Thanks for the Memories

by Cecelia Ahern

  “Good. I’ve been wanting to tell her that for years,” Kate murmurs to me, and I laugh.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hear a crowd of kids chanting.

  “Jesus, Joyce, I better go. See you at the leisure center at seven? It’s my only break. Or else I have tomorrow. Tennis at three or gymnastics at six? I can see if Frankie is free to meet up too.”

  Frankie. Christened Francesca but refuses to answer to it. Dad was wrong about Kate. She may have sourced the poteen, but technically it was Frankie who held my mouth open and poured it down my throat. As a result of this version of the story’s never being told, he thinks Frankie’s a saint, very much to Kate’s annoyance.

  “I’ll take gymnastics tomorrow,” I say as the children’s chanting gets louder. Kate’s gone, and then there’s silence.

  “Gracie!” Dad calls again.

  “It’s Joyce, Dad.”

  “I got the conundrum!”

  I make my way back to my bed and cover my head with a pillow.

  A few minutes later Dad arrives at the door, scaring the life out of me.

  “I was the only one that got the conundrum. The contestants hadn’t a clue. Simon won anyway, goes through to tomorrow’s show. He’s been the winner for three days now, and I’m half bored lookin’ at him. He has a funny-looking face; you’d have a right laugh if you saw it. Do you want a HobNob? I’m going to make another cuppa.”

  “No, thanks.” I put the pillow back over my head. He uses so many words.

  “Well, I’m having one. I have to eat with my pills. Supposed to take it at lunch, but I forgot.”

  “You took a pill at lunch, remember?”

  “That was for my heart. This is for my memory. Short-term memory pills.”

  I take the pillow off my face to see if he’s being serious. “And you forgot to take it?”

  He nods.

  “Oh, Dad.” I start to laugh while he looks on as though I’m having an episode. “You are medicine enough for me. Well, you need to get stronger pills. They’re not working clearly.”

  He turns his back and makes his way down the hall, grumbling, “They’d bloody well work if I remembered to take them.”

  “Dad,” I call to him and he stops at the top of the stairs. “Thanks for not asking any questions about Conor.”

  “Well, I don’t need to. I know you’ll be back together in no time.”

  “No, we won’t,” I say softly.

  He walks back into my room. “Is he stepping out with someone else?”

  “No, he’s not. And I’m not. We just don’t love each other. We haven’t for a long time.”

  “But you married him, Joyce. Didn’t I take you down the aisle myself?” He looks confused.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You both promised each other in the house of our Lord, I heard you with my own ears. What is it with you young people these days, breaking up and remarrying all the time? What happened to keeping promises?”

  I sigh. How can I answer that? He begins to walk away again.

  “Dad.”

  He stops but doesn’t turn round.

  “I don’t think you’re thinking of the alternative. Would you rather I kept my promise to spend the rest of my life with Conor, but not love him and be unhappy?”

  “If you think your mother and I had a perfect marriage, you’re wrong, because there’s no such thing. No one’s happy all the time, love.”

  “I understand that, but what if you’re never happy? Ever.”

  He thinks about that for what looks like the first time, and I hold my breath until he finally speaks. “I’m going to have a HobNob.”

  Halfway down the stairs he shouts back rebelliously, “A chocolate one.”

  Chapter 12

  I’M ON VACATION, BRO, WHY are you dragging me to a gym?” Al half walks, half skips alongside Justin in an effort to keep up with his lean brother’s long strides.

  “I have a date with Sarah next week,” Justin says as he power-walks from the tube station, “and I need to get back into shape.”

  “I didn’t realize you were out of shape,” Al pants, wiping trickles of sweat from his brow.

  “The divorce cloud was preventing me from working out.”

  “The divorce cloud?”

  “Never heard of it?”

  Al, unable to speak, shakes his head.

  “The cloud moves to take the shape of your body, wraps itself nice and tight around you so that you can barely move. Or breathe. Or exercise. Or even date, let alone sleep with other women.”

  “Your divorce cloud sounds like my marriage cloud.”

