Thanks for the Memories

by Cecelia Ahern

  “Wow,” Doris says breathily.

  “So what’s your point, bro?” Al belches.

  “Well, I don’t think this thing today with me and the woman was déjà vu.” Justin frowns and sighs.

  “Why not?”

  “Because déjà vu relates just to sight, and I felt…oh, I don’t know.” I felt. “Déjà vécu is translated as ‘already lived,’ which explains the experience of not only sight but also of having a weird knowledge of what is going to happen next. Déjà senti specifically means ‘already felt,’ which is exclusively a mental happening, and déjà visité involves an uncanny knowledge of a new place, but that’s less common. No”—he shakes his head—“I definitely didn’t feel like I had been at the salon before.”

  They all go quiet.

  Al breaks the silence. “Well, it’s definitely déjà something. Are you sure you didn’t just sleep with her at some point?”

  “Al.” Doris hits her husband’s arm. “Why didn’t you let me cut your hair, Justin, and who are we talking about, anyway?”

  “You own a doggie parlor.” Justin frowns.

  “Dogs have hair.” She shrugs.

  “Let me try to explain this,” Al interrupts. “Justin saw a woman yesterday at a hair salon in Dublin, and he says he recognized her but didn’t know her face, and he felt that he knew her but didn’t actually know her.” He rolls his eyes melodramatically, out of Justin’s view.

  “Oh, my God,” Doris sings, “I know what this is!”

  “What?” Justin asks, taking a drink from a toothbrush holder.

  “It’s obvious.” She holds her hands up and looks from one brother to another for dramatic effect. “It’s past-life stuff.” Her face lights up. “You knew the woman in a paaast liiife.” She enunciates the words slowly. “I saw it on Oprah.” She nods her head, her eyes wide.

  “Not more of this crap, Doris.” Al looks to Justin. “It’s all she talks about now. She sees somethin’ about it on TV, and that’s all I get on the plane, all the way from Chicago.”

  “I don’t think it’s past-life stuff, Doris, but thanks.”

  Doris tuts. “You two need to have open minds about this kind of thing, because you never know.”

  “Exactly—you never know,” Al fires back.

  “Oh, come on, guys. The woman was familiar, that’s all. Maybe she just looked like someone I knew from home. No big deal.” Forget about it and move on.

  “Well, you started it with all your déjà stuff,” Doris huffs. “So how do you explain it?”

  Justin shrugs. “The optical pathway delay theory.”

  They both stare at him, dumb-faced.

  “The idea is that one eye may record what is seen fractionally faster than the other, creating that strong recollection sensation upon the same scene being viewed milliseconds later by the other eye. Basically it’s the product of a delayed optical input from one eye, closely followed by the input from the other eye, which should be simultaneous. This misleads conscious awareness and suggests a sensation of familiarity when there shouldn’t be one.”

  Silence.

  Justin clears his throat.

  “Believe it or not, honey, I prefer your past-life thing.” Al snorts.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Doris places her hands on her heart, overwhelmed. “Anyway, as I was saying when I was talking to myself in the kitchen, there’s no food, cutlery, or crockery here, so we’ll have to eat out tonight. Look at how you’re living, Justin. I’m worried about you.” Doris looks around the room with disgust. “You’ve moved all the way over to this country on your own, and you’ve got nothing but garden furniture, unpacked boxes, and an ugly cactus in a basement that looks like it was built for students. Clearly Jennifer also got all the taste in the settlement too.”

  Justin’s eyes light up, and he clicks his fingers for their attention. “She had a cactus too!”

  “Who?”

  “The woman at the salon!”

  “She carried a cactus into a hair salon?” Doris’s upper lip rolls upward. “Oh, my God, the woman is insane, she was made for you.” She looks around the room again and shudders. “This place gives me the creeps. Whoever built it is probably still hanging around these walls. I can feel him watching me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Al rolls his eyes.

