Memory Lane

“Should be here somewhere,” she muttered, shuffling a damp cardboard box with brown tape out from under the couch. She cracked it open. 

“Wow,” she exhaled. 

“2006.” 

“Feels like so long ago.”

“It was a long time ago, Mum,” I said. 

She hesitated, biting her lip, as if considering pushing the box away. 

“You don’t have to,” I offered, placing my hand on the box, about to nudge it back under the couch. 

“No,” she said, more firmly this time, pulling it toward her. The box squeaked across the parquet floor. 

“See? Even it wants to be opened.” 

She glanced at me. “I can’t believe it.” Her voice softened. “You’re nearly twenty-one.” She sighed, then, after brushing a layer of dust off the top, opened the box. 

It was packed full, heavier than it looked. 

The first thing she pulled out was a shot glass that read Dublin in bubbly green letters. 

“Ah, I remember this one,” she said, holding it up to the light. The four-leaf clover on the glass glistened. “Got it with Anna. Trip with the loan money.” She smiled to herself. 

Anna was Mum’s best friend from uni. Her longest friend. She still visited on special occasions. 

She pushed aside a few beer mats and an old train ticket before her fingers closed around a black notebook. She lifted it carefully. I shuffled closer and peeked over her shoulder.

“Freshers’ Week,” she murmured, flipping through the pages. “I don’t even know who these people are.” She skimmed over some pages before pausing at a photo. 

“You had red hair?” I asked, pointing at a photo of her with an arm slung around a girl who looked like Anna. Anna hadn’t changed much. She still had the same blunt bob with a fringe. 

“For about three months,” she said, laughing. “God, we never dressed for the weather.”

She turned the page to a photo of a fridge covered in stickers and random scraps of paper. 

“That was our second-year fridge. We decorated it with anything we found.” She leaned in closer. “I remember gluing this photo in and using way too much glue.” The edges of the photo were torn. 

I liked this moment. I hadn’t seen many photos of Mum at uni, only her graduation photo framed in Grandpa’s study. Seeing her as this girl — this younger version of herself, felt new. I wondered if we would have been friends.

 She kept flipping through the book, her fingers slowing when she reached a particular page.

It was a photo taken on another camera, better quality. 

She had blonde hair now. She was standing with a guy, both of them wearing matching t-shirts with writing across them. Someone in the background had their fingers up. 

She tried to move on quickly, but I saw her hesitate.

On the next page was another photo — her and the same guy, kissing outside a nightclub.

A lamppost glowed above them, the warm light blurring with a pink neon sign. The condensation of their breath made it look like it must have been freezing. 

Mum swallowed and shut the book.

“That’s enough,” she said. 

She tossed the notebook, the beer mats, and other scraps of paper into the box and shut it. This time, it didn’t close properly. 

“Ugh,” she muttered, her mood shifting. I tried to help, but she pushed my arm away.

Carelessly, she shoved the box under the couch and covered it with an old blanket that must have gone missing years ago. I heard the rattle of a toy. 

“Let’s order some pizza,” she said, wiping the dust from her fingers. “Then we’ll go out for a drink. Celebrate?” 

I remembered her saying something similar when I turned eighteen, but back then, I was too embarrassed to go to a bar with her. Thinking about it now made me feel bad. These days, we enjoyed a drink or two together, though she usually asked more questions than she answered, leaving me feeling like I’d overshared.

Tonight, I had questions I wanted to ask.

“I’ll Deliveroo the usual. Margherita and four cheese?” 

“Sounds excellent. Maybe some garlic dip as well.”

I went into my room to place the order and started getting ready. 

                                    —-----------------------

I forgot how busy pizza places get on a Friday night and by the time it was out for delivery, I was already ready to leave. Only, I couldn’t find the top I had in mind. 

“Mum?” I called. “Have you seen my off-the-shoulder red top anywhere?”

Silence. 

I popped my head into her room, but the lights were off. I found the top anyway, it was drying on a rack in the corridor. 

A draught made me hug my shoulders as I tiptoed back into my room. 

The doorbell rang. Just as I was about to head downstairs, Mum opened the door. 

“Jess? What’s the code?”, she slurred. 

“48.”

I pulled on a cardigan, grabbed my going out bag, and made my way downstairs. As I passed the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of her walking in, hair still in a messy bun, wearing her trackies. She smelled like cigarettes. 

“I’ve poured myself a glass of wine if you want one,” she said. The bottle of red wine was open, most of it gone. She bit into a slice of pizza. 

“The Margherita was for me. I don’t like blue cheese.” I swapped the boxes. “And it’s nearly eleven. We agreed to leave at eleven.”

She finally looked up at me. Her eyes were red. 

