The Fig Tree

CW: Domestic Abuse, Addiction

I wake slowly, reluctantly, as though I’ve been asleep for a thousand years. Pain radiates through my back and shoulders, pain that I quickly conclude is likely a result of the fact that I’m lying on the floor. Why am I lying on the floor? More to the point, where is this floor?

I sit up and rub my eyes. The walls are the same bright white as the floor. The room is completely empty, except for me. There is no furniture, no pictures on the walls. A single door (white, of course) stands in the wall to my left. I stand, my body protesting with aches and tiredness, and push the door open.

Frustratingly, I find myself in yet another blindingly white room, this one with six doors. I notice that five of the doors are labelled, by way of vinyl signs hanging on each one. Am I in some sort of escape room? But, I was asleep before. It doesn’t make sense that I’d be sleeping in an escape room. What was I doing before I was asleep? Fragmented images of my usual morning routine flash in my mind. Shower, coffee, driving to work. I remember sitting at a traffic light which seemed to stay red forever, daydreaming about what to cook for dinner that night. There was an odd noise, I think, from the car behind me.

What happened after that? Why can I remember sitting in traffic, but not my name, my age, where I live? Have I had some sort of head injury, lost my memories?

No, this has to be a dream - a particularly vivid dream.

I study the signs on the doors:

FAME

AMBITION

CONTROL

ESCAPE

HOME

Well, that’s easy. HOME, right? There's no place like home. Or… maybe not? ESCAPE might be the way out of here. But if this is an escape room after all, surely it wouldn’t be as simple as just going through the door which says escape? Oh well. This is probably just a dream anyway, so it doesn’t really matter which door I choose. I’ll just try all of them.

FAME

The room is, from what I can tell, half-dressing room and half-walk-in wardrobe, and probably double the size of my actual bedroom. Shelves of shoes and handbags line the wall to my left; to my right, a long rail stuffed with evening dresses. It all looks very expensive, even to my untrained eye. Directly in front of me sits a wooden dressing table, glass perfume bottles and tubes of lipstick messily scattered across its surface. I catch sight of my reflection in the gilt mirror, grey-streaked strawberry blonde hair framing a round face with smile lines and crow feet. Okay, I’m still not sure how old I am, but I’m definitely not twenty-one. Never mind. Turning my attention to the floating shelves above the dressing table, I find a series of awards, most of them gold-coloured, in a variety of shapes. I reach for the one closest to me, which seems to be a man holding a sword, and is surprisingly heavy.

Jessica Johnson, it reads. Best Actress.

“That’s my name,” I whisper. Memories begin to flood my mind, as though reading my name has flicked a switch in my brain. Writing my initials all over my school workbooks as a teenager, JJ. I loved the alliteration of my name, and I was adamant about keeping it when I got married, which my friends found horrifyingly modern.

I don’t think I ever got married, in the end. I don’t have any memories of a husband, but then again, I don’t have any memories of being an actress either. Maybe it’s just an actress with the same name.

I place the award back on the shelf and search through the drawers of the dressing table instead, looking for clues. They are a mess of cosmetics, hair products and jewellery. Whoever Jessica Johnson is, she’s not very organised. At the very bottom of one drawer, I find a printed photograph.

It is me. Or at least, a more glamorous version of me. The woman in the photograph is probably the same age as I am, but her face is smoother and less expressive. Her hair is curled and fully strawberry blonde, no grey streaks to be found, and she’s noticeably slimmer than I am. A tall, younger man with fair hair has an arm around her (my?) waist, a bright smile on his face. She is smiling too, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks sad.

AMBITION

A modern-looking office, a hefty glass-topped desk taking up a significant area of the room. I pull out the black ergonomic rolling chair from beneath the desk and sit down. It is extremely tidy - spotless, even. Not a speck of dust is visible, and absolutely zero clutter. In fact, there’s barely anything on the desk other than a sleek monitor - just a Moleskine notebook, a cup of pens, a landline phone, and a plaque which reads: Jessica Johnson, CEO. It’s in stark contrast to the chaos of the dressing table in the previous room. It feels sort of… sterile.

I jiggle the wireless mouse and the computer screen comes to life. Jessica Johnson’s calendar pops up, meticulously ordered and colour-coded. Meeting after meeting, even on the weekends. Flight details and telephone conferences. Nothing social, though. No ‘drinks with friends’ or ‘birthday dinner’ or ‘date night’. But then, maybe this calendar is strictly for work engagements. Or maybe the CEO of a company simply doesn’t have time for such things.

