Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern

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? What was the thing that could make two people want to promise one another 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 has wandered much while lying in that hospital bed. At times it has stalled in its wandering, like when entering a room and then forgetting what for. It stands alone dumbstruck. At those times it has been numb, and when staring at the pink walls I have thought of nothing but of the fact that I am staring at pink walls.

      My mind has bounced from numbness to feeling too much, but on an occasion while wandering far, I dug deep to find a memory of when I was six years old and I had a favourite tea set given to me by my grandmother Betty. She kept it in her house for me to play with when I called over on Saturdays, and during the afternoons when my grandmother was ‘taking tea’ with her friends I would dress in one of my mother’s pretty dresses from when she was a child 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 pretence 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 my mind was shouting at 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. Sitting in the taxi beside Dad, while listening to Conor over the phone, I realise I’ve 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 his 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 is almost blown away. His cap topples off his head and the few strands of hair left on his head stick up. He fixes the cap back on his head, has a mini battle with the button before finally figuring out how to leave a small gap at the top for air to enter the stuffy taxi.

      ‘Ha! Gotcha,’ he smiles victoriously, thumping his fist at the window.

      I wait until he’s finished fighting with the window 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 fringe 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. Brown and scraggy, it weighs me down and once again 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 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 filled again. I prefer the anger. Anger is better. Anger is hot and filling and gives me something to cling on 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?’

      ‘Wait in the car, Dad. I’ll be ten minutes. I’m just going to get a quick haircut. I can’t take it any more.’

      Dad looks at the salon and then to the taxi driver and they both know not to say anything. The taxi directly on front of us indicates and moves over to the side of the road too. We pull up behind it.

      A man ahead of us gets out of the car and I freeze with one foot out of the car, to watch him. He’s familiar and I think I know him. He pauses and looks at me. We stare at one another 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. The last thing I want is to see somebody I know, and I look away quickly.

      He looks away from me too and begins to walk.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Dad asks far too loudly, and I finally get out of the car.

      I start walking towards the hair salon and it becomes clear that our destination is the same. My walk becomes mechanical, awkward, self-conscious. Something about him makes me disjointed. Unsettled. Perhaps it’s the possibility of having to tell somebody 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.

      He holds open the door to the salon and smiles. Handsome. Fresh-faced. Tall. Broad. Athletic. Perfect. Is he glowing? I must know him.

      ‘Thank you,’ I say.

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      We both pause, look at one another, back to the two identical taxis waiting for us by the pavement and back to one another. I think he’s about to say something else but I quickly look away and step inside.

      The salon is empty and two staff members 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?’ American man looks at me and I nod.

      ‘Oh, pardon me, I thought you were together.’

      I realise we are so close our hips are almost touching. We both look down at our adjoined hips, then up to join eyes and then we both take one step away in the opposite direction.

      ‘You two should try synchronised swimming,’ the hairdresser laughs, but the joke dies when we fail to react. ‘Ashley, you take the lovely lady. Now come with me.’ He leads his client to a chair. The American makes a face at me while being led away and I laugh again.

      ‘Right, I just want two inches off, please,’ the American says. ‘The last time I got it done they took, like, twenty off. Please, 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 the scissors at him.

      ‘Yes you did.’ Gritted teeth. ‘You got me good.’

      I