Cecelia Ahern - If You Could See Me Now

Elizabeth’s ears hurt from the words of the song being sung by the woman; it was crude, and the words disgusting, and sung in such crass and dirty tones. Every rude word Elizabeth was taught not to say by her father was winning the plaudits of a boozy, sozzled pack of beasts.

She stood on tiptoes in order to look through the red of the stained glass windows to see what awful woman was croaking the awful tune. She was sure her mother would be sitting beside Kathleen, absolutely disgusted.

Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat and for a moment she fought hard with her body to breathe, for on top of the wooden piano sat her mother, opening her mouth and releasing all those awful words. A skirt she had never seen before was hitched up to her thighs, and around her a handful of men taunted, teased, and laughed as she threw shapes with her body Elizabeth had never seen any woman do before.

“Now, now lads, calm down over there,” the young Mr. Flanagan called from behind the bar.

The men ignored him, continuing to leer at Elizabeth’s mother. “Mummy,” Elizabeth whimpered.

Elizabeth walked slowly across the road in the rain toward Flanagan’s Pub, her heart beating with the memory so alive in her head. She held out her hand and pushed open the bar door. Mr. Flanagan looked up from behind the counter and gave her a small smile, looking as though he expected to see her.

Young Elizabeth held out a trembling hand and pushed open the door to the bar. Her hair was wet and dripping around her face, her bottom lip out and trembling; her big brown eyes looked around the room in panic as she saw the men reach out to touch her mother again. “Leave her alone!” Elizabeth shouted so loudly the room was quietened. Her mother stopped singing and all heads turned to the little girl standing at the door.

Her mother’s corner of the room erupted in such loud laughter, tears filled and spilled from Elizabeth’s terrified eyes.

“Boo hoo hoo.” Her mother sang the loudest of them all. “Let’s all try to save Mummy, shall we?” she slurred. She set her eyes upon Elizabeth; they were bloodshot and dark. They weren’t the eyes Elizabeth remembered so well. They belonged to someone else.

“Shit,” Kathleen cursed, jumping up from the other side of the bar and rushing over to Elizabeth. “What are you doing here?”

“I c-c-c-came t-t-t-to,” Elizabeth stammered in the quietened room, looking at her mother in bewilderment, “I came to find my mum so I could live with her.”

“Well, she’s not here,” her mother shrieked. “Get out!” She pointed a finger at her accusingly. “Drowned little rats aren’t allowed in pubs,” she cackled, knocking back whatever was in her glass but missing her mouth, causing most of it to land down her chest, where it glistened on her neck and replaced the smell of her sweet perfume with whiskey.

“But Mummy,” Elizabeth whimpered.

“But Mummy,” Gráinne imitated and a few of the men laughed. “I’m not your mummy,” she said harshly, stepping down onto the piano keys and causing a disturbing sound. “Little drowned Lizzies don’t deserve mummys. They should be poisoned, the whole lot of you,” she spat.

“Kathleen,” Mr. Flanagan shouted, “what are you doing, get her out of here. She shouldn’t be seeing this.”

“I can’t.” Kathleen stayed rooted to the spot. “I have to keep an eye on Gráinne, I have to bring her back with me.”

Mr. Flanagan’s mouth dropped open in shock at her. “Would you look at the child?”

Elizabeth’s brown skin had paled. Her lips were blue from the cold and her teeth were chattering, a soaking-wet floral dress clung to her body, and her legs shook in her Wellington boots.

Kathleen looked from Elizabeth to Gráinne, caught between the two. “I can’t, Tom,” she hissed.

Tom looked angry. “I’ll have the decency to bring her home myself.” He grabbed a set of keys from under the bar and started to come around the other side to Elizabeth.

“NO!” Elizabeth screamed. She took one look at her mother, who had already become bored by this scene and was lost in the arms of a strange man, turned around to face the door, and ran back out to the cold night.

Elizabeth stood at the door of the bar, her hair dripping, rain rolling down her forehead and off her nose, her teeth chattering and her fingers numb. The sounds of the room weren’t the same; inside there was no music, no cheers or whoops, no singing, just the sound of an occasional clinking glass and quiet chatter. There were no more than five people in the bar on the quiet Tuesday night.

An aged Tom continued to stare at her.

“My mother,” Elizabeth called out from the door. The sound of her childlike voice surprised her. “She was an alcoholic.”

Tom nodded.

“She came in here a lot?”

He nodded again.

“But there were weeks”—she swallowed hard—“weeks at a time when she wouldn’t leave us.”

Tom’s reply was softly spoken. “She was what you’d call a binge drinker.”

“And my father . . .” She paused, thinking of her poor father, who waited and waited at home every night. “He knew this,” she confirmed.

“The patience of a saint.” He nodded.

She looked around the small bar, at the same old piano that stood in the corner. The only thing that had changed in the room was the age of all that was in it.

“That night,” Elizabeth said, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you.”

Tom just nodded at her sadly.

“Have you seen her since?”

He shook his head.

“Do you . . . do you expect to?” she asked, her voice catching in her

throat. “Not in this lifetime, Elizabeth.” He confirmed for her what she had always felt deep down. “Daddy,” Elizabeth whispered to herself and took off out of the bar, back into the cold night.

Little Elizabeth ran from the pub, feeling every drop of rain lash against her body, feeling her chest hurt as she breathed in the cold air and the water splash up her legs as she pounded in the puddles. She was running home.

Elizabeth jumped into her car and sped off out of the town toward the mile-long road that led to her father’s bungalow. Approaching headlights caused her to reverse back the way she had come and wait for the car to pass before she could continue her journey. Her father had known all this time and he had never told her. He had never wanted to shatter her illusions of her mother. All this time Elizabeth had held her up on a pedestal.

She had thought her a free spirit and her father a suffocating force, the butterfly catcher. She needed to get to him quickly, to apologize, to make things right. She set off again down the road, only to see a tractor slowly chugging before her, unusual at this late hour. She reversed the car back to the entrance of the road, pulled back by the tide that kept so many people from traveling down the road. With her impatience rising, she abandoned her car and began to run. She ran as fast as she could down the mile-long road that brought her home.

“Daddy,” little Elizabeth sobbed as she ran down the road toward the bungalow. She screamed his name louder, the wind helping her for the first time that night by lifting her words and carrying them for her toward the bungalow. A light went on, followed by another, and she could see the front door open.

“Daddy!” she cried even louder and ran even faster.

Brendan sat at the window of the bedroom, looking out to the dark night, sipping a cup of tea, hoping among all hopes the vision he was hoping for would appear. He had chased them all away; he had done exactly the opposite of what he wanted, and it was all his fault. All he could do was wait. Wait for one of his three women to appear. One of whom he knew for certain would never and could never return.