I click out of the calendar and look through the open tabs on the web browser. Some boring-looking spreadsheets, an email inbox, and a website called EverAfter. Hmm. It’s a dating site, the profile only half complete. A headshot of a redheaded woman in a blue suit jacket that would be more suited to LinkedIn than a dating site. A short bio which describes her job, where she lives. Other prompts (‘what do you like to do for fun?’ and ‘what would be your dream date?’) are left blank.

I feel a pang. It’s possible she just hasn’t finished setting up her profile yet, but I get the sense that, not only is Jessica Johnson, CEO, quite lonely, she also isn’t too sure who she really is.

ESCAPE

This doesn’t seem to be a room at all, but rather the inside of a campervan. It has been renovated with a bed, cooking facilities, and even a (very small) bathroom, as though someone lives here full-time. The van smells odd - I can’t put my finger on what it is.

Above the built-in bed is a pinboard covered with Polaroids and postcards. All the photographs are of landscapes or attractions, no people to be seen. My eyes flick across the board, taking it all in. Machu Picchu. Los Angeles. Santorini. Bergen. Osaka.

I reach out and touch one of the postcards wistfully. I’d have loved to see the world.

Another memory that I assume is mine comes to me: a young woman, straight out of university, with dreams of travelling. But something happened that changed the course of her life, something that stopped her from following that particular dream. Annoyingly, I can’t remember what the something was.

My stomach rumbles. When did I last have anything to eat? I spot a mini-fridge tucked away underneath a cabinet, and open it in the hopes there’ll be snacks inside.

“Oh,” I gasp under my breath. It’s full, but not with food. Can after can of cheap, high-volume beer is packed into the tiny fridge. That in itself isn’t too shocking - maybe whoever lives here just isn’t much of a cook. But my brain starts piecing together other clues, painting a bleak picture. The odd smell, which I now realise is an unpleasant combination of sweat and stale alcohol. The half-empty bottle of vodka that I spy nestled among a pile of dirty clothes. The sense of isolation and loneliness that hangs in the air. ESCAPE has more than one meaning, it seems.

CONTROL

A kitchen, this time. It looks like a showroom, or a picture in a magazine: marble countertops, an American-style fridge, fresh potted herbs lining the windowsill above the gleaming sink.

The sharp smell of disinfectant permeates the air. Everything looks perfect, but there’s a sense of discomfort, like something is… off.

I move through the kitchen slowly, not wanting my footsteps to make any sound. Even though I haven’t seen a single other person in this place, I feel uneasy, as though I don’t want to make my presence known.

On one of the countertops, next to an orderly stack of cookbooks and a fully-stocked fruit bowl, is a digital photo frame. I watch for a little while as it displays a series of photographs. A vaguely familiar man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard standing on a beach, smiling at the camera. Two cats sleeping; one ginger, one grey-striped, both curled around each other. A black-and-white shot of the Eiffel Tower. The same dark-haired man, standing next to another version of me. We’re at some sort of event, probably a wedding. I know this man. His name escapes me, but he’s an ex-boyfriend from my early twenties. We were only together for six months - I broke up with him because he was too jealous, too suspicious. He was always accusing me of flirting with other men, berating me for going out with friends.

But… in this photograph, we’re holding hands, and when I look closely, I notice wedding rings on both our fingers. Something’s not right here.

I move away from the photo frame, my attention caught by a laminated piece of paper stuck to the fridge. It’s the only thing on the fridge door, and it is creased and yellowed, as though someone has held it and read it hundreds of times.

HOUSE RULES, it states. I scan the list, my eyes widening with each new line I read. No inappropriate clothing. Dinner must be on the table when I am home from work. Talking to neighbours is forbidden. Must maintain a dress size of 8 or lower.

I feel sick. The walls of this picture perfect kitchen suddenly seem to be pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe. I need to get out of here.

HOME

I almost cry when I open the door to find another kitchen, but after quickly looking around the room, it is nothing like the last one. It feels warm, lived-in, safe. There’s some mess here and there, but it’s mostly clean, and it smells like laundry powder, oranges, and fresh coffee. I do feel at home here. I feel as though I’ve been away, and now I’m back. Now I can settle, like when you’re on a flight home and the pilot announces that we’ll be landing shortly. I take a seat on one of the worn breakfast bar stools and examine my surroundings, a sense of calm washing over me for the first time in this strange, dream-like place.

