Thanks for the Memories (11 page)
The duvet cover is the newest addition to the room. New as in over ten years old; Mum purchased it when my room became the guest room. I moved out to live with Kate a year before she died, and I wish every day since that I hadn’t, all those precious days of t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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not waking up to hear her long yawns turn into songs, to hear her talking to herself as she listened to Gay Byrne’s radio show. She loved Gay Byrne; her sole ambition in life was to meet him. The closest she got was when she and Dad got tickets to sit in the audience of
The Late Late Show
; she spoke about it for years. I think she had a thing for him. Dad hated him. I think he knew about her thing.
He likes to listen to him now, though, whenever he’s on. I think Gay Byrne reminds Dad of time spent with Mum, as though when he hears Gay Byrne’s voice, he hears Mum’s instead. When she died, Dad surrounded himself with all the things she adored. He put Gay on the radio every morning, watched Mum’s television shows, bought her favorite biscuits even though he didn’t enjoy them. He liked to see them on the shelf when he opened the cupboard, liked to see her magazines beside his newspaper. He liked her slippers staying beside her armchair by the fire. He liked to remind himself that his entire world hadn’t fallen apart. Sometimes we need all the glue we can get, just to hold ourselves together.
At sixty-five years old, Dad was too young to lose his wife. At twenty-three, I was too young to lose my mother. At fifty-five she shouldn’t have lost her life, but cancer, undetected until far too late, stole it from her and us all. Dad had married late in life for his generation, and he always says he passed more days of his life waiting for Mum than actually being with her, but that every second spent looking for her and, eventually, remembering her, was worth it for all the moments in between.
Mum never met Conor, so I don’t know whether she would have liked him, though she would have been too polite to have shown it if she didn’t. Mum loved all kinds of people, but particularly those with high spirit and energy, people who lived and exuded that life. Conor is pleasant. Always just pleasant. Never overexcited. Never, in fact, excited at all. Just pleasant, which is
9 2 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
simply another word for nice. Marrying a nice man gives you a nice marriage, but never anything more. And nice is okay when it’s among other things, but never when it stands alone. Dad would talk to anyone anywhere and not have a feeling about them one way or another. The only negative thing he ever said about Conor was “What kind of a man likes
tennis
?” A football man, Dad had spat the word out as though it had dirtied his mouth. Our failure to produce a child didn’t do much to sway Dad’s opinion. He blamed it on the little white tennis shorts Conor sometimes wore, whenever pregnancy test after pregnancy test failed to show blue. I know he said it to put a smile on my face; sometimes it worked, other times it didn’t, but it was a safe joke because we both knew it wasn’t the tennis shorts or the man wearing them that was the problem.
I sit down carefully on the duvet cover bought by Mum, not wanting to crease it. A two-pillow and duvet cover set from Dunnes with a matching candle for the windowsill, which has never been lit and which has since lost its scent. Dust gathers on the top, incriminating evidence that Dad is not keeping up with his duties. As if at seventy-five years old the removal of dust from anywhere but his memory shelf should be a priority. I place the cactus on the windowsill beside the candle.
I turn on my cell phone, which has been switched off for days, and it begins to beep as a dozen messages filter through. I have already made my calls to those near, dear, and nosy. Like pulling off a Band-Aid; don’t think about it, move quickly, and it’s almost painless. Flip open the phone book, and bam, bam, bam: three minutes each. Quick, snappy phone calls made by a strangely upbeat woman who’d momentarily inhabited my body. An incredible woman, in fact, positive and perky, yet emotional and wise at all the right moments, her timing impeccable, her sentiments so poignant I almost wanted to write them down. She even attempted a bit of humor, which some members of the near, dear, and nosy t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 9 3
coped well with, while others seemed almost insulted—not that she cared, for it was her party and she was refusing to cry if she wanted to.
Fortunately, I don’t have to put on an act for the woman I am calling now.
Kate picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello,” she shouts, and I jump. There are manic noises in the background, as though a mini-war has broken out on the other side.
“Joyce!” she yells, and I realize I’m on speakerphone. “I’ve been calling you and calling you. Derek,
sit down. Mummy is not
happy!
Sorry, I’m just doing the school run. I’ve to take six kids home, then a quick snack before I take Eric to basketball and Jayda to swimming. Want to meet me there at seven? Jayda is getting her ten-meter badge today.”
Jayda howls in the background about hating ten-meter badges.
“How can you hate it when you’ve never had one?” Kate snaps. Jayda howls even louder and I have to move the phone from my ear. “
Jayda! Give Mummy a break! Derek, put your seat belt on!
If I have to brake suddenly, you will go
flying
through the windscreen and
smash your face in.
Hold on, Joyce.”
There is silence while I wait.
“Gracie!” Dad yells up to me. I run to the top of the stairs in a panic, not used to hearing him shout like that since I was a child.
“Yes? Dad! Are you okay?”
“I got seven letters,” he shouts.
“You got what?”
“Seven letters!”
“What does that mean?”
“In
Countdown
!”
I stop panicking and sit on the top stair in frustration. Suddenly Kate’s voice is back, and it sounds as though calm has been restored.
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“Okay, you’re off speakerphone. I’ll probably be arrested for holding the phone, not to mention cast off the carpool list, like I give a flying fuck about that.”
“I’m telling my mammy you said the F word,” I hear a little voice say.
“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.
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 9 5
“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
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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.”
’ m o n va c at i o n , b r o , w h y are you dragging me to a gym?”
I 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
9 8 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
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.”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 9 9
“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.
