Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Frankie snorts again. Eric howls. Kate runs to her child. Sam continues to blow bubbles.

I leave.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Driving back to Dad’s, I try not to glance at my house as I pass. My eyes lose the battle with my mind and I see Conor’s car parked outside. Since our final meal together at the restaur ant we have talked a few times, each conversation varying in degrees of affection for one another, the last, at the lower end of the scale. The first call came late at night the day after our final meal; Conor asking just one last time if we were doing the right thing. His slurred words and soft voice drifted in my ear as I lay on my bed in my childhood box bedroom and stared at the ceiling, just as I did during those all-night phone calls when we first met. Living with my father at thirty-three years of age after a failed marriage, and a vulnerable husband on the other end of the phone … it was so easy right then to remember the greatest times we’d ever spent together and go back on our decision. But more often than not, the easy decisions are the wrong decisions, and sometimes we feel like we’re going backwards when we’re actually moving forward.

The next phone call was a little more stern, an embarrassed apology and a mention of something legal related. The next, a frustrated enquiry into why my solicitor hadn’t replied to his solicitor yet. The next, him telling me his newly pregnant sister was going to take the cot, something that made me fly into a jealous rage as soon as I rang off and throw the phone in the bin. The last was to tell me he’d boxed everything up, he was leaving for Japan in a few days. And could he have the espresso machine?

But each time I hung up the phone, I felt that my weak goodbye wasn’t a goodbye. It was more of a ‘see you around’. I knew that there was always a chance to back out, that he’d be around for a little while longer, that our words weren’t really final.

I pull the car over and stare up at the house we’ve lived in for almost ten years. Didn’t it deserve more than a few weak goodbyes?

I ring the doorbell and there’s no answer. Through the front window I can see everything in boxes, the walls naked, the surfaces bare, the stage set for the next family to move in and tread the boards. I turn my key in the door and step inside, making a noise so as not to surprise him. I’m about to call his name when I hear the soft tinkle of music drifting from upstairs. I make my way up to the half-decorated nursery and find Conor sitting on the soft carpet, tears streaming down his face as he watches the mouse chase the cheese. I cross the room and reach for him. On the floor, I hold him close and rock him gently. I close my eyes and drift away.

He stops crying and looks up at me slowly. ‘What?’

‘Hmm?’ I snap out of my trance.

‘You said something. In Latin.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did. Just there.’ He dries his eyes. ‘Since when do you speak Latin?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Right,’ he says sharply. ‘Well, what does the one phrase that you do know mean?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must know, you just said it.’

‘Conor, I don’t recall saying anything.’ He glares at me, something pretty close to hate and I swallow hard.

A stranger stares back at me in a tense silence.

‘OK.’ He gets to his feet and moves towards the door. No more questions, no more trying to understand me. He no longer cares. ‘Patrick will be acting as my solicitor now.’

Fantastic, his shit-head brother.

‘OK,’ I whisper.

He stops at the door and turns round, grinds his jaw as his eyes take in the room. A last look at everything, including me, and he’s gone.

The final goodbye.

I have a restless night in bed at Dad’s as more images flash through my mind like lightning, so fast and sharp they light up my head with an urgent bolt and then are gone again. Back to black.

A church. Bells ringing. Sprinklers. A tidal wave of red wine. Old buildings with shop fronts. Stained glass.

A view through banisters of a man with green feet, closing a door behind him. A baby in my arms. A girl with white-blonde hair. A familiar song.

A casket. Tears. Family dressed in black.

Park swings. Higher and higher. My hands pushing a child. Me swinging as a child. A seesaw. A chubby young boy raising me higher in the air, as he lowers himself to the ground. Sprinklers again. Laughter. Me and the same boy in swimming togs. Suburbs. Music. Bells. A woman in a white dress. Cobbled streets. Cathedrals. Confetti. Hands, fingers, rings. Shouting. Slamming.

The man with green feet closing the door.

Sprinklers again. A chubby young boy chasing me and laughing. A drink in my hand. My head down a toilet. Lecture halls. Sun and green grass. Music.

The man with green feet outside in the garden, holding a hose in his hand. Laughter. The girl with the white-blonde hair playing in the sand. The girl laughing on a swing. Bells again.

View from the banisters of the man with green feet closing a door. A bottle in his hand.

A pizza parlour. Ice-cream sundaes.

Pills in his hand too. The man’s eyes seeing mine before the door closes. My hand on a doorknob. The door opening. Empty bottle on the ground. Bare feet with green soles. A casket.

Sprinklers. Rocking back and forth. Humming that song. Long blonde hair covering my face and in my small hand. Whispers of a phrase …

I open my eyes with a gasp, heart drumming in my chest. The sheets are wet beneath me; my body is soaked in sweat. I fumble in the darkness for the bedside lamp. With tears in my eyes that I refuse to allow to fall, I reach for my mobile and dial with trembling fingers.

‘Conor?’ My voice is shaking.

He mumbles incoherently for a little while until he awakens. ‘Joyce, it’s three a.m.,’ he croaks.

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘What’s wrong? Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, it’s just that, well, I – I had a dream. Or a nightmare or maybe it was neither, there were flashes of, well … lots of places and people and things and,’ I stop myself and try to focus. ‘ Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim ?’

‘What?’ he says groggily.

‘The Latin that I said earlier, is that what I said?’

‘Yeah, it sounds like it. Jesus, Joyce—’

‘Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you,’ I blurt out. ‘That’s what it means.’

He is quiet and then he sighs. ‘OK, thanks.’

‘Somebody told me that, if not when I was a child, but tonight, they told me.’

‘You don’t have to explain.’

Silence.

‘I’m going back to sleep now.’

‘OK.’

‘Are you OK, Joyce? Do you want me to call someone for you or …?’

‘No, I’m fine. Perfect.’ My voice catches in my throat. ‘Good night.’

He’s gone.

A single tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away before it reaches my chin. Don’t start, Joyce. Don’t you dare start now.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As I make my way downstairs the following morning, I spy Dad placing Mum’s photograph back on the hall table. He hears me approaching, whips out his handkerchief from his pocket and pretends he’s dusting it.

‘Ah, there she is. Muggins has risen from the dead.’

‘Yes, well, the toilet flushing every fifteen minutes kept me awake for most of the night.’ I kiss the top of his almost hairless head and go into the kitchen. I sniff the smoky atmosphere again.

‘I’m very sorry that my prostate is bothering your sleep.’ He studies my face. ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

‘My marriage is over and so I decided to spend the night crying,’ I explain matter-of-factly, hands on hips, sniffing the air.