“We certainly got them, Joyce,” the old man says loudly, roaring lightly in her face and waving his fist.
She looks surprised at first, then hands him a five-euro note, much to his delight, and they both continue laughing.
Look at me, Justin wills her. Her eyes stay on the old man as he holds the note up to the light to check its authenticity. Justin looks to the traffic lights, which are still red. He has time yet for her to see him. Turn around! Look at me just once! Then the pedestrian lights flash to amber.
Her head remains turned, completely lost in conversation.
The lights turn green, and the bus slowly moves off up Nassau Street. He starts to walk alongside it, willing her with everything he has to look at him.
“Justin!” Sarah calls. “What are you doing?”
He keeps on walking alongside the bus, quickening his pace and finally breaking out into a jog. He can hear Sarah calling after him but he can’t stop.
“Hey!” he calls.
Not loud enough; she doesn’t hear him. The bus picks up speed, and Justin’s jog turns into a run, the adrenaline surging through his body. The bus is beating him, speeding up. He’s losing her.
“Joyce!” he blurts out. The surprising sound of his own yell is enough to stop him in his tracks. What on earth is he doing? He doubles over to rest his hands on his knees and tries to catch his breath, tries to center himself in the whirlwind he feels caught up in. He looks back at the bus one last time. A Viking helmet appears from the window, blond plaits moving from side to side like a pendulum. He can’t make out the face, but with just that head looking back at him, he knows it has to be her.
The whirlwind stops momentarily while he holds up a hand in salute.
A hand appears out the window and the bus rounds the corner onto Kildare Street, leaving Justin to, once again, watch her disappear from sight, his heart beating wildly. He may not have the slightest clue what is going on, but there is one thing he knows now for sure.
Joyce. Her name is Joyce.
He looks down the empty street.
But who are you, Joyce?
“Why are you hanging your head out of the window?” Dad pulls me in, wild with worry. “You might not have much to live for, but for Christ’s sake you owe it to yourself to live it.”
“Did you hear somebody calling my name?” I whisper to Dad, my mind a whirl.
“Oh, she’s hearing voices now,” he grumbles. “I said your bloody name, and you gave me a fiver for it, don’t you remember?” He snaps it before her face, and turns his attention back to Olaf.
“On your left is Leinster House, the building that now houses the National Parliament of Ireland.”
Snappety-snap, clickety-click, flash-flash, record.
“Leinster House was originally known as Kildare House after the Earl of Kildare commissioned it to be built. It was renamed on his becoming the Duke of Leinster. Parts of the building, which was formerly the Royal College of Surgeons—”
“Science,” I say loudly, though still largely lost in thought.
“Pardon me?” Olaf stops talking and heads turn once again.
“I was just saying that”—my face flushes—“it was the Royal College of Science.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“No, you said ‘surgeons,’” the American woman in front of us speaks out.
“Oh,” Olaf says, flustered. “Excuse me, I’m mistaken. Parts of the building, which was formerly the Royal College of”—he looks pointedly at me—“Science, have served as the seat of the Irish government since 1922…”
I tune out.
“Remember I told you about the guy who designed the Rotunda Hospital?” I whisper to Dad.
“I do. Dick somebody.”
“Richard Cassells. He designed this too. It’s been claimed that it formed a model for the design of the White House.”
“Is that so?” Dad says.
“Really?” The American woman twists around in her seat to face me. She speaks loudly. Very loudly. Too loudly. “Honey, did you hear that? This lady says the guy who designed this designed the White House.”
“No, I didn’t actually—”
Suddenly I notice Olaf has stopped talking and is currently glaring at me with as much love as a Viking Dragon for a Sea Cat. All eyes, ears, and horns are on us.
“Well, I said it’s been claimed that it formed a model for the design of the White House. There aren’t any certainties as such,” I say quietly, not wanting to be dragged into this. “It’s just that James Hoban, who won the competition for the design of the White House in 1792, was an Irishman.”
