Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘I love it.’

She looks at me in silence, which makes me feel self-conscious.

‘What?’ I look away, busy myself with our tools.

‘I’m surprised that Jasmine did this,’ she says, as if I’m not there but she’s looking directly at me. Her tone surprises me. ‘Busy, busy Jasmine.’

‘You’re one to talk!’ I try to keep my voice light. ‘You’ve a busier schedule than me.’

She moves a hair from in front of my eyes to behind my ear. She has to stand on tiptoe to do this. ‘I am proud of you, Jasmine.’

Tears prick behind my eyes and I’m embarrassed. I don’t recall her ever having said that before, and I don’t know why it moves me so much, so suddenly, so deeply.

‘Yeah, well, I am on gardening leave, after all. So,’ I clap my hands. ‘Before we start, I got you something.’

I give her the gardening clothes I’d ordered online. Green wellington boots with pink flowers, overalls, a warm hat and pink gardening gloves.

We are busy digging a hole big enough to fit the basin of the bowl in when your door opens. I try not to look up and succeed in doing this, my heart drumming at the thought of another confrontation with you, but when I hear footsteps approach, the dragging and shuffling sound tells me that it’s Fionn and I’m no longer afraid to look up. His Beats by Dre are around his neck, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. It’s like a Mary Poppins bag illusion. His hands are far too large to be squeezed into pockets of that size; the effort of jamming them in has pushed his shoulders up past his ears. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there and waits to be addressed.

‘Hi, Fionn,’ I say, straightening up my already aching back.

He grumbles something inaudible.

‘This is my sister Heather.’

The test of a good person right there. And then I remind myself that I need to stop setting so much store on that one moment: the introduction. But Fionn passes the test, grumbling the same inaudible response to Heather and looking neither of us in the eye.

Heather waves.

‘My dad was wondering if you need help.’ He surveys the tools and the hole. ‘Are you doing the water fountain?’

‘Yes, we are.’ I feel awful, but as wrong as I was to say the things that I said to you last night, I’m not going to spend the day minding your son again. Besides, I’ve planned to spend the day with Heather. But I can’t do it. I can’t reject him. You are probably still in bed, hungover. I picture your dark, stuffy bedroom, you as a lump beneath the covers, blackout curtains keeping out the daylight, while your children are downstairs, still in their pyjamas at noon, throwing cereal around the kitchen, stamping on it, mushing it into the carpet. Setting things on fire.

Just as I’m handing Fionn the shovel I hear a burst of children’s laughter and you and the two blonde children come around the corner from the back garden behind your house. You are saying something, very jovial, chirpy, playful. There’s a spring in your step, you’re in good form for someone who was throwing whisky glasses at my head in the very same garden less than twelve hours ago.

You whistle. A call.

I know it’s for Fionn. Fionn knows it’s for Fionn, but he doesn’t turn around. Nor do I look up.

‘Fionn, come on, buddy,’ you say good-naturedly.

‘I’m helping.’ Fionn’s voice comes out whiney, and then breaks.

‘No you’re not,’ you say happily, setting some things out on the table.

I want to see what they are but I don’t want to look at you.

‘Hello, Heather,’ you say cheerily.

‘Hello, Matt.’ Heather waves back and I’m stunned by their exchange.

You ignore me. I’m afraid to look you in the eye.

Fionn sighs, drops the shovel and, without a word to Heather or me, he trudges back across the road, hands disappearing in the magical pockets again, the weight of his long arms pushing his trousers down to reveal the top of his boxer shorts.

In a cheery voice you start to explain to the children what you’re going to do. I want to listen, but Heather is talking and I can’t tell her to stop. Then you turn music on in your car. The kids are excited and the girl who dances everywhere dances around and the other focuses hard on his task. I try to glimpse what you’re doing without being obvious; I try to position myself so that I’m facing you but look as though I’m engrossed in my work. You’re all gathered around the garden table. You are all sanding, and I almost stop what I’m doing to stare in shock. You have taken my advice.

Heather is still talking.

I finally tune into what she’s saying. She wants to go over to you and talk about the tour of the radio station. She’s been doing some research, there are certain studios that she would like to see. I tell her that it’s not appropriate, that it’s Sunday and you’re having family time.

‘I’ll be polite, Jasmine,’ she says, her eyes pleading, and that breaks my heart because I was never in any doubt that she would be polite and I don’t want her to think that it’s her I’m worried about. Finally I stop working.

There is another thing about my sister. She gets things into her head and she must absolutely do them. Absolutely. If she can’t, she cannot fathom it and it rocks her world. Maybe there’s something to be said for having challenges in life; it makes you work harder to face things, it won’t let you take no for an answer. You do more than most people would ordinarily do to rise to the challenge and ensure that your fear or whatever it is that threatens to hold you back cannot win. When I had finished my homework and could watch TV, Heather had speech therapy. When I was able to go out and play with my friends on the road, Heather had extra reading classes. Learning to cycle was a prolonged effort, while I just took off. She always worked harder for everything. This is why the meetings are important, because if she suggests something that isn’t ideal, then at least as a group we can talk about it before it takes over her mind. She did discuss visiting the radio station at the group, everybody agreed that a trip would be a great idea – everybody but me, and I didn’t voice my opinion. By failing to speak I let her down.

I once met a mother who, describing her son’s character traits, said, ‘Typical Down syndrome.’ I wanted to slap her. You cannot define a person by any one thing at any time; we are all unique. This part of Heather’s personality has absolutely nothing to do with having Down syndrome. If so, then Dad and I have Down syndrome too because there’s no stopping any of us when we get the bit between our teeth.

I think about lying. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I always feel that if I can somehow personally guarantee Heather’s happiness then everything will be all right in the world. But my philosophy has always been to tell Heather the truth; I might sugar-coat things occasionally, but that’s my worst offence. I’ve never told her a full-on lie. Realising that I’m about to break my code of ethics, I stop. A boyfriend of mine once told me that I was a people-pleaser, only I know that I wasn’t, because I didn’t please him – I didn’t even try. He seemed to be the last person on my list who I tried to please. What I realise now is that I’m a Heather-pleaser. There are very few other people I try to please; everything revolves around her. I realise that this does not make me a caring person. In fact it makes me rather selfish, because it has meant that in the end everything revolves around me too.

For years I have told myself that Heather looks to me to fix everything. But does she? Or is it that I think she wants me to fix everything? I realise now that she has never asked me to sort things out, has never given any sign that she expects anything to be altered by me, it is I who have placed that pressure on myself. I am having an epiphany. In my garden. Standing knee-deep in a hole that I have dug.