Читать книгу Thanks for the Memories - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 14

FIVE

I open my eyes slowly.

White light fills them. Slowly, objects come into focus and the white light fades. Orangey pink now. I move my eyes around. I’m in a hospital. A television high up on the wall. Green fills its screen. I focus more. Horses. Jumping and racing. Dad must be in the room. I lower my eyes and there he is with his back to me in an armchair. He thumps his fists lightly on the chair’s arms, I see his tweed cap appearing and disappearing behind the back of the chair as he bounces up and down. The springs beneath him squeak.

The horse racing is silent. So is he. Like a silent movie being carried out before me, I watch him. I wonder if it’s my ears that aren’t allowing me to hear him. He springs out of his chair now faster than I’ve seen him move in a long time, and he raises his fist at the television, quietly urging his horse on.

The television goes black. His two fists open and he raises his hands up in the air, looks up to the ceiling and beseeches God. He puts his hands in his pockets, feels around and pulls the material out. They’re empty and the pockets of his brown trousers hang inside out for all to see. He pats down his chest, feeling for money. Checks the small pocket of his brown cardigan. Grumbles. So it’s not my ears.

He turns to feel around in his overcoat beside me and I shut my eyes quickly.

I’m not ready yet. Nothing has happened to me until they tell me. Last night will remain a nightmare in my mind until they tell me it was true. The longer I close my eyes, the longer everything remains as it was. The bliss of ignorance.

I hear him rooting around in his overcoat, I hear change rattling and I hear the clunk as the coins fall into the television. I risk opening my eyes again and there he is back in his armchair, cap bouncing up and down, pounding his fists against the air.

My curtain is closed to my right but I can tell I share a room with others. I don’t know how many. It’s quiet. There’s no air in the room; it’s stuffy with stale sweat. The giant windows that take up the entire wall to my left are closed. The light is so bright I can’t see out. I allow my eyes to adjust and finally I see. A bus stop across the road. A woman waits by the stop, shopping bags by her feet and on her hip sits a baby, bare chubby legs bouncing in the Indian summer sun. I look away immediately. Dad is watching me. He is leaning out over the side of the armchair, twisting his head around, like a child from his cot.

‘Hi, love.’

‘Hi.’ I feel I haven’t spoken for such a long time, and I expect to croak. But I don’t. My voice is pure, pours out like honey. Like nothing’s happened. But nothing has happened. Not yet. Not until they tell me.

With both hands on the arms of the chair he slowly pulls himself up. Like a seesaw, he makes his way over to the side of the bed. Up and down, down and up. He was born with a leg length discrepancy, his left leg longer than his right. Despite the special shoes he was given in later years, he still sways, the motion instilled in him since he learned to walk. He hates wearing those shoes and, despite our warnings and his back pains, he goes back to what he knows. I’m so used to the sight of his body going up and down, down and up. I recall as a child holding his hand and going for walks. How my arm would move in perfect rhythm with him. Being pulled up as he stepped down on his right leg, being pushed down as he stepped on his left.

He was always so strong. Always so capable. Always fixing things. Lifting things, mending things. Always with a screwdriver in his hand, taking things apart and putting them back together – remote controls, radios, alarm clocks, plugs. A handiman for the entire street. His legs were uneven, but his hands, always and for ever, steady as a rock.

He takes his cap off as he nears me, clutches it with both hands, moves it around in circles like a steering wheel as he watches me with concern. He steps onto his right leg and down he goes. Bends his left leg. His position of rest.

‘Are you … em … they told me that … eh.’ He clears his throat. ‘They told me to …’ He swallows hard and his thick messy eyebrows furrow and hide his glassy eyes. ‘You lost … you lost, em …’

My lower lip trembles.

His voice breaks when he speaks again. ‘You lost a lot of blood, Joyce. They …’ He lets go of his cap with one hand and makes circular motions with his crooked finger, trying to remember. ‘They did a transfusion of the blood thingy on you so you’re em … you’re OK with your bloods now.’

My lower lip still trembles and my hands automatically go to my belly, not long enough gone to even show swelling under the blankets. I look to him hopefully, only realising now how much I am still holding on, how much I have convinced myself the awful incident in the labour room was all a terrible nightmare. Perhaps I imagined my baby’s silence that filled the room in that final moment. Perhaps there were cries that I just didn’t hear. Of course it’s possible – by that stage I had little energy and was fading away – maybe I just didn’t hear the first little miraculous breath of life that everybody else witnessed.

Dad shakes his head sadly. No, it had been me that had made those screams instead.

My lip trembles more now, bounces up and down and I can’t stop it. My body shakes terribly and I can’t stop it either. The tears; they well, but I stop them from falling. If I start now I know I will never stop.

I’m making a noise. An unusual noise I’ve never heard before. Groaning. Grunting. A combination of both. Dad grabs my hand and holds it hard. The feel of his skin brings me back to last night, me lying at the end of the stairs. He doesn’t say anything. But what can a person say? I don’t even know.

I doze in and out. I wake and remember a conversation with a doctor and wonder if it was a dream. Lost your baby, Joyce, we did all we could … blood transfusion … Who needs to remember something like that? No one. Not me.