  “This is a Victorian masterpiece, Doris. It was a real find, and it’s the only place with a bit of history as well as an affordable price. All the place needs is a bit of TLC, and it’ll be fine,” Justin says, trying to forget the apartment he loved and recently sold in the affluent and historic Old Town neighborhood of Chicago.

  “Which is why I’m here.” Doris claps her hands with glee.

  “Great.” Justin’s smile is tight. “Let’s go get some dinner now. I’m in the mood for a steak.”

  “But you’re vegetarian, Joyce.” Conor looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind. I probably have. I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten red meat, but I have a sudden craving for it now that we’ve sat down at the restaurant.

  “I’m not vegetarian, Conor. I just don’t like red meat.”

  “But you’ve just ordered a medium-rare steak!”

  “I know.” I shrug. “I’m just one crazy cat.”

  He smiles as if remembering there once was a wild streak in me. Tonight we are like two friends meeting up after years apart. So much to talk about, but not having the slightest clue where to start.

  “Have you chosen the wine yet?” the waiter stops by and asks Conor.

  I quickly grab the menu and point. “Actually, I would like to order this one, please.”

  “Sancerre 1998. That’s a very good choice, madam.”

  “Thank you.” I have no idea whatsoever why I’ve chosen it.

  Conor laughs. “Did you just do eeny, meeny, miny moe?”

  I smile but get hot under the collar. I don’t know why I’ve ordered that wine. It’s too expensive, and I usually drink white, but I act natural because I don’t want Conor to worry. He already thought I was crazy when he saw I’d chopped all my hair off. He needs to think I’m back to my normal self in order for me to say what I’m going to say tonight.

  The waiter returns with the bottle of wine.

  “You can do the tasting,” Al says to Justin, “seeing as it was your choice.”

  Justin picks up the glass of wine, dips his nose into it, and inhales deeply.

  I inhale deeply and then swivel the wine in the glass, watching for the alcohol to rise and sweep the sides. I take a sip and hold it on my tongue, suck it in, and allow the alcohol to burn the inside of my mouth. Perfect.

  “Lovely, thank you.” I place the glass back on the table.

  Conor’s glass is filled, and mine is topped up, when I begin to tell him the story.

  “I found it when Jennifer and I went to France years ago,” Justin explains. “She was there performing in the Festival des Cathédrales de Picardie with the orchestra, which was a memorable experience. In Versailles, we stayed in Hôtel du Berry, an elegant 1634 mansion full of period furniture. It’s practically a museum of regional history—you probably remember my telling you about it. Anyway, on one of her nights off in Paris, we found this beautiful little fish restaurant tucked away in one of the cobbled alleys of Montmartre. We ordered the sea bass special, but you know how much of a red wine fanatic I am, even with fish, so the waiter suggested we go for the Sancerre.

  “You know I always thought of Sancerre as a white wine, as it’s famous for using the sauvignon blanc grape, but as it turns out it also uses some pinot noir. And the great thing is that you can drink the red Sancerre cooled exactly like white, at twelve degrees. But when not chilled, it’s also good with meat. Enjoy.” He toasts his brother and sister-in-law.

  Conor is looking at me with a frozen face. “Montmartre? Joyce, you’ve never once been to Paris. How do you know so much about wine? And who the hell is Jennifer?”

  I pause, snap out of my trance, and suddenly
hear the words of the story that just came out of my mouth. I do the only thing I can do under the circumstances. I start laughing. “Gotcha.”

  “Gotcha?” He frowns.

  “They’re the lines to a movie I watched the other night.”

  “Oh.” Relief floods his face, and he relaxes. “Joyce, you scared me there for a minute. I thought somebody had possessed your body.” He smiles. “What film are they from?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember.” I wave my hand dismissively, wondering what on earth is going on with me. I haven’t seen a movie in months.

  “You don’t like anchovies now?” He interrupts my thoughts and looks down at the little collection of anchovies I’ve gathered in a pile at the side of my plate.

  “Give them to me, bro,” Al says, lifting his plate closer to Justin’s. “I love ’em. How you can have a Caesar salad without anchovies is beyond me.” He turns to Doris. “Is it okay that I have anchovies?” he asks sarcastically. “The doc didn’t say anchovies are going to kill me, did he?”

