Cecelia Ahern - Thanks for the Memories

/ Cecelia Aher n

I laugh and escape to phone Kate. I go upstairs and enter my old bedroom, practically unchanged since the day I left it. Despite the rare guest staying over after Id moved out, my parents never removed any of my belongings. The Cure stickers remain on the door; wallpaper is still ripped from the tape that had once held my posters. Once as a punishment for ruining the walls, Dad forced me to cut the grass in the back garden, but while doing so I ran the lawn mower over a shrub in the bedding. He refused to speak to me for the rest of that day. Apparently it was the first year the shrub had blossomed since hed planted it. I couldnt understand his frustration then, but now, after spending years of hard work cultivating a marriage, only for it to wither and die, I can under- stand his plight. But I bet he didnt feel the relief I feel right now. My childhood bedroom can only fit a bed and a wardrobe, but for years it was my whole world. My only personal place to think and dream, to cry and laugh and wait until I became old enough to finally do all the things I wanted to do. My only space in the world then, and my only space now, at thirty-three. Who knew Id find myself back here again without any of the things Id yearned for, and, even worse, still yearning for them? Not a member of the Cure or married to Robert Smith. No baby and no husband. The wallpaper is floral and wild; completely inappropriate for a place of rest. Millions of tiny brown flowers clustered together with tiny splashes of faded green stalks. No wonder Id covered them with posters. The carpet is brown with light brown swirls, stained from spilled perfume and makeup. The old and faded brown leather suitcases still lie on top of the wardrobe, gathering dust since Mum died. Dad never goes anywherea life without Mum, he decided long ago, is enough of a journey for him. 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 hadnt, all those precious days of

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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 Byrnes 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 au- dience 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 hes on. I think Gay Byrne reminds Dad of time spent with Mum, as though when he hears Gay Byrnes voice, he hears Mums instead. When she died, Dad surrounded himself with all the things she adored. He put Gay on the radio every morning, watched Mums televi- sion shows, bought her favorite biscuits even though he didnt 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 hadnt 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 shouldnt 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 wait- ing 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 dont know whether she would have liked him, though she would have been too polite to have shown it if she didnt. Mum loved all kinds of people, but par- ticularly 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

/ Cecelia Aher n

simply another word for nice. Marrying a nice man gives you a nice marriage, but never anything more. And nice is okay when its 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 didnt do much to sway Dads opinion. He blamed it on the little white tennis shorts Conor some- times 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 didnt, but it was a safe joke because we both knew it wasnt 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, in- criminating 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; dont think about it, move quickly, and its almost painless. Flip open the phone book, and bam, bam, bam: three minutes each. Quick, snappy phone calls made by a strangely up- beat woman whod 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 poi- gnant I almost wanted to write them down. She even attempted a bit of humor, which some members of the near, dear, and nosy

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coped well with, while others seemed almost insultednot that she cared, for it was her party and she was refusing to cry if she wanted to. Fortunately, I dont 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 Im on speakerphone. Ive been calling you and calling you. Derek, sit down. Mummy is not happy! Sorry, Im just doing the school run. Ive 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 youve 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. Sud- denly Kates voice is back, and it sounds as though calm has been restored.

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Okay, youre off speakerphone. Ill probably be arrested for holding the phone, not to mention cast off the carpool list, like I give a flying fuck about that. Im telling my mammy you said the F word, I hear a little voice say. Good. Ive been wanting to tell her that for years, Kate mur- murs 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? Its 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 tech- nically it was Frankie who held my mouth open and poured it down my throat. As a result of this version of the storys never being told, he thinks Frankies a saint, very much to Kates annoyance. Ill take gymnastics tomorrow, I say as the childrens chant- ing gets louder. Kates gone, and then theres silence. Gracie ! Dad calls again. Its 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 hadnt a clue. Simon won anyway, goes through to tomorrows show. Hes been the winner for three days now, and Im half bored lookin at him. He has a funny-looking face; youd have a right laugh if you saw it. Do you want a HobNob? Im going to make another cuppa. No, thanks. I put the pillow back over my head. He uses so many words.