“I’m sorry, Jess. Not tonight.”

My heart sank. I had been looking forward to going out. I had told the others I was spending the night with Mum because I knew this was a special day for her.

I looked away, then spotted the black notebook on the coffee table. Anger flared in my chest.

“Really? You could have told me before I got ready. What a waste of time”. 

I grabbed my bag and a slice of pizza and stormed out of the room.

“You forgot your coat!”, she called after me. 

“You never wore one”, I shot back and walked outside. 

The cold slapped me in the face, but my cheeks burned. I regretted not bringing my coat, but I was too proud to turn around. 

The cobblestones slowed me down as I charged down the street. My ankle twisted slightly, forcing me to steady my pace. 

Streams of voices and laughter carried in the wind. As I stepped through a tunnel, my footsteps echoed, but the wind had calmed. A sense of peace enveloped me. My heart was still racing, but I focused on slowing my breath. 

I glanced at my phone. 23:05.

I decided to go to a bar by myself. I go to cafés alone — why not a bar?

I passed the 24/7 off- licence, its shelves stacked with sweets, crisps and bright coloured soft drinks, a bright contrast to the dull grey buildings around it. A cigarette would be nice, I thought. But the lingering scent of tobacco on Mum’s clothes had put me off. I kept walking.

A bar on the corner caught my eye, near the jazz club. Outside the club, a queue of people wrapped in fur coats and wearing long boots and musky perfume were waiting to get in. They took no notice of me, but I still felt self-conscious and quickly turned into the bar next door.

Inside, it was busy, but not packed with students. That made me feel more at ease.

The bartender, her red hair styled into pigtails, smiled at me as I walked in. I traced a finger along my arm, my skin raised with goosebumps.

“Double vodka coke, please”.

She glanced at my ID but didn’t mention my birthday. Thank God.

After forced small talk, I made my way to a window seat. Climbing onto the barstool was awkward — so inelegant— but no one seemed to notice. A group of adults, Mum’s age, played cards at a nearby table. One woman was confused about the rules, laughing as she fumbled through her cards.

 I smiled to myself. That would be Mum.

She didn’t have a group like that anymore. She used to, friends from uni, but they had long since left Edinburgh, scattered across the world. 

Anna moved to Berlin. She lives with two cats, and her coffee machine features in most of her Facebook photos, as if it was her child. Katie, from Mum’s English Lit course, seems to live in a different city every year —Sydney, Tokyo, Paris. She’s a dancer, in the most PG way. 

They all look like they’re living their dream lives.

 I took another sip of my drink through the straw, thinking about Mum at home with her four-cheese pizza. And my Margherita, probably cold by now. A lump formed in my throat.

Maybe it was just the birthday blues. 

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo —Mum and the boy, the way he cupped the back of her head as they kissed. I knew who he was. I didn’t even need to ask. 

23:45. Still gazing out the window, I sipped my drink until my straw hit ice. The card-playing group had left, replaced by a group of guys my age. I sat up straighter and reached for my phone. I scrolled absentmindedly. 

God, what if they think I got stood up?

That thought alone made me slide off the stool and head to the bathroom. 

The doors were sticky. I didn’t really need to go, but I washed my hands anyway, just for something to do.

I looked at myself in the mirror. 

If my hair was lighter —dyed, like Mum’s, we would look more alike. I remember her telling me when I was twelve, “Don’t ever dye your hair. You’ll regret it.”

 Outside had made it frizzy, and I wondered why I even bothered straightening it. 

I stared at my reflection for too long. The vodka lemonade was hitting harder than expected, but the slight dizziness made me smile. 

Music played softly from the speakers. Checking that no one was watching, I moved my shoulders to the rhythm and fixed my lipstick. Not quite dancing, but it was my birthday soon, after all. 

00:00. Midnight. 

I checked my phone. No messages. 

“Oh”. 

I looked around, wishing someone was there to share this moment. A friendly drunk girl, maybe. But there was no one. The air freshener hissed, and that was it. 

As I zipped up my bag, a group of girls tumbled into the bathroom, laughing. “I’ll wait for you guys here,” said one of them, leaning against the sink, a lollipop in her mouth. She had short, sleek black hair and wore a black cami top. 

She smiled at me. I smiled back. 

My gaze flickered to the mirror. 

She looked like a younger version of Anna. 

“Els?”, she called out. “You got my cloakroom ticket, right?”. Her voice had the same slight lisp, too. 

“Yup!”, another girl replied.

Stalls flushed in unison. The girls drifted out. I tapped my nails again the sink, unsure about what to do. 

“I like your top!”, the girl with the lollipop said. 

“Oh, thanks. I got it off Depop”. 

