Mam came back in with a heavy bucket of milk and a fistful of daisies from the garden. I turned them over in the bath and watched as their white umbrellas bobbed upside down on the water, the tips of their petals tinged with purple.
She tried to teach me how to hold my breath underwater. I lasted half a second before coming back up and thrashing water out of the bath. She shoved my head back under again but I bit her finger. Then she dragged me out by the hair and unplugged the bath. I watched the drain swallow the heads of my daisies.
“Are you happy now?” she shouted, her bark echoing off the bathroom walls. I was howling. “Keep your head under the water,” she ordered. “It will help you with the dreams.”
So I tried harder. I stayed underwater until hot colors flickered and scorched holes in my eyelids. When I emerged from the water, my throat was on fire but Mam was in a good mood again. She collected the daisies’ spongy yellow centers and rubbed them in circles on my back. Then she toweled me dry in rough, swift movements. “You’ll have a great night’s sleep after this,” she said, her breath tickling the hairs on the inside of my ear. “A great night’s sleep.” And she was right. The dreams went away after the milk bath.
* * *
The milky water burns my toe and then my foot until it reaches my chin and makes a lake around my neck. The cream rises to the top of the bath and little white islands congeal on the surface. Shapes of steam rise out of the bathtub and I wrap the chain of the plug tighter and tighter around my big toe until it hurts just the right amount.
I stay in the water, bow-legged, until I have the shriveled fingertips of a wise old woman. My knees are chilly from being out of the water. I play at being a corpse in a coffin or a naked bride, clutching the bunch of lavender to my chest. I brush the bouquet up and down my body, twisting around to get at the backs of my legs, stroking all of my skin. The flowers tickle my face.
* * *
I am in the shower rinsing the milk out of my hair when I let myself cry. It is a relief, a comfort, like touching my body before I go to sleep to make sure I am still there, still me, still alive.
Wentletrap
I wake up to a letter under my pillow. Mam must have heard the bath running last night. I open the envelope and a tiny shell rolls into my hand. I recognize it immediately. It’s one of my favorites. It’s called a wentletrap, the Dutch word for winding stairs, after the staircase structure inside the shell.
Shells help. Collect them on beaches. Wash them in the bathroom sink. Pocket them to keep as talismans. A cochlea listens. Shells are fossils of thought—ossified dreams. They know what it is like to abandon yourself, leaving behind an echo chamber of cold bone, waiting for others to inhabit your skull.
I hold the tiny white shell in the palm of my hand. From the outside, it looks like a corkscrew tooth. Inside is a spiral staircase waiting for sleep to tumble down it.
Theories of Literature
The only thing I’m learning in college is how to hide. Mostly, I hide my family. It’s not that I never talk about them. I bring them up in conversations all the time, disguising them as characters in a world that Pat McCabe could have imagined. That’s why I get thick when Xanthe pulls a leaf of paper out of my notebook. She studies it and frowns. It’s the letter Mam wrote me. The wentletrap one.
“Did you write this?”
“No, give it back.”
She looks at it again before she hands it back. “If you wrote it you should send it out.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Who wrote it then?”
“My mam.”
“Is she a poet?”
I laugh. “She wishes.”
“Well, that’s a good piece of writing.”
“It’s awful tripe.”
“It’s not, it’s good.”
I don’t know if she’s trying to humor me or sabotage me. “No one would publish that.”
“Of course they would. I’d like to meet her. Your mam.”
“You’ll get to meet her at Christmas.”
Xanthe is meeting her new boyfriend’s family over the holidays. Since he only lives up the way from me, we’re planning to drink hot whiskeys down the pub on Stephen’s night. I’ve already decided on the outfit I’m going to wear.
* * *
I went to the gym this morning. My gym routine is limited to running on the treadmill because it’s the only machine I know how to work. I don’t have enough confidence to look like an idiot while trying to figure out the other ones. I’m not on enough steroids to get into the weights section anyway. I’m afraid I might get knocked over or shoved out of the way by the posh bicep boys.
I run ten kilometers. Sometimes, I get into a passive-aggressive competition to outpace the person beside me, especially if they’re pretty. I sprint the last kilometer every time, no matter how empty I’m feeling, just to prove to myself that I still exist. My heart hammers the message home. I’m here. I’m alive.
* * *
I met Xanthe and Orla in the arts block after the gym. We’re having a picnic, eating a multipack of crisps and brown rolls. I bought some hummus to dip my roll into.
It would be better if Orla wasn’t here. We have better conversations when Xanthe manages to shake her off, but we tolerate her when she’s around, which is an awful thing to say, but it’s the truth. Xanthe is trying to drag me to a yoga class.
“I’d love to do yoga,” I say. “It’s just . . . it’s so . . . middle class.”
“You are middle class,” Xanthe says.
“No I’m not. I’m a farmer.”
“Bullshit. You buy hummus in Tesco. Accept it. You’re middle class.”
“Well, so are you.”
“I know I’m privileged. I’ve accepted it. I’ve learned to be grateful. I try not to hate myself.”
