Cecelia Ahern - If You Could See Me Now

“Luke?”

Luke stopped talking to himself and faced her. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she corrected him. “What happened to the other slice of pizza that was on that plate?”

Luke looked at the empty plate, looked back at Elizabeth like she was crazy, and took a bite of his own pizza. “Ivan ate it.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she admonished him.

He spat it out onto the plate. “Ivan ate it.” He began laughing hysterically again at the mush on his plate that was once in his mouth.

Elizabeth’s head began to ache. What had gotten into him? “What about the olives?”

Sensing her anger, he waited until he swallowed his food before speaking. “He ate them too. I told you olives were his favorite. Granddad wanted to know if he could grow olives on the farm.” Luke smiled and revealed his gums.

Elizabeth smiled back. Her father wouldn’t even know what an olive was if it walked up to him and introduced itself. He wasn’t into any of those “fancy” foods; rice was about as exotic as he would get and even then he complained that the pieces were too small and that he’d be better off eating “a crumblin’ spud.”

Elizabeth sighed as she scraped the remainder of her food from her plate into the bin, but not before checking through the rubbish to see if Luke had thrown the pizza and olives in. No sign. Luke usually had such a small appetite he would struggle to finish a large slice of pizza, never mind two. She presumed she would find it weeks later, moldy and hiding at the back of a cabinet somewhere. If he had eaten the entire thing, he would be sick all night and Elizabeth would have to clean up the mess. Again.

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“You’re very welcome, Luke.”

“Huh?” Luke said, poking his head around the corner of the kitchen.

“Luke, I told you before, it’s pardon, not huh.”

“Pardon?”

“I said you’re very welcome.”

“But I haven’t said thank you yet.”

Elizabeth slid the dishes into the dishwasher and stretched her back. She rubbed the base of her aching spine. “Yes you did, you said ‘Thank you, Elizabeth.’ ”

“No I didn’t.” Luke frowned.

Elizabeth made a face. “Luke, stop playing games now, OK, we’ve had our fun at lunchtime, now you can stop pretending. OK?”

“No. That was Ivan who said thank you,” he said angrily.

A shiver ran through her body. She didn’t think this was funny. She banged the dishwasher door shut, too fed up even to reply to her nephew. Why couldn’t he, just this once, not give her a hard time?

Elizabeth rushed by Ivan with a cup of espresso in her hand and the smell of perfume and coffee beans filled his nostrils. She sat down at the kitchen table, her shoulders sagged, and she held her head in her hands.

“Ivan, come on!” Luke called impatiently from the playroom. “I’ll let you be The Rock this time!”

Elizabeth groaned quietly to herself.

But Ivan couldn’t move. His blue Converse runners were rooted to the marble kitchen floor.

Elizabeth had heard him say thank you. He knew it.

He circled her slowly for a few minutes, studying her for signs of a reaction to his presence. He snapped his fingers next to her eardrums, jumped back, and watched her. Nothing. He clapped his hands and stamped his feet. It echoed loudly around the large kitchen but Elizabeth remained at the table with her head in her hands. No reaction at all.

But she had said, “You’re very welcome.” After several efforts to make noise around her, he was confused to learn of his deep disappointment that she couldn’t sense him. After all, she was a parent, and who cared what parents thought? He stood behind her and stared down at the top of her head, wondering what noise he could make next. He sighed loudly, exhaling a deep breath.

Suddenly, Elizabeth sat up straight, shuddered, and pulled the zip on her tracksuit top higher.

And then he knew she had felt his breath.

Chapter Four

Elizabeth pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body and secured it at the waist. She tucked her long legs up underneath her body and snuggled down into the oversized armchair in the living room. Her wet hair sat tower-like on the top of her head, twisted in a towel; her skin smelled fruity from her passion fruit bubble bath. She cradled a fresh cup of coffee, complete with splash of cream, in her hands, and stared at the television. She was literally watching paint dry. Her favorite house makeover show was on and she loved to see how they could transform the most run-down rooms into sophisticated, elegant homes.

Ever since she was a child, she had loved giving everything she touched a makeover. She passed the time spent waiting for her mother to return by decorating the kitchen table with scattered daisies, sprinkling glitter on the welcome mat by the door, causing a trail of glitter to garnish the dull stone floors of the bungalow, decorating the photo frames with fresh flowers, and sprinkling the bed linen with flower petals. She supposed it was her fix-it nature, always wanting something better than she had, never settling, never satisfied.

She also supposed it was her own childish way of trying to convince her mother to stay. She remembered thinking that perhaps the prettier the house, the longer her mother would remain home. But the daisies on the table were celebrated for no more than five minutes, the glitter on the doormat quickly trampled on, the flowers by the photo frames could not survive without water, and the petals on the bed would be tossed and float to the floor during her mother’s fitful night’s sleep. As soon as these were tired of, Elizabeth would immediately start thinking of something that would really grab and take hold of her mother’s attention, something that she would be drawn to for longer than five minutes, something that she would love so much she would get an overwhelming feeling of being unable to leave it. Elizabeth never considered that as her mother’s daughter, she should have been that something that her mother wished to cling to.

As she grew older, her love for bringing the beauty out in things grew as well. She had had much practice with that at her father’s old farmhouse. Now she loved the days at work when she could restore old fireplaces and rip up ancient carpets to reveal beautiful original floors. Even in her own home she was always changing things, rearranging and trying to improve. She strove for perfection. She loved setting herself tasks, sometimes impossible ones, to prove to her heart that underneath every seemingly ugly thing there was something beautiful.

She loved her job, loved the satisfaction it brought, and with all the new developments in Baile na gCroíthe and the surrounding nearby towns, she had made a very good living out of it. If anything new was happening, Elizabeth’s company was the one they all called. She was a firm believer that good design enhanced life. Beautiful, comfortable, and functional spaces were what she endorsed.

Her own living room was about soft colors and textures; suede cushions and fluffy carpets; she loved to touch and feel everything. There were light colors of coffees and creams and just like the mug in her hand they helped clear her mind. In a world where most things were a clutter, having a peaceful home was vital to her sanity. It was her refuge, her nest, where she could hide from the problems outside her door. At least in her home she was in control. There, unlike in the rest of her life, she allowed in only those whom she wanted, she could decide how long they should stay, and where in her home they could be. Not like a heart, which let people in without permission, held them in a special place she never had any say in, and then yearned for them to remain there longer than they planned. No, the guests in Elizabeth’s home came and went on her command. And she chose for them to stay away.