Thanks for the Memories (39 page)
“You’re absolutely sure you’re happy to cancel your other plans for tonight?” Frown lines appear on her forehead. Her eyes bore into his, and guilt overcomes him as he thinks of whoever it is he’ll be standing up. He gives a single nod and is unsure of how convincing he seems.
Sensing this, Doris begins to pull him away. “Well, it was wonderful to meet you all, but we really better get back to shopping. Nice to meet you, Kate, Frankie, Joyce sweetie.” She gives her a quick hug. “Enjoy dinner. At eight. Shelbourne Hotel. Don’t forget, now.”
“Red or black?” Joyce holds up the two dresses to Justin, just before he turns.
He considers this carefully. “Red.”
“Black it is, then.” She smiles, mirroring their first and only conversation from the hair salon, the first day they met. He laughs and allows Doris to drag him away.
h at t h e h e l l d i d y o u do that for, Doris?” Justin asks W as they walk back toward their hotel.
“You’ve gone on and on about this woman for weeks, and now you’ve finally got a date with her. What’s so wrong with that?”
“I have plans tonight! I can’t just stand this other person up.”
“You don’t even know who it is!”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s still rude.”
“Justin, seriously, listen to me. This whole thank-you message thing could honestly be somebody playing a cruel joke.”
He narrows his eyes with suspicion. “You think?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Doris and Justin slow down, noticing that Al has begun to pant.
“Would you rather risk going to something where you have no idea what or who to expect? Or go to dinner with a pretty lady, one you have been thinking about for weeks?”
“Come on,” Al joins in, “when was the last time you were this interested in anyone?”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 3 3 9
Justin smiles.
“So, bro, what’s it gonna be?”
“You should really take something for that heartburn, Mr. Conway,” I can hear Frankie telling Dad in the kitchen.
“Like what?” Dad asks, enjoying the company of two young ladies. “Poteen?”
They all laugh, and I hear Sam’s babbling echo around the kitchen.
“By the way, Mr. Conway, there’s something about that night in question that I wanted to tell you about.”
“Is there now?” Dad responds.
“All this time you thought it was me who made Joyce drink the poteen, but in truth, it was Frankie! Ha!” Kate says, clapping her hands.
“Frankie told me you’d blame her,” Dad says.
“What?” Kate screeches, and I hear Frankie’s laughter.
“It’s a long time ago now since it all happened, so how’s about you just own up to it and be thankful you didn’t do Joyce too much damage,” Dad adds, sounding like the father who dominated my teenage years.
“Okay, I’m coming!” I call down the stairs, interrupting what could become an explosive argument.
“Yahooo!” Frankie hollers.
“I’ve got the camera ready!” Kate calls back.
Dad starts making trumpet noises as I walk down the stairs. I look at Mum’s photo on the hall table, maintaining eye contact with her all the way as she stares up at me. I wink at her as I pass. As soon as I step into the hall and turn to the three of them in the kitchen, they all go quiet.
My smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
3 4 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
“Oh, Joyce,” Frankie whispers, “you look beautiful.”
I sigh with relief and join them in the kitchen.
“Do a twirl.” Kate films me with the video camera. I spin in my new red dress while Sam claps his chubby hands.
“Mr. Conway, you haven’t said anything!” Frankie nudges him. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
We all turn to face Dad, who has gone silent, his eyes filled with tears. He nods up and down quickly, but no words come out.
“Oh, Dad”—I reach out and wrap my arms around him—“it’s only a dress.”
“You look beautiful, love,” he manages to say. “Go get him, kiddo.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek and hurries into the living room, embarrassed by his emotion.
“So,” Frankie says, “have you decided whether it’s going to be dinner or the opera tonight?”
“I still don’t know.”
“He asked you out to dinner,” Kate says. “Why do you think he’d rather go to the opera?”
“Because firstly, he didn’t ask me out for dinner. His sister-inlaw did. And I didn’t say yes. You did.” I glare at Kate. “I think it’s killing him not knowing whose life he saved. He didn’t seem so convinced about our date before he left the shop, did he?”
“Stop reading so much into it,” Frankie says. “He asked you out, so go out.”