Everyone stares expectantly at me.
“Well, he studied architecture in Dublin and would have more than likely studied the design of Leinster House,” I finish off quickly.
The people around me ooh, aah, and talk among themselves about that tidbit of information.
“We can’t hear you!” someone at the front of the bus shouts out. “Stand up.” Dad pushes me up.
“Dad…” I slap him away.
“Hey, Olaf, give her the microphone!” a woman shouts. He grudgingly hands it over and folds his arms.
“Eh, hello.” I tap it with my finger and blow into the mike.
“You have to say, ‘Testing one, two, three,’ Gracie.”
“Eh, testing one, two—”
“We can hear you,” Olaf snaps.
“Okay, well…” I repeat my comments, and the people up front nod with interest.
“And these are part of your government’s buildings too?” the American woman points to the buildings we’re passing on either side.
I look uncertainly at Dad, and he nods at me with encouragement. “Well, actually no. The building to the left is the National Library, and the National Museum is on the right.” I go to sit down again, and Dad whooshes my backside back up. Everyone is still looking at me for more. Olaf now looks sheepish.
“Well, a bit of interesting information may be that the National Library and the National Museum were originally home to the Dublin Museum of Science and Art, which opened in 1890. Both were designed by Thomas Newenham Deane and his son Thomas Manly Deane after a competition held in 1885 and were constructed by the Dublin contractors J. and W. Beckett, who demonstrated the best of Irish craftsmanship in their construction. The museum is one of the best surviving examples of Irish decorative stonework, woodcarving, and ceramic tiling. The National Library’s most impressive feature is the entrance rotunda. Internally this space leads up an impressive staircase to the magnificent reading room, with its vast vaulted ceiling. As you can see for yourselves, the exterior of the building is characterized by its array of columns and pilasters in the Corinthian order and by the rotunda with its open veranda and corner pavilions framing the composition. In the—”
Loud clapping interrupts my talk—single sharp claps coming from only one person: Dad. The rest of the bus sits in silence. A child breaks it by asking her mother if they can roar again. An imaginary piece of tumbleweed blows down the aisle, landing at the feet of a grinning Olaf the White.
“I, em, I wasn’t finished,” I say quietly.
Dad claps louder in response, and a man sitting alone in the back row joins in nervously.
“And…that’s all I know,” I say quickly, sitting down.
The American in front of us turns around. “How do you know all that?” she asks.
“She’s a real estate agent,” Dad says proudly.
The woman makes an “oh” shape with her mouth and turns around again to face an extremely satisfied-looking Olaf, who has grabbed the microphone from me.
“Now everybody, let’s roooooooaaaaaar!”
Everybody comes to life again, while each muscle and organ in my body cringes into a fetal position.
Dad leans into me and crushes me against the window. He moves his head close to whisper in my ear and our helmets knock against each other.
“How did you know all that, l
ove?”
As though I’d used up all of my words in that tirade, my mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. How on earth did I know all of that?
Chapter 15
MY EARS IMMEDIATELY SIZZLE AS soon as I enter the school gymnasium that same evening and spy Kate and Frankie huddled together on the bleachers, looking deep in conversation with concern etch-a-sketched across their faces. Kate looks as though Frankie’s just told her that her father’s passed away, a face I’m familiar with, as I was the one to give her that very news five years ago at the Dublin airport when she’d cut short her holiday to rush to his side. Now Kate is talking, and Frankie looks as though her dog’s been hit by a car, a face I’m also familiar with, as I was once again the one to deliver the news, and the blow, that broke three of her sausage dog’s legs. Kate glances in my direction and looks as though she’s been caught in the act. Frankie freezes too. Looks of surprise, then guilt, and then smiles to make me think they’ve just been discussing the weather rather than the recent events in my life, which have been as changeable.
