“I know,” I say, annoyed. “It’s called déjà vu? This is the second time it’s happened to me this week.”
Sarah looks at me and grips my wrist, interrupting the rise of my salad-laden fork.
“Claire, I don’t want to freak you out but I think you should maybe go and see a doctor. Do you smell burning?”
I sniff the air. “No? Maybe? Is something burning?” I say. “I can’t tell if I only think I can now because you mentioned it. Why?”
“Talk to Luke,” she says. “It’s probably nothing at all to worry about, and I might not have got this right, but I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that frequent déjà vu is linked to brain tumors. And the smell of burning.”
“So there’s a little bit to worry about,” I say, certain I can feel something hard expand inside my skull.
Pathology
I call Luke to sound him out.
“Start from the beginning. Forget about anything you’ve read online and give me the facts.”
I tell him about my lunch with Sarah, about Paddy and the local honey.
“Right…” I detect a twist of impatience.
“You did say to start at the beginning,” I remind him, but to keep him onside, cut to the déjà vu. “What do you think? Be straight with me: I can take it.”
“Second time this week?” He doesn’t sound even slightly concerned.
I say, “At least. Part of the issue with déjà vu is the feeling itself being so uncanny: it’s hard to separate it into different instances.”
“Okay, let’s back up a bit. Have you had any headaches? Problems with your vision?” I consider this carefully. “Hangovers don’t count,” he adds.
“Well…there’s a general sort of background throb, but I’ve always put that down to, like, life.”
“We’ll talk more when I come home,” says Luke, “but in the meantime, don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get through this, or don’t worry, there’s nothing to worry about?”
“The latter,” he says, gearing up for a yawn.
“And is that your personal or professional opinion?”
“It’s both.”
“Ignore the email I just sent you, then,” I say, referring to the dossier pulled together from my afternoon’s online research.
Free time
When I had a job, I used to fantasize about what I’d do if I didn’t have to work anymore. Go to the gym every day, get really fit, train for a marathon perhaps. Finish Ulysses, read Moby Dick and one of the big Russian guys. Get to grips with the economy, also modern art.
Second opinion
I still haven’t registered with a doctor in London, despite Luke’s incredulous nagging and the fact I’ve lived here for nearly eight years. Luke remains entirely unperturbed by Sarah’s diagnosis, but just to be finally, unequivocally sure, I make an appointment to see our family doctor.
“Claire,” says Dr. Patterson when I enter, “it’s been a while. What seems to be the problem?”
I say, “It’s probably nothing. I don’t really know why I’m here.”
His bedside manner hasn’t changed: an off-putting blend of amusement and skepticism. His smile deepens when I get to the déjà vu, via a number of arduous caveats.
“First things first: are you pregnant?” he asks.
One hand flies to my stomach, the other to my head. “I don’t think so. Is this a symptom of pregnancy?”
“Well, no,” he admits, “but a woman of your age…Let’s say it doesn’t hurt to rule it out as part of any health conversation. You’re sure?”
“Certain. I can’t be. My boyfriend—partner—and I are very safe.”
Dr. Patterson chuckles. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that from women who turn out to be some way along.”
“Is that true, then, about déjà vu being linked to brain tumors, or…?” I ask, trying to sound not bothered either way.
“Been consulting Dr. Google?” He swoops in without warning, flashing a light in my eyes. “I think you’ll be absolutely fine,” he says, and as an afterthought asks, “No headaches? Dizziness? Sickness?”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to be on the safe side.”
He presses his lips together. “We all want to be reassured from time to time, don’t we? Often these worries can be brought on by stress. Are you having a busy time at work?”
“It’s…it’s a bit complicated,” I say. “I’m between jobs at the moment. By choice, I mean. I haven’t been fired or anything.”
“Ah.” He takes off his glasses and sits back in his chair, huffs on the lenses and thumbs them with a hanky. “Sometimes, when we have too much time, we worry unduly about our health. If we don’t have the daily distractions of, say, a job or”—he gestures to my stomach—“a family to look after, we might find our focus becoming quite…narrow.” He blinks nakedly a couple of times, then replaces his glasses. “Insular,” he adds, in case I’ve failed to recognize that this is the talk he gives the lonely people who find excuses to come in for the company.
“It’s just temporary,” I say. “I’m waiting to hear about a few things.” Though I’ve heard nothing since the blue-plaque deadline weeks ago, I remain optimistic about my chances.
“Was there anything else?” he asks.
I decide against telling him I wake in the night convinced I feel lumps in my armpits and breasts.
“Not a thing,” I say, smiling widely as I get up to go.
—
On my way to the train station after my appointment, my mother’s car goes by: I’d know that slow-rolling Beetle anywhere. I raise my hand at its tail end, on the off-chance I’ve coincided with her once-in-a-journey check in the rearview mirror. The blinker flashes, and as the car heads right, her face turns to me before she trundles out of view.
Cryptic
“I never thought I’d be a mother, and then you came along,” she has said on more than one occasion.
Failure
An email, at last, from the heritage people informing me my blue-plaque application has been unsuccessful. They do not say why, but do say why they can’t say why (“overwhelming response”) and express a friendly hope that my interest in heritage will nonetheless “continue to thrive.” They have misspelled my name.
—
When Luke gets home from work, it’s nine thirty. He’s startled when he turns on the light to see me at my laptop in the near-total dark and I imagine how I must look: hunchy, lemur-like, crazed.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I didn’t get the job.”
“The — Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks,” he says, and other platitudes I don’t listen to as I turn back to the fruits of my post-rejection research: resume tips, information about funding grants for niche post-grad studies, Wikipedia articles about those niche post-grad studies subjects, nannying jobs, bar jobs, admin jobs, expensive intensive residential cookery courses, fast-track routes for law, medicine, the civil service, agencies specializing in ski-season placements in Canada, Europe, New Zealand, Russia, programs for living and working abroad in Japan, South America, China, the UAE. I have more than twenty different windows open, each displaying so many tabs my computer has taken the executive decision to file the overflow in cumbersome sub-tabs.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Luke asks.
“Nothing to talk about,” I say, hitting the power button and signing out with the electronic shutdown chime.