“Yeah,” Kate agrees. “He seemed to really want you at that dinner. And anyway, why can’t you just come clean and tell him that it’s you?”
“My way of coming clean was supposed to be him seeing me at the opera. This was going to be it, the night he found out.”
“So go to dinner and tell him that it was you all along.”
“But what if he goes to the opera?”
We talk in circles for a while longer, and when they leave, I discuss the pros and cons of both situations with myself until my t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 3 4 1
head is spinning so much I can’t think anymore. When the taxi arrives, Dad walks me to the door.
“I don’t know what you girls were in such deep conversation about, but I know you’ve to make a decision about something. Have you made it?” Dad asks softly.
“I don’t know, Dad.” I swallow hard. “I still don’t know what the right decision is.”
“Of course you do. You always take your own route, love. You always have.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks out to the garden. “See that trail there?”
“The garden path?”
He shakes his head and points to a track in the lawn where the grass has been trampled on and the soil is slightly visible beneath.
“You made that path.”
“What?” I’m confused now.
“As a little girl.” He smiles. “We call them ‘desire lines’ in the gardening world. They’re the tracks and trails that people make for themselves. You’ve always avoided the paths laid down by other people, love. You’ve always gone your own way, found your own way, even if you do eventually get to the same point as everybody else. You’ve never taken the official route.” He chuckles. “No, indeed you haven’t. You’re certainly your mother’s daughter, cutting corners, creating spontaneous paths, while I stick to the routes and make my way the long way round.”
We both study the small well-worn ribbon of grass.
“Desire lines,” I repeat, seeing myself as a little girl, as a teenager, a grown woman, cutting across that patch each time. “I suppose desire isn’t linear. There is no straightforward way of going where you want.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do now?” he asks as the taxi arrives.
I kiss him on his forehead. “I do.”
s t e p o u t o f t h e taxi at Stephen’s Green and immediately I see the crowds flowing toward the Gaiety Theatre, all dressed in their finest for the National Irish Opera’s production. I have never been to an opera before, have only ever seen one on television, and my heart, tired of a body that can’t keep up with it, is pounding to run into the building itself. I’m filled with nerves, with anticipation, and with the greatest hope I have ever felt in my life that the final part of my plan will come together. I’m terrified that Justin will be angry that it’s me, though why he would be? I’ve run a hundred different scenarios in my head, and I can’t seem to come to any rational conclusion.
I stand halfway between the Shelbourne Hotel and the Gaiety Theatre, no less than three hundred yards between them. I look from one to the other and then close my eyes, not caring how stupid I look in the middle of the road as people pass by me. I wait to feel the pull. Which way to go. Right to the Shelbourne. Left to the Gaiety. My heart drums in my chest.
I turn to the left and stride confidently toward the theater. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 3 4 3
Inside the bustling foyer, I purchase a program and make my way to my seat. No time for pre-performance drinks; if he shows up early and finds me not here, I’ll never forgive myself. Frontrow tickets—I could not believe my luck, but had called the very moment the tickets had gone on sale to secure these precious seats.
I take my seat in the red velvet chairs, my red dress falling down on either side of me, my purse on my lap, Kate’s shoes glistening on the floor before me. The orchestra is directly in front of me, tuning and rehearsing, dressed in appropriate black for their underworld of sounds.
The atmosphere is magical, with thousands of people buzzing with excitement, the orchestra fine-tuning, the air rich with perfumes and aftershaves, pure honey.
I look to my right at the empty chair and shiver with excitement. An announcement explains that the performance will begin in five minutes, that those who are late will be forbidden entry until a break, but will be able to stay outside and watch the performance on the screens until intermission.
Hurry, Justin, hurry, I plead, my legs bouncing beneath me with nerves.
Justin speed-walks from his hotel and up Kildare Street. He’s just taken a shower, but his skin feels moist again already, his shirt sticking to his back, his forehead glistening with sweat. He stops walking at the top of the road. The Shelbourne Hotel is directly beside him, the Gaiety Theatre two hundred yards to his right. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. Breathes in the fresh October air of Dublin.
Which way to go? Which way to go?
