Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

A veil hangs between the two opposites, a mere slip of a thing that is transparent to warn us or comfort us. You hate now but look through this veil and see the possibility of love; you’re sad now but look through to the other side and see happiness. Absolute composure to a complete mess – it happens so quickly, all in the blink of an eye.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘OK, I’ve gathered us all here today because—’

‘Somebody died.’

‘No, Kate,’ I sigh.

‘Well, it sounds like—Ow,’ she yelps as Frankie, I assume, physically harms her for her tactlessness.

‘So are you all red-bused out of it?’ Frankie asks.

I’m seated at the desk in my hotel room, on the phone to the girls who are huddled around the phone in Kate’s house with me on loudspeaker. I’d spent the morning looking around London with Dad, taking photographs of him standing awkwardly in front of anything resembling anything English: red buses, post boxes, police horses, pubs, Buckingham Palace, and a completely unaware transvestite, as he was so excited to see ‘a real one’, who was nothing like the local priest who’d lost his mind and wandered the streets wearing a dress, in his home town of Cavan when he was young.

While I sit at the desk, he is lying on his bed watching a rerun of Strictly Come Dancing , drinking a brandy and licking the sour cream and onion off Pringles before depositing the soggy crisps in the bin.

‘NICE!’ he shouts at the television, responding to Bruce Forsyth’s catchphrase.

I’ve called a conference call to share the latest news, or more for help and a plea for sanity strengthening. I may have gone one wish too far, but a girl can always dream. Kate and Frankie are huddled around Kate’s home phone.

‘One of your kids just puked on me,’ Frankie says. ‘Your kid just puked on me.’

‘Oh, that is not puke, that’s just a little dribble.’

‘No, this is dribble …’

There’s silence.

‘Frankie, you are disgusting.’

‘OK, girls, girls, please can you two stop, just this once?’

‘Sorry, Joyce, but I can’t continue this conversation until it is out of here. It’s crawling around biting things, climbing on things, drooling on things. It’s very distracting. Can’t Christian mind it?’

I try not to laugh.

‘Do not call my child “it”. And no, Christian is busy.’

‘He’s watching football.’

‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed, particularly by you. Ever.’

‘Well, you’re busy too. How do I get it to come with me?’

There’s a silence.

‘Come here, little boy,’ Frankie says uneasily.

‘His name is Sam. You’re his godmother, in case you’ve forgotten that too.’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten that . Just his name.’ Her voice strains, as though she’s lifting weights. ‘Wow, what do you feed it?’

Sam squeals like a pig.

Frankie snorts back.

‘Frankie, give him to me. I’ll bring him in to Christian.’

‘OK, Joyce,’ Frankie begins in Kate’s absence, ‘I’ve done some research on the information you gave me yesterday and I’ve brought some paperwork with me, hold on.’ I hear papers being ruffled.

‘What’s this about?’ Kate asks, returning.

‘This is about Joyce jumping into the mind of the American man, thereby possessing his memories, skills and intelligence,’ Frankie responds.

‘What?’ Kate shrieks.

‘I found out that his name is Justin Hitchcock,’ I say excitedly.

‘How?’ Kate asks.

‘His surname was in his daughter’s biography in last night’s ballet programme, and his first name, well, I heard that in a dream.’

There’s silence. I roll my eyes as I imagine them giving each other that look.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ Kate asks, confused.

‘Google him, Kate,’ Frankie orders. ‘Let’s see if he exists.’

‘He exists, believe me,’ I confirm.

‘No, sweetie, you see, the way these stories work is, we’re supposed to think you’re crazy for a while before eventually believing you. So let us check up on him and then we’ll go from there.’

I lean my chin on my hand and wait.

‘While Kate’s doing that, I looked into the idea of sharing memories—’

‘What?’ Kate shrieks again. ‘Sharing memories? Are you both out of your mind?’

‘No, just me,’ I say tiredly, resting my head on the desk.

‘Actually, surprisingly enough, it turns out that you’re not clinically insane. On that count, anyway. I went online and did some research. It turns out you’re not alone in feeling that.’

I sit up, suddenly alert.

‘I came across websites with interviews with others who have admitted to experiencing somebody else’s memories and who have also acquired their skills or tastes.’

‘Oh, you two are having me on. I knew this was a set-up. I knew it was out of character for you to drop by, Frankie.’

‘This isn’t a set-up,’ I assure Kate.

‘So you’re trying to tell me honestly that you’ve magically acquired somebody else’s skills.’

‘She speaks Latin, French and Italian,’ Frankie explains. ‘But we didn’t say it was magically. That is ridiculous.’

‘And what about tastes?’ Kate is not convinced.

‘She eats meat now,’ Frankie says matter-of-factly.

‘But why do you think these are somebody else’s skills? Why can’t she just have learned Latin, French and Italian by herself and decided that she likes meat all by herself, like a normal person? I suddenly like olives and have an aversion to cheese, does that mean my body has been possessed by an olive tree?’

‘I don’t think you’re quite getting this. What makes you think olive trees don’t like cheese?’

Silence.

‘Look, Kate, I agree with you about the change of diet being a natural thing, but in all fairness, Joyce did learn three languages overnight without actually learning them.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I have dreams of Justin Hitchcock’s private childhood moments.’

‘Where the hell was I when all of this was happening?’

‘Making me do the hokey cokey live on Sky News,’ I huff.

I place the phone on loudspeaker and for the few minutes that follow, pace the room patiently and watch the time on the bottom of the television as both Frankie and Kate laugh heartily, on the other end.

Dad’s tongue freezes mid-Pringle lick as his eyes follow me.

‘What’s that noise?’ he finally asks.

‘Kate and Frankie laughing,’ I respond.

He rolls his eyes and continues licking his Pringles, attention back on a middle-aged male newsreader doing the rumba.

After three minutes, the laughter stops and I take them off loudspeaker.

‘So as I was saying,’ Frankie says, catching her breath, as though nothing had happened, ‘what you’re experiencing is quite normal – well, not normal, but there are other, eh …’

‘Freaks?’ Kate suggests.

‘… cases where people have spoken of similar things. The only thing is, these are all people who have had heart transplants, which is nothing to do with what you’ve been through, so that blows that theory.’

Thump-thump, thump-thump. In my throat again.

‘Hold on,’ Kate butts in, ‘one person says here that it’s because she was abducted by aliens.’

‘Stop reading my notes, Kate,’ Frankie hisses. ‘I wasn’t going to mention her.’

‘Listen,’ I interrupt their squabbling, ‘he donated blood. The same month that I went into hospital.’

‘So?’ Kate says.

‘She received a blood transfusion,’ Frankie explains. ‘Not all that different to the heart transplant theory I just mentioned.’