Thanks for the Memories

by Cecelia Ahern

  “Sir, would you like to see the menu, or would you like to wait for the other party to arrive?”

  “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 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.

  He has been stood up.

  By the one woman he’s had any sort of interest in since his divorce. Not counting poor Sarah. He had never counted poor Sarah.

  I am a horrible person.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the maître d’ says politely, “but we have received a phone call from your brother, Al?”

  Justin nods.

  “He wanted to pass on the message that he is still alive and that he hopes you are, um, well, that you’re enjoying your night.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, sir, he said you would understand, as it’s twelve o’clock. His birthday?”

  “Twelve?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m also sorry to tell you that we are closing for the evening. Would you like to settle your bill?”

  Justin looks up at him, bleary-eyed, and tries to nod again but feels his head loll to one side.

  “I’ve been stood up.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t be. I deserve it. I stood up another person I don’t even know.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “But this stranger has been so kind to me. So, so kind. I’ve been given muffins and coffee, a car and a driver, and I’ve been so horrible in return.” He stops suddenly.

  The opera house might be still open!

  “Here.” He thrusts his credit card out. “I might still have time.”

  I stroll around the quiet streets of the neighborhood, wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. I told the taxi driver to let me out round the corner so that I could get some air and clear my head before I return home. I also want to be rid of my tears by the time Dad sees me; I’m sure he is currently sitting up in his armchair as he used to do when I was younger, eager to find out what had happened on my date, though he would pretend to be asleep as soon as he heard my key in the door.

  I walk by my old house, which I successfully managed to sell only days ago, not to the eager Linda and Joe, who found out it was my home and were afraid my bad luck was an omen for them and their unborn child. Or more, that the stairs that caused my fall would perhaps be too dangerous for Linda during her pregnancy. Nobody takes responsibility for their own actions anymore, I notice. It wasn’t the stairs, it was me. I was rushing. It was my fault. Simple as that. Something I’m going to have to dig deep to forgive myself for.

  Perhaps I’ve been rushing my whole entire life, jumping into things headfirst without thinking them through. Running through the days without noticing the minutes. Not that the times when I slowed down and planned ever gave me more positive results. Mum and Dad had planned everything for their entire lives: summer holidays, a child, their savings, even nights out. Everything was done by the book. Her premature departure from life was the one thing they had never bargained on. A blip that knocked everything off course.

  Conor and I had teed off straight for the trees and had bogeyed, big-time.

  I stop outside our old home and stare up at the red bricks, at the door we argued about what color to paint, about the flowers we planted ourselves. I will have to start hunting for something smaller, something cheaper. I have no idea what he will do—an odd realization. This house isn’t mine anymore, but the memories are; the memories can’t be sold. The building that housed my once-upon-a-time dreams stands for someone else now, as it did for the people before us, and I feel happy to let it go. Happy that I can begin again, anew, though bearing the scars of before. They represent wounds that have healed.

  It’s midnight when I return to Dad’s house, and behind the windows is blackness. There isn’t a single light on, which is unusual, as he usually leaves the porch light on, especially if I’m out.

  I open my bag to get my keys, and my hand bumps against my cell phone. It lights up to show I have missed ten calls, eight of which are from the house. I had it on silent at the opera and, knowing that Justin didn’t have my number, didn’t even think to look at it. I scramble for my keys, my hands trembling as I try to fit the right one into the lock. They fall to the ground, the noise echoing in the silent dark street. I lower myself to my knees, not caring about my new dress, and shuffle around the concrete, feeling for the metal in the darkness. Finally my fingers touch upon them, and I’m through the door like a rocket, turning on all the lights.

  “Dad?” I call down the hallway. Mum’s photograph is on the floor, underneath the table. I pick it up and place it back where it belongs, trying to stay calm, but my heart is having its own idea.

  No answer.

  I walk to the kitchen and flick the switch. A full cup of tea sits on the kitchen table. A slice of toast with jam, with one bit
e taken from it.

  “Dad?” I say more loudly now, walking into the living room and turning on the light.

  His pills are spilled all over the floor, their containers opened and emptied, all the colors mixed.

  I panic now, going back through the kitchen and through the hall, and running upstairs, turning on all the lights as I yell at the top of my lungs.

