Our past and future selves
(short story)
The door to the shop is unassuming. Brown, unmarked, with just a small gold disc in the centre. The closer I got, the more I realised the disc was in fact a teeny-tiny record. Cute.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” My husband asked, hand on my shoulder and those wide eyes I fell in love with so long ago.
“I’m sure,” I smile, “I think this is one of those things I should do alone.”
“OK,” he sighed, “If you’re sure. I’ll be in the coffee shop round the corner - meet you there when you’re done?”
“Sounds good.”
I turn to the door and push it open. The space is bigger than I was expecting, and dimly lit with rows and rows of records on display. The air is thick with music, and I notice that more than one record player is being used at once, making melodies compete.
I give the shelves a quick browse, spotting some vinyls with stunning cover art and lots of artists I’d never heard of.
How fun would it be to just buy a random selection and find out what genre they are when you get home? No. I put the record down and shake off the thought. I’m not here for music.
I walk to the counter where an older man with a scruffy white beard is reading a magazine.
“Hi”, I say, with a breath of apprehension.
“Hi there,” he replies, with a warm smile. “How can I help?”
“My name is Jessica Cook, I have an appointment? My husband got me a gift card for my birthday.”
He taps into his computer and his smile widens, “Ahh yes, Jessica, welcome! We’ve got your room all ready, if you’ll follow me.”
He gets up and leads me to the back of the shop, pulling back a thick curtain that reveals a much smaller room. Though small in size, it’s still packed with records. He heads towards the C section, finding Cook and then J. Cook.
“Here we are,” he says pointing to the filed records under my name.
“Now, your appointment is for an hour, so you are welcome to listen to as many as you want within this time.”
I flip through the selection and notice the covers are blank. With slight confusion I ask, “How do I know which ones to pick?”
“Ah, yes” he says with a familiar smirk - he’s been asked this before, “That’s the beauty of the experience. You don’t know what you’re going to get.”
“Oh, right. A bit of a surprise then.” I nod, apprehension growing.
He walks over to a corridor leading off from the room and beckons me to follow.
“Your room is here, the oak room. Grab a few records to start, then come in here to listen. You can come in and out as you please, selecting more records if you want.”
He opens the door to the small but cosy room. A big armchair sits at the centre with a record player sitting on a table next to it and big over-the-ear headphones waiting on the arm of the chair.
“If you need any assistance during your appointment, press this button here,” He points to a silver button by the door, labelled ‘help’. “And I’ll come right away. Any questions before you start?”
I look around and my mind is empty, “I don’t think so.”
“Great, well, enjoy yourself. I’ll be right next door if you need anything.” He smiles again and leaves. You can tell this is the part of his job that lights him up.
I set my bag down next to the chair and walk back into the smaller room to my record section. I have no idea how long or short each record will be, so I pick three to start with and take them back to my room.
Pulling the first one from its sleeve, I set it up in the record player and put on the headphones. I take a couple of deep breaths before hitting play and closing my eyes.
Before my eyes open, I hear the sound of crashing waves and a seagull in the distance. My eyes blink open and I’m looking out to sea, standing on a pebbled beach.
I look to my hands - a tip Pete shared when he gave me the gift card, it’s a quick way of establishing how old you might be.
My hands are small, young. I’m wearing a yellow romper and light-up shoes, I’m definitely a child. I notice that I’m holding a paper bag.
The smell hits me before I even open it, doughnuts. Warm, sugary doughnuts. I lift one out of the bag and take a bite, slowly realising where I am.
I look to my left and see my parents and sister walking on ahead. My dad turns and shouts, “Come on slow coach!”.
The grief hits hard when I see his face. He’s young here, a full head of hair, strong in body and mind. So unlike how he was at the end.
He died two years ago and while I expected to see him at some point during this appointment, I wasn’t quite prepared for this.
I run to catch up, taking it all in. My mum is young here too, and she’s….smiling, wow. That’s a sight I rarely see these days. Even my sister has a calm look to her, the usual venom in her eyes when she looks at me isn’t there.
