Dad makes his way back to bed wearing a different pair of pyjama bottoms and with a towel tucked under his arm. I turn off the light, both of us quiet now. Light so quickly becomes darkness again. I continue to stare at the ceiling, feeling lost again when only moments ago I’d been found. My answers of only minutes ago are again transformed into questions.
‘I can’t sleep, Dad.’ My voice sounds childlike.
‘Close your eyes and stare into the dark, love,’ Dad responds sleepily, sounding thirty years younger too.
Moments later his light snores are audible. Awake … and then gone.
A veil hangs between the two opposites, a mere slip of a thing that is transparent to warn us or comfort us. You hate now but look through this veil and see the possibility of love; you’re sad now but look through to the other side and see happiness. Absolute composure to a complete mess – it happens so quickly, all in the blink of an eye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘OK, I’ve gathered us all here today because—’
‘Somebody died.’
‘No, Kate,’ I sigh.
‘Well, it sounds like—Ow,’ she yelps as Frankie, I assume, physically harms her for her tactlessness.
‘So are you all red-bused out of it?’ Frankie asks.
I’m seated at the desk in my hotel room, on the phone to the girls who are huddled around the phone in Kate’s house with me on loudspeaker. I’d spent the morning looking around London with Dad, taking photographs of him standing awkwardly in front of anything resembling anything English: red buses, post boxes, police horses, pubs, Buckingham Palace, and a completely unaware transvestite, as he was so excited to see ‘a real one’, who was nothing like the local priest who’d lost his mind and wandered the streets wearing a dress, in his home town of Cavan when he was young.
While I sit at the desk, he is lying on his bed watching a rerun of Strictly Come Dancing, drinking a brandy and licking the sour cream and onion off Pringles before depositing the soggy crisps in the bin.
‘NICE!’ he shouts at the television, responding to Bruce Forsyth’s catchphrase.
I’ve called a conference call to share the latest news, or more for help and a plea for sanity strengthening. I may have gone one wish too far, but a girl can always dream. Kate and Frankie are huddled around Kate’s home phone.
‘One of your kids just puked on me,’ Frankie says. ‘Your kid just puked on me.’
‘Oh, that is not puke, that’s just a little dribble.’
‘No, this is dribble …’
There’s silence.
‘Frankie, you are disgusting.’
‘OK, girls, girls, please can you two stop, just this once?’
‘Sorry, Joyce, but I can’t continue this conversation until it is out of here. It’s crawling around biting things, climbing on things, drooling on things. It’s very distracting. Can’t Christian mind it?’
I try not to laugh.
‘Do not call my child “it”. And no, Christian is busy.’
‘He’s watching football.’
‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed, particularly by you. Ever.’
‘Well, you’re busy too. How do I get it to come with me?’
There’s a silence.
‘Come here, little boy,’ Frankie says uneasily.
‘His name is Sam. You’re his godmother, in case you’ve forgotten that too.’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten that. Just his name.’ Her voice strains, as though she’s lifting weights. ‘Wow, what do you feed it?’
Sam squeals like a pig.
Frankie snorts back.
‘Frankie, give him to me. I’ll bring him in to Christian.’
‘OK, Joyce,’ Frankie begins in Kate’s absence, ‘I’ve done some research on the information you gave me yesterday and I’ve brought some paperwork with me, hold on.’ I hear papers being ruffled.
‘What’s this about?’ Kate asks, returning.
‘This is about Joyce jumping into the mind of the American man, thereby possessing his memories, skills and intelligence,’ Frankie responds.
‘What?’ Kate shrieks.
‘I found out that his name is Justin Hitchcock,’ I say excitedly.
‘How?’ Kate asks.
‘His surname was in his daughter’s biography in last night’s ballet programme, and his first name, well, I heard that in a dream.’
There’s silence. I roll my eyes as I imagine them giving each other that look.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Kate asks, confused.
‘Google him, Kate,’ Frankie orders. ‘Let’s see if he exists.’