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◆ ◆ ◆
The performance has begun, and I cannot take my eyes off the door to my right. Beside me is an empty seat whose very presence sends a lump to my throat. Onstage a woman sings with great emotion, but much to my neighbors’ annoyance, I can’t help but turn my head to face the door. Despite the earlier announcement, a few people have been permitted entry and have moved quickly to their seats. If Justin does not come now, he may not be able to be seated until after the intermission. I empathize with the woman singing in front of me; after all this time, a door and an usher could be the only things separating Justin and me—an opera in itself. I turn round once more, and my heart skips a beat as the door beside me opens.
Justin pulls on the door, and as soon as he enters the room, all heads turn to stare at him. He looks around quickly for Joyce, his heart in his mouth, his fingers clammy and trembling. The maître d’ approaches. “Welcome, sir. How can I help you?”
“Good evening. I’ve booked a table for two, under Hitchcock.”
He looks around nervously, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabs at his forehead nervously. “Is she here yet?”
“No, sir, you are the first to arrive. Would you like me to show you to your table, or would you rather have a drink before?”
“The table, please.” If she arrives and doesn’t see him at the table, he will never forgive himself.
He is led to a table for two in the center of the dining room. He sits in the chair that has been held out for him, and servers immediately flow to his table, pouring water, laying his napkin on his lap, bringing bread rolls.
“Sir, would you like to see the menu, or would you like to wait for the other party to arrive?”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
/ 3 4 5
“I’ll wait, thank you.” He watches the door and takes this moment to calm himself. It has been over an hour. A few more people have entered and been shown their seats, but none of them have been Justin. The chair beside me remains empty and cold. The woman on the other side of it glances occasionally at it and at me, twisted round, looking obsessively and possessively at the door, and smiles sympathetically. In a room full of people, full of sound, full of song, I feel utterly alone. The curtain then lowers, and the intermission begins; the house lights are raised, and everybody stands up and exits to the bar or outside for cigarettes.
I sit and I wait.
Oddly, the lonelier I feel, the more hope springs in my heart. He may still come. He may still feel this is as important to him as it is to me. Dinner with a woman he’s met once, or an evening with a person whose life he helped save—a person who has done exactly what he wished and thanked him in all the ways he asked?
But perhaps it wasn’t enough.
“Would you like to see the menu now, sir?”
“Um . . .” He looks at the clock. She’s half an hour late, but he remains hopeful. “She’s just running a little late, you see,” he explains.
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll have a look at the wine menu, please.”
“Of course, sir.”
The woman’s lover is ripped from her arms, and she pleads for him to be released. She wails and howls and hollers in song, and beside
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me the woman sniffles. My eyes fill too, remembering Dad’s look of pride when he saw me in my dress.
“Go get him,” he had said.
Well, I didn’t. I’ve lost another one. I’ve been stood up by a man who’d rather have dinner with me. As nonsensical as it sounds, I am hurt by this. I wanted him to be here. I wanted the connection I felt, that he caused, to be the thing that brought us together, not a chance meeting in a department store a few hours before. It seems so fickle for him to choose me, a mere stranger, over something far more important.
Perhaps I am viewing this the wrong way, though. Perhaps I should be happy he chose dinner with me. I look at my watch. Perhaps he is there right now, waiting for me. But what if I leave, and he arrives here, just missing me? No. It’s best I stay put and not confuse matters.
My mind battles on, mirroring the events onstage. But if he is at the restaurant now, and I am here, then he is alone, too, and has been for over an hour. Why, then, wouldn’t he give up on a date with me and run a few hundred yards to seek out his mystery person? Unless he has come. Unless he took one look through the door, saw that it was me, and turned back around. I am so overwhelmed by the thoughts in my head, I tune out of the act, too muddled and completely ambushed by the questions in my head. Then before I know it, the opera is over. The seats are empty, the curtains are down, the lights are up. I walk out into the cold night air. The city is busy, filled with people enjoying their Saturday night out. My tears feel cold against my cheeks as the breeze hits them. Justin empties the last of his bottle of wine into his glass and slams it back onto the table unintentionally. He has lost all coordination by now and can barely read the time on his watch, but he knows it’s past a reasonable hour for Joyce to show.