“Depop?” She frowned. “Never heard of it.” 

I turned back to the mirror. A blonde girl was brushing her hair aggressively. 

“Ugh! Why did I ever dye my hair?” She yanked at the tangled strands. 

I felt awkward lingering, but the girls were leaving, so I followed them out.

A camera left on the sink caught my eye. 

“Excuse me!” I called, clearing my throat. “You forgot this.”

The blonde girl turned around. 

I froze.

 She looked exactly like Mum —just younger.

 The music swelled in my ear, or maybe I imagined it. My head pounded.

“Thanks!”, she said, flashing a smile, not noticing my change in mood. She took the camera, and before I could say anything, they linked hands and disappeared into the crowd. 

I stepped out of the bathroom. For a moment I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Although I had only had one drink, I felt drunk. 

The bar was packed now, thick with humidity, sticky with sweat and cheap alcohol. The bartender was gone, hidden behind a sea of people. Another group of girls walked into the bathroom, forcing me to step aside.

I turned slowly. My seat by the window was gone.

A queue of people had formed where it had been, holding their coats in their hands. 

Cloakroom. This is a club?

Of course it was a club. There were no tables anywhere, no clear dance floor — just students packed shoulder to shoulder.

“Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley was playing. 

Maybe I really had lost my mind. 

My head pounded more. My top clung to my skin, palms damp. Breathing heavily, I pushed through the crowd toward the door. I had to get out.

Cold air filled my lungs as I stumbled outside. The night was unchanged, but the street was busier now. This was better.

I turned to walk home but hesitated, drifting toward the smoking area that stretched past the jazz club. It was crowded. I peered through the window, searching for the group of girls. 

I wanted to spend my birthday with my mum. 

A tap on my shoulder. I turned sharply.

“Hey, can you take a photo of us?”. 

Mum. 

We both blinked. “Oh,” we said in unison, then laughed at the same time. 

“Joe, this is the girl that found my camera!”, she said, nudging his arm. He barely reacted, rolling a cigarette.

He looked up— at me.

 It was the boy from the photo. 

I swallowed hard. His gaze met mine, but he seemed somewhere else. “She can’t live without this camera,” he muttered, flicking the lighter. 

“Wait, wait!”, Mum said, shoving the camera into my hands. 

I turned it around, fingers trembling.

Anna grabbed the cigarette from his hand. “Thanks, pal”, she said. He scoffed.

Looking into the viewfinder, I hesitated. In the foggy night, the warm light from the lamppost melted into the neon glow of a sign. 

Mum and Joe kissed. 

Click.

Anna cheered. Joe jerked back, embarrassed. 

“I’ll have that back,” he grumbled, yanking the cigarette from Anna’s fingers.

I swayed, suddenly dizzy and leaned against the window. 

Mum noticed. “You okay?” She reached into her bag and handed me a flask. 

I took a sip, lips shaking. Liquid dribbled down my chin. Expecting the burn of vodka, I swallowed. 

Just water. 

The smoking area spun. 

Anna’s voice was raised. She was arguing with Joe. “So bloody rude. Let’s go”, she huffed, dragging Mum inside. They vanished into the crowd. 

Joe remained, exhaling smoke. He didn’t seem to care. 

A brunette girl with large hoop earrings approached him. 

“Hello, stranger”. She ran a hand along his forearm. He smiled. 

“Hey Cara”. He passed her the cigarette.

“So,” she said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke into his face. “Looks like you and Amanda are still together”.

 She crushed the cigarette under her boot — sharp and deliberate, but her face stayed calm. 

Joe hesitated, his fingers trailing along her back. 

“Can’t seem to find the right time”. 

Cara’s weight shifted, her boots clicking against the pavement. 

“I’ll do it. Later tonight,” he added quickly, pulling her close to him. 

She smirked, leaning close. 

“Well,” she whispered, “at least she has proof of your last kiss”. 

The word darkened around me. 

                                 —--------------------------

I woke up, tangled in blankets, light piercing through my eyelids.

My brain felt like it was in a fishbowl.

Something pressed against my leg. 

Mum. 

She was perched at the foot of my bed, smiling. Then frowning. 

“Oh, sorry, darling. Didn’t mean to startle you”. 

I exhaled. Everything was normal again. 

Beside my bed, an open pizza box. A slice missing. 

I smiled. She hugged me. “Happy Birthday”. 

We apologised at the same time.

I mumbled something about going out with Milly and Charlotte. 

The washing machine beeped. 

Mum stood up, reaching for the light switch. “Get some rest.” 

As she turned to leave, I blurted out, “Mum, what was the club you used to go to as a student?”

She paused. 

“Oh, it closed down ages ago. Memory Lane, it was called”.