‘He exists, believe me,’ I confirm.
‘No, sweetie, you see, the way these stories work is, we’re supposed to think you’re crazy for a while before eventually believing you. So let us check up on him and then we’ll go from there.’
I lean my chin on my hand and wait.
‘While Kate’s doing that, I looked into the idea of sharing memories—’
‘What?’ Kate shrieks again. ‘Sharing memories? Are you both out of your mind?’
‘No, just me,’ I say tiredly, resting my head on the desk.
‘Actually, surprisingly enough, it turns out that you’re not clinically insane. On that count, anyway. I went online and did some research. It turns out you’re not alone in feeling that.’
I sit up, suddenly alert.
‘I came across websites with interviews with others who have admitted to experiencing somebody else’s memories and who have also acquired their skills or tastes.’
‘Oh, you two are having me on. I knew this was a set-up. I knew it was out of character for you to drop by, Frankie.’
‘This isn’t a set-up,’ I assure Kate.
‘So you’re trying to tell me honestly that you’ve magically acquired somebody else’s skills.’
‘She speaks Latin, French and Italian,’ Frankie explains. ‘But we didn’t say it was magically. That is ridiculous.’
‘And what about tastes?’ Kate is not convinced.
‘She eats meat now,’ Frankie says matter-of-factly.
‘But why do you think these are somebody else’s skills? Why can’t she just have learned Latin, French and Italian by herself and decided that she likes meat all by herself, like a normal person? I suddenly like olives and have an aversion to cheese, does that mean my body has been possessed by an olive tree?’
‘I don’t think you’re quite getting this. What makes you think olive trees don’t like cheese?’
Silence.
‘Look, Kate, I agree with you about the change of diet being a natural thing, but in all fairness, Joyce did learn three languages overnight without actually learning them.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I have dreams of Justin Hitchcock’s private childhood moments.’
‘Where the hell was I when all of this was happening?’
‘Making me do the hokey cokey live on Sky News,’ I huff.
I place the phone on loudspeaker and for the few minutes that follow, pace the room patiently and watch the time on the bottom of the television as both Frankie and Kate laugh heartily, on the other end.
Dad’s tongue freezes mid-Pringle lick as his eyes follow me.
‘What’s that noise?’ he finally asks.
‘Kate and Frankie laughing,’ I respond.
He rolls his eyes and continues licking his Pringles, attention back on a middle-aged male newsreader doing the rumba.
After three minutes, the laughter stops and I take them off loudspeaker.
‘So as I was saying,’ Frankie says, catching her breath, as though nothing had happened, ‘what you’re experiencing is quite normal – well, not normal, but there are other, eh …’
‘Freaks?’ Kate suggests.
‘… cases where people have spoken of similar things. The only thing is, these are all people who have had heart transplants, which is nothing to do with what you’ve been through, so th
at blows that theory.’
Thump-thump, thump-thump. In my throat again.
‘Hold on,’ Kate butts in, ‘one person says here that it’s because she was abducted by aliens.’
‘Stop reading my notes, Kate,’ Frankie hisses. ‘I wasn’t going to mention her.’
‘Listen,’ I interrupt their squabbling, ‘he donated blood. The same month that I went into hospital.’
‘So?’ Kate says.
‘She received a blood transfusion,’ Frankie explains. ‘Not all that different to the heart transplant theory I just mentioned.’
We all go quiet.
Kate breaks the silence. ‘OK, so, I still don’t get it. Somebody explain.’
‘Well, it’s practically the same thing, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Blood comes from the heart.’
Kate gasps. ‘It came straight from his heart,’ she says dreamily.
‘Oh, so now blood transfusions are romantic to you,’ Frankie comments. ‘Let me tell you about what I got from the Net. Due to reports from several heart transplant recipients claiming experiences of unexpected side effects, Channel Four made a documentary about whether it’s possible that in receiving a transplanted organ, a patient could inherit some of their donor’s memories, tastes, desires and habits as well. The documentary follows these people making contact with the donor families in the recipients’ efforts to understand the new life within them. It questions science’s understanding of how the memory works, featuring scientists who are pioneering research into the intelligence of the heart and the biochemical basis for memory in our cells.’