When I wake again the curtain beside me has been pulled open. There are three small children running around, chasing one another around the bed while their father, I assume, calls to them to stop in a language I don’t recognise. Their mother, I assume, lies in bed. She looks tired. We catch eyes and smile at one another.

I know how you feel, her sad smile says, I know how you feel.

What are we going to do? my smile says back to her.

I don’t know, her eyes say. I don’t know.

Will we be OK?

She turns her head away from me, her smile gone.

Dad calls over to them. ‘Where are you lot from then?’

‘Excuse me?’ her husband asks.

‘I said where are you lot from then?’ Dad repeats. ‘Not from around here, I see.’ Dad’s voice is cheery and pleasant. No insults intended. No insults ever intended.

‘We are from Nigeria,’ the man responds.

‘Nigeria,’ Dad replies. ‘Where would that be then?’

‘In Africa.’ The man’s tone is pleasant too. Just an old man starved of conversation, trying to be friendly, he realises.

‘Ah, Africa. Never been there myself. Is it hot there? I’d say it is. Hotter than here. Get a good tan, I’d say, not that you need it,’ he laughs. ‘Do you get cold here?’

‘Cold?’ the African smiles.

‘Yes, you know.’ Dad wraps his arms around his body and pretends to shiver. ‘Cold?’

‘Yes,’ the man laughs. ‘Sometimes I do.’

‘Thought so. I do too and I’m from here,’ Dad explains. ‘The chill gets right into my bones. But I’m not a great one for heat either. Skin goes red, just burns. My daughter, Joyce, goes brown. That’s her over there.’ He points at me and I close my eyes quickly.

‘A lovely daughter,’ the man says politely.

‘Ah, she is.’ Silence while I assume they watch me. ‘She was on one of those Spanish islands a few months back and came back black, she did. Well, not as black as you, you know, but she got a fair ol’ tan on her. Peeled, though. You probably don’t peel.’

The man laughs politely. That’s Dad. Never means any harm but has never left the country in his entire life. A fear of flying holds him back. Or so he says.

‘Anyway, I hope your lovely lady feels better soon. It’s an awful thing to be sick on your holliers.’

With that I open my eyes.

‘Ah, welcome back, love. I was just talking to these nice neighbours of ours.’ He seesaws up to me again, his cap in his hands. Rests on his right leg, goes down, bends his left leg. ‘You know I think we’re the only Irish people in this hospital. The nurse that was here a minute ago, she’s from Sing-a-song or someplace like that.’

‘Singapore, Dad,’ I smile.

‘That’s it.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘You met her already, did you? They all speak English, though, the foreigners do. Sure, isn’t that better than being on your holidays and having to do all that signed-languagey stuff.’ He puts his cap down on the bed and wiggles his fingers around.

‘Dad,’ I smile, ‘you’ve never been out of the country in your life.’

‘Haven’t I heard the lads at the Monday Club talking about it? Frank was away in that place last week – oh, what’s that place?’ He shuts his eyes and thinks hard. ‘The place where they make the chocolates?’

‘Switzerland.’

‘No.’

‘Belgium.’

‘No,’ he says, frustrated now. ‘The little round ball-y things all crunchy inside. You can get the white ones now but I prefer the original dark ones.’

‘Maltesers?’ I laugh, but feel pain and stop.

‘That’s it. He was in Maltesers.’

‘Dad, it’s Malta.’

‘That’s it. He was in Malta.’ He is silent. ‘Do they make Maltesers?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. So what happened to Frank in Malta?’

He squeezes his eyes shut again and thinks. ‘I can’t remember what I was about to say now.’

Silence. He hates not being able to remember. He used to remember everything.

‘Did you make any money on the horses?’ I ask.

‘A few bob. Enough for a few rounds at the Monday Club tonight.’

‘But today is Tuesday.’

‘It’s on a Tuesday on account of the bank holiday,’ he explains, seesawing around to the other side of the bed to sit down.

I can’t laugh. I’m too sore and it seems some of my sense of humour was taken away with my child.

‘You don’t mind if I go, do you, Joyce? I’ll stay if you want, I really don’t mind, it’s not important.’

‘Of course it’s important. You haven’t missed a Monday night for twenty years.’

‘Apart from bank holidays!’ He lifts a crooked finger and his eyes dance.

‘Apart from bank holidays,’ I smile, and grab his finger.

‘Well,’ he takes my hand, ‘you’re more important than a few pints and a singsong.’

‘What would I do without you?’ My eyes fill again.

‘You’d be just fine, love. Besides …’ he looks at me warily, ‘you have Conor.’

I let go of his hand and look away. What if I don’t want Conor any more?

‘I tried to call him last night on the hand phone but there was no answer. But maybe I tried the numbers wrong,’ he adds quickly. ‘There are so many more numbers on the hand phones.’

‘Mobiles, Dad,’ I say distractedly.

‘Ah, yes. The mobiles. He keeps calling when you’re asleep. He’s going to come home as soon as he can get a flight. He’s very worried.’

‘That’s nice of him. Then we can get down to the business of spening the next ten years of our married life trying to have babies.’ Back to business. A nice little distraction to give our relationship some sort of meaning.

‘Ah now, love …’

The first day of the rest of my life and I’m not sure I want to be here. I know I should be thanking somebody for this but I really don’t feel like it. Instead I wish they hadn’t bothered.