I wait for the usual Lady of Trauma to fill my shoes. To give me a little break while she offers the usual insightful comments that keep inquisitors at bay; explaining my recent loss as more of a continuous journey rather than a dead end, giving me the invaluable opportunity to gain strength and learn about myself, thereby turning this terribly tragic affair into something hugely positive. But the Lady does not arrive, knowing this is no easy gig for her. She is well aware the two people who are currently hugging me close can see through her words and right to the heart of me.
My friends’ hugs are longer and tighter today; they consist of extra squeezes and pats, which alternate between a circular rubbing motion and a light pitter-pattering on the back, both of which I find surprisingly comforting. The pity in their faces hammers home my great loss, and my stomach suddenly feels queasy, my head fully loaded again. I realize that swaddling myself in a nest with Dad does not hold the superhealing powers I’d hoped for. Every time I leave the house and meet somebody new, I have to go through it over again. Not just the entire rigmarole, but I have to feel it all, which is a far more tiring thing than words. Wrapped in Kate and Frankie’s arms, I could easily morph into the baby that they in their minds are coddling, but I don’t, because if I start now, I know I’ll never stop.
We sit on the bleachers away from the other parents, most of whom are sitting alone reading or watching their children doing unimpressive sideways tumbles on the blue rubber mats. I spot Kate’s children, six-year-old Eric and my five-year-old goddaughter, Jayda, the Muppet Christmas Carol fanatic I have sworn not to hold anything against. They are enthusiastically hopping about and chirping like crickets, pulling their underwear out from in between the cheeks of their behinds and tripping over untied shoelaces. Eleven-month-old Sam sleeps beside us in a stroller, blowing bubbles from his chubby lips. I watch him fondly, then remember again and look away. Ah, remembering. That old chestnut.
“How’s work, Frankie?” I ask, wanting to act as normal as possible.
“Busy as usual,” she responds, and I detect guilt, perhaps even embarrassment. I envy her normality. I envy that her today was the same as her yesterday.
“Still buying low, selling high?” Kate pipes up.
Frankie rolls her eyes. “Twelve years, Kate.”
“I know, I know.” Kate bites her lip and tries not to laugh.
“Twelve years I’ve had this job, and twelve years you’ve being saying that. It’s not even funny anymore. In fact I don’t recall it ever being funny, and yet you persist.”
Kate giggles. “It’s just that I have absolutely no idea what it is that you do. Something in the stock market?”
“Manager, deputy head corporate treasury and investor solutions desk,” Frankie tells her.
Kate stares back blankly, then sighs. “So many words to say that you work at a desk.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, what do you do all day again? Wipe shitty asses and make organic banana sandwiches?”
“There are many other aspects to being a mother, Frankie,” Kate puffs. “It is my responsibility to prepare three human beings so that if, God forbid, something happens to me, or when they are adults, they will be able to live and function and succeed responsibly in the world all by themselves.”
“And you mush organic bananas,” Frankie adds. “No, no, hold on, is that before or after the preparation of three human beings? Before?” She nods to herself. “Yes, definitely mush bananas and then prepare human beings. Got it.”
“All I’m saying is, you have, what, seven words to describe your paper-pushing job?”
“I believe it’s eight.”
“I have one. One.”
“Well, I don’t know. Is ‘carpooler’ one or two words? Joyce, what do you think?”
I stay out of it.
“The point I’m trying to make is that the word ‘mum,’” Kate says, irritated, “a teeny, tiny little word that every woman with a child is called, fails to describe the plethora of duties involved. If I was doing what I do every day at your company, I’d be running the fucking place.”
Frankie shrugs nonchalantly. “I can’t speak for my colleagues, but personally, I like to make my own banana sandwiches and wipe my own behind.”
They do this all the time: talk at each other, never to each other, in an odd bonding ritual that seems to pull them closer when it would do the opposite to anybody else. In the silence that follows they both have time to realize what exactly they were talking about in my company. Ten seconds later Kate kicks Frankie. Oh, yes. The mention of children.
