Thanks for the Memories. Cecelia Ahern

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.’