Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘With all due respect,’ Dad says without the slightest hint of respect, ‘this is nothing to do with you. Frankly, I don’t even know why you’re here.’

Kevin continues calmly, as though he’s wanted to say this for years, as if it’s himself he’s talking about. ‘Her mother brought her up to make her own decisions. Take care of herself. Find her own way. She was going to have to, because her mum wasn’t going to be there. She set up her own businesses—’

‘And sold every bloody one of them.’

‘Didn’t you sell yours?’

‘I retired. And trying to sell her last business is what got her fired.’

Dad is red in the face now. Leilah puts her hand on his arm and says something in a low voice, but he ignores her, or doesn’t hear her, because he continues the back and forth with Kevin. I zone out.

Larry treated his business like his daughter. He’d refused to let go. My mother raised me knowing she had to let go.

I come up with ideas and sell them.

I don’t want babies. Mum didn’t want to leave Heather, now I can’t let Heather go.

‘ You never finish anything you start ,’ I hear Larry saying to me.

I feel dizzy. Too much is circulating in my mind. Conversations I’ve had with people are coming back to me, my personal beliefs are staring at me oddly, amused, almost singing, ‘We knew this all along, didn’t you?’

Raise babies to let them go.

Kevin told me I was going to die.

Build companies to sell them.

Hold on to Heather because Mum couldn’t.

‘And what business is this of yours?’ Dad raises his voice and Heather’s hands go to her ears. ‘You’ve a problem with everyone in this family. Always have had. Except her, of course. Always in cahoots or whatever the hell you two were—’

‘Because neither of us felt like we belonged in this insane, controlling—’

‘Oh, shut up and go back to Australia. Save it for your therapist—’

‘Excuse me, I will not, and this is the very reason that she and I—’

‘Are you okay, Jasmine?’

It’s you. You’re looking at me and for the first time you’re not smiling. You’re not laughing any more. Your words sound very far away.

I mumble something.

‘You’re pale,’ you say, and you’re about to stand but instead I get to my feet. But I do it too quickly. I’m dehydrated from the night before and emotionally drained from this spectacle and Monday reaches out to stop me from keeling over. I steady myself on the back of his chair and keep my eye on the front door. This time I’m not asking for permission.

‘Excuse me,’ I whisper.

The floor moves beneath me as I make my way to the one target that stays in place while the walls move around me, getting narrower, coming towards me. I need to get out before they squash me completely. I make it to the door, to sunlight, fresh air, the smell of grass and my flowers and hear the trickle of my fountain. I sit on the bench and tuck my legs close to my body and I breathe deeply in and out.

I don’t know how long I’m outside but they get the point eventually. The door opens and Caroline walks out, straight past me to her car and, without a word, drives away. She’s followed by Dad, Leilah and Zara. I put my head down. I smell Monday’s aftershave and he hovers near me but eventually walks away. Then you step outside. I know it’s you; I don’t know how, but the atmosphere has the feel of you in it, and then the kids join you and I know for sure.

‘Well, that was a tough one,’ you say.

I don’t respond, just put my head back down. I feel your hand on my shoulder. It’s a gentle but firm squeeze and I appreciate it. You walk away and halfway down the drive you say, ‘Oh, and thanks for dropping Amy’s letter in to me last night. You’re right. Maybe it’s time I read it now. It’s been six months and she’s still not talking to me. Can’t do any more harm, I suppose. I hope.’

As you walk away I hear Jamie calming Heather in the house. I hurry inside to her. Kevin is hovering around, unsure what to do.

‘You go, Kevin, I’ll give you a call.’

He still doesn’t move.

‘Kevin,’ I sigh. ‘Thank you for today. I appreciate you trying to help. I’d forgotten … all of that stuff, but clearly you haven’t. You were always there for me.’

He nods, gives me a sad smile.

I put my hand to his cheek and kiss him gently on the other.

‘Stop fighting everyone,’ I whisper.

He swallows hard and thinks about that. He nods simply and leaves.

I bring Heather to the couch and wrap my arms around her, plaster a smile on my face.

‘What are these tears for?’ I laugh. ‘Silly billy, there’s no need to be sad,’ I wipe her cheeks.

‘I wanted to help, Jasmine.’

‘And you did.’ I hold her head to my chest and rock her back and forth.

In order to fly one must first clear the shit off one’s wings. First step is to identify the shit. Done.

When I was a child, maybe eight years old, I used to love messing with waiters’ heads. Since learning about the silent language in restaurants, I wanted to speak it. I liked that there was a code that I could communicate to someone, to an adult, that put us on an even playing field. In our regular haunt there was a particular waiter I tormented. I would put my knife and fork together, then when I saw him coming over to collect the plates, I would quickly separate them again. I loved to watch him suddenly dart away, a few feet from our table, like an aborted missile. I’d do this several times in one sitting, not so much that he’d realise I was doing it deliberately. I did this too with the menu. Closed meant order decision had been made, open meant it hadn’t. I would close mine, along with my family’s, and then as soon as he was heading over with pen and pad in hand I would open it again, screw my face up and pretend to be still deciding.

I don’t know what it means that I’ve thought of this now. I don’t know what insight into me it gives, other than the fact that I liked, from an early age, sending mixed signals.

23

It was as I was walking back home after seeing Heather to the bus stop, at her insistence that I didn’t drive because I was, in her opinion, ‘upset’, that what you had said registered with me. Finally, with a moment to think to myself, I hear you thanking me for dropping the letter by last night. Alarm bells start ringing and I stop midstride. There is indeed something terrifying about being told you’ve done something that you haven’t done. First I think you are mistaken, I know you are mistaken. I have tried to give you your wife’s letter on many occasions and you have given it back or asked me to read it. It is in the lemon bowl, because you are a lemon, we both agreed on this fact. But. But . You said last night. You thanked me for giving you the letter last night.

So then I think it still wasn’t me because I was in a heap last night, drinking to find the genie in the bottom of my vodka bottle. Perhaps your wife has delivered another letter to you and you think that I gave it to you, but you didn’t mention that to me when we met last night at the table in your garden, which leaves me to believe it was delivered to you after our meeting. And I would know if your wife was responsible because I was awake until six a.m., drinking, and I would have heard her, I would have seen her – hell, I would have run across the road and invited her in to bake cookies.

‘Good day, Jasmine,’ Dr Jameson says, all jolly-like. ‘Say, I was thinking of having a little soiree on Midsummer’s Day. A barbecue at my place to celebrate this fine summer we’re having. What do you say? I’ve had no response from the chap in number six, I’m about to try him again.’