those things. But this seemed worse; it was done to me by someone else, it had been avoidable. If I had taken a different route home that evening — or if the driver of the car that hit me had done so — I would have still been normal. I might even have been a grandmother by now, just. We sat in silence for a while, our hands locked together. It grew dark.
The city was bright, the buildings lit. It will be winter soon, I thought. We will soon be halfway through November. December will follow, and then Christmas. What had I been doing? What was I doing? What I wanted to say was, You told me I had a Ph.
Why had I settled for that? Times were hard. Or maybe I had tried, and failed. As I turned to ask him the clouds lit up and, a moment later, there was a loud bang. Startled, I looked out; sparks in the distant sky, raining down on the city below. It could do no harm, and though part of me wanted to rush home to my journal, to write down what Ben had told me, another part of me wanted to stay, hoping he might tell me more.
The sky was dark for a moment, and then there was a crackle and fizz, and a thin whistle as a tiny spark shot high. It hung for a slow moment before exploding in orange brilliance with an echoing bang. It was beautiful. But I forgot it was tonight. I looked out over the city, at the explosions of colour in the air above it, at the screeching lights.
This way we get to see all the displays. Our breath misted in the air in front of us, each mingled with that of the other, and we sat in silence, watching the sky turn to colour and light.
The smoke rose from the gardens of the city, lit with violence — with red and orange, blue and purple — and the night air turned smoky, shot through with a flinty smell, dry and metallic.
I licked my lips, tasted sulphur, and as I did so another memory struck. It was needle-sharp. The sounds were too loud, the colours too bright. I felt, not like an observer, but instead as though I was still in the middle of it. I had the sensation I was falling backwards. I saw myself, with a woman.
She has red hair, and we are standing on a rooftop, watching fireworks. I can hear the rhythmic throb of music that plays in the room beneath our feet, and a cold wind blows, sending acrid smoke floating over us. Even though I am wearing only a thin dress I feel warm, buzzing with alcohol and the joint that I am still holding between my fingers. I look across at her as she turns to face me and feel alive, dizzily happy. She laughs. A trip. He told me he would. We have promised ourselves that we will never be boring.
I think I just want to stick to this. And beer. I can tell she is disappointed, though not angry with me, and wonder whether she will do it anyway. Without me. I doubt it. I have never had a friend like her before. One who knows everything about me, whom I trust, sometimes even more than I trust myself. I look at her now, her red hair windwhipped, the end of the joint glowing in the dark.I look up at the mirror.
Next Post. Saturday, 10 November I am writing this at noon. The book read like fiction. I would always be amazed at how beautiful you looked, but I could never bring myself to speak to you. I let him rub my hands, hold my fingers between his. My surname seems as strange as my first name had.