arms. It’s the same blanket I rolled on as a baby, the same blanket they covered me with when I was home sick from school and was allowed to watch television on the couch. I watch Dad with fondness, remembering the tenderness he always showed me when I was a child, feeling right back there again.
Until he sits at the end of the couch and squashes my feet.
C h a p t e r 1 1
h at d o y o u t h i n k — w i l l B e t t y be a millionaire by W the end of the show?”
I have sat through an endless number of half-hour morning shows over the last few days, and now we are watching Antiques Roadshow .
Betty is seventy years old, from Warwickshire, and is currently waiting with anticipation as the dealer tries to price the old teapot she has brought to the show.
I watch the dealer handling the teapot delicately, and a comfortable, familiar feeling overwhelms me. “Sorry, Betty,” I say to the television, “it’s a replica. The French used them in the eighteenth century, but yours was made in the early twentieth century. You can see from the way the handle is shaped. Clumsy craftsmanship.”
“Is that so?” Dad looks at me with interest.
We watch the screen intently and listen as the dealer repeats my remarks. Poor Betty is devastated but tries to pretend it was too precious a gift from her grandmother for her to have sold anyhow. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 8 9
“Liar,” Dad shouts. “Betty already had her cruise booked and her bikini bought.” He turns to me. “How do you know all that about the pots and the French? Read it in one of your books, maybe?”
“Maybe.” I have no idea. I’m starting to get a headache thinking about all this newfound knowledge. Dad catches the look on my face. “Why don’t you call a friend or something? Have a chat.”
I don’t want to but I know I should. “I should probably give Kate a call.”
“The big-boned girl? The one who plowed you with poteen when you were sixteen?”
“Yup, that was Kate.” I laugh. He has never forgiven her for that.
“She was a messer, that girl. Has she come to anything?”
“You saw her last week at the hospital, Dad,” I remind him.
“She just sold her shop in the city for two million to become a stayat-home mother.” I try not to laugh at the shock on his face.
“Ah, sure, give her a call. Have a chat. You women like to do that. Good for the soul, your mother always said. Your mother loved talking, was always blatherin’ on to someone about somethin’ or other.”
“Wonder where she got that from,” I say under my breath, but just as if by a miracle, my father’s ears work for once.
“Her star sign is where she got it from. Taurus. Talked a lot of bull.”
“Dad!”
“What? I loved her with all my heart, but the woman talked a lot of bull. Not enough to talk about something, I had to hear about how she felt about it too. Ten times over.”
“You don’t believe in astrology.” I nudge him.
“I do too. I’m a Libra. Weighing scales.” He rocks from side to side. “Perfectly balanced.”
9 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
I laugh and escape to phone Kate. I go upstairs and enter my old bedroom, practically unchanged since the day I left it. Despite the rare guest staying over after I’d moved out, my parents never removed any of my belongings. The Cure stickers remain on the door; wallpaper is still ripped from the tape that had once held my posters. Once as a punishment for ruining the walls, Dad forced me to cut the grass in the back garden, but while doing so I ran the lawn mower over a shrub in the bedding. He refused to speak to me for the rest of that day. Apparently it was the first year the shrub had blossomed since he’d planted it. I couldn’t understand his frustration then, but now, after spending years of hard work cultivating a marriage, only for it to wither and die, I can understand his plight. But I bet he didn’t feel the relief I feel right now. My childhood bedroom can only
Until he sits at the end of the couch and squashes my feet.
C h a p t e r 1 1
h at d o y o u t h i n k — w i l l B e t t y be a millionaire by W the end of the show?”
I have sat through an endless number of half-hour morning shows over the last few days, and now we are watching Antiques Roadshow .
Betty is seventy years old, from Warwickshire, and is currently waiting with anticipation as the dealer tries to price the old teapot she has brought to the show.
I watch the dealer handling the teapot delicately, and a comfortable, familiar feeling overwhelms me. “Sorry, Betty,” I say to the television, “it’s a replica. The French used them in the eighteenth century, but yours was made in the early twentieth century. You can see from the way the handle is shaped. Clumsy craftsmanship.”
“Is that so?” Dad looks at me with interest.
We watch the screen intently and listen as the dealer repeats my remarks. Poor Betty is devastated but tries to pretend it was too precious a gift from her grandmother for her to have sold anyhow. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 8 9
“Liar,” Dad shouts. “Betty already had her cruise booked and her bikini bought.” He turns to me. “How do you know all that about the pots and the French? Read it in one of your books, maybe?”
“Maybe.” I have no idea. I’m starting to get a headache thinking about all this newfound knowledge. Dad catches the look on my face. “Why don’t you call a friend or something? Have a chat.”
I don’t want to but I know I should. “I should probably give Kate a call.”
“The big-boned girl? The one who plowed you with poteen when you were sixteen?”
“Yup, that was Kate.” I laugh. He has never forgiven her for that.
“She was a messer, that girl. Has she come to anything?”
“You saw her last week at the hospital, Dad,” I remind him.
“She just sold her shop in the city for two million to become a stayat-home mother.” I try not to laugh at the shock on his face.
“Ah, sure, give her a call. Have a chat. You women like to do that. Good for the soul, your mother always said. Your mother loved talking, was always blatherin’ on to someone about somethin’ or other.”
“Wonder where she got that from,” I say under my breath, but just as if by a miracle, my father’s ears work for once.
“Her star sign is where she got it from. Taurus. Talked a lot of bull.”
“Dad!”
“What? I loved her with all my heart, but the woman talked a lot of bull. Not enough to talk about something, I had to hear about how she felt about it too. Ten times over.”
“You don’t believe in astrology.” I nudge him.
“I do too. I’m a Libra. Weighing scales.” He rocks from side to side. “Perfectly balanced.”
9 0 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
I laugh and escape to phone Kate. I go upstairs and enter my old bedroom, practically unchanged since the day I left it. Despite the rare guest staying over after I’d moved out, my parents never removed any of my belongings. The Cure stickers remain on the door; wallpaper is still ripped from the tape that had once held my posters. Once as a punishment for ruining the walls, Dad forced me to cut the grass in the back garden, but while doing so I ran the lawn mower over a shrub in the bedding. He refused to speak to me for the rest of that day. Apparently it was the first year the shrub had blossomed since he’d planted it. I couldn’t understand his frustration then, but now, after spending years of hard work cultivating a marriage, only for it to wither and die, I can understand his plight. But I bet he didn’t feel the relief I feel right now. My childhood bedroom can only
Similar Books