‘So if they think that the heart holds more intelligence than we think, then the blood which is pumped from someone’s heart could carry that intelligence. So in transfusing his blood, he transfused his memories too?’ Kate asks. ‘And his love of meat and languages,’ she adds a little tartly.
Nobody wants to say yes to that question. Everybody wants to say no. Apart from me, who’s had a night to warm to the idea already.
‘Did Star Trek have an episode of this one time?’ Frankie asks. ‘Because if they didn’t, they should have.’
‘This can easily be solved,’ Kate says excitedly. ‘You can just find out who your blood donor was.’
‘She can’t.’ Frankie, as usual, dampens her spirits. ‘That kind of information is confidential. Besides, it’s not as though she received all of his blood. He could only have donated less than a pint in one go. Then it’s separated into white blood cells, red blood cells, plasma and platelets. What Joyce would have got, if Joyce received it at all, is only a part of his blood. It could even have been mixed with somebody else’s.’
‘His blood is still running through my body,’ I add. ‘It doesn’t matter how much of it there is. And I remember feeling distinctly odd as soon as I opened my eyes in the hospital.’
A silence answers my ridiculous statement, as we all consider the fact that my feeling ‘distinctly odd’ had nothing to do with my transfusion and all to do with the unspeakable tragedy of losing my baby.
‘We’ve got a Google hit for Mr Justin Hitchcock,’ Kate fills the silence.
My heart beats rapidly. Please tell me I’m not making it all up, that he exists, that he’s not a figment of my delusional mind. That the plans I’ve put in place already are not going to scare away some random person.
‘OK, Justin Hitchcock was a hatmaker in Massachusetts. Hmm. Well, at least he’s American. You have any knowledge of hats, Joyce?’
I think hard. ‘Berets, bucket hats, fedoras, fishermen hats, ball caps, pork-pie hats, tweed caps.’
Dad stops licking his Pringle again and looks at me. ‘Panama hat.’
‘Panama hat,’ I repeat to the girls.
‘Newsboy caps, skull caps,’ Kate adds.
‘Top hat,’ Dad says, and I pass this down the phone once again.
‘Cowboy hat,’ Frankie says, sounding deep in thought. She snaps out of it. ‘Wait a minute, what are we doing? Anybody can name hats.’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t feel right. Keep reading,’ I urge.
‘Justin Hitchcock moved to Deerfield in 1774 where he served as a soldier and fifer in the Revolution … I should probably stop reading this. Over two hundred years old is probably too much of a sugar daddy for you.’
‘Hold on,’ Frankie takes over, not wanting me to lose hope. ‘There’s another Justin Hitchcock below that. New York sanitation department—’
‘No,’ I say with frustration. ‘I already know he exists. This is ridiculous. Add Trinity College to the search; he did a seminar there.’
Tap-tap-tap.
‘No. Nothing for Trinity College.’
‘Are you sure you spoke to his daughter?’ Kate asks.
‘Yes,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘And did anybody see you talking to this girl?’ she says sweetly.
I ignore her.
‘I’m adding the words, art, architecture, French, Latin, Italian to the search,’ Frankie says over the tap-tap-tap sound.
‘Aha! Gotcha, Justin Hitchcock! Guest lecturer at Trinity College, Dublin. The Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Department of Art and Architecture. Bachelor’s degree, Chicago, Master’s degree, Chicago, Ph. D. Sorbonne University. Special interests are History of Italian Renaissance and Baroque Sculpture, Painting in Europe in 1600–1900. External responsibilities include founder and editor of the Art and Architectural Review. He is the co-author of The Golden Age of Dutch Painting: Vermeer, Metsu and Terborch, author of Copper as Canvas: Paintings on Copper 1575–1775. He has written over fifty articles in books, journals, dictionaries and conference proceedings.’
