“I’m fine. It has to be some sort of… what do they call it?” I hesitate, searching for the right phrase. Many words and phrases take longer to find now. “Deep fake?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You really think so? You don’t think… I mean it couldn’t be… um, related to your diagnosis?”
I want to tell her to save the walking on eggshells, to get rid of that tentative tone.
“I’m not there yet.” I close my eyes. I’m starting to get tired and my thoughts fracture away from each other. “I’m on medication that slows down my condition. I know everyone will assume that I’m crazy but if that was me in the photo, I would remember.”
“Okay,” Shalina says. I can tell she isn’t completely convinced. “Right. So, I did get an email from the journalist asking for a comment. Only things were manic here this morning and I didn’t quite know what was going on. We can comment now if you want. I just need to know what kind of statement we’re putting out. Because if you’d like to disclose your condition then it would be best to do that in a way that makes you feel comfortable.”
I consider it for a moment, and then say, “No. No… I don’t think I want to do that.” The strength of feeling takes me aback. I hadn’t realised how much I don’t want my private business to become public.
“Are you sure? It might work in your favour. You’ll be given a lot more grace by the general public. You could even go on TV and talk about it. Be one of those heroes who speaks out about the things we don’t usually talk about. Like the celebrities talking about menopause now.”
I almost groan. “With me it’s a two-for-one special. You get menopausalandcrazy. But no. It’s not for me.”
She laughs. “Okay, got it. You don’t fancy being called ‘brave’.”
“No. This is private. I just want to get on with the next Palmer Twins book.”
“How’s it going?” she asks. “Want me to read anything?”
I don’t want to tell her that I haven’t even started it yet. The last book ended on a cliffhanger. I killed off Marigold Palmer and brought her back as a ghost to haunt her sister, Daisy. Eventually they’ll fight crime together as girl and ghost, but for now Daisy needs to work out who murdered Marigold. The only thing is, I don’t even know yet.
“It’s going well.” I bluff. “I’ll give you an update in a couple of weeks.”
“What about the memoir you were working on?” she asks.
When I received the diagnosis, I suddenly became filled with this deep sense of nostalgia. Anything to do with my childhood. I wanted to relive it all, encapsulate and commemorate it before the strands of the past became untethered. It had been a long time since I’d sat down and written for the sake of writing, but this family history memoir consumed me for a few weeks. That is, until I reached the point where I needed to delve into a part of my childhood that was too painful.
“I wrote a few chapters but hit a bit of a dead end. I need to speak to Mum because there’s a lot I can’t remember.” I realise how that comes across and quickly add, “Because it was a long time ago. Not because of… you know…”
“Okay,” Shalina says. “Well, Elaine said they’d be honoured to publish it once it’s finished. Take your time with them both. Don’t rush it. You’re due a break.”
I want to tell Shalina that I don’t want a break, but I bite my tongue.
“So… the statement is that it isn’t you in the photo? Or no statement at all?” she asks.
I hesitate for a moment. “No statement. Let them speculate. I’m going to get on with my life and forget all about this.”
“Good for you,” Shalina says. “Stay safe, okay?”
“I will.”
I hang up.
Zooming in and out of the photo, I search for anomalies. But the slight curve of my stomach, the black bra, the white shirt open at the neck… it all seems familiar. Or are the clothes just generic items of clothing? It is odd for me to wear a black bra and a white top together. I’m usually careful not to let my bra show through. There’s mud on the shirt and what looks to be “my” face. The strawberry blonde hair is completely mussed and almost brown with dirt. This person has clearly fallen over.
I research AI pictures, finding excellent dupes with the tiniest of tells. Hands, usually. This picture has no indication it’s been doctored. Nothing in the background seems distorted. Every part of the image flows seamlessly into the next. After examining it over and over again, I have to come to the same conclusion as Penny: this picture is real.
I hurry into the house, suddenly afraid that I have this all wrong. Upstairs, I tip out the laundry basket and search through it, throwing clothes across the floor. With a sigh of relief, I come to the end. The clothes in the picture are not in my laundry basket. If I had worn them, surely I would have put the clothes in the basket?
That’s a good sign, but it isn’t enough. If I truly believe that the photo is a fake, I need to prove it. I just have no idea how.
I have a few hours before I need to start getting ready for my date so I go and make a snack. In the cupboard, I look for my favourite rye crackers to have with a bit of cheddar, but I’m out. I could have sworn I bought two new packets the other day but it’s just another indication that I’m losing my grip on everyday tasks. What will be next? Before I can dwell too much on the negativity of that train of thought, I decide to distract myself. I head to my study, sit down at my desk and open the file named “Family Memoir”.
I find the last paragraph. The part that made it too difficult to continue. Old wounds picked open like a scab best left alone.
When I was sixteen, my parents sat me down on the sofa and told me something that turned my whole world upside down. I had just come back from school and found my mother, red-eyed and worried. I knew she’d been crying, and my usually unflappable dad looked stressed. At first, I thought someone had died, but what they told me was almost worse than that. My life up until then, my childhood, my very existence, had all been a lie. I was adopted.