  “Yeah, well, that cloud has moved on now.” Justin looks up at the gray London sky, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply. “It’s time for me to get back into action.” He opens his eyes and walks straight into a lamppost. “Jesus, Al!” He doubles over, head in his hands. “Thanks for the warning.”

  Al’s beet-red face wheezes up at him, words not coming easily. Or at all.

  “Never mind my having to work out, look at yourself,” Justin admonishes his brother. “Your doctor’s already told you to drop a few hundred pounds.”

  “Fifty pounds…,” Al gasps, “aren’t exactly”—gasp—“a few hundred, and don’t start on me too.” Gasp. “Doris is bad enough.” Wheeze. Cough. “What she knows about dieting is beyond me. The woman doesn’t eat. She’s afraid to bite a nail in case they’ve too many calories.”

  “Doris’s nails are real?”

  “Them and her hair is about all. I gotta hold on to something.” Al looks around, flustered.

  “Too much information,” Justin says, misunderstanding. “I can’t believe Doris’s hair is real.”

  “All but the color. She’s a brunette. Italian, of course. Dizzy.”

  “Yeah, she is a bit dizzy. All that past-life talk about the woman at the hair salon.” Justin laughs.

  “I meant I’m dizzy.” Al glares at him and reaches out to hold on to a nearby railing.

  “Oh…I knew that, I was kidding. It looks like we’re almost here. Think you can make it another hundred yards or so?”

  “Depends on the ‘or so,’” Al snaps.

  “It’s about the same as the week ‘or so’ vacation that you and Doris were planning on taking here. Looks like that’s turning into a month.”

  “Well, we wanted to surprise you, and Doug is able to take care of the shop while I’m gone. The doc advised me to take it easy, Justin. With heart conditions in the family history, I really need to rest up.”

  “You told the doctor there’s a history of heart conditions in the family?” Justin asks.

  “Well, yeah, Dad died of a heart attack. Who else would I be talkin’ about?”

  Justin is silent.

  “Besides, you won’t be sorry. Doris will have your apartment done up so nice that you’ll be glad we stayed. You know she did the doggie parlor all by herself?”

  Justin’s eyes widen in horror.

  “I know.” Al beams proudly. “So, how many of these seminars will you be doing in Dublin? Me and Doris might accompany you on one of your trips over there—you know, see the place Dad was from.”

  “Dad was from Cork.”

  “Oh. Does he still have family there? We could go and trace our roots. What do you think?”

  “Not a bad idea.” Justin thinks of his schedule. “I have a few more seminars ahead. You probably won’t be here that long, though.” He eyes Al sideways, testing him. “And you can’t come next week because I’m mixing that trip with a date with Sarah.”

  “You’re really hot on this girl?”

  His almost-forty-year-old brother’s vocabulary never ceases to amaze Justin. “Am I hot on this girl?” he repeats, amused and confused at the same time. “Good question. Not really, but she’s company. Is that an acceptable answer?”

  “Did she have you at ‘I vant your blood’?” Al chuckles.

  “Wow, that was uncanny,” Justin
says. “Sarah happens to be a vampire from Transylvania.” He changes the subject. “Let’s do an hour at the gym. I don’t think ‘resting up’ is going to make you any better. That’s what got you into this state in the first place.”

  “One hour?” Al almost explodes. “What are you planning on doing on this date, rock-climbing?”

  I WAKE UP TO THE sound of banging pots and pans coming from downstairs, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then I remember everything all over again. My daily morning pill, hard to swallow as usual. One of these days I’ll wake up, and I’ll just know. But I’m not sure which scenario I prefer; the moments of forgetfulness are such bliss.

  I didn’t sleep well last night between the thoughts in my head and the sound of Dad flushing the toilet every hour. Then when he was asleep, his snores rattled through the walls of the house.