This was an unusual day. One where we were all getting along. My sister and I, too excited to be by the seaside to bicker, and my parents unbothered by work or money troubles, just for one day.
Another wave crashes and in an instant it’s over. Silence. I open my eyes and I’m back in the oak room, my face wet with tears. That was incredible.
Pete had tried to explain the experience to me after his appointment last year, but somewhere deep down I thought he must have been exaggerating. Surely you just hear sounds that bring back memories, I’d thought. I wasn’t expecting such a full-body experience.
I felt a wave of love for him, knowing how expensive this was and how he started saving for my gift card immediately after his experience. He knew I would love this.
I just wished it could have lasted longer. Maybe there is a way to do that? I push the silver button and in less than a minute, the shop owner was at my door.
“Having fun?” He asked.
“I am, I really am - that was the most amazing experience. I’m just wondering if there is any way of extending a memory?”
I start to tear up unexpectedly as I ask and his face turns solemn.
“I wish there was… but no, that’s not how it works,” He takes my hand in his. “Did you lose someone?”
I nod, unable to get words out.
“My only advice would be to relish any moment you get with them in the memory, it truly is a gift.”
I nod in thanks and he quietly leaves.
I reach for the second record quickly, realising I only have an hour and I want to take his advice and soak in as many memories as I can.
The record started and, this time, I felt a strange pit in my stomach. I opened my eyes and looked at my hands. They were older, but still young.
I wriggled my toes and realised I was wearing my Doc Martins. Ah - I thought - I’m definitely a teenager.
Sounds come into focus and I hear my sister shouting. Her words are sharp and I realise, in no uncertain terms, that they’re being aimed at me. I look at her, she has a pixie cut, she must be in her early twenties.
I scan my surroundings and see I’m in my bedroom at my parents house. Well, the bedroom that was my sister’s but became mine after she moved out. I catch the words she’s hurtling and it all comes back to me.
She’s mad about her lost journals and is convinced I stole them when I moved into her room. I didn’t, but there is no telling her that.
I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment my sister decided she hated me, but, truly, I think it happened at my birth. She wasn’t interested in having a sibling and nothing I could do or say would change her mind that I wasn’t satan incarnate.
I did my best to stay out of her way, but that’s easier said than done when it comes to family.
I feel exhausted reliving this memory, but recognise that I can do what I want within it. I don’t have to sit here and listen to her like I did last time.
I get up and walk downstairs, this makes her angrier and I can hear her smashing my things. I don’t care, I just want to get to the garage.
I open the kitchen door that opens into the garage; it’s cold, it must be winter. There he is though, in a big puffer jacket fiddling under the hood of the car. I run to him and bury my face in his chest.
“Jessica, darling, are you OK?” he asks, not used to such overt displays of affection.
“Yeah,” I sniff, “I just realised I don’t hug you enough.”
“That’s very sweet,” He ruffles my hair, “Now could you tell me why your sister is on the rampage?”
I let a laugh escape, and take a breath to explain, but before the first word leaves my lips, I’m back in the oak room.
At least I got to hug him in this memory.
I look up at the clock, 30 minutes has somehow already flown by. I rush out to grab another couple of records and return to my seat.
The next memory is of the first day at work at the newspaper, the anxiety and strong smelling coffee making me nauseous. Looking around the office I knew my dad wouldn’t be in this memory but I was still happy - this was the first time I met Pete.
God, he was so shy back then, just like me. We were awkward and stilted in that first conversation, trying to sound professional but also clearly very attracted to each other. It was a fun moment to relive and one I was excited to tease him about later.
Moving on, another memory whisked me back to a holiday with my girlfriends. I had just made the decision to cut ties with my sister after years of being chipped away by her hate.
I’d never felt so free. My parents were angry with me, not understanding how I could do it, but I knew it was for the best.
