Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Justin looks up at him, bleary-eyed, and tries to nod again but feels his head loll to one side.

‘I’ve been stood up.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Oh, don’t be. I deserve it. I stood up a person I don’t even know.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘But they have been so kind to me. So, so kind. They gave me muffins and coffee, a car and a driver, and I’ve been so horrible to him or her.’ He stops suddenly.

It might be still open!

‘Here.’ He thrusts his credit card at him. ‘I might still have time.’

I stroll around the quiet streets of the neighbourhood, wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. I told the taxi driver to let me out round the corner so that I could get some air and clear my head before I return home. I also want to be rid of my tears by the time Dad sees me, who I’m sure is currently sitting up in his armchair as he used to do when I was younger, alert and eager to find out what had happened, though he would pretend to be asleep as soon as he heard the key in the door.

I walk by my old house, which I successfully managed to sell only days ago, not to the eager Linda and Joe, who found out it was my home and were afraid my bad luck was an omen for them and their unborn child, or more, that the stairs that caused my fall, would perhaps be too dangerous for Linda during her pregnancy. Nobody takes responsibility for their actions, I notice. It wasn’t the stairs, it was me. I was rushing. It was my fault. Simple as that. Something I’m going to have to dig deep to forgive, as it shall never be forgotten.

Perhaps I’ve been rushing through my whole entire life, jumping into things head first without thinking them through. Running through the days without noticing the minutes. Not that the times when I slowed down and planned ever gave any more positive results. Mum and Dad had planned everything for their entire lives: summer holidays, a child, their savings, nights out. Everything was done by the book. Her premature departure from life was the one thing they had never bargained on. A blip that knocked everything off course.

Conor and I had teed-off straight for the trees and had bogeyed, big time.

The money for the house is to be halved and shared between Conor and me. I will have to start hunting for something smaller, something cheaper. I have no idea what he will do – an odd realisation.

I stop outside our old home and stare up at the red bricks, at the door we argued about what colour to paint, about the flowers we’d thought deeply about before planting. Not mine any more, but the memories are; the memories can’t be sold. The building that housed my once-upon-a-time dreams stands for someone else now, as it did for the people before us, and I feel happy to let it go. Happy that was another time and that I can begin again, anew, though bearing the scars of before. They represent wounds that have healed.

It’s midnight when I return to Dad’s house and behind the windows is blackness. There isn’t a single light on, which is unusual, as he usually leaves the porch light on, particularly if I’m out.

I open my bag to get my keys and bump against my mobile phone. It lights up to show I have missed ten calls, eight of which are from the house. I had it on silent at the opera and, knowing that Justin didn’t have my number, I didn’t think to look at it. I scramble for my keys, my hands trembling as I try to fit the key into the lock. They fall to the ground, the noise echoing in the silent dark street. I lower myself to my knees, not caring about my new dress, and shuffle around the concrete, feeling for the metal in the darkness. Finally, my fingers touch upon them and I’m through the door like a rocket, turning on all the lights.

‘Dad?’ I call in the hallway. Mum’s photograph is on the floor, underneath the table. I pick it up and place it back where it belongs, trying to stay calm, but my heart is having its own idea.

No answer.

I walk to the kitchen and flick the switch. A full cup of tea sits on the kitchen table. A slice of toast with jam, with one bite taken from it.

‘Dad?’ I say more loudly now, walking into the living room and turning on the light.

His pills have all been spilled on the floor, all the containers opened and emptied, all the colours mixed.

I panic now, running back through the kitchen, through the hall, and run upstairs, turning on all the lights as I yell at the top of my lungs.

‘DAD! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU? DAD, IT’S ME, JOYCE! DAD!’ Tears are flowing now; I can barely speak. He is not in his bedroom, or the bathroom, not in my room or anywhere else. I pause on the landing, trying to listen in the silence to hear if he’s calling. All I can hear is the drumbeat of my heart in my ears, in my throat.

‘DAD!’ I yell, my chest heaving, the lump in my throat threatening to seize my breath. I’ve nowhere else to look. I start pulling open wardrobes, searching under his bed. I grab a pillow from his bed and breathe in, holding it close to me and instantly soaking it with tears. I look out the back window and into the garden: no sign of him.

My knees too weak to stand, my head too clouded to think, I sink onto the top stair on the landing and try to figure out where he could be.

Then I think of the spilled pills on the floor and I yell the loudest I have ever shouted in my life. ‘DAAAAAAD!’

Silence greets me and I have never felt so alone. More alone than at the opera, more alone than in an unhappy marriage, more alone than when Mum died. Completely and utterly alone, the last person I have in my life, taken away from me.

Then.

‘Joyce?’ A voice calls from the front door, which I’ve left open. ‘Joyce, it’s me, Fran.’ She stands there in her dressing gown and slippers, her eldest son standing behind her with a flashlight in his hand.

‘Dad is gone.’ My voice trembles.

‘He’s in the hospital, I was trying to call y—’

‘What? Why?’ I stand up and rush down the stairs.

‘He thought he was having another heart—’

‘I have to go. I have to go to him.’ I rush around searching for my car keys. ‘Which one is he in?’

‘Joyce, relax, love, relax.’ Fran’s arms are around me. ‘I’ll drive you.’

CHAPTER FORTY

I run down the corridors, examining each door, trying to find the correct room. I panic, my tears blinding my vision. A nurse stops me and helps me, tries to calm me. Knows instantly who I’m talking about. I shouldn’t be allowed in at this time but she can tell I’m distraught, wants to calm me by showing me he’s all right. She allows me a few minutes.

I follow her down a series of corridors and finally she leads me into his room. I see Dad lying in bed, tubes attached to his wrists and nose, his skin deathly pale, his body so small under the blankets in the bed.

‘Was that you making all that fuss out there?’ he asks, his voice sounding weak.

‘Dad.’ I try to remain calm but my voice comes out muffled.

‘It’s OK, love. I just got a shock, is all. Thought my heart was acting up again, went to take my pills but then I got dizzy and they all fell. Something to do with sugar, they tell me.’

‘Diabetes, Henry,’ the nurse smiles. ‘The doctor will be around to explain it all to you in the morning.’

I sniffle, trying to remain calm.

‘Ah, come here, you silly sod.’ He lifts his arms towards me.

I rush to him and hug him tight, his body feeling frail but protective.

‘I’m not going anywhere on you now. Hush, now.’ He runs his hands through my hair and pats my back comfortingly. ‘I hope I didn’t ruin your night, now. I told Fran not to bother you.’

‘Of course you should have called me,’ I say into his shoulder. ‘I got such a fright when you weren’t home.’