He has a change of plan: he’ll rush to the exit and wait for her there. That way he can’t miss her.
LET’S GET A DRINK, LOVE,” Dad says as we slowly amble behind the crowd exiting the theater. “I saw a bar on this floor somewhere.”
We stop to read some directions.
“There’s the amphitheater bar, this way,” I say, looking out constantly for Justin Hitchcock. Today is the day, I can feel it. We are finally going to meet face-to-face, and I’ll explain all these coincidences and memories I’ve been having. I’m excited, as if it’s our first date. Now I just have to find him.
When we reach the bar, an usher announces that it’s open only to cast, crew, and family members. Perfect.
“That’s great, so we’ll have some peace and quiet,” Dad says to her, tipping his cap as he walks in. “Oh, you should have seen my granddaughter up there. Proudest day of my life,” he says, putting his hand on his heart.
The woman smiles and allows us entry.
“Come on, Dad.” After we’ve bought our drinks, I drag him deep into the room to sit at a table in the far corner, away from the growing crowd.
“If they try to throw us out, Gracie, I’m not leaving my pint. I just sat down.”
I wring my hands nervously and perch on the edge of my seat, looking around for him. Justin. His name doesn’t stop rolling around in my head.
People filter in and out of the bar, presumably all family, crew, and cast members. Nobody approaches us again to usher us out, perhaps one of the perks of being with an old man. At last I see Bea’s mother enter with the two unknown people from the box and the chubby man I recognize. But no Justin. My eyes dart around the room.
“There she is,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“One of the dancers. She was one of the swans.”
“How do you know? They all looked the same. Even the nancy boy thought they were the same. Didn’t he profess his love to the wrong woman? The bloody eejit.”
There’s still no sign of Justin, and I begin to worry that this is another wasted opportunity. Perhaps he has left early and isn’t coming to the bar at all.
“Dad,” I say urgently, “I’m just going to take a look around for somebody. Please do not move from this chair. I’ll be back soon.”
“The only moving I’ll be doing is this.” He picks up his pint and brings it to his lips. He takes a gulp of Guinness, closes his eyes, and savors the taste, leaving a white mustache around his lips.
I hurry out of the bar and wander around the huge theater, not sure where to start looking. I stand outside the nearby men’s restroom for a few minutes, but he doesn’t appear. I look in at the balcony he was seated in, but it’s empty.
Justin gives up standing by the exit door as the last few people trickle by him. He must have missed her—stupid to think there was only one exit. He sighs with frustration. He wishes he could transport himself back in time to the day in the salon and relive the moment properly this time. His pocket vibrates, snapping him out of his daydream.
“Bro, where the heck are you?”
“Hi, Al. I saw the woman again.”
“The Sky News woman?”
“Yeah!”
“The Viking woman?”
“Yeah, yeah, her.”
“The Antiques Roadshow wo—”
“Yes! For Christ’s sake, do we have to go through everything?”
“Hey, did you ever think that maybe she’s a stalker?”
“If she’s a stalker, then why am I always chasing her?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, maybe you’re the stalker and you don’t know it.”
“Al…” Justin grits his teeth.
“Whatever, hurry back up here before Jennifer has a conniption fit. Another one.”
Justin sighs. “I’m coming.”
He snaps his phone shut and takes one last look down the street. Among the crowd something catches his eye, a red coat. Adrenaline surges. He races outside and pushes past the slowly filtering crowd, his eyes not budging from the coat.
“Joyce!” he calls. “Joyce, wait!” he shouts louder.
She keeps walking, unable to hear him.
He bumps and pushes, getting cursed at and prodded by the crowd, until finally she’s just inches from him.
“Joyce,” he says breathlessly, reaching out and grabbing her arm. She spins around, a face twisted in surprise and fright. The face of a stranger.
She hits him over the head with her leather bag.
“Ow! Hey! Jesus!”