“But my family is not, like, considered well-off in the village or anything,” I point out.
“Ah now. You’ve enough money to be able to go to college and buy cheap wine on a night out and a bag of chips on the way home.”
“That’s true,” I say.
“Being middle class doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“It just makes you spoiled.”
“Well, I was going to join a yoga class, but now I’ll just wallow in the guilt of my middle-class privilege,” Xanthe moans.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying so?”
“Nothing. Don’t listen to me,” I say.
“What do you have now?” Xanthe asks, as I pack up to leave.
“Theories of Literature.”
“You mean, Vocabulary for Wankers?”
“I mean, you’re not wrong.”
* * *
Tutorials are a painful affair. At the end of our last session, the teaching assistant asked us if we thought the French structuralists were right or wrong. This was followed by a long silence where we all concentrated on remaining invisible. Some brave heads moved in a vague way, not committing to the nod or the shake, like when you’re not sure of the spelling of something so you scribble both letters over each other. The teaching assistant breathed out and said, “We’re all controlled by language. Yay.” People eyed each other, trying to spot an appropriate reaction. We couldn’t be sure if she was being sarcastic or not but we laughed along anyway.
This week, we are learning how to apply psychoanalytic theory to a text. The others are becoming more confident about their readings. The class has transformed into a nerdy, giddy game of innuendo bingo.
“Holmes and Watson are clearly lovers.”
“I agree, the text is just chock-full of phallic symbols. I mean, the pipe, the pen, the fact that they share a cigar.”
“What do you think, Deborah Martha? It is Deborah Martha, right?” The teaching assistant has noticed my silence. I made the mistake of including my middle name on the registration form, so I sound even more like a country bumpkin.
“It’s Debbie,” I say.
&
nbsp; “Where do you stand on the psychoanalytic reading of Arthur Conan Doyle, Debbie?”
“Well . . . if you set out to look for dicks everywhere you’re going to find a lot of them.” My face is burning. I get a laugh.
“That’s a reasonable argument.” The tutor grins.
“Well, it’s certainly an opinion—an opinion that is not supported by the text or secondary criticism.” This, coming from a guy who on Marxism week argued that we lived in a classless society.
“What do you think . . . Nicòlo?” The teaching assistant asks the guy who hasn’t spoken yet—a handsome Italian who smokes rollies outside the arts block. He looks like he’s wandered out of an Elena Ferrante novel.
“Excuse me, what’s the question?” he asks.
“Do you think it’s useful to see dicks everywhere?” I offer.
“No,” he says, looking relieved. “No I don’t.”
Batman
Xanthe looks suspiciously cozy in her dressing gown.
“So . . . we’re not going out?” I ask.
“I’m not feeling it,” Xanthe says. “I want to go to the library in the morning.”
“OK.”
She’s not feeling it because she has a boyfriend.
“Sorry,” she says.
“No need to apologize. It’s fine.”
“You could ask Orla to go out with you?” she suggests.
I look over at Orla’s bedroom. Her door is always closed.
“Orla? Is she even home?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s like you live with a ghost.”
“Ssshhhh, she might be home.”
“Is himself coming over?” I ask. “I can go home if ye want a bit of space?”
“No, don’t be silly. I usually go to his. UCD is an absolute trek, but his place is nicer than this kip.”
“I like this kip.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
I’m taking the whole situation with Xanthe and the-guy-I’ve-fancied-since-forever reasonably well. She rarely brings him up so I ask how it’s going. I tease her. I actually smile and giggle, but I can never bring myself to say his name.
I’m not able to sleep at night. I used to use the fantasy of him to feel safe enough to lull me to sleep. There were different scenarios that I directed in my imagination that always ended—not with kissing or anything—but with my head on his shoulder or his arm wrapped around me; those first tentative steps toward intimacy.
I seesaw between being furious with myself, full of self-loathing, to being indignant and angry with him. A really ugly part of me thinks that he’s using Xanthe to make me jealous, but that’s just my ego diving down endless rabbit holes to try and find a hint of the improbable: that he thinks about me too.
* * *
I have settled into a routine, saving up good behavior like coupons that will get me a free night out. Nights out mean drinking and drinking is like taking a holiday from my head. I welcome the oblivion it brings. The buzz. When I black out, I don’t dream. I wake up hungover, but a hangover is predictable. I know how I’ll feel. Fragile, but also myself. A nice, easy, childlike version of myself who thinks a glass of water is the most miraculous thing on earth.
Griff christened my alter ego Taz because he says getting me home is like trying to get a Tasmanian devil into a taxi at the end of the night. The best way of dealing with Taz is to allow him out at least once a week. Xanthe says it’s like taking a dog for a walk. All of the pent-up energy is released and eventually, he tires.
Nights out mostly happen on Wednesdays. Sometimes, we go out on Mondays or Tuesdays as well, but we always go out on Wednesdays. Except tonight. I just took it for granted that we were, so I was looking forward to it all day. All week, even.
“I think some of the girls from home are going to Coppers,” I say.
