He has to admit that while the previous night was indeed delightful—a couple too many bottles of Château Olivier (which until last night he’s always found disappointing, despite its ideal location in Bordeaux) in a lively bar on the Green, followed by a trip to his hotel room—he feels much was missing from his conquest. He acquired some Dutch courage from his hotel minibar before calling round to see her, and by the time he arrived at the bar, he was already incapable of serious conversation, or more seriously, incapable of conversation—Oh, for Christ’s sake, Justin, what man do you know cares about the damn conversation? But he feels that, despite ending up in his bed, Sarah did care about the conversation. Perhaps there were things she wanted to say to him, and perhaps she did say them while he saw those sad blue eyes boring into his and those rosebud lips opening and closing, but his Jameson whiskey wouldn’t allow him to hear, instead singing in his head over her words like a petulant child.
With his second seminar in two months complete, Justin throws his clothes into his bag, happy to be leaving this miserable musty room. Friday afternoon, time to fly back to London. Back to his daughter and to his younger brother, Al, and sister-in-law, Doris, visiting from Chicago. He departs the hotel, steps out onto the cobbled side streets of Temple Bar and into his waiting taxi.
“The airport, please.”
“Here on holidays?” the driver asks immediately.
“No.” Justin looks out the window, hoping this will end the conversation.
“Working?” The driver starts the engine.
“Yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“A college.”
“Which one?”
Justin sighs. “Trinity.”
“You the janitor?” The driver’s green eyes twinkle playfully at him in the mirror.
“I’m a lecturer on art and architecture,” Justin says defensively, folding his arms and blowing his floppy mane from his eyes.
“Architecture, huh? I used to be a builder.”
Justin doesn’t respond.
“So where are ye off to? Off on holiday?”
“Nope.”
“What is it, then?”
“I live in London.” And my U.S. social security number is…
“And you work here?”
“Yep.”
“Would you not just live here?”
“Nope.”
“Why’s that, then?”
“Because I’m a guest lecturer here. A colleague of mine invited me to give a seminar once a month.”
“Ah.” The driver smiles at him in the mirror as though he’d been trying to fool him. “So what do you do in London?”
I’m a serial killer who preys on inquisitive cabdrivers.
“Lots of different things.” Justin sighs and caves in as the driver waits for more. “I’m the editor of the Art and Architectural Review, the only truly international art and architectural publication,” he says proudly. “I started it ten years ago, and we’re still unrivaled. Highest-selling magazine of its kind.” Only twenty thousand subscribers, you liar.
There’s no reaction.
“I’m also a curator.”
The driver winces. “You’ve to touch dead bodies?”
Justin scrunches his face in confusion. “What? No.” Then adds unnecessarily, “I’m also a regular panelist on a BBC art and culture show.”
Twice in five years doesn’t quite constitute regular, Justin. Oh, shut up.
The driver studies Justin now. “You’re on TV?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Do you watch the show?”
“No.”
Well, then.
Justin rolls his eyes. He throws off his suit jacket, opens another of his shirt buttons, and lowers the window. His hair sticks to his forehead. Still. A few weeks have gone by, and he hasn’t been to the barber. He blows the strands out of his eyes.
They stop at a red light, and Justin looks to his left. A hair salon.
“Hey, would you mind pulling over for just a few minutes? I won’t be long.”
“Look, Conor, don’t worry about it. Stop apologizing,” I say into the cell phone tiredly. He exhausts me. Every little word with him drains me. “Dad is here with me now, and we’re going to get a taxi to the house together, even though I’m perfectly capable of sitting in a car by myself.”
We’re outside the hospital, and Dad has hailed a cab and now holds the door open for me. I’m finally going home, but I don’t feel the relief I was hoping for. There’s nothing but dread. I dread meeting people I know and having to explain what has happened, over and over again. I dread walking into my house and having to face the half-decorated nursery. I dread having to get rid of the nursery, having to replace it with a spare bed and fill the wardrobes with my own overflow of bags and shoes I’ll never wear. I dread having to go to work instead of taking the leave I had planned. I even dread seeing Conor. I dread going back to a loveless marriage with no baby to distract us. I know it would be common sense for me to want my husband to come rushing home to me—in fact, for my husband to want to come rushing home to me—but there are many buts in our marriage. And to behave the right way, to do the adult thing, feels wrong right now; I don’t want anybody around me. I’ve been poked and prodded physically and psychologically. I want to be on my own to grieve. I want to feel sorry for myself without sympathetic words and clinical explanations. I want to be illogical, self-pitying, self-examining, bitter and lost, for just a few more days, please, world, and I want to do it alone.
As I said, that is not unusual in our marriage.
Conor’s an engineer. He travels abroad to work for months before coming home for one month and then going off again. I used to get so used to my own company and routine that for the first week of him being home I’d be irritable and wish he’d go back. Now that irritability stretches to the entire month of his being home. And it’s become glaringly obvious I’m not alone in that feeling.
