Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘You look a little uncomfortable. Is there something wrong?’

‘I’m fine.’ Raphie started to back away from the car.

‘You should get that looked at,’ Gabe said, voice heavy with concern.

‘You mind your own business,’ Raphie barked, looking around to make sure nobody heard.

Gabe looked in the rear-view mirror at the garda car. There was no one else in it. No back-up. No witness.

‘Make sure you drop into the Howth Garda Station this week, Gabe, bring your licence with you then and report to me. We’ll deal with you then. Get that boy home safely.’ He nodded at Lou and then made his way back to his car.

‘S’e drunk again?’ Lou asked, opening his bleary eyes and turning around to watch Raphie walk to the car.

‘No, he’s not drunk,’ Gabe said, watching Raphie’s slow walk back to the car in the rear-view mirror.

‘Then what is he?’ Lou snarled.

‘He’s something else.’

‘No, you’re somethin’ else. Now drive me home.’ He clicked his fingers and laughed. ‘Actually, let me drive,’ he said grumpily, and started squirming in his seat to get out. ‘I don’t like people thinking this is your car.’

‘It’s dangerous to drink and drive, Lou. You could crash.’

‘So,’ he huffed childishly. ‘That’s my problem, isn’t it?’

‘A friend of mine died not so long ago,’ Gabe said, eyes still on the garda car that was slowly driving back down the road. ‘And believe me, when you die, it’s everybody else’s but your problem. He left behind a right mess. I’d buckle up if I were you, Lou.’

‘Who died?’ Lou closed his eyes, ignoring the advice, and leaned his head back on the rest, giving up on his idea to drive.

‘I don’t think you know him,’ Gabe said, indicating as soon as the garda car was out of sight and moving out onto the road again.

‘How’d he die?’

‘Car crash,’ Gabe said, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. It jerked forward quickly, the engine loud and powerful all of a sudden in the quiet night.

Lou’s eyes opened slightly and he looked at Gabe warily. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yep. Sad really. He was a young guy. Young family. Lovely wife. Was successful.’ He pressed his foot down harder on the speed.

Lou’s eyes were fully open now.

‘But that’s not the sad thing. The saddest thing was that he didn’t sort out his will on time. Not that he’s to blame, he was a young man and didn’t plan on leaving so soon, but it just shows you never know.’

The speedometer neared one hundred kilometres in the fifty-kilometre zone and Lou grabbed the door handle and held on tightly. He moved from his slouched position, pushing his buttocks firmly to the back of the seat. He was sitting up poker-straight now, watching the speedometer, and the blurred lights of the city across the bay whizzing by.

He began to reach for his seat belt, but all of a sudden, as quickly as Gabe had sped up, he took his foot off the accelerator, checked his wing mirror, indicated, and turned the wheel steadily to the left. He looked at Lou’s face, which had turned an interesting shade of green, and he smiled.

‘Home sweet home, Lou.’

It was only over the next few days, as the hangover haze had begun to lift, that Lou realised he didn’t recall once giving Gabe any directions to his home that night.

‘Mum, Dad, Marcia, Quentin, Alexandra!’ Lou announced at full boom, as soon as the door had been pulled open by his startled-looking mother. ‘I’m ho-ome,’ he sang, embracing his mother and planting a smacker on her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry I missed dinner, it was such a busy evening at the office. Busy, busy, busy.’

Even Lou couldn’t keep a straight face for that excuse, and so he stood in the dining room, his shoulders moving up and down, his chest wheezing in a near silent laugh, watched by startled and unimpressed faces. Ruth froze, watching her husband with mixed feelings of anger, hurt and embarrassment. Somewhere inside her there was jealousy too. She’d had a day of dealing with Lucy’s uncontrollable excitement that had been channelled in all the positive and negative ways a child could possibly behave, and then later dealt with her nerves and tears as she wouldn’t go on stage until her father had arrived. After returning from the school play, she’d put the kids to bed and run around the house all evening in order to get the dinner ready and bedrooms ready for guests. Her face was now bright red from the hot kitchen and her fingers burned from carrying hot dishes. She was flushed and tired, too, physically and mentally drained from trying to stimulate her children in all the ways a parent should; from being on her knees on the floor with Pud, to wiping the tears and offering advice to a disappointed Lucy, who’d failed to find her father in the audience despite Ruth’s attempts to convince her otherwise.

Ruth looked at Lou swaying at the doorway, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks rosy, and she wished that that could be her, throwing caution to the wind and acting the eejit in front of their guests. But he’d never stand for it – and she’d never do it – and that was the difference between them. But there he was, swaying and happy, and there she was, static and deeply dissatisfied, wondering why on earth she had chosen to be the glue holding it all together.

‘Dad!’ Lou announced. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages! It’s been so long, hasn’t it?’ He smiled, walking towards his father with an extended hand. He sat down in the chair beside him, pulling it closer and scraping the floor so that their elbows were almost touching. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind some of that red wine, thanks so much. My favourite, honey, well done.’ He winked at Ruth, then proceeded to spill most of it on the white linen as with an unsteady arm he poured it into an unused glass.

‘Steady there now, son,’ his father said quietly, reaching out to help him steady his hand.

‘Dad, I’m fine.’ Lou pulled away from him, splashing wine over his father’s shirt sleeves.

‘Ah, Aloysius,’ his mother said, and Lou rolled his eyes.

‘It’s fine, love, I’m fine,’ his father said, trying to make light of it.

‘That’s your good shirt,’ she continued, reaching for her napkin, dunking it in her water glass and dabbing at her husband’s white sleeves.

‘Mum,’ Lou looked around the table, laughing, ‘I haven’t killed the man, I just splashed wine.’

His mother threw him a look of scorn and looked away again, continuing to help her husband.

‘Maybe this will help.’ Lou reached for the salt and began shaking it over his father’s arms.

‘Lou!’ Quentin raised his voice. ‘Stop it!’

Lou stopped, then looked at Alexandra with a childish sheepish grin.

‘Ah, Quentin,’ Lou nodded at his brother, ‘I didn’t notice you there. How’s the boat? Got any new sails? Any new equipment? Won any competitions lately?’

Quentin cleared his throat, and tried to calm himself. ‘We’re actually in the final in two wee—’

‘Alexandra!’ Lou exploded, mid Quentin’s sentence. ‘How can I not have kissed the lovely Alexandra?’ He stood up and, bumping against the backs of everybody’s chairs, he made his way over to her. ‘How is the beautiful Alexandra tonight? Looking ravishing, as always.’ He reached down and hugged her tight, kissing her neck.

‘Hi Lou,’ she smiled. ‘Good night?’

‘Oh, you know, busy, busy, lots of paperwork to get through.’ He threw his head back and laughed again, loud like a machine gun. ‘Ah dear. Oh, what’s the problem in here? You all look like somebody’s died. You could do with rockets shoved up your arses, come on.’ He shouted a little too aggressively and clapped his hands in front of their faces. ‘Boring.’ He turned to look at his sister Marcia. ‘Marcia,’ he said, followed by a sigh. ‘Marcia,’ he repeated. ‘Hi,’ he simply said, before making his way back to his chair, smiling childishly to himself.