  “Dad! Dad! Where are you? Dad, it’s me, Joyce! Dad!” Tears are flowing now; I can barely speak. He is not in his bedroom or in the bathroom, not in my room or anywhere else. I pause on the landing, trying to listen in the silence to hear if he’s calling. All I can hear is the drumbeat of my heart in my ears, in my throat.

  “Dad!” I yell, my chest heaving, the lump in my throat threatening to seize my breath. I’ve nowhere else to look. I start pulling open wardrobes, searching under his bed. I grab a pillow from his bed and breathe in, holding it close to me and instantly soaking it with tears. I look out the back window and into the garden: no sign of him.

  My knees now too weak to stand, my head too clouded to think, I sink onto the top stair on the landing and try to figure out where he could be.

  Then I think of the spilled pills on the floor, and I yell the loudest I have ever shouted in my life. “Daaaaaad!”

  Silence greets me, and I have never felt so alone. More alone than at the opera, more alone than in an unhappy marriage, more alone than when Mum died. Completely and utterly alone, the last person I have in my life taken away from me.

  Then, “Joyce?” A voice calls from the front door, which I’ve left open. “Joyce, it’s me, Fran.” She stands there in her dressing gown and slippers, her eldest son standing behind her with a flashlight in his hand.

  “Dad is gone.” My voice trembles.

  “He’s in the hospital, I was trying to call y—”

  “What? Why?” I stand up and rush down the stairs.

  “He thought he was having another heart—”

  “I have to go. I have to go to him.” I rush around, searching for my car keys. “Which hospital?”

  “Joyce, relax, love, relax.” Fran’s arms are around me. “I’ll drive you.”

  Chapter 40

  I RUN DOWN THE HOSPITAL corridors, examining each door, trying to find the correct room. I panic, my tears blinding my vision. A nurse stops me and tries to help me. Knows instantly who I’m talking about. I shouldn’t be allowed in at this time, but she can tell I’m distraught, wants to calm me by showing me he’s all right.

  I follow her down a series of corridors before she finally leads me into his room. I see Dad lying in a small bed, tubes attached to his wrists and nose, his skin deathly pale, his body so small under the blankets.

  “Was that you making all that fuss out there?” he asks, his voice sounding weak.

  “Dad.” My voice comes out muffled.

  “It’s okay, love. I just got a shock, is all. Thought my heart was acting up again, went to take my pills, but then I got dizzy and they all fell out. Something to do with sugar, they tell me.”

  “Diabetes, Henry.” The nurse smiles. “The doctor will be around to explain it all to you in the morning.”

  I sniffle, trying to remain calm.

  “Ah, come here, you silly sod.” He lifts his arms toward me.

  I rush to him and hug him tight, his body feeling frail but protective.

  “I’m not going anywhere, you. Hush, now.” He runs his hands through my hair and pats my back comfortingly. “I hope I didn’t ruin your night. I told Fran not to bother you.”

  “Of course you should have called me,” I say into his shoulder. “I got such a fright when you weren’t home.”

  “Well, I’m fine. You’ll have to help me, though, with all this stuff,” he whispers. “I told the doctor I understand, but I don’t really. He’s a real snooty type.” He wrinkles up his nose.

  “Of course I will.” I wipe my eyes and try to compose myself. “So, how did it go?” he asks, perking up. “Tell me all the good news.”

  “He, um”—I purse my lips—“he didn’t show up.” My tears start again.

  Dad is quiet; sad, then angry, then sad again. He hugs me again, tighter this time.

  “Ah, love,” he says gently. “He’s a bloody fool.”

  Chapter 41

  JUSTIN FINISHES EXPLAINING THE STORY of his disastrous weekend to Bea, who is sitting on the couch, her mouth open in shock.

  “I can’t believe I missed all this. I’m so bummed!”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have missed it if you’d been talking to me,” Justin teases.

  “Thank you for apologizing to Peter, Dad. I appreciate it. He appreciates it.”

  “I was acting like an idiot; I just didn’t want to admit my little girl was all grown up.”

  “You better believe it.” She smiles. “God”—she thinks back to his story—“I still can’t imagine somebody sending you all that stuff. Who could it be? The poor person must have waited and waited for you at the opera.”

  Justin covers his face and winces. “Please, I know, it’s killing me.”

  “But you chose Joyce, anyway.”

