Cecelia Ahern - The Gift

“He’s a good man,” Gabe repeated.

Ruth didn’t answer, but it was almost as though Gabe read her mind when he said, “But you want him to become a better one, don’t you?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Don’t worry.” He placed his hand over hers, and it was immediately comforting. “He will be.”

LOU AWOKE THE MORNING AFTER to a woodpecker sitting on his head hammering away with great gregariousness at the top of his skull. The pain worked its way from his frontal lobe through both his temples and down to the base of his head. Somewhere outside, a car horn beeped, ridiculous for this hour, and an engine was running. He closed his eyes again and tried to disappear into the world of sleep, but responsibilities, the woodpecker, and what sounded like the front door slamming wouldn’t allow him safe haven in his sweet dreams.

His mouth was so dry, he found himself smacking his lips together and thrashing his tongue around in order to gather the smallest amount of moisture. And then the saliva came, and he found himself in that awful place — between his bed and the toilet bowl — where his body temperature went up, his mind dizzied, and the moisture came to his mouth in waves. He kicked off his bedclothes, ran for the toilet, and fell to his knees in a heavy, heaving worship of the toilet bowl. It was only when he no longer had any energy, or anything left inside his stomach, that he sat on the heated tiles in physical and mental exhaustion, and noticed that the sky outside was bright. Unlike the darkness of his usual morning rises at this time of the year, the sky was a bright blue. And then panic overcame him, far worse than the dash he’d just encountered.

Lou dragged himself up from the floor and returned to the bedroom with the desire to grab the alarm clock and strangle the nine a.m. that flashed boldly in red. He’d slept in. They’d all missed their wake-up call. Only they hadn’t, because Ruth wasn’t in bed. Then he noticed the smell of food drifting upstairs, almost mockingly doing the cancan under his nose. He heard the clattering and clinking of cups and saucers. A baby’s babbles. Morning sounds. Long, lazy sounds that he shouldn’t be hearing. He should be hearing the hum of the fax machine and photocopier; the noise of the elevator as it moved up and down the shaft, its ping, every now and then, as though the people inside had been cooked. He should be hearing Alison’s acrylic nails on the keyboard. He should be hearing the squeaking of the mail cart as Gabe made his way down the hallways…

Gabe.

He pulled on a robe and rushed downstairs, almost falling over the shoes and briefcase he’d left at the bottom step, before bursting through the door into the kitchen. There they were, the three usual suspects: Ruth, Lucy, and Bud. Gabe wasn’t anywhere to be seen, thankfully. Egg was dribbling down Lucy’s chin, Ruth was still in her nightgown. Bud was the only one to make a sound as he sang and babbled, his eyebrows moving up and down with such expression it was as though his sentences actually meant something. Lou took this scene in, but at the same time failed to appreciate a single pixel of it.

“What the hell, Ruth?” he said loudly, causing all heads to look up and turn to him.

“Dada?” Bud asked, his voice sweet as an angel’s.

“Excuse me?” Ruth looked at him with widened eyes.

“It’s nine a.m. Nine o-fucking-clock. Why the hell didn’t you wake me?” He came closer to her.

“Lou, why are you talking like this?” Ruth frowned, then turned to her son. “Come on, Bud, a few more spoons, honey.”

“Because you’re trying to get me fired, is what you’re doing. Isn’t it? Why the hell didn’t you wake me?”

“Lucy, why don’t you go and wash your hands,” Ruth spoke calmly, her eyes following her daughter out of the room and then turning to Lou. “I was going to wake you, but Gabe said not to. He said to let you rest until about ten o’clock, that a rest would do you good, and I agreed,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Gabe?” He looked at her as though she were the most ludicrous thing on the planet. “GABE?” he shouted now. “Gabe the mailboy? The fucking MAILBOY? You listened to him? He’s an imbecile!”

“Well, that imbecile” — Ruth fought to stay calm — “drove you home last night instead of leaving you to drive to your death.”

Remembering then that Gabe had driven him home, Lou rushed outside to the driveway. He made his way around the perimeter of his car, hopping from foot to foot on the pebbles outside, his concern for his vehicle so great that he could barely feel them pinching his bare skin. He examined his Porsche from all angles, running his fingers along the surface to make sure there weren’t any scratches or dents. Finding nothing wrong, he calmed a little, though he still couldn’t understand what had made Ruth value Gabe’s opinion so highly. What was going on in the world that had everybody eating out of Gabe’s palm?

He returned to the kitchen, where Ruth was still sitting at the table feeding Bud.

“Ruthy.” He cleared his throat and made an attempt at a Lou-style apology, the kind of apology that never involved the word sorry. “It’s just that Gabe is after my job, you see. You didn’t understand that, I know, but he is. So when he arrived at work this morning bright and early, knowing that I was still asleep — ”

“He left five minutes ago.” She cut him off right away, not turning around, not even looking at him. “He stayed in one of the spare rooms because I’m not too sure if he’s got anywhere else to go. He got up and made us all breakfast, and then I called him a taxi, which I paid for so that he could get to work. So I suggest you get out of this house and take your accusations with you.”

“Ruthy, I — ”

“You’re right, Lou, and I’m wrong. It’s clear from this morning’s behavior that you’re totally in control of things and not in the least bit stressed,” she said sarcastically. “I was such a fool to think you needed an extra hour’s sleep. Now, Bud,” Ruth said as she lifted the baby from his chair and kissed his food-stained face, “let’s go give you a bath.”

Bud clapped his hands and turned to jelly under her raspberry kisses. Ruth walked toward Lou with Bud in her arms, and for a moment Lou softened at the big smile on his son’s face. He prepared to take Bud in his arms but didn’t get a chance. Ruth walked right on by, cuddling Bud tightly while he laughed uproariously at her kisses. Lou acknowledged the rejection. For about five seconds. And then he realized that he needed to get to work. And so he dashed.

In record timing, and thankfully due to Sergeant O’Reilly’s not being on duty as Lou fired his way to work, Lou arrived at the office at ten fifteen a.m.: the latest he had ever arrived at the office. He still had a few minutes before the weekly in-house meeting ended, and so, spitting on his hand and smoothing down his hair, which hadn’t been washed, and running his hands across his face, which hadn’t been shaved, he shook off the remaining waves of dizziness of his hangover, took a deep breath, and entered the boardroom.

Inside, there was a collective intake of breath at the sight of him. It wasn’t that he looked so bad. It was just that, for Lou, he wasn’t perfect. He took a seat opposite Alfred, who beamed with astonishment and absolute delight at his friend’s apparent breakdown.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Lou addressed the table more calmly than he felt. “I was up all night with one of those stomach bugs, but I’m okay now, I think.”

Twelve faces nodded in sympathy and understanding.