In the memory my friends and I were on a beach, slightly tipsy on margaritas. My cares melted away with the ice in my cup.
Back in the oak room, I glance at the clock. I still have a little time, I wonder if I’ll get any more memories with my dad? I reach for one and get my wish, but instantly regret it.
It’s the day of his death. We’re in the hospital waiting room and somehow my sister is making this all about her. She’s cradling her daughter, Lila, who I’ve only seen a handful of times since she was born, going on and on about how the stress of the surgery on dad is bad for the baby.
My mum sits next to her, withered. She is fading away already, no wonder she took his death so hard. I will my sister to shut up.
Oh no, I really don’t want to relive what happens next, do I have to? The doctor will walk in any minute and explain that the surgery was unsuccessful, that they did everything they could, but that his heart wasn’t strong enough.
I rip the headphones off before the doctor gets to us. I lived that once, and once is enough. I have five minutes left. Time for one more record, I decide.
I steady myself with a sip of water, desperate to shake off the last memory and play the final record.
I do my usual, look down to my hands, but…. there’s… something… something’s wrong. My hands look wrinkled, like crate paper. I feel my joints flaming with pain and I can’t hear very well. How is this happening, am I… older in this memory?
A young girl is on a sofa next to me. Who is that? She’s talking to me with a kind and familiar tone, like we’re family.
I think back to the conversation Pete and I had in my early thirties, when we decided we didn’t want children, so surely this can’t be my child.
That’s when I notice it. The tiny mole above her lip, the one I tickled and called ‘button’ when she was a baby, on the few occasions I got to see her. This was my niece.
She seems comfortable here, with me, like we do this all the time. I hear Pete making coffee in the kitchen, humming away as he always does. My sister is nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s your mother?” I ask. Lila tilts her head in confusion, “She’s on holiday… remember?” She looks at me like I look at my mother now, with a pang of sympathy every time she loses grip on reality.
It seems this is normal, Lila stays with me when her mum is away.
“Of course” I say with a smile, I don’t want to frighten her. She smiles and gets up to help Pete with the coffee. He looks so handsome. Those wide eyes, exactly the same, just a few more wrinkles framing them.
As he hands me my coffee, I’m back in the oak room. What the hell was that?
I compose myself, pick up my bag and head to the counter, gift card in hand.
“How was it?” the owner asks enthusiastically.
“It was amazing, incredible… pretty much every good adjective you could imagine.” He smiles in response. “I did have a slightly strange final memory though…” I say.
“Oh?” He questions.
“I was older in it.”
He gasps in pure amazement and joy, “Wow, that is very rare!”
“What was it?” I ask.
“Every now and then customers get a future memory in their selection. We don’t know how it happens or why, but it is very, very special - what a treat! I hope… anyway,” the joy suddenly turns to concern, “Was it a… nice future memory?”
“It was.” I say, his shoulders dropping with relief, “It was a real comfort.”
I hand over my gift card and leave the shop. As I walk to the coffee shop, I pick up my phone and call my sister.
She sounds part annoyed and part confused at my impromptu call.
“Hello?”
“Hi Sasha.”
“Is everything OK, is it mum?” of course, she assumes someone’s died, why else would I be calling?
“No, no, no - mum’s fine, nothing’s wrong. I was just calling because I would really like to come and see Lila soon.”
“Oh… OK. Really?” She’s taken aback by this.
“Yes.” I respond, “I know we don’t see eye to eye and I’m not expecting that to change, but I would still like a relationship with my niece… if that’s OK with you.”
A long pause.
“Of course it is,” she replies with an exhalation, “You know how much she loves you, she never shuts up about auntie Jess when we do see you, frankly it’s quite annoying.”
She takes a breath, clearly a little unsure about what she’s about to ask, “I… um, actually have a work trip coming up next month and Dave’s away with his friends. Dave’s parents were going to have her, but… perhaps she could stay with you and Pete?”
Pete waves at me from inside the coffee shop, “That would be perfect.”