  Despite the interruptions, my dreams during those rare moments of sleep are still vivid in my mind. They almost feel real, like memories, though who’s to know what’s real, with all the altering our minds do? I remember being in a park, though I don’t think I was me. I twirled a young girl with white-blond hair around in my arms while a woman with red hair looked on, smiling, with a camera in her hand. The park was colorful, with lots of flowers, and we had a picnic…. I try to remember the song playing in the background, but it fails me. Instead I hear Dad downstairs singing “The Auld Triangle,” an old Irish song he has sung at parties all of my life and probably most of his too. He’d stand there, eyes closed, pint in hand, a picture of bliss as he sang his story of how “the auld triangle went jingle jangle.”

  I swing my legs out of the bed and groan with pain, suddenly feeling an ache in both legs from my hips right down my thighs, all the way down to my calf muscles. I try to move the rest of my body and feel paralyzed with the pain that also runs through my shoulders, biceps, triceps, back muscles, and torso. I massage my muscles in complete confusion and make a note to go see the doctor, just in case it’s something to be worried about. I’m sure it’s my heart, either looking for more attention or so full of pain it’s needed to ooze its ache around the rest of my body, just to relieve itself. Each throbbing muscle is an extension of the pain I feel inside, though a doctor will tell me it’s due to the thirty-year-old bed I slept on, manufactured before the time people claimed nightly back support as their God-given right.

  I throw a dressing gown around me and slowly, stiff as a board, make my way downstairs, trying my best not to bend my legs.

  The smell of smoke greets me as I enter the hall, and I notice once again that Mum’s photograph isn’t there. Something urges me to slide open the table drawer, and there she is, lying facedown. Tears spring in my eyes; I’m angry that something so precious has been hidden away. This photograph has always been more than just a photograph to the both of us; it represents her presence in the house, so she can greet us whenever we come in the front door or climb down the stairs. I take a deep breath and decide to say nothing for now, assuming that Dad has his reasons, though I can’t think of any acceptable ones at this moment. I slide the drawer closed and leave Mum where Dad has placed her, feeling like I’m burying her all over again.

  When I limp into the kitchen, chaos greets me. There are pots and pans everywhere—tea towels, eggshells, and what looks like all the contents of the cupboards covering the counters. Dad is wearing an apron with an image of a woman in red lingerie and suspenders over his usual sweater, shirt, and trousers. On his feet are Manchester United slippers, shaped as large footballs.

  “Morning, love.” He sees me and steps up on his left leg to give me a kiss on the forehead.

  I realize it’s the first time in years that somebody has made breakfast for me, but it’s also the first time in just as many years that Dad has had somebody to cook breakfast for. Suddenly the singing, the mess, the clattering pots and pans, all make sense. He’s excited.

  “I’m making waffles!” he says with an American accent.

  “Ooh, very nice.”

  “That’s what the donkey says, isn’t it?”

  “What donkey?”

  “The one…” He stops stirring whatever is in the frying pan and closes his eyes to think. “The story with the green man.”

  “The Incredible Hulk?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t know any other green people.”

  “You do, you know the one…”

  “The Wicked Witch of the West?”

  “No! There’s no donkey in that! Think about stories with donkeys in them.”

  “Is it a religious one?”

  “Were there talking donkeys in the Bible, Gracie? Did Jesus eat waffles, do you think?” he says, exasperated.

  “My name is Joyce.”

  “Maybe I’ve been reading the wrong Bible all my life,” he continues.

  I look over his shoulder. “Dad, you’re not even making waffles!”

  He sighs. “Do I look like a donkey to you? Donkeys make waffles, I make a good fry-up.”

  I watch him poking sausages around in the pan, trying to get all the sides evenly cooked. “I’ll have some of those, too.”

  “But you’re one of those vegetarianists.”

  “Vegetarian. And I’m not anymore.”

  “Sure, of course you’re not. You’ve only been one since you were fifteen years old after seeing that show about the seals. Then tomorrow I’ll wake up and you’ll be tellin’ me you’re a man. Saw it on the telly once. This woman on the telly, about the same age as you, brought her husband live on the telly in front of an audience to tell him that she decided she wanted to turn her—”

  Feeling frustrated with him, I blurt out, “Mum’s photo isn’t on the hall table.”