Apologizing, he slowly makes his way back to the theater, trying to catch his breath, rubbing his sore head, cursing and grumbling to himself in frustration. He reaches for the main door. It doesn’t open. He tries it again gently, then rattles it slightly a few times. Within seconds, he pulls and pushes the door with full force, finally kicking at it.
“Hey, hey, hey! We’re closed! Theater’s closed!” a member of staff informs him from behind the glass.
When I return to the bar, I thankfully find Dad sitting in the corner where I’d left him. Only this time he’s not alone. Perched on the chair beside him, her head close to his as though in deep conversation, is Bea. I panic and rush over to them.
“Hi.” I say, terrified by what verbal diarrhea may have slipped out of his mouth already.
“Ah, there you are, love. Thought you’d abandoned me. This nice girl came to see if I was okay, seeing as someone tried to throw me out.”
“I’m Bea.” She smiles, and I can’t help but notice how grownup she has become. How self-assured and confident she seems. I almost feel like telling her that the last time I’d seen her she was “yay high,” but I stop myself from gushing.
“Hello, Bea.”
“Do I know you?” Frown lines appear on her porcelain forehead.
“Um…”
“This is my daughter, Gracie,” Dad butts in, and for once I don’t correct him.
“Oh, Gracie.” Bea shakes her head. “No. I was thinking of someone else. Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands, and I hold on for a little too long perhaps, entranced by the feel of her real skin, not just a memory. I quickly let go.
“You were wonderful tonight. I was so proud,” I say breathily.
“Proud? Oh, yes, your father told me you designed the costumes.” She smiles. “They were beautiful. I’m surprised I hadn’t met you until now. I guess we had been dealing with Linda for all the fittings.”
My mouth drops. Dad shrugs nervously and sips on what looks to be a new pint. A fresh lie for a fresh pint. The price of his soul.
“Oh, I didn’t design them, I just…” You just what, Joyce? “I just supervised,” I say dumbly. “What else has he been telling you?” I nervously sit down and look around for her father, hoping this isn’t the moment he chooses to enter and meet me.
“Well, just as you arrived, he was recalling how he’d once saved a swan’s life,” she says.
“Single-handedly,” they both add in unison and laugh.
“Ha-ha,” I force out, sounding fake. “Is that true?” I ask him doubtfully.
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Dad takes another gulp of Guinness. Seventy-five years old, and he’s already had a brandy and a pint: he’ll be on his ear in no time. God knows what he’ll be saying then. We’ll have to leave soon.
“Well, you know what, girls, it’s great to save a life, it really, really is,” Dad says from his high horse. “Unless you’ve done it, you have no idea.”
“My father, the hero.” I smile.
Bea laughs at Dad. “You sound exactly like my father.”
My ears perk up. “Is he here?”
She looks around. “No, not yet. I don’t know where he is. Probably hiding from my mom and her new boyfriend, not to mention my boyfriend.” She giggles. “But that’s another story. Anyway, he considers himself Superman—”
“Why?” I interrupt and try to rein myself in.
“About a month ago, he donated b
lood,” she says and holds her hands up. “Ta-da! That’s it!” She laughs. “But he thinks he’s some kind of hero that’s saved somebody’s life. I mean, I don’t know, maybe he has. It’s all he talks about. He donated it at a mobile unit at the college where he was giving a seminar—you guys probably know it, it’s in Dublin. Trinity College? Anyway, he only did it because the doctor was cute and for that Chinese thing, what do you call it? The thing where you save someone’s life and they’re forever indebted to you or something like that?”
Dad shrugs. “I don’t speak Chinese. Or know any. She eats the food all the time, though.” He nods his head at me. “Rice with eggs, or something.” He wrinkles his nose.
Bea smiles. “Anyway, he figured if he was going to save someone’s life, he deserved to be thanked every day by the person he saved.”
“How would they do that, then?” Dad leans in.
