Read Online Thanks for the Memories by Cecelia Ahern - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cecelia Ahern
Tags: Fiction
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go to the barbers now?”
“What’s that?”
“Do they leave their taxis outside waiting for them?”
“I’ve never been asked to do it before,” the driver explains politely. Dad sits back, satisfied. “That’s what I thought, Gracie.”
“It’s Joyce,” I snap.
6 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
“It’s a coincidence. And you know what they say about coincidences?”
“Yep.” We turn the corner onto my street, and my stomach flips.
“That there’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Dad finishes.
“Indeedy no,” he says to himself. “No such thing. Oh, there’s Patrick.” He waves. “I hope he doesn’t wave back.” He watches his friend from the Monday Club walking with two hands on his hips.
“And David out with the dog.” He waves again, although David is stopping to allow his dog to poop and is looking the other way. I get the feeling Dad feels rather grand in a taxi. It’s rare he’s in one, the expense being too much and everywhere he needs to go being within walking distance or a short bus ride away.
“Home, sweet home,” he announces as we reach my house.
“How much do I owe you, Jack?” He leans forward again. He takes two five-euro notes out of his pocket.
“The bad news, I’m afraid . . . twenty euro, please.”
“What?” Dad looks up in shock.
“I’ll pay, Dad, put your money away.” I give the driver twentyfive and tell him to keep the change. Dad looks at me like I’ve just taken a pint out of his hand and poured it down the drain. Conor and I have lived in the red-brick terraced house in Phisboro since our wedding ten years ago. The houses have been here since the 1940s, and over the years we’ve pumped our money into modernizing it. It’s finally how we want it, or it was until this week. A black railing encloses a small patch of a front garden where my mother planted rosebushes. Dad lives in an identical house two streets away, the house I grew up in. Though we’re never done growing up, and when I return to it, I regress to my youth. My front door opens just as the taxi drives off. Dad’s neighbor Fran smiles at me from my own doorstep. She looks at us awkwardly, failing to make eye contact with me. I’ll have to get used to this.
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 6 5
“Oh, your hair!” she says first, then gathers herself. “I’m sorry, love, I meant to be out of here by the time you got home.” She opens the door fully and pulls a checked rolling suitcase behind her. She is wearing a single rubber glove on her right hand. Dad looks nervous and avoids my eye.
“What were you doing, Fran? How on earth did you get into my house?” I try to be as polite as I can, but the sight of someone in my house without my permission both surprises and infuriates me.
She pinks and looks to Dad, who looks at her hand and coughs. She looks down, laughs nervously, and pulls off the glove.
“Oh, your dad gave me a key. I thought that . . . well, I put down a nice rug in the hallway for you. I hope you like it.”
I stare at her in utter confusion.
“Never mind, I’ll be off now.” She walks by me, grabs my arm, and squeezes hard but still refuses to look at me. “Take care of yourself, love.” She walks on down the road, dragging her suitcase behind her, her brown tights in rolls around her thick ankles.
“Dad”—I look at him angrily—“what the hell is this?” I push into the house, looking at the disgusting dusty rug on my beige carpet. “Why did you give a near stranger my house keys so she could come in and leave a rug? I am not a charity!”
He takes off his cap and scrunches it in his hands. “She’s not a stranger, love. She’s known you since the day we brought you home from the hospital—”
Wrong story to tell at this moment, and he knows it.
“I don’t care!” I splutter. “It’s my house, not yours! You can’t just do that. I hate this ugly piece-of-shit rug!” I pick it up from one side and drag it outside,
“What’s that?”
“Do they leave their taxis outside waiting for them?”
“I’ve never been asked to do it before,” the driver explains politely. Dad sits back, satisfied. “That’s what I thought, Gracie.”
“It’s Joyce,” I snap.
6 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
“It’s a coincidence. And you know what they say about coincidences?”
“Yep.” We turn the corner onto my street, and my stomach flips.
“That there’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Dad finishes.
“Indeedy no,” he says to himself. “No such thing. Oh, there’s Patrick.” He waves. “I hope he doesn’t wave back.” He watches his friend from the Monday Club walking with two hands on his hips.
“And David out with the dog.” He waves again, although David is stopping to allow his dog to poop and is looking the other way. I get the feeling Dad feels rather grand in a taxi. It’s rare he’s in one, the expense being too much and everywhere he needs to go being within walking distance or a short bus ride away.
“Home, sweet home,” he announces as we reach my house.
“How much do I owe you, Jack?” He leans forward again. He takes two five-euro notes out of his pocket.
“The bad news, I’m afraid . . . twenty euro, please.”
“What?” Dad looks up in shock.
“I’ll pay, Dad, put your money away.” I give the driver twentyfive and tell him to keep the change. Dad looks at me like I’ve just taken a pint out of his hand and poured it down the drain. Conor and I have lived in the red-brick terraced house in Phisboro since our wedding ten years ago. The houses have been here since the 1940s, and over the years we’ve pumped our money into modernizing it. It’s finally how we want it, or it was until this week. A black railing encloses a small patch of a front garden where my mother planted rosebushes. Dad lives in an identical house two streets away, the house I grew up in. Though we’re never done growing up, and when I return to it, I regress to my youth. My front door opens just as the taxi drives off. Dad’s neighbor Fran smiles at me from my own doorstep. She looks at us awkwardly, failing to make eye contact with me. I’ll have to get used to this.
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 6 5
“Oh, your hair!” she says first, then gathers herself. “I’m sorry, love, I meant to be out of here by the time you got home.” She opens the door fully and pulls a checked rolling suitcase behind her. She is wearing a single rubber glove on her right hand. Dad looks nervous and avoids my eye.
“What were you doing, Fran? How on earth did you get into my house?” I try to be as polite as I can, but the sight of someone in my house without my permission both surprises and infuriates me.
She pinks and looks to Dad, who looks at her hand and coughs. She looks down, laughs nervously, and pulls off the glove.
“Oh, your dad gave me a key. I thought that . . . well, I put down a nice rug in the hallway for you. I hope you like it.”
I stare at her in utter confusion.
“Never mind, I’ll be off now.” She walks by me, grabs my arm, and squeezes hard but still refuses to look at me. “Take care of yourself, love.” She walks on down the road, dragging her suitcase behind her, her brown tights in rolls around her thick ankles.
“Dad”—I look at him angrily—“what the hell is this?” I push into the house, looking at the disgusting dusty rug on my beige carpet. “Why did you give a near stranger my house keys so she could come in and leave a rug? I am not a charity!”
He takes off his cap and scrunches it in his hands. “She’s not a stranger, love. She’s known you since the day we brought you home from the hospital—”
Wrong story to tell at this moment, and he knows it.
“I don’t care!” I splutter. “It’s my house, not yours! You can’t just do that. I hate this ugly piece-of-shit rug!” I pick it up from one side and drag it outside,
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