I always thought our marriage could survive anything as long as we both tried. But then I found myself having to try to try. I dug beneath the new layers of complexities we’d created over the years to get to the beginning of the relationship. What was it, I wondered, that we had then that we could revive now? What was the thing that could make two people want to spend every day of the rest of their lives together? Ah, I found it. It was a thing called love. A small, simple word. If only it didn’t mean so much, our marriage would be flawless.
My mind wandered a lot while I was lying in that hospital bed. At times it stalled in its wandering, like when a person enters a room and then forgets what for. It stood alone, dumbstruck. Sometimes, when staring at the pink walls, I thought of nothing but of the fact that I was staring at pink walls.
On one occasion while my mind was wandering far, I dug deep to find a memory of when I was six years old and had a favorite tea set given to me by my grandmother Betty. She kept it in her house for me to play with when I came over on Saturdays, and during the afternoons, when my grandmother was “taking tea” with her friends, I would wear one of my mother’s pretty childhood dresses and have afternoon tea with Aunt Jemima, the cat. The dresses never quite fit, but I wore them all the same, and Aunt Jemima and I never did take to tea, but we were both polite enough to keep up the pretense until my parents came to collect me at the end of the day. I told this story to Conor a few years ago, and he laughed, missing the point.
It was an easy point to miss—I won’t hold him accountable for that—but what I was aching for him to understand was that I’ve increasingly found that people never truly tire of playing games and dressing up, no matter how many years pass. Our lies now are just more sophisticated; our words to deceive, more eloquent. From cowboys and Indians, doctors and nurses, to husband and wife, we’ve never stopped pretending. But sitting in the taxi beside Dad while listening to Conor on the phone, I realize I’ve finally stopped pretending.
“Where is Conor?” Dad asks as soon as I’ve
hung up.
He opens the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie. He dresses in a shirt and tie every time he leaves the house, never forgets his cap. He looks for the handle on the car door, to roll the window down.
“It’s electronic, Dad. There’s the button. He’s still in Japan. He’ll be home in a few days.”
“I thought he was coming back yesterday.” He puts the window all the way down, and the wind topples the cap off his head; the few strands of hair left on his scalp stick up. He fixes the cap back on his head and has a mini battle with the button before finally figuring out how to successfully leave a small gap at the top for air.
“Ha! Gotcha.” He smiles victoriously, thumping his fist at the window.
I wait until he’s finished celebrating to answer. “I told him not to.”
“You told who what, love?”
“Conor. You were asking about Conor, Dad.”
“Ah, that’s right, I was. Home soon, is he?”
I nod.
The day is hot, and I blow my bangs up from my sticky forehead. I feel my hair sticking to the back of my clammy neck. Suddenly it feels heavy and greasy on my head. I have the overwhelming urge to shave it all off. I become agitated in my seat, and Dad, sensing it again, knows not to say anything. I’ve been doing that all week: experiencing anger beyond comprehension, so much that I want to drive my fists through the walls and punch the nurses. Then I become weepy and feel such loss inside me, it’s as if I’ll never be whole again. I prefer the anger. Anger is better. Anger is hot and filling and gives me something to cling to.
We stop at a set of traffic lights, and I look to my left. A hair salon.
“Pull over here, please.”
“What are you doing, Joyce?”
“I can’t take it anymore, Dad, I have to get my hair cut.”
Dad looks at the salon and then to the taxi driver, and they both know not to say anything. Just then, the taxi directly in front of us moves over to the side of the road too. We pull up behind it.
“Will you be long, love?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen max. Do you want to come in with me?”
Dad shakes his head vigorously, and his chin wobbles along with it. Keeping the taxi waiting for me is indulgent, I know, but having Dad outside the salon, distracted, is better.
I watch the cab in front of us. A man gets out, and I freeze with one foot out of the car to watch him. He looks familiar, and I think I know him. He pauses and looks at me. We stare at each other for a while. Search each other’s face. He scratches at his left arm; something that holds my attention for far too long. The moment is unusual, and goose bumps rise on my skin. I decide the last thing I want is to see somebody I know, and I look away quickly.
He turns and begins to walk.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks far too loudly, and I finally get out of the car.
I start walking toward the hair salon, and it becomes clear that my destination is the same as that of the man in front of me. My walk becomes mechanical, awkward, self-conscious. Something about him makes me disjointed. Unsettled. Perhaps it’s the possibility of having to tell somebody, a stranger, that there will be no baby. Yes, a month of nonstop baby talk, and there will be no baby to show for it. Sorry, guys. I feel guilty for it, as though I’ve cheated my friends and family. The longest tease of all. A baby that will never be. My heart is twisted at the thought of it.
The man holds open the door to the salon and smiles. Handsome. Fresh-faced. Tall. Broad. Athletic. Perfect. Is he glowing? Do I know him?
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
We both pause, look at each other, and over to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the curb, and then back to each other. He looks me up and down.
“Nice cactus.” He smiles. I notice he has an American accent.
“What?” I ask, confused, then, following his eyeline, notice I’m still carrying the cactus that I brought from the hospital. “Oh! Oh, my God, I meant to leave it in the car.” I feel my face turn pink. “It was a gift,” I explain.