“Oh, you should go!”
“I don’t know if I’m bothered, to be honest.”
I haven’t heard from any of the girls from home. I’m toying with the possibility of going out by myself. Even if I went out with Xanthe, we’d probably lose each other on the dance floor anyway.
“You brought your going out gear up with you and all. Get ready here, grab a taxi, and meet them there.”
“They’ll probably be hammered by the time I get there though. They’ll have been drinking on the bus,” I say.
“So get a bottle of wine in the shop. Drink it here while you get ready. I’ll supervise.”
“OK,” I say.
“Yay! I’m excited for you.”
* * *
It’s not enough to look well on a night out. You need to smile the right amount. Otherwise, a lad will come up to you and tell you to cheer up. That’s what happens in the smoking area. He volunteers himself as my personal comedian and puts his hand on the small of my back. I don’t know why I laugh at his terrible jokes. I think I’m just trying my best to be polite. When he leans in for the shift, I tell him I have a boyfriend.
“No you don’t,” he says.
“Why would I make one up?” I ask.
“Because you don’t fancy me.”
“That’s not true,” I lie.
“Listen, love. You might as well be holding a neon sign that says ‘Open for business.’ Don’t worry about it. Just, take a bit of advice from your uncle Mike. You shouldn’t lead a man on. You should have told me to jog on a long time ago. I can handle rejection, I’m a big boy.”
“So I can’t talk to men without first announcing that I have a boyfriend.”
“Ah but remember”—he raises a finger—“you don’t have a boyfriend.” He winks and pats me on the arm. “Have a good night.”
The best-looking guy on the dance floor is wearing a Batman T-shirt. I’ve made it into a circle of nurses who I met in the queue to the bathroom. I thought he’d go for a tall blond whose legs go on forever. But he’s eyeing me.
He waits for some backup from Westlife before he makes his move. His group of friends Venn diagram their way into us and he takes my hand, pretending to be Shane. Or Nicky, or Kian. He’s not Mark anyway. He goes for the theatrical approach. He has a black straw behind his ear which he bends into a Britney Spears microphone. He’s funny, and tall and charming and has probably shifted half of the girls in here already. But I go for it, and he’s already acting like he’s in love with me.
“You’re a great kisser” is the first thing he says to me, when we both come up for air. “Do you want to get out of here?”
* * *
I insist on getting chips from Babylon before we go home. I have the chats with the staff. I promise them a visit to the farm and a tutorial on how to milk cows. They give me a complimentary bottle of water with my bag of chips and a paper hat. He holds my hand and marvels over my conversational skills.
“You’re proper sound like!”
“Don’t act so shocked, Roy Keane,” I say.
“I mean, at the end of the day, you’re a sound girl. There’s not many of them around.”
He’s from Cork, studying some obscure course in UCC. He’s staying with a friend, so we can’t go back there. I know that I’m going to bring him back to Xanthe’s. I’m too sober to go to sleep.
* * *
I’m aware that I’m walking a tightrope of expectation. I’ve never had sex before, but that’s not something that he needs to know. I’ve told guys in the past and they stare at me like I’m a mythological creature. Some of them don’t believe me because I kiss so easily. I don’t mind tasting them. Kissing still feels clean and innocent. Romantic even. Kissing is playing pretend. It’s comforting. Anything more than that is not acting anymore. It’s dangerous. It means letting someone else in.
* * *
“I’m just going to put it out there now. I’m not going to have sex with you,” I warn him.
“Oh Jesus, I wasn’t presuming—”
“Well, most lads presume.”
“Oh God, no, like.”
�
��And I’m staying at a friend’s too, so if we go back there, it’s a couch we’ll be sharing. And all I want to do is sleep.”
“That’s grand. I’d love to sleep with you. I mean actually sleep like.”
“I mean, at the end of the day, you’re not going to get laid.”
“You’re a lady, Debbie. An absolute lady.” He kisses my hand.
* * *
He sits in the front seat of the taxi and makes decent conversation with the taxi man. When we get out, he insists on paying. Jack is passed out in a sleeping bag outside the apartment. Xanthe knows him from volunteering with the Simon Community. We invite him up for lunch on Mondays and he is the most comfortable out of us all sitting at the table. He told us all about his gambling problem, but he never mentions the drink. When Xanthe started giving him money, I told her he’d piss it away on drink and drugs and she said, “So would I if I was sleeping on the street.” Last week, he told me that I look like his daughter.
While I fumble in my bag trying to find Xanthe’s key, Batman bends down and tucks a twenty-euro note into Jack’s sleeping bag. So when we get inside, I kiss him like I really mean it. Because I do.
I shush him when he starts talking.
“Sorry!” he shout-whispers, tripping over Xanthe’s bike on the way in.
Then I kiss him to stop him from talking. We lie on the couch and he unclips my bra with one hand. Still, it’s nice until he goes to unzip my jeans.
“No, no, remember I said,” I say, pushing his hand away.
“Sorry, sorry.” He takes off his Batman T-shirt and jeans and tries the zip of my jeans again.
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