A water bowl with paw prints embossed on the sides is to the right of my feet, a small puddle pooling from underneath it. A half-full coffee pot stands on the counter, a grocery list written out on a whiteboard above it. Two small, white, glittery trainers are strewn across the floor, alongside a pink toy car and a Barbie doll with a DIY haircut.

The fridge is barely visible beneath everything that is pinned to it. Magnets from a handful of holidays abroad (Paris, Madrid, Lisbon, Rome) hold up a list of term-time dates; a flyer for an amateur drama class; a child’s drawings; a networking event for working mums - everyday activities mingling with dreams of a life unlived.

My breath catches in my throat as my gaze falls on a strip of photographs - four in total, like the ones you get from photobooths. It’s me, of course. Not a glamorous actress version of me, or a high-powered executive. Me, as I am, but maybe ten years younger. I recognise this version of me, as well as the redheaded young girl next to me. Annie. She’s my daughter. She was the something I couldn’t remember. It rushes back to me, memories overlapping in my mind. The positive pregnancy test. The sleepless nights. The stilted conversation with my boss at the consulting firm, telling me I wasn’t pulling my weight. Trying to balance my career with raising a baby all by myself, and failing horribly at it.

But I also remember the warmth of her little hand in mine. Her telling me she loved me for the first time. The look of wonder on her tiny face when she saw snow for the first time, the Christmas she was five.

Tears are spilling down my cheeks. How do I get out of here? How do I get back to Annie?

**

There’s only one more door for me to try - the one without a sign. It makes me slightly nervous, not having any hint to what lies behind it.

I push it open gently, revealing an all-white room almost identical to the one I woke up in originally. Only two differences stand out: a double bed, and a large digital wall clock which reads 10:00 in red numbers. That must be the time - but is it morning or night? Whatever this place is, there are no windows, so I can’t tell. There isn’t much to look at in here. I return to the main room.

I still don’t understand what this is, but I’m not convinced it’s a dream anymore. Maybe I need to choose a room to stay in? What if I make the wrong choice? HOME seems like the obvious candidate, as I’m sure it’s my actual life. I remember that kitchen. I remember Annie. I don’t remember being a Hollywood actress or a CEO, and I definitely don’t want to go back to ESCAPE or CONTROL.

A passage from a book comes into my mind, The Bell Jar, I think. The one about life branching out in front of you like a fig tree, about starving to death because you can’t choose which fig to eat.

HOME, then, it has to be. Home sweet home. I walk over to the appropriate door and turn the doorknob, but it won’t budge. I push against the doorframe with my shoulder. It’s locked. I try FAME. Locked. AMBITION, ESCAPE, CONTROL. Same story. What do I do now?

A relentless wave of fatigue suddenly washes over me. The door to the unnamed room is still open. Perhaps I should have a little rest?

Back in the white room, the red numbers now read 07:34, and are ticking down to zero with each passing second. It’s not the time - it’s a countdown. What’s going to happen when the timer runs out?

The bed looks so inviting, the pillows plump and fluffy, the ivory duvet soft to the touch and neatly tucked into the sides of the bedframe. Just a little lie-down, that’s all I need.

I toss and turn for a while, trying to get comfortable. Before I close my eyes, I glance at the digital clock. 00:48.

I am drifting off when a continuous, high-pitched tone fills the room, and then everything is black, and then there is nothing.

***

There is one thing Dr. John Cahill has always hated about his job. He can handle the long hours, the stress, the endless paperwork - but he absolutely dreads having to break bad news to patients, or their loved ones.

Annie Johnson had been by her mother’s side almost the entire time she had been in the hospital. The pile-up on the A37 had killed eight other drivers. Jessica Johnson had survived, but was comatose. Annie looked exhausted, with deep dark circles under her eyes and her red hair pulled into a straggly ponytail. A nurse had suggested she go to the cafeteria to get a hot drink. Annie had reluctantly done so, whispering to her mother that she would be right back. Dr Cahill had been walking past the room when he heard the cardiac monitor flatline, a sound that to this day always makes his heart sink to his stomach.

Dr. Cahill makes his way to the cafeteria, where he finds Annie waiting for her drink at the self-service coffee machine. She meets his gaze. He never did have a good poker face - something in his expression must tip Annie off before he even opens his mouth, because her face drops.

“Ms. Johnson, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but your mother has passed away.”