“Nice gift. I have one at home.”
I think he’s joking with me, and I wait for a laugh that never comes. We enter the salon, which is empty save for two staff members who are sitting down, chatting. They are two men; one has a mullet, the other is bleached blond. They see us and spring to attention.
“Which one do you want?” the American says out of the side of his mouth.
“The blond.” I smile.
“The mullet it is, then,” he says.
My mouth falls open, but I laugh.
“Hello there, loves.” The mullet man approaches us. “How can I help you?” He looks back and forth from the American to me. “Who is getting their hair done today?”
“Well, both of us, I assume, right?” The American looks at me, and I nod.
“Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.”
I realize we are so close, our hips are almost touching. We both look down and then take one step away in the opposite direction.
“You two should try synchronized swimming.” The hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. “Ashley, you take the lovely lady. You come with me.” The American makes a face at me while being led away, and I laugh again. The two of us get seated at nearby stations.
“I just want two inches off, please,” I hear the American say. “The last time I got it done, they took off like, twenty. Just two inches,” he stresses. “I’ve got a taxi waiting outside to take me to the airport, so as quick as possible too, please.”
His hairdresser laughs. “Sure, no problem. Are you going back to America?”
The man rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not going to America, I’m not going on holiday, and I’m not going to meet anyone at arrivals. I’m just going to take a flight. Away. Out of here. You Irish ask a lot of questions.”
“Do we?”
“Y—” He stalls and narrows his eyes at the hairdresser.
“Gotcha.” The hairdresser smiles, pointing his scissors at him. “Yes, you did.” Gritted teeth.
I chuckle aloud, and the American immediately looks at me. He seems slightly confused. Maybe we do know each other. Maybe he works with Conor. Maybe I went to school with him. College. Perhaps he’s in the property business, and I’ve worked with him. But I can’t have; he’s American. Maybe he’s famous, and I shouldn’t be staring. I become embarrassed, and I turn quickly away yet again.
My hairdresser wraps a black cape around me, and I steal another glance in the mirror at the man beside me. He looks at me. I look away, then back at him. He looks away. And our tennis match of glances is played out for the duration of our visit.
“How about I just take this from you,” my hairdresser says as he reaches for the cactus still in my hands. I hold on to it, not wanting to let go, and a minor tug-of-war is played out. He wins. “I’ll just place it here for you.” He talks to me as though I’m a patient out on a day trip. “So what will it be for you, madam?”
“All off,” I say, trying to avoid my reflection, but I feel cold hands on the sides of my hot cheeks raising my head, and I am forced to stare at myself face-to-face. There is something unnerving about being forced to look at yourself when you are unwilling to come to terms with something. Something raw and real that you can’t run away from. I see in the mirror that I am not okay. The truth of it stares me in the face. My cheeks are sunken, small black semicircles hover below my eyes, my red eyes still sting from my night tears. But apart from that, I still look like me. Despite this huge change in my life, I look exactly the same. Tired, but me. Yet the mirror told me this: you can’t know everything by looking at me. You can never know just by looking at someone.
I’m five foot five, with medium-length hair that is midway between blond and brown. I’m a medium kind of person. I’m pretty, not stunning, not ugly; not fat, not skinny; I exercise three times a week, jog a little, walk a little, swim a little. Nothing to
excess. Not obsessed, not addicted to anything. I’m neither outgoing nor shy but a little of both, depending on my mood, depending on the occasion. I like my job, but don’t love it. I’m okay. Nothing spectacular, but sometimes special. I look in the mirror and see this medium average person. A little tired, a little sad, but not falling apart. I peek at the man beside me, and I see the same.
“Excuse me?” The hairdresser breaks into my thoughts. “You want it all off? Are you sure? You’ve such healthy hair.” He runs his fingers through it. “Is this your natural color?”
“Yes, I used to put a little color in it but I stopped because of the—” I stop as my eyes fill, and I look down to my stomach, which is hidden under the gown.
“Stopped because of what?” he asks.
I pretend to be doing something with my foot. An odd shuffle maneuver. I can’t think of anything to say, so I pretend not to hear him. “Huh?”
“You were saying you stopped because of something?”
“Oh, em…” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you start now, you will never stop. “Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, bending over to play with my handbag on the ground. It will pass, it will pass. Someday it will all pass, Joyce. “Chemicals. I stopped because of chemicals.”
“Right. Well, this is what it’ll look like.” He takes my hair and ties it back. “How about we do a Meg Ryan in French Kiss?” He pulls clumps out in all directions, and I look like I’ve just woken up. “It’s the sexy messy bed-head look. Or else we can do this.” He messes with my hair some more.
“Can we hurry this along? I’ve got a taxi waiting outside too.” I look out the window. Dad is chatting to the taxi driver. They’re both laughing and I relax a little.
“O…kay. Something like this really shouldn’t be rushed. You have a lot of hair.”
“It’s fine. I’m giving you permission to hurry. Just cut it all off.”
Thanks for the Memories Page 5