Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘Do I know you?’ Frown lines appear on her porcelain forehead.

‘Em …’

‘This is my daughter, Gracie,’ Dad butts in, and for once I don’t correct him.

‘Oh, Gracie,’ Bea shakes her head. ‘No. I was thinking of someone else. Nice to meet you.’

We shake hands and I hold on for a little too long perhaps, entranced by the feel of her real skin, not just a memory. I quickly let go.

‘You were wonderful tonight. I was so proud,’ I say breathily.

‘Proud? Oh, yes, your father told me you designed the costumes,’ she smiles. ‘They were beautiful. I’m surprised I hadn’t met you until now, we had been dealing with Linda for all the fittings.’

My mouth drops, Dad shrugs nervously and sips on what looks to be a new pint. A fresh lie for a fresh pint. The price of his soul.

‘Oh, I didn’t design them … I just …’ You just what, Joyce? ‘I just supervised,’ I say dumbly. ‘What else has he been telling you?’ I nervously sit down and look around for her father, hoping this isn’t the moment he chooses to enter and greet me in the midst of this ridiculous lie.

‘Well, just as you arrived he was telling me about how he’d saved a swan’s life,’ she smiles.

‘Single-handedly,’ they both add in unison and laugh.

‘Ha ha,’ I force out and it sounds fake. ‘Is that true?’ I ask him doubtfully.

‘Oh, ye of little faith.’ Dad takes another gulp of Guinness. Seventy-five years old and he’s already had a brandy and a pint: he’ll be on his ear in no time. God knows what he’d be saying then. We’ll have to leave soon.

‘Well, you know what, girls, it’s great to save a life, it really, really is,’ Dad says from his high horse. ‘Unless you’ve done it, you have no idea.’

‘My father, the hero,’ I smile.

Bea laughs at Dad. ‘You sound exactly like my father.’

My ears perk up. ‘Is he here?’

She looks around. ‘No, not yet. I don’t know where he is. Probably hiding from my mom and her new boyfriend, not to mention my boyfriend,’ she laughs. ‘But that’s another story. Anyway he considers himself Superman—’

‘Why?’ I interrupt and try to rein myself in.

‘About a month ago, he donated blood,’ she smiles and holds her hands up. ‘Ta-da! That’s it!’ She laughs. ‘But he thinks he’s some kind of hero that’s saved somebody’s life. I mean, I don’t know, maybe he has. It’s all he talks about. He donated it at a mobile unit at the college where he was giving a seminar – you guys probably know it, it’s in Dublin. Trinity College? Anyway, I wouldn’t mind, but he only did it because the doctor was cute and for that Chinese thing, what do you call it? The thing where you save someone’s life and they’re forever indebted to you or something like that?’

Dad shrugs. ‘I don’t speak Chinese. Or know any. She eats the food all the time, though.’ He nods his head at me. ‘Rice with eggs, or something.’ He ruffles his nose.

Bea laughs. ‘Anyway, he figured if he was going to save someone’s life he deserved to be thanked every day for the rest of his life by the person he saved .’

‘How would they do that, then?’ Dad leans in.

‘By delivering a muffin basket, do his dry cleaning, a newspaper and coffee delivered to his door every morning, a chauffeur-driven car, front-row tickets to the opera …’ She rolls her eyes and then frowns. ‘I can’t remember what else but they were ridiculous things. Anyway, I told him he may as well have a slave if he wants that kind of treatment, not save someone’s life.’ She laughs and Dad does too.

I make an oh shape with my mouth but nothing comes out.

‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s a really thoughtful guy,’ she adds quickly, misunderstanding my silence. ‘And I was proud of him for donating blood as he’s absolutely terrified by needles. He has a huge phobia,’ she explains to Dad, who nods along in agreement. ‘That’s him there.’ She opens her locket around her neck and if I have regained my power of speech, it is quickly lost again.

On one side of the locket is a photograph of Bea and her mother, and on the other side is the photograph of her and her father when she was a little girl, in the park on that summer day that is clearly imbedded in my memory. I remember how she jumped up and down with excitement and how it had taken us so long to get her to sit still. I remember the smell of her hair as she sat on my lap and pushed her head up against mine and shouted ‘Cheeeeese!’ so loudly she’d almost deafened me. She hadn’t done that to me at all, of course, but I remember it with equal fondness as a day spent fishing with my father when I was a child, feel all the sensations of the day as clearly as the drink I now taste in my mouth and feel flowing down my throat. The cold of the ice, the sweetness of the mineral. It’s all as real to me as the moments spent with Bea in the park.

‘I’ll have to put my glasses on to see this,’ Dad says, moving closer and taking the gold locket in his old fingers. ‘Where was this?’

‘The park near where we used to live. In Chicago. I’m five years old there, with my dad, but I love this photograph. It was such a special day.’ She looks at it fondly. ‘One of the best.’

I smile too, remembering it.

‘Photograph!’ somebody in the bar calls out.

‘Dad, let’s get out of here,’ I whisper while Bea is distracted by the commotion.

‘OK, love, just after this pint—’

‘No! Now!’ I hiss.

‘Group photo! Come on!’ Bea says, grabbing Dad’s arm.

‘Oh!’ Dad looks pleased.

‘No, no no no no no.’ I try to smile to hide my panic. ‘We really must go now.’

‘Just one photo, Gracie,’ she smiles. ‘We have to get the lady who’s responsible for all these beautiful costumes.’

‘No, I’m not—’

‘Costume supervisor ,’ Bea corrects herself apologetically.

A woman on the other side of the group throws me a look of horror, on hearing this. Dad laughs. I’m stiff beside Bea, who throws one arm around me and the other arm around her mother.

‘Everyone say Tchaikovsky!’ Dad shouts.

‘Tchaikovsky!’ They all cheer and laugh.

I roll my eyes.

The camera flashes.

Justin enters the room.

The crowd breaks up.

I grab Dad, and run.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Back in our hotel room it’s lights out for Dad, who climbs into bed in his brown paisley pyjamas, and for me, who is wearing more clothes in bed than I’ve worn for a long time.

The room is black, thick with shadows and still, apart from the flashing red digits in the time display panel at the bottom of the television. Laying flat and still on my back, I attempt to process the day’s events. My body once again becomes the subject of much Zulu drumming as my heartbeat intensifies. I feel its pounding rebound against the springs in the mattress beneath me. Then the pulse in my neck vibrates so wildly it causes my ear drums to join in. Beneath my ribcage, it feels like two fists hammering to get out, and I watch the bedroom door and anticipate the arrival of an African tribe, ready to participate in the synchronised stamping of feet, at the end of my bed.

The reason for these internal war drums? Over and over again, my mind runs through the clanger Bea dropped only hours ago. The words fell from her mouth just like a cymbal falling from its drum set. Since then it has rolled around the floor and only now lands face down on the ground with a crash, ending my African orchestra. The revelation that Bea’s dad, Justin, donated blood a month ago in Dublin, the same month I fell down the stairs and changed my life for ever, plays over and over in my mind. Coincidence? A resounding yes. Something more? A shaky possibility. A hopeful possibility.