“By delivering a muffin basket, picking up his dry cleaning, having a newspaper and coffee delivered to his door every morning, a chauffeur-driven car, front-row tickets to the opera…” She rolls her eyes and then frowns. “I can’t remember what else, but they were all ridiculous things. Anyway, I told him he may as well have a slave if he wants that kind of treatment, not save someone’s life.” She laughs, and Dad joins her.
I make an O shape with my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s like my body is in shock over Bea’s words.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a really thoughtful guy,” she adds quickly, misunderstanding my silence. “And I was proud of him for donating blood, as he’s absolutely terrified by needles. He has a huge phobia,” she explains to Dad, who nods along in agreement. “That’s him there.” She opens the locket around her neck, and if I have regained my power of speech, it is quickly lost again.
On one side of the locket is a photograph of Bea and her mother, and on the other side, one of her and her father when she was a little girl, in the park on that summer day that is clearly embedded in my memory. I remember how she jumped up and down with excitement and how it had taken so long to get her to sit still. I remember the smell of her hair as she sat on my lap and pushed her head up against mine and shouted “Cheeeeese!” so loudly my ears rang. She hadn’t done that to me at all, of course, but I remember it with equal fondness as a childhood day spent fishing with my father, feel all the sensations as clearly as the drink I now taste in my mouth. The cold of the ice, the sweetness of the mineral. It’s as real to me as the moments spent with Bea in the park.
“I’ll have to put my glasses on to see this,” Dad says, moving closer and taking the gold locket in his old fingers. “Where was this?”
“The park near where we used to live. In Chicago. I’m five years old there, with my dad. I love this photograph. It was such a special day.” She looks at it fondly. “One of the best.”
I smile too, remembering it.
“Photograph!” somebody in the bar calls out.
“Dad, let’s get out of here,” I whisper while Bea is distracted by the commotion.
“Okay, love, just after this pint—”
“No! Now!” I hiss.
“Group photo! Come on!” Bea says, grabbing Dad’s arm.
“Oh!” Dad looks pleased.
“No, no no no no no.” I try to smile to hide my panic. “We really must go now.”
“Just one photo, Gracie.” She smiles. “We have to get the lady who’s responsible for all these beautiful costumes.”
“No, I’m not—”
“Costume supervisor,” Bea corrects herself apologetically.
A woman on the other side of the group throws me a look of horror, upon hearing this. I’m stiff beside Bea, who throws one arm around me and the other arm around her mother.
“Everyone say Tchaikovsky!” Dad shouts.
“Tchaikovsky!” They all cheer and laugh.
The camera flashes.
Justin enters the room.
The crowd breaks up.
I grab Dad and run.
Chapter 26
BACK IN OUR HOTEL ROOM it’s lights-out for Dad, who climbs into bed in his brown paisley pajamas, and for me, who is wearing more clothes in bed than I’ve worn for a long time.
The room is black, thick with shadows, and still, apart from the flashing red digits in the time-display panel at the bottom of the television. Lying flat and still on my back, I attempt to process the day’s events. My body once again becomes the subject of much Zulu drumming as my heartbeat intensifies. I feel its pounding rebound against the springs in the mattress beneath me. Then the pulse in my neck vibrates so wildly, it causes my eardrums to join in. Beneath my rib cage, it feels like two fists hammering to get out, and I watch the bedroom door and anticipate the arrival of an African tribe, ready to participate in a synchronized dance at the end of my bed.
The reason for these internal war drums? My mind runs through the zinger Bea dropped only hours ago once again. The words fell from her mouth just like a cymbal falling from its drum set. Since then it has rolled around on the floor and only now lands facedown with a crash, ending my African orchestra. The revelation that Bea’s dad, Justin, donated blood a month ago in Dublin, the same month I fell down the stairs and changed my life forever, plays over and over in my mind. Coincidence? A resounding yes. Something more? A shaky possibility. A hopeful possibility.