  “Not unless somebody stuffs them down your throat, which is quite possible,” Doris says through gritted teeth.

  “Thirty-nine years old, and I’m being treated like a kid,” Al says. “Thirty-five years old, and the only kid I have is my husband,” Doris snaps, picking an anchovy from the pile and tasting it. She wrinkles her nose and looks around the room. “They call this an Italian restaurant? My mother and her family would roll in their graves if they saw this place.” She blesses herself quickly. “So, Justin, tell me about this lady you’re seeing.”

  Justin frowns. “Doris, it’s really no big deal, I told you I just thought I knew her.” And she looked like she thought she knew you too.

  “No, not her,” Al says loudly with a mouthful of anchovies. “She’s talking about the woman you were banging the other night.”

  “Al!” Food wedges in Justin’s throat.

  “Joyce,” Conor says with concern, “are you okay?”

  My eyes fill as I try to catch my breath and keep from coughing. “Here, have some water.” He pushes a glass in my face.

  People around us are staring, concerned.

  I’m coughing so much I can’t even take a breath to drink. Conor gets up from his chair and comes around to me. He pats my back, and I shrug him off, still coughing, with tears running down my face. I stand up in a panic, overturning my chair in the process.

  “Al, Al, do something. Oh, Madonn-ina Santa!” Doris panics. “He’s going purple.”

  Al untucks his napkin from his collar and coolly places it on the table. He stands up and positions himself behind his brother. He wraps his arms around his waist, and pumps hard on his stomach.

  On the second push, the food is dislodged from Justin’s throat.

  As a third person races to my aid, or rather to join the growing panicked discussion of how to perform the Heimlich maneuver—I suddenly stop coughing. Three faces stare at me in surprise while I rub my throat, confused.

  “Are you okay?” Conor asks, patting my back again.

  “Yes,” I whisper, embarrassed by the attention we are receiving. “I’m fine, thank you. Everyone, thank you so much for your help.”

  They are slow to back away.

  “Please go back to your seats and enjoy your dinner. Honestly, I’m fine. Thank you.” I sit down quickly and rub my streaming mascara from my eyes, trying to ignore the stares. “God, that was embarrassing.”

  “That was odd; you weren’t chewing anything. You were just talking, and then, bam! You started coughing.”

  I shrug and continue to rub my throat. “I don’t know, something got caught when I inhaled.”

  The waiter comes over to take our plates away. “Are you all right, madam?”

  “Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”

  I feel a nudge from behind me, and I see our neighbor from the block lean over to our table. “Hey, for a minute there I thought you were going into labor, ha-ha! Didn’t we, Margaret?” He looks at his wife and laughs.

  “No,” Margaret says, her smile quickly fading and her face turning puce. “No, Pat.”

  “Huh?” He’s confused. “Well, I did anyway. Congrats, Conor.” He gives a suddenly pale Conor a wink. “There goes sleep for the next twenty years, believe you me. Enjoy your dinner.” He turns back to face his table, after which we hear murmured squabbling.

  Conor reaches for my hand across the table. “Are you okay?” he asks yet again.

  “That’s happened a few times now,” I explain, and instinctively place my hand over my flat stomach. “I’ve barely looked in the mirror since I’ve come home. I can’t stand to look.”

  Conor makes appropriate sounds of concern, and I hear the words “beautiful” and “pretty,” but I silence him. I need for him to listen and not solve anything. I want him to know that I’m not trying to be pretty or beautiful but for just once need to appear as I am. I want to tell him how I feel when I force myself to look closely and study my body, which now feels like a shell.

  “Oh, Joyce.” His grip on my hand tightens as I speak, squeezing my wedding ring into my skin.

  A wedding ring but no marriage.

  I wriggle my hand a little to let him know to loosen his grip. Instead he lets go. A sign.

  “Conor,” is all I say. I give him a look, and I know he knows what I’m about to say. He’s seen this look before.

