Cecelia Ahern - If You Could See Me Now

“What age are you, anyway?” I asked Luke as I crashed the police car into the fire engine. The fireman fell off the ladder again. “You look like my aunt,” I accused him and Luke fell about the place laughing. He had a loud laugh.

“I’m only six, Ivan! And I’m not a girl! ”

“Oh.” I don’t really have an aunt. I just said it to make him laugh. “Well, there’s nothing only about being six.”

Just as I was about to ask him what his favorite cartoon was, the front door opened and I heard screaming. Luke’s face went white and I looked up to where he was faced.

“SAOIRSE, GIVE ME BACK MY KEYS!” a voice yelled desperately from inside the house. A flustered-looking woman, red in the cheeks, frantic eyes, with long, unwashed red hair swinging in strands around her face came running out of the house alone. Another shriek from the voice in the house behind caused her to stumble in her platforms on the step of the front porch. She cursed loudly and reached out to the wall of the house for balance. Looking up, she stared in the direction of where Luke and I were seated at the end of the garden. I crawled back a few more inches. I noticed Luke did, too. She gave Luke the thumbs-up and croaked, “See ya, kiddo.” She let go of the wall, wavered slightly, and walked quickly to the car parked in the driveway.

“SAOIRSE!” The voice of the person inside the house screamed again. “I’M CALLING THE GARDAÍ IF YOU SET ONE FOOT IN THAT CAR!”

The red-haired woman snorted, pressed a button on the car keys, and the car beeped and its lights flashed. She opened the door, climbed in, banged her head on the side, cursed loudly again, and slammed the door shut behind her. I could hear the doors locking from where I was at the end of the garden. A few kids on the road stopped playing and stared at the scene unfolding before them.

Finally, the owner of the mystery voice came running outside with a phone in her hand. She looked very different from the other lady she called Saoirse. Her hair was tied back neatly and tightly at the back of her head. She wore a smart gray trouser suit, which didn’t match the high-pitched, uncontrolled voice she currently had. She too was red in the face and out of breath. Her chest heaved up and down rapidly as she tried to run as quickly as she could in her high heels to the car. She danced around beside the car, first trying the door handle and, when finding it locked, threatening to dial 999.

“I’m calling the Gardaí, Saoirse,” she warned, waving the phone at the window on the driver’s side.

Saoirse just grinned from inside the car and started up the engine. The neat lady’s voice cracked as she pleaded with her to get out of the car.

Saoirse sped off down the long cobblestoned driveway. Halfway down, she slowed the car. The neat woman’s shoulders relaxed and she looked relieved. Instead of stopping completely, the car crawled along as the window of the driver’s side was lowered and two fingers appeared out of it, held up proud and high for all to see.

“Ah, I think she’s saying she’ll be back in two minutes,” I said to Luke, and he looked at me oddly.

The woman with the phone watched in fright as the car sped off again down the road, narrowly missing hitting a child on the road. A few hairs escaped from the tight bun on her head, as though attempting to chase the car themselves.

Luke lowered his head and quietly put the fireman back on his ladder. The woman let out an exasperated screech, threw her hands in the air, and turned on her heel. She lurched forward as the heel of her shoe became lodged between the cobbles of the drive, and shook her leg wildly, growing more frustrated by the second. Eventually, she tugged her foot free with one great effort. The shoe flew out; the heel remained lodged in the crack.

“FUUUUCCCK!” she yelled. Hobbling on one high heel and what was now one flat pump, she made her way back up the front porch. The fuchsia door slammed shut behind her and she was swallowed back up by the house. The windows, doorknob, and the letter box smiled at me again and I smiled back.

“Who are you smiling at?” Luke asked with a frown on his face.

“The door,” I replied, thinking it an obvious answer.

He just stared at me with the same frown, his mind evidently half lost in the thoughts of what he had just seen, and in the oddity of smiling at a door.

We could see the woman with the phone through the glass of the front door, pacing the hall. “Who is she?” I asked, turning to look at Luke.

He looked shaken. “That’s my aunt,” he almost whispered. “She looks after me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Who was the one in the car?”

Luke slowly pushed the fire engine through the grass, flattening the blades as he went along. “Oh, her. That’s Saoirse,” he said quietly. “She’s my mom.”

“Oh.” There was a silence and I could tell he was sad. “Seer-sha.” I repeated the name, liking how it felt when I said it; it was like the wind blowing out of my mouth in one big gust or how the trees sounded when they talked to one another on windy days. “Seeeeer-ssshaaaa.” I eventually stopped when Luke looked at me oddly. I picked a buttercup out of the ground and held it under Luke’s chin. A yellow glow appeared on his pale skin. “You like butter,” I stated. “So Saorise’s not your girlfriend then?”

Luke’s face immediately lit up and he giggled. Not as much as before though. “Wanna come inside and play on the computer? I’ve got the new Wrestle Mania game.” And so I found myself inside Fuchsia House waiting for a pizza with olives to be cooked by a woman called Elizabeth, with my new friend Luke.

Chapter Three

It was really nice of Luke to invite me to lunch that day. When I said that pizza was my favorite, I hadn’t intended on actually being asked to stay to eat it. But how can you say no to the treat of pizza on a Friday? That’s a cause for double celebration. However, I got the impression from the incident in the playroom that his aunt didn’t like me very much. I wasn’t at all surprised because that’s usually the way it goes. The parents think that making food for me is a waste because they always just end up throwing it out. But it’s tricky for me—I mean, you try eating your dinner while sitting squashed in a tiny place at the table while everyone looks at you and wonders whether the food is going to disappear or not. I eventually get so paranoid that I can’t eat and I have to just leave the food on the plate.

Not that I’m complaining; being invited to dinner is nice, but they never quite put the same amount of food on my plate as everyone else. It’s never even half as much food as the rest and they always say things like, “Oh, I’m sure Ivan’s not that hungry today anyway.” I mean, how would they know? They never even asked. I’m usually sandwiched between whoever my best friend is at the time and some annoying older brother or sister who steals my food when no one’s looking.

They forget to give me things like serviettes and cutlery and they sure aren’t generous with the wine. (Sometimes they just give me an empty plate and tell my best friends that invisible people eat invisible food. I mean, please, does the invisible wind blow invisible trees?) I usually get a glass of water and that’s only when I ask my friends politely. The grown-ups think it’s weird that I need a glass of water with my food, but they make an even bigger deal about it when I want ice. I mean, the ice is free anyway, and who doesn’t like a cool drink on a hot day?

It’s usually the moms who have conversations with me. Only they ask questions and don’t listen to the answers, or pretend to everyone else that I’ve said something else just to make them all laugh. They even look at my chest when they’re talking to me, as if they expect me to be three feet tall. It’s such a stereotype. For the record I’m six feet tall, and we don’t really do the “age” thing where I’m from. We come into existence as we are. It’s our brain that does the growing. Let’s just say my brain is pretty big by now, but there’s always room for more growth. I’ve been doing this job for a long, long time and I’m good at it; I’ve never failed a friend.