Thanks for the Memories (18 page)
“That’s exactly what it’s going to do. You’ve had bypass surgery, you’re not supposed to smoke at all! I turn a blind eye to your morning fry-ups, but this, this is unacceptable,” I tell him. Dad rolls his eyes and holds his hand up like a puppet’s mouth, mimicking me as he snaps it open and closed.
“That’s it, I’m calling your doctor.”
His mouth drops, and he jumps out of his chair. “No, love, don’t do that.”
I march out to the hall, and he chases after me. Up, down, down, up, up, down. Goes down on his right, bends his left. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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“Ah, you wouldn’t do that to me. If the cigarettes don’t kill me, the doctor will. She’s a battle-ax, that woman.”
I pick up the phone that’s beside Mum’s photograph and dial the emergency number I’ve memorized. The first number that comes to my mind when I need to help the most important person in my life.
“If Mum knew what you were doing, she would go berserk—
Oh.” I pause as it hits me. “That’s why you hide the photograph?”
Dad looks down at his hands and nods sadly. “She made me promise I’d stop. If not for me, for her. I didn’t want her to see,” he adds in a whisper, as though she can hear us.
“Hello?” There’s a response on the other end of the phone.
“Hello? Is that you, Dad?” says a young girl with an American accent.
“Oh—” I’m puzzled, but snap out of it. Dad looks pleadingly at me. “Pardon me,” I speak into the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I saw an Irish number and thought you were my dad,” the voice on the other end explains.
“That’s okay,” I say, confused.
Dad is standing before me with his hands together in prayer.
“I was looking for . . .” Dad shakes his head wildly, and I stall.
“Tickets to the show?” the girl asks.
I frown. “To what show?”
“The Royal Opera House.”
“Sorry,” I say, and rub my eyes tiredly. “Your voice is so familiar, but I can’t place it.”
Dad rolls his eyes and sits on the bottom stair.
“I’m Bea. And
you
called
me
, by the way.”
I try to think of how I can know an American girl named Bea, and as soon as I close my eyes, I hear a singsong voice penetrate my thoughts. A woman singing “Buzzy Bee” over and over. A little girl with white-blond hair wearing a tutu, the same little girl from my dreams, looks at me and giggles from behind an open door.
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She places a tiny finger over her lips and hops up and down with excitement. The woman’s voice gets closer, and she enters the room; it’s the familiar woman with the red hair, and she looks at me. She smiles lovingly, adoringly at me, then tiptoes around the room, calling “Buzzy Bee, Buzzy Bee.” The scene then ends in my mind, and I’m afraid to open my eyes. Afraid of what’s happening to me again, but as soon as that memory fades, another appears. The blond girl again, older this time, a teenager, looking at me with anger, a face of thunder. We’re in the same room as before, hardwood floors and bright white walls filled with cornicing, panels, a wall of shelves bursting with books. “My name isn’t Buzzy Bee,” she’s shouting at me, “it’s Bea! And I can do what I want!”
A short skirt and long legs stride angrily away from me, and the door that only seconds ago she had hidden behind as a child bangs closed, knocking a book from the shelf and to the floor. Another face comes into focus, angry—the woman with the red hair. She says nothing but throws me a look. A look of love in the last memory, hatred in this one. I open my eyes, unable to take anymore, and I’m back in Dad’s hall with the phone to my ear, my heart pounding in my chest. Dad has moved from the stairs and now stands before me, thrusting a glass of water toward me, looking at me nervously.
“Hello?” a voice calls from the other end of the phone. “Is anybody there? Hello?”
“Hello?” I force myself to speak, and my voice is shaky.
“Well, who is this?” Her tone is harder.
“Joyce.” My voice is not much louder than a whisper. “I’m sorry, Bea, I think I’ve dialed the wrong number. Have I called America?”
Happy there isn’t a stalker on the other end, her tone is friendly again. “You’ve called London,” she explains. “I saw the Irish number and thought you were my dad. He’s not Irish—he’s American—but he’s flying back from Dublin tonight to make it to t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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my show tomorrow, and I was worried because I’m still a student and it’s such a huge deal and I thought he was . . . sorry, I have absolutely no idea why I’m explaining this to you, but I’m so nervous.” She laughs and takes a deep breath. “Technically, this is his emergency number.”