When is a coincidence just a coincidence, though? And when, if at all, should it be seen as something more? At a time like this? When I am lost and desperate, grieving for a child that was never born and tending to my wounds after a defeated marriage? When what was once clear has instead become cloudy, and what was once considered bizarre has now become a possibility?
It is during troubled times like these that people often see straight, though others watch with concern and try to convince them that they can’t possibly be doing so. Weighted minds are just so because of all of their new thoughts. When those who have passed through their troubles and come out the other side suddenly embrace their new beliefs wholeheartedly, it is viewed with cynicism. Why? Because when you’re in trouble, you look harder for answers than those who aren’t, and it’s those answers that are usually the ones to help you through.
This blood transfusion—is it the answer or merely an answer I’m looking for? I’ve learned over time that answers usually present themselves. They are not hidden under rocks or camouflaged among trees. Answers are right there, in front of our eyes. But if you haven’t cause to look, then you will probably never find them.
So, the explanation for the sudden arrival of alien memories, the reason for such a deep connection to Justin—I feel it running through my very veins. Is this the answer that my heart is currently raging within me to realize? It hops up and down now, trying to get my attention, trying to alert me to a problem. I breathe in slowly through my nose and exhale, close my eyes gently and place my hands over my chest, feeling the thump-thump, thump-thump that is raging within me. Time to slow everything down now, time to get answers.
Taking the bizarre as a given for just one moment, as people in trouble can do: if I did indeed receive Justin’s blood during my transfusion, then my heart is now sending his blood around my body. Some of the blood that once flowed through his veins, keeping him alive, now rushes through mine, helping to keep me alive. Something that came from his heart, that beat within him, that made him who he is, is now a part of me.
At first I shiver at the thought, goose bumps rising on my skin, but on further thought, I snuggle down into the bed and hug my body. I suddenly don’t feel so lonely, and I actually feel glad of the company within me. But can this really be the reason for the connection I feel with him? That in flowing from his channels to mine, the blood enabled me to tune in to his frequency and experience his personal memories and passions?
I sigh wearily, knowing nothing in my life makes sense anymore, and not just since the day I fell down the stairs. I had been falling for quite some time before that. That particular day…that was the day
I’d landed. The first day of the rest of my life—and, quite possibly, thanks to Justin Hitchcock.
It has been a long day. The business at the airport, the Antiques Roadshow, then the finale at the Royal Opera House. A tsunami of emotions has come crashing down upon me all in twenty-four hours, pulled me under, and overwhelmed me. I smile now, remembering the events, the precious moments with Dad—from tea at his kitchen table to a mini-adventure in London. I offer a toothy grin to the ceiling above me and a heartfelt thanks beyond the ceiling.
From the darkness I hear wheezing, short rasps drifting into the atmosphere.
“Dad?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
The wheezing gets louder, and my body freezes.
“Dad?”
Then it’s followed by a snort. And a loud guffaw.
“Michael Aspel,” he splutters through his laughter. “Christ Almighty, Gracie.”
I sigh with relief as his laughter intensifies, becomes so much bigger than him that he almost can’t bear it. I giggle at the joyous sound. He laughs harder upon hearing me, and I at him. Our sounds fuel each other. The springs of the mattress beneath me squeak as my body shakes, causing us to roar even more. Thoughts of the umbrella stand, going live with Michael Aspel, the group cheering “Tchaikovsky!” at the camera, the hilarity grows with each flickering scene.
“Oh, my stomach,” he howls.
I roll onto my side, hands on my belly.
Dad continues to wheeze and bangs his hand repeatedly on the side cabinet that separates us. I can’t stop, and Dad’s high-pitched wheezing sets me off even more. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so much and so heartily. From the pale light seeping through the window beside Dad, I see his legs rise in the air and kick around with glee.
“Oh. My. I. Can’t. Stop.”
We wheeze and roar and laugh, sit up, lie down, roll around, and try to catch our breaths. We stop momentarily and try to compose ourselves, but it takes over our bodies again, laughing, laughing, laughing in the darkness, at nothing and at everything.