  Dad freezes, a reaction of guilt, and this makes me suddenly angry, as if I didn’t realize he was the culprit.

  Then he clicks his fingers, and his eyes light up. “Shrek is the fella I was trying to think of.” He chuckles. “His friend in the movie is the donkey.” He gets back to work, keeping himself busy by clattering around with plates and cutlery.

  “Don’t try to change the subject. Tell me why.”

  “Why what? Why are you walking like that? is what I want to know.” Dad eyes me as I limp across the room to take a seat at the table.

  “I don’t know,” I snap. “Maybe it runs in the family.”

  “Hoo hoo hoo,” Dad hoots and looks up at the ceiling, “we’ve got a live one here, boss! Now set the table like a good girl.”

  He brings me right back, and I can’t help but smile. And so I set the table and Dad makes the breakfast and we both limp around the kitchen pretending everything is as it was and forever shall be. World without end.

  Chapter 13

  SO, DAD, WHAT ARE YOUR plans for the day? Are you busy?”

  A forkful of sausage, egg, bacon, pudding, mushroom, and tomato stops on its way into my dad’s open mouth. Amused eyes peer out at me from under wild, wiry eyebrows.

  “Plans, you say? Well, let’s see, Gracie, while I go through the ol’ schedule of events for the day. I was thinking after I finish my fry in approximately fifteen minutes, I’d have another cuppa tea. Then while I’m drinking me tea, I might sit down in this chair at this table, or maybe that chair where you are, the exact venue is TBD, as my schedule would say. Then I’ll go through answers to yesterday’s crossword to see what we got right. Then I’ll do the Dusoku, then the word game. I already saw that we’ve to try and find nautical words today. Seafaring, maritime, yachting, yes, I’ll be able to do that, sure. Then I’m going to cut out my coupons, and that should fill my early morning right up. Next I’d say I’ll have another cuppa after all of that, before my programs start. If you’d like to make an appointment, talk to Maggie.” He finally shovels the fork into his mouth, and egg drips down his chin. He doesn’t notice and leaves it there.

  I laugh. “Who’s Maggie?”

  He swallows and smiles, amused with himself. “I don’t know why I said it.�
� He thinks hard and finally laughs. “There was a fella I used to know in Cavan—this is goin’ back sixty years now—Brendan Brady was his name. Whenever we’d be tryin’ to make arrangements, he’d say”—Dad deepens his voice—“‘Talk to Maggie,’ like he was someone awful important. She was either his wife or his secretary, I hadn’t a clue. ‘Talk to Maggie,’” he repeats. “She was probably his mother.” He continues eating.

  “So basically, according to your schedule, you’re doing exactly the same thing as yesterday.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not the same at all.” He thumbs through his TV guide and stabs a greasy finger on today’s section. He looks at his watch and slides his finger down the page. He picks up his highlighter with his other hand and marks another show. “Animal Hospital is on instead of Antiques Roadshow. Not exactly the same day as yesterday, now is it? It’ll be doggies and bunnies today instead of Betty’s fake teapots.” He continues to highlight more shows, his tongue licking the corners of his mouth in concentration.

  “The Book of Kells,” I blurt out of nowhere, though that is nothing odd these days. My random ramblings are becoming something of the norm.

  “What are you talking about now?” Dad puts the guide down and resumes eating.

  “Let’s go into town today. Do a tour of the city, go to Trinity College, and look at the Book of Kells.”

  Dad stares at me and munches. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. He’s probably thinking the same of me.

  “You want to go to Trinity College. The girl who never wanted to set foot near the place either for studies or for excursions with me and your mother. Suddenly out of the blue she wants to go. Wait, aren’t ‘suddenly’ and ‘out of the blue’ one and the same? They shouldn’t go together in a sentence, Henry,” he corrects himself.

  “Yes, I want to go.” I suddenly, out of the blue, very much want to go to Trinity College.

  “If you don’t want to watch Animal Hospital, just say so. You don’t have to go darting into the city. There’s such a thing as changing channels.”

  “You’re right, Dad, and I’ve been doing some of that recently.”