“I dialed my emergency number too,” I say faintly.
“Oh, freaky,” she says. “Maybe our wires got crossed, that happens, doesn’t it? People can just tune in to each other sometimes, can’t they? A friend of mine can often pick up his neighbor’s phone conversations when he listens to his radio. Weird, huh?”
I feel weak at the knees at the mention of her American father. Too many coincidences, far too many. But surely I’m just piecing together something that I wish to be the truth. “This may sound like a stupid question, but are you blond?”
Dad sits back down on the staircase and sips the water himself, watching me worriedly.
“Yeah! Why, do I sound blond? Maybe that’s not such a good thing,” she says.
I have a lump in my throat and must stop speaking. “Just a silly guess,” I force out.
“Good guess,” she says curiously. “Well, I hope everything’s okay. You said you dialed your emergency number?”
“Yes, thanks, everything’s fine.”
She laughs. “Well, this was weird. I better go. Nice talking to you, Joyce.”
“Nice talking to you too, Bea. Best of luck with your ballet show.”
“Oh, sweet, thank you.”
We say our good-byes, and with a shaking hand I replace the handset.
“You silly dope, did you just dial the Americas?” Dad says, putting his glasses on and pressing a button on the phone. “Joseph down the road showed me how to do this when I was getting the
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cranky calls. You can see who’s called you and who you’ve called too. Turns out it was Fran bumping off her hand phone. The grandchildren got it for her last Christmas, and she’s done nothing with it but wake me up at all hours. Anyway, there it is. First few numbers are 0044. Where’s that?”
“That’s the UK.”
“Why on earth did you do that? Were you trying to trick me?
Christ, that alone was enough to give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry, Dad.” I lower myself to the bottom stair, feeling shaky.
“I don’t know where I got that number from.”
“Well, that sure taught me a lesson,” he says insincerely. “I’ll never smoke again. No sirree, Bob. Give me those cigarettes, and I’ll throw them out.”
I hold my hand out, feeling dazed.
He snaps the packet up and shoves it deep into his trouser pocket.
“I hope you’ll be paying for that phone call, because my pension certainly won’t be.” He narrows his eyes. “What’s up with you?”
“I’m going to London,” I blurt out.
“What?” His eyes pop open wildly. “Christ Almighty, Gracie, it’s just one thing after another with you.”
“I have to find some answers to . . . something. I have to go to London. Come with me,” I urge, standing up and stepping toward him. If I go to a doctor, they may lock me away, put me on medication for whatever is wrong with me. If I go to London, I can find out for myself, find out if Bea is the Bea in my dreams and if her father is the man I can’t get out of my head. It’s a long shot, I know, but . . . well, it’s all I have, and I’m clinging to it before I lose that too.
Dad begins to walk backward with his hand held protectively over his pocket containing the cigarettes.
“I can’t go to London,” he says nervously.
“Why not?”
“I’ve never been away from here in my life!”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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“All the more reason to go away now,” I say intensely. “If you’re going to smoke, you might as well see outside of Ireland before you kill yourself.”
“There are numbers I can call about being spoken to like that. Don’t think I haven’t heard about all that abuse that children do to their elderly parents!”
“Don’t play the victim—you know I’m looking out for you. Come to London with me, Dad. Please.”
“But, but,” he says as he keeps moving backward, his eyes wide, “I can’t miss the Monday Club.”
“We’ll go tomorrow morning, be back before Monday, I promise.”
“But I don’t have a passport.”
“You just need photo ID.”
We’re approaching the kitchen now.
“But we’ve nowhere to stay.” He passes through the door.
“We’ll book a hotel.”
“It’s too expensive.”
“We’ll share a room.”
“But I won’t know where anything is in London.”
“I know my way; I’ve been plenty of times.”
“But . . .” He bumps into the kitchen table and cannot move back any farther. His face is a picture of terror. “I’ve never been on a plane before.”
“There’s nothing to it. You’ll probably have a great time up there. And I’ll be right beside you, talking to you the whole time.”