‘So he exists,’ Kate says, as though she’s just found the Holy Grail.
Feeling more confident now I say, ‘Try his name with the London National Gallery.’
‘Why?’
‘I have a hunch.’
‘You and your hunches.’ Kate continues reading, ‘He is a curator of European Art at the National Gallery, London. Oh my God, Joyce, he works in London. You should go see him.’
‘Hold your horses, Kate. She might freak him out and end up in a padded cell. He might not even be the donor,’ Frankie objects. ‘And even if he is, it doesn’t explain anything.’
‘It’s him,’ I say confidently. ‘And if he was my donor, then it means something to me.’
‘We’ll have to figure out a way to find out,’ Kate offers.
‘It’s him,’ I repeat.
‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Kate asks.
I smile lightly and glance at the clock again. ‘What makes you think I haven’t done something already?’
* * *
Justin holds the phone to his ear and paces the small office in the National Gallery as much as he can, stretching the phone cord as far as it will go on each pace, which is not far. Three and a half steps up, five steps down.
‘No, no, Simon, I said Dutch Portraits, though you’re correct as there certainly will be much Dutch portraits,’ he laughs. ‘The Age of Rembrandt and Frans Hals,’ he continues. ‘I’ve written a book about that subject so it’s something I’m more than familiar with.’ A half-written book you stopped working on two years ago, liar.
‘The exhibition will include sixty works, all painted between 1600 and 1680.’
There is a knock on the door.
‘Just a minute,’ he calls out.
The door opens anyway and his colleague, Roberta, enters. Though young, in her thirties, her back is hunched, her chin pressed to her chest as though she is decades older. Her eyes, mostly cast downward, occasionally flicker upwards to meet his before falling again. She is apologetic for everything, as always, constantly saying sorry to the world, as though her very presence offends. She tries to manoeuvre her way through the obstacle course that is his cluttered office to reach his desk. This she does the same way as she does through her life, as quietly and as invisibly as possible, which Justin would find admirable if it weren’t quit
e so sad.
‘Sorry, Justin,’ she whispers, carrying a small basket in her hand. ‘I didn’t know you were on the phone, sorry. This was at reception for you. I’ll just put it here. Sorry.’ She backs away, barely making a sound as she tiptoes out of the room and closes the door silently behind her. A silent whirlwind that spins so gracefully and slowly it hardly appears to move at all, failing to uproot anything that lies around it.
He simply nods at her and then tries to concentrate on the conversation, picking up where he left off.
‘It will range from small individual portraits meant for the private home to the large-scale group portraits of members of charitable institutions and civic guards.’
He stops pacing and eyes the hamper suspiciously, feeling as though something is about to jump out at him.
‘Yes, Simon, in the Sainsbury Wing. If there’s anything else you need to know please do contact me here at the office.’
He hurries his colleague off the phone and hangs up. His hand pauses on the receiver, not sure whether to call for security. The small hamper seems alien and sweet, in his musty office, like a new-born baby in a cradle left on the dirty steps of an orphanage. Underneath the wicker handle, the contents are covered by a chequered cloth. He stands back and lifts it slowly, preparing to jump away at any moment.
A dozen or so muffins stare back at him.
His heart thumps and he quickly looks around his box-sized office, knowing nobody is with him, but his discomfort at receiving this surprise gift adds an eerie presence. He searches the basket for a card. Taped to the other side is a small white envelope. With what he realises now are shaking hands, he rips it rather clumsily from the basket. It hasn’t been sealed and so he slides the card out. In the centre of the card in neat handwritten script it simply says:
Thank you …
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Justin power-walks through the halls of the National Gallery, part of him obeying and the other part disobeying the ‘no running in the halls’ rule as he jogs three steps then walks three steps, jogs three steps and slows to a walk again. Goody Two-Shoes and the daredevil within him battling it out.
Cecelia Ahern 2-book Bundle Page 46