When something tragic has happened, you’ll find that you, the tragicee, become the person that has to make everything comfortable for everyone else.
“How’s Crapper?” I try to sound upbeat as I ask after Frankie’s dog. “He’s doing well; his legs are healing nicely. Still howls when he sees your photograph, though. Sorry, I had to move it from the fireplace.”
“Doesn’t matter. In fact I was going to ask you to move it. Kate, you can get rid of my wedding photo too.”
Now on to divorce talk.
“Ah, Joyce.” She shakes her head and looks at me sadly. “That’s my favorite photo of me. I looked so good at your wedding. Can I not just cut Conor out?”
“Or draw a little mustache on him,” Frankie adds. “Or better yet, give him a personality. What color should that be?”
I bite my lip to hide a smile that threatens to crawl from the corner of my lips. I’m not used to this kind of talk about Conor. It’s disrespectful, and I’m not sure I’m completely comfortable with it. But it is funny. Instead I look away to the children on the floor.
“Okay, everybody.” The gymnastics instructor claps his hands for attention, and the crickets’ hopping and chirping momentarily subsides. “Spread out on the mat. We’re going to do backward rolls. Place your hands flat on the floor, fingers pointing toward your shoulders as you roll back to a stand. Like this.”
“Well, looky-look at our little flexible friend,” Frankie remarks.
One by one the children roll backward to a perfect stand. Until it gets to Jayda, who rolls over one side of her head in the most awkward way, kicks another child in the shins, and then gets onto her knees before finally jumping to a stand. She strikes a Spice Girl pose in all of her pink sparkling glory, peace fingers and all, thinking nobody has noticed her error.
“Preparing a human being for the world,” Frankie repeats smartly. “Yup. You’d be running the fucking place, all right.” She turns to me and softens her voice. “So, Joyce, how are you?”
I have debated whether to tell them, whether to tell anyone. Other than carting me off to the madhouse, I have no idea how anybody will react to what’s been happening to me, or even how they should react. But after today’s experience, I side with the part of my brain that is anxious to reveal.
“This is going to sound really odd, so bear with me on this.”
�
�It’s okay.” Kate grabs my hand. “You say whatever you want. Just release.”
Frankie works valiantly not to roll her eyes.
“Thanks.” I slowly slip my hand out of Kate’s. “Okay, here goes. I keep seeing this guy on the street.”
Kate tries to register this. I can see her trying to link it with the loss of my baby or my looming divorce, but she can’t.
“This gorgeous, handsome man.” I smile. “I think I know him, but at the same time, I know I don’t. I’ve seen him precisely three times now, the most recent being today, when he chased after my Viking bus. And I think he called out my name. Though I may have imagined that, because how on earth could he know my name? Unless he knows me, but that brings me back to my being sure that he really doesn’t.” I stop there. “What do you think?”
“Hold on, I’m way back at the Viking bus part,” Frankie says doubtfully. “You say you have a Viking bus.”
“I don’t have one. I was on one. With Dad. It goes into the water too. You wear helmets with horns and go ‘Aaaagh’ at everyone.” I go close to their faces and wave my fists to show them.
They stare back blankly.
I sigh and slide back on the bench. “So anyway, he keeps reappearing.”
“Okay,” Kate says slowly, looking at Frankie.
There’s an awkward silence as they worry about my sanity. I join them on that.
Frankie clears her throat. “So this man, Joyce. Is he young, old, or indeed a Viking upon your magic bus that travels the high waters?”
“Late thirties, early forties. He’s American. We got our hair cut at the same time. That’s where I saw him first, at a salon. He said he liked my cactus.”
“You brought that cactus to a hair salon?” Kate says, horrified.
I nod, not caring now how crazy this all sounds. “He has one too.” I frown. “And somebody else does too, but I can’t think of who.” I search my memory again.
“Your hair is lovely, by the way,” Kate says to change the subject, gently fingering a few front strands.
Thanks for the Memories Page 12