  He nods and smiles sadly.

  “You must have really liked her.”

  “She must have really not liked me, because she didn’t show up. No, Bea, I’m over it now. It’s time to move on. I hurt too many people in the process of trying to find out about this person. If you can’t remember anyone else you told about my wish list, then we’ll never know.”

  Bea thinks hard. “I only told Peter, the costume supervisor, and her father. But what makes you think it wasn’t either of them?”

  “I met the costume supervisor that night. She didn’t act like she knew me, and she’s English—why would she have gone to Ireland for a blood transfusion? I even called her to ask her about her father. Don’t ask what happened.” He sets off Bea’s glare. “Anyway, turns out her father’s Polish.”

  “Hold on, where are you getting that from? She wasn’t English, she was Irish.” Bea frowns. “They both were.”

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  “Justin—” Laurence enters the room with cups of coffee for him and Bea. “I was wondering, when you have a minute, if we could have a word.”

  “Not now, Laurence,” Justin says, moving to the edge of his seat. “Bea, where’s your ballet program?”

  “Honestly, Justin.” Jennifer arrives at the door with her arms folded. “Could you please just be respectful for one moment? Laurence has something he wants to say, and you owe it to him to listen.”

  Bea runs to her room, pushing through the battling adults, and returns, waving the program in her hand.

  Justin grabs it from her and flips through it quickly. “There!” he stabs his finger on the page.

  “Guys”—Jennifer steps in between them—“we really have to settle this now.”

  “Not now, Mum. Please!” Bea yells. “This is important!”

  “And this is not?”

  “That’s not her.” Bea looks at the photo and shakes her head furiously. “That’s not the woman I spoke to.”

  “Well, what did she look like?” Justin is up on his feet now. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  “Let me think, let me think.” Bea panics. “I know! Mum!”

  “What?” Jennifer looks from Justin to Bea in confusion.

  “Where are the photographs we took at the bar on opening night?”

  “Oh, um—”

  “Quick.”

  “They’re in the corner kitchen cupboard,” Laurence says, frowning.

  “Yes, Laurence!” Justin punches the air. “They’re in the corner kitchen cupboard! Go get them, quick!”

  Alarmed, Laurence runs into the kitchen while Jennifer watches everyone in shock. Justin paces the floor at top speed until Laurence returns with the photos.

  “Here they are.” He holds them out, and Bea snaps them out of his hand.

  Jennifer tries to interject, but Bea and Justin are too fa
st for her.

  Bea shuffles through the photos at top speed. “You weren’t in the room at the time, Dad. You had disappeared somewhere, but we all got a group photo, and here it is!” She leans in to her father to show him. “That’s them. The woman and her father, there at the end.” She points.

  Silence.

  “Dad?”

  Silence.

  “Dad, are you okay?”

  “Justin?” Jennifer moves in closer. “He’s gone very pale. Go get him a glass of water, Laurence, quick.”

  Laurence rushes back to the kitchen.

  “Dad.” Bea clicks her fingers in front of his eyes. “Dad, are you with us?”

  “It’s her,” he whispers.

  “Her who?” Jennifer asks.

  “The woman whose life he saved.” Bea jumps up and down excitedly.

  “You saved a woman’s life?” Jennifer asks, shocked. “You?”

  “It’s Joyce,” he whispers.

  Bea gasps. “The woman who phoned me?”

  He nods.

  Bea gasps again. “The woman you stood up?”

  Justin closes his eyes and silently curses himself.

  “You saved a woman’s life and then stood her up?” Jennifer laughs.

  “Bea, where’s your phone?”

  “Why?”

  “She called you, right? Her number must be in your phone.”

  “Oh, Dad, my phone log only holds ten recent numbers. That was weeks ago!”

  “Dammit!”

  “I gave the number to Doris, remember? She wrote it down. You called the number from your house!”

  Then threw it in the trash, you jerk! But wait—the bin! It’s still there!

  “Here.” Laurence runs in with the glass of water, panting.

  “Laurence.” Justin reaches out, takes him by the cheeks, and kisses his forehead. “I give you my blessing. Jennifer”—he does the same and kisses her directly on the lips—“good luck.”

  With that, he runs out of the apartment as Bea cheers him on, Jennifer wiping her lips in disgust and Laurence wiping the spilled water from his clothes.