Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

We sit on the bleachers away from the other parents where few sit together but most take time that is precious and rare to be alone to read or think or watch their children doing unimpressive sideways tumbles on the blue rubber mats. I spot Kate’s children, six-year-old Eric and my five-year-old goddaughter, Jayda, the Muppet Christmas Carol fanatic I have sworn not to hold anything against. They are enthusiastically hopping about and chirping like crickets, pulling their underwear from in between the cheeks of their behinds and tripping over untied shoelaces. Eleven-month-old Sam sleeps beside us in a stroller, blowing bubbles from his chubby lips. I watch him fondly, then remember again and look away. Ah, remembering. That old chestnut.

‘How’s work, Frankie?’ I ask, wanting everything to be as it was.

‘Busy as usual,’ she responds, and I detect guilt, perhaps even embarrassment.

I envy her normality, possibly even her boredom. I envy that her today was the same as her yesterday.

‘Still buying low, selling high?’ Kate pipes up.

Frankie rolls her eyes. ‘Twelve years, Kate.’

‘I know, I know,’ Kate bites her lip and tries not to laugh.

‘Twelve years, I’ve had this job and twelve years you’ve being saying that. It’s not even funny any more. In fact I don’t recall it ever being, and yet you persist.’

Kate laughs. ‘It’s just that, I have absolutely no idea what it is that you do. Something in the stock market?’

‘Manager, deputy head corporate treasury and investor solutions desk,’ Frankie tells her.

Kate stares back blankly, then sighs. ‘So many words to say that you work at a desk.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, what do you do all day, again? Wipe shitty asses and make organic banana sandwiches?’

‘There are other aspects to being a mother, Frankie,’ Kate puffs. ‘It is my responsibility to prepare three human beings so that if, God forbid, something happens to me, or when they are adults, they will be able to live and function and succeed responsibly in the world all by themselves.’

‘And you mush organic bananas,’ Frankie adds. ‘No, no, hold on, is that before or after the preparation of three human beings? Before.’ She nods to herself. ‘Yes, definitely mush bananas and then prepare human beings. Got it.’

‘All I’m saying is, you have, what, seven words to describe your paper-pushing job?’

‘I believe it’s eight.’

‘I have one. One .’

‘Well, I don’t know. Is “car-pooler” one or two words? Joyce, what do you think?’

I stay out of it.

‘The point I’m trying to make is that the word “mum”,’ she says, irritated, ‘a teeny, tiny little word that every woman with a child is called, fails to describe the plethora of duties. If I was doing what I do everyday in your company, I’d be running the fucking place.’

Frankie shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Sorry, but I don’t think I care. And I can’t speak for my colleagues, but personally I like to make my own banana sandwiches and wipe my own behind.’

‘Really?’ Kate lifts an eyebrow. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have some poor man you picked up along the way, do that for you.’

‘Nope, I’m still searching for that special one,’ Frankie smiles back sweetly.

They do this all the time: talk at each other, never to each other, in an odd bonding ritual that seems to pull them closer when it would do the opposite to anybody else. In the silence that follows they both have time to figure out what exactly they were talking about in my company. Ten seconds later Kate kicks Frankie. Oh, yes. The mention of children.

When something tragic has happened, you’ll find that you, the tragic ee , become the person that has to make everything comfortable for everyone else.

‘How’s Crapper?’ I fill their uncomfortable silence and ask after Frankie’s dog.

‘He’s doing well; his legs are healing nicely. Still howls when he sees your photograph, though. Sorry I had to move it from the fireplace.’

‘Doesn’t matter. In fact I was going to ask you to move it. Kate, you can get rid of my wedding photo too.’

Divorce talk. Finally.

‘Ah, Joyce,’ she shakes her head and looks at me sadly, ‘that’s my favourite photo of me. I looked so good at your wedding. Can I not just cut Conor out?’

‘Or draw a little moustache on him,’ Frankie adds. ‘Or better yet, give him a personality. What colour should that be?’

I bite my lip guiltily to hide a smile that threatens to crawl from the corner of my lips. I’m not used to this kind of talk of my ex. It’s disrespectful and I’m not sure I’m completely comfortable with it. But it is funny. Instead I look away to the children on the floor.

‘OK, everybody.’ The gymnastics instructor claps his hands for attention and the crickets’ hopping and chirping momentarily subsides. ‘Spread out on the mat. We’re going to do backwards rolls. Place your hands flat on the floor, fingers pointing towards your shoulders as you roll back to a stand. Like this.’

‘Well, looky-look at our little flexible friend,’ Frankie remarks.

One by one the children roll backwards to a perfect stand. Until it gets to Jayda, who rolls over one side of her head in the most awkward way, kicks another child in the shins and then gets onto her knees before finally jumping to a stand. She strikes a Spice Girl pose in all of her pink sparkling glory, with peace fingers and all, thinking nobody has noticed her error. The instructor ignores her.

‘Preparing a human being for the world,’ Frankie repeats smartly. ‘Yip. You’d be running the fucking place all right.’ Frankie turns to me and softens her voice. ‘So, Joyce, how are you?’

I have debated whether to tell them, whether to tell anyone. Short of carting me off to the madhouse I have no idea how anybody will react to what’s been happening to me, or even how they should react. But after today’s experience, I side with the part of my brain that is anxious to reveal.

‘This is going to sound really odd so bear with me on this.’

‘It’s OK.’ Kate grabs my hand. ‘You say whatever you want. Just release.’

Frankie rolls her eyes.

‘Thanks.’ I slowly slip my hand out of hers. ‘I keep seeing this guy.’

Kate tries to register this. I can see her trying to link it with the loss of my baby or my looming divorce, but she can’t.

‘I think I know him but at the same time, I know I don’t. I’ve seen him precisely three times now, the most recent being today, when he chased after my Viking bus. And I think he called out my name. Though I may have imagined that because how on earth could he know my name? Unless he knows me, but that brings me back to my being sure that he really doesn’t. What do you think?’

‘Hold on, I’m way back at the Viking bus part,’ Frankie slows me down. ‘You say you have a Viking bus.’

‘I don’t have one. I was on one. With Dad. It goes into the water too. You wear helmets with horns and go “aaaagh” at everyone.’ I go close to their faces and wave my fists at them.

They stare back blankly.

I sigh and slide back on the bench. ‘So anyway, I keep seeing him.’

‘OK,’ Kate says slowly, looking at Frankie.

There’s an awkward silence as they worry about my sanity. I join with them on that.

Frankie clears her throat. ‘So this man, Joyce, is he young, old, or indeed a Viking upon your magic bus that travels the high waters?’

‘Late thirties, early forties. He’s American. We got our hair cut together. That’s where I saw him first.’

‘Which is lovely, by the way.’ Kate gently fingers a few front strands.