  “No, no, no, no, Joyce, not this conversation now.” He withdraws his hand from the table completely and holds both of them up in defense. “You—we—have been through enough this week.”

  “Conor, no more distractions.” I lean forward with urgency in my voice. “We have to deal with us now, or before we know it, ten years will have gone by, and we’ll be wondering every single day of our miserable lives what might have been.”

  We’ve had this conversation in some form or another on an annual basis over the last five years, and I wait for the usual retort from Conor. That no one says marriage is easy, we can’t expect it to be so, we promised each other that marriage is for life, and he’s determined to work at it. Salvage from the Dumpster what’s worth saving, my itinerant husband preaches. I focus on my dessert spoon while I wait for his usual comments. I realize minutes later they still haven’t come. I look up and see he is battling tears, and is nodding in what looks like agreement.

  I take a breath. This is it.

  Justin eyes the dessert menu.

  “You can’t have any, Al.” Doris plucks the menu out of her husband’s hands and snaps it shut.

  “Why not? Am I not allowed to even read it?”

  “Your cholesterol goes up just reading it.”

  Justin zones out as they squabble. He shouldn’t be having any either. Since his divorce he’s started to let himself go, eating as a comfort and skipping his usual daily workout. He really shouldn’t, but his eyes hover above one item on the menu like a vulture watching its prey.

  “Any dessert for you, sir?” the waiter asks.

  Go on.

  “Yes. I’ll have the…”

  “Banoffee pie, please,” I blurt out to the waiter, to my own surprise.

  Conor’s mouth drops.

  Oh, dear. My marriage has just ended, and I’m ordering dessert. I bite my lip and stop a nervous smile from breaking out.

  To new beginnings. To the pursuit of…somethingness.

  Chapter 10

  A GRAND CHIME WELCOMES ME to my father’s humble home. It’s a sound far more than deserving of the two up-two down, but then again, so is my father.

  The sound teleports me back to my life within these walls and how I used to identify visitors by their call at the door. When I was a child, short, piercing sounds told me that friends, too short to reach, were hopping up to punch the button. Years later, fast and weak snippets alerted me to boyfriends cowering outside, terrified of announcing their very existence, never mind their arrival, to my father. Unsteady rings late in the night sang Dad’s homecoming from the pub without his keys.
Joyful, playful rhythms were family calls, and short, loud bursts warned us of door-to-door salespeople. I press the bell again, but not just because at ten a.m. nothing has yet stirred inside the quiet house; I want to know what my own call sounds like.

  Apologetic, short, and clipped—as if it doesn’t want to be heard. It says, Sorry, Dad, sorry to disturb you. Sorry the thirty-three-year-old daughter you thought you were long ago rid of is back home after her marriage has fallen apart.

  Finally I hear sounds inside and I see Dad’s seesaw movement coming closer, shadowlike and eerie in the distorted glass.

  “Sorry, love,” he says as he opens the door, “I didn’t hear you the first time.”

  “If you didn’t hear me, then how did you know I rang?”

  He looks at me blankly and then down at the cactus in my hands and the suitcases at my feet. “What’s this?”

  “You…you told me I could stay for a while.”

  “I thought you meant till the end of Dancing with the Stars.”

  “Oh…well, I was hoping to stay for a bit longer than that.”

  “Long after I’m gone, by the looks of it.” He surveys my baggage on his doorstep. “Come in, come in. Where’s Conor? Something happen to the house? You haven’t mice again, have you? It’s that time of year for them all right, so you should have kept the windows and doors closed. Block up all the openings, that’s what I do. I’ll show you when we’re inside and settled.”

  “Dad, I’ve never called around to stay here because of mice.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Your mother used to do that. Hated the things. Used to stay at your grandmother’s while I ran around here like that cartoon cat trying to catch them. Tom or Jerry, was it?” He squeezes his eyes closed to think, then opens them again, none the wiser. “I never knew the difference. But by God they were impossible to catch.” He raises a fist, looks feisty for a moment while captured in the thought, then stops suddenly and carries my suitcases into the hall.