He looks unsure.
“What is it?” I ask gently.
“What will I pack? What will I need for over there? Your mother usually packed all my going-away bags.”
“I’ll help you pack.” I smile, getting excited. “This is going to be so much fun—you and me on our first overseas holiday!”
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Dad looks excited for a moment; then the excitement fades.
“No, I’m not going. I can’t swim. If the plane goes down, I can’t swim. I’ll fly with you somewhere, but not over the seas.”
“Dad, we live on an island; everywhere we go outside of this country has to be over the sea. And there are life jackets on the plane.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, you’ll be fine,” I assure him. “They show you what to do in case of emergencies, but believe me, there won’t be one. I’ve flown dozens of times without so much as a hiccup. You’ll have a great time. And imagine all the things you’ll have to tell the gang at the Monday Club! They’ll hardly believe their ears, they’ll want to hear your stories all day.”
A smile slowly creeps onto Dad’s lips, and he concedes. “Bigmouth Donal will have to listen to someone else tell a more interesting story for a change. I think secretary Maggie might be able to clear a spot for me in the schedule, all right.” His smile then changes to a look of curiosity. “What are we going for?”
I search my mind for an answer. “For me, Dad.” I feel my eyes well, and I battle the tears. If I start now, I’ll never stop. “I need to get away from here.”
“Right.” He nods firmly. “And I’ll be beside you all the way, love.”
r a n ’ s o u t s i d e , D a d. We h a v e to go!”
F
“Hold on, love, I’m just making sure everything’s okay.”
“Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “You’ve checked five times already.”
“You can never be too sure. You hear these stories of televisions malfunctioning and toasters exploding and people coming back from their holidays to a pile of smouldering ash instead of their house.” He checks the socket switches in the kitchen for the umpteenth time.
Fran beeps the horn again.
“I swear one of these days I’m going to throttle that woman. Beep beep beep yourself,” he calls back.
“Dad,” I take his hand, “we really have to go now. The house will be fine. All your neighbors will keep an eye on it. Any little noise outside, and their noses are pressed up against their windows. You know that.”
He nods but still looks about, his eyes watering.
“We’ll have great fun, really we will. What are you worried about?”
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“That damn Fluffy cat, comin’ into my garden and pissin’ on my plants. I’m worried that the stranglers will suffocate my poor petunias and snapdragons, and that there’ll be no one to keep an eye on my chrysanthemums. What if there’s wind and rain when we’re away? I haven’t staked the plants yet, and the flowers get heavy and might break. Do you know how long the magnolia took to settle? Planted it when you were a wee one, while your mother was lying out catchin’ the sun and laughin’ at Mr. Henderson from next door, God rest his soul, who was peekin’ out the curtains at her legs. And what about your cactus? Who’ll water that for you?”
Beep, beeeeeeep. Fran presses down on the horn.
“It’s only a few days, Dad. The garden will be fine. You can get to work on it as soon as we get back.”
“Okay, fine.” He takes one last look around and makes his way to the door.
I watch his figure swaying, dressed in his Sunday finest: a three-piece suit, shirt and tie, extra-shined shoes, and his tweed cap, of course, which he’d never be seen without outside the house. He looks as though he’s jumped straight from the photographs on the wall beside him. He stalls at the hall table and reaches for the photograph of Mum.
“You know your mother was always at me to go to London with her.” He pretends to wipe a smudge on the glass, but really he runs his finger over Mum’s face.
“Bring her with you, Dad.”
“Ah, no, that’d be silly,” he says confidently, but looks at me unsurely. “Wouldn’t it?”
“I think it’d be a great idea. The three of us will go and have a great time.”
His eyes tear up again, and with a simple nod of the head, he slides the photo frame into his overcoat pocket and exits the house to more of Fran’s beeping.
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“Ah, there you are, Fran,” he calls to her as he sways down the garden path. “You’re late, we’ve been waiting for you for ages.”
“I was beeping, Henry—did you not hear me?”
“Were you now?” He gets into the car. “You should press it a little harder the next time; we couldn’t hear a thing in there.”
