Thanks for the Memories (12 page)
“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?”
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wa k e u p t o t h e sound of banging pots and pans coming I 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 t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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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.”
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“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.”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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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.
o , D a d, w h at a r e y o u r plans for the day? Are you S 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.
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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. “
Ani-
mal 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?
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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.”
“Is that so? I hadn’t noticed, what with your marriage breaking up, your moving in with me, your not being a vegetarianist any more, your not mentioning a word about your job. There’s been so much action around here, how’s a man to tell if a channel’s been changed or if a new show has just begun?”
“I just need to do something new,” I explain. “We need a change of schedule, Dad. I’ve got the big remote control of life in my hands, and I’m ready to start pushing some buttons.”
He stares at me for a moment and puts a sausage in his mouth in response.
“We’ll get a taxi into town and catch one of those tour buses, what do you think? Maggie!” I shout out at the top of my voice, making Dad jump. “Maggie, Dad is coming into town with me to have a look around. Is that okay?”
I cock my ear and wait for a response. Happy I’ve received one, I nod and stand up. “Right. Dad, it’s been decided. Maggie says it’s fine if you go into town. I’ll have a shower, and we’ll leave in an hour. Ha! That rhymes.” With that I limp out of the kitchen, leaving my bewildered father behind with egg on his chin.
“I doubt Maggie said yes to me walkin’ at this speed, Gracie,”
Dad says, trying to keep up with me as we dodge pedestrians on Grafton Street.
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“Sorry, Dad.” I slow down and link his arm with mine. Despite his corrective footwear, he still sways, and I sway with him. Even if he got an operation to make his legs equal length, I’d imagine he’d still sway, it’s so much a part of who he is.
“Dad, are you ever going to call me Joyce?”
“What are you talkin’ about? Sure, isn’t that your name?”
I look at him with surprise. “Do you not notice you always call me Gracie?”
He seems taken aback but makes no comment and keeps walking. Up and down, down and up.
“I’ll give you a fiver every time you call me Joyce today.” I smile.
“That’s a deal, Joyce, Joyce, Joyce. Oh, how I love you, Joyce.”
He chuckles. “That’s twenty quid already!” He nudges me and says seriously, “I didn’t notice I called you that, love. I’ll do my best from now on.”
“Thank you.”
“You remind me so much of her, you know.”
“Ah, Dad, really?” I’m touched; I feel my eyes prick with tears. He never says that. “In what way?”
“You both have little piggy noses.”
I roll my eyes.
“I don’t know why we’re walking farther away from Trinity College. Didn’t you want to go there?”
“Yes, but the tour buses leave from Stephen’s Green. We’ll see it as we’re passing. I don’t really want to go in now anyway.”
“Why not?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“And the Book of Kells goes off for an hour’s break, does it?”
Dad jokes. “A ham sambo and a flask of tea, and then it props itself back up on display, right as rain for the afternoon.”
“Maybe so.” I don’t know why, but it feels right to wait. I hug my red coat around me.
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◆ ◆ ◆
Justin darts through the front arch of Trinity College and bounds up the road to Grafton Street. Lunchtime with Sarah. He beats away the nagging voice within him telling him to cancel the date. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance. He needs to try, he needs to find his feet again, he needs to remember that not every meeting with a woman is going to be the same as the first time he laid eyes on Jennifer. The
thump-thump, thump-thump
feeling that made his entire body vibrate, the butterflies that did acrobatics in his stomach, the tingle when his skin brushed hers. He thought about how he’d felt on his first date with Sarah. Nothing. Nothing but flattery that she was attracted to him and excitement that he was back out in the dating world again. He had more of a reaction to the woman in the hair salon a few weeks ago, and that was saying something. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance.
