Snowflake

by Louise Nealon

  “I didn’t throw myself at him.”

  “What do you call that then?”

  “It was only a kiss.”

  “My arse. Debbie, I’m only trying to help you.”

  “Help me with what? I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “But you are! You fucking are, you have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “So I’m meant to bow to your every command then? I’m meant to say at the end of every life lesson, ‘Thank you, Uncle Billy, I want to be just like you when I grow up.’”

  “You won’t be like me, Debs,” Billy says, turning away and walking back toward the pub. “You’re your mother all over.”

  Driving Lessons

  I arrive back at the house from a run, trampling over the cattle grid. Before I set off, I could already feel the burn of a blister on the back of my right heel. I enjoyed making it angrier the faster I ran. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. The tips of my fingers scrape crusts of salt away from my skin. I can hardly walk with the blister now. I hobble into the house for a glass of water. I open the door, checking my phone to see what distance I ran. Thirteen kilometers is pretty good, I think. I’m happy with that.

  “Well Debbie!”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Mark Cassidy is standing in my kitchen in his boxers.

  “How’s the form?” he asks, pulling a T-shirt over his head.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was giving Billy a hand out in the parlor there. How’s the form?” he repeats.

  “Grand,” I say. “How are you? How’s Deirbhle?”

  “Grand, yeah,” he says. The girlfriend. We’re both surprised I brought her up.

  “Is Billy still out in the parlor?”

  “Yeah he should be on the last row there. I had to leave early. We’ve a match.”

  “Right,” I say. “Best of luck.”

  I descend the steps of the milking parlor to the sound of Billy beating a cow with a length of Wavin pipe. “Get—the fuck—up—you dirty—lookin’—bastard.”

  The cow has refused to move up to the first feeder. She’s scared shitless, paralyzed by fear. Billy keeps whipping her and she kicks her back leg out at him either as an act of rebellion or a last resort. I can’t tell. She’s a fresh heifer who’s just after calving, placenta still dangling from her tail swaying back and forth with all the kicking she’s doing. Her whole body shudders and finally, when Billy has to take a breather from whipping her, she daintily steps forward to assume the correct position.

  “Why is Mark Cassidy in our kitchen?” I ask.

  “He was giving me a dig out.”

  “Why didn’t you ring me?”

  “Because you’re never home when I need you. I look around for you to give me a hand and you’re out the gap, running the roads out of it. And he offered. What was I supposed to say, no?”

  He puts the milking machine on the first in the row of docile cows. The familiar clip-clop rhythm of the four tentacle-hoovers sucks milk out of each teat. Their rivers flow together. I wonder if they know how much is being taken away from them.

  * * *

  I stick on the kettle when Billy comes in from the yard.

  “It’s a bit on the nose replacing James with Mark,” I say. “We’ve already killed one Cassidy.”

  “Shirley will be fine about it.”

  “I couldn’t give a fuck about Shirley.”

  “Are you ready for your first driving lesson?” Billy asks.

  “When is it?”

  “Now.”

  “Thanks for the notice,” I say, knowing the thought just popped into his head.

  “You’re welcome. Free lessons, and she wants notice.”

  “I’m going to have to take actual lessons before my test, you know.”

  “Ah, that’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not. I have to log my lessons.”

  “Sure we’ll get Murt Mooney to sign them off. He’s an instructor.”

  “That won’t be awkward at all.”

  “It’s you that made it awkward, not me.”

  He opens up the fridge door and frowns. “The fuck is this?” He’s spotted the carton already.

  “Oat milk.”

  “Oats have tits now, do they?”

  “I’m trying something new.”

  “You’re paying for fake milk as opposed to getting the real deal for free. I thought college was supposed to make you smarter.”

  “I’m expanding my horizons.”

  He sighs. “You get away with blue murder around here. Come on. Get those car keys.”

  * * *

  Violet splutters into action. “I think she has the flu,” I half-joke, hoping for the lesson to be postponed due to carsickness.

  “She’ll be grand. We’ll stop en route to get her petrol.”

  “En route to where?”

  “Don’t know yet. Depends on how good you are on your lefts and rights.”

  “We’re going on the road?” I ask.

  “Where did you think we were going?”

  “I don’t think I can go on the road, Billy.”

  “Of course you can. Come on. Get her into gear there.”

  I blink at him.

  “First gear. Up here. Go on. Clutch and move the stick.”

  “Which is the clutch again?”

  “Don’t give me this shite. Same place as it is in the tractor.”

  “I’m not going as far as town, Billy.”

  “Why not?”

  I see myself cutting out on the humpbacked bridge on the way to the garage, rolling back into another car because I can’t pull up the handbrake properly. “I need to know where I’m going before we go anywhere. Baby steps. It’s my first time.”

  Billy sighs. “OK. We’ll take her around the block first. Does that sound reasonable, my ladyship?”

  “OK.”

  “Go left,” Billy says.

  “I’m not going up the hill.”

  “Fine, go right. Indicate there.”

  I go to indicate but I turn on the windscreen wipers instead. Billy pretends not to notice. I pull out of the entrance. Everything’s going too fast already.

  “Up to second,” Billy says, but I’ve lost control of my body. Violet is revving in protest.

  “Clutch!” Billy orders and I do. He jams the gear stick into second and third for me.

  The world outside bleeds past my windows and I’m going so fast I feel like we’re disappearing into the road.

  “Keep her going,” Billy says. I look at the gauge. I’m not even doing thirty yet.

  The only way I can do this is to think of everything outside the car as not real—outlawing it all to fantasy. And I’m coping better. I move into fourth gear on my own, thinking, surely this is a video game because we shouldn’t be able to move through reality so fast. A car is coming toward me. The road isn’t wide enough for both of us and we’re playing chicken.

  “Pull in, pull in, PULL IN TO FUCK,” Billy says, but I’m already forcing the other car off the road. “Fuck’s sake, are you trying to kill me? Next time we see a car, you pull in. Stop sulking.”

  We’re on the home stretch, coming down Clock’s Hill when another car comes into view. “Slow down, slow down,” Billy says. I take my foot off the accelerator but we’re freewheeling down the hill and I’ve forgotten how to brake. I try to pull in anyway.

  “That’s a ditch, that’s a ditch, THAT’S A DITCH!”

  Violet bounces on the bank of the road Dukes of Hazzard style and I begin to melt into the road . . .

  “Mother of divine Jesus!” Billy looks shook.

  We’re—somehow, miraculously—in our driveway. I don’t remember how we got there.

  “Sorry,” I say. I grip the steering wheel so that he doesn’t see my hands shaking. “I completely zoned out.”

  This is one of the very few times Billy seems to be stuck for words.

  “Next lesson in the field?” I suggest.

  “No.
” He gets out and slams the door. “Next time we’re going into town. You’d want to cop onto yourself. You don’t appreciate what I’m trying to do for you. College handed to you. Car handed to you. Lessons handed to you. Wake the fuck up, will you?”

  8th December

  Mam is being discharged from Pats next Friday. She is coming to the end of her three-week educational program and the hospital feels like she is ready for the next stage of recovery. She rings Billy to tell him she wants to go shopping.

  “I’d like to tip into town to pick up a few bits before we head home.”

  “On Friday?”

  “When you collect me, yeah.”

  “Are you sure now, Maeve?” Billy asks. “Does the doctor know about this?”

  “It was his idea. It’s a step in my recovery plan.”

  Next Friday is the eighth of December—the day that me and Billy make our annual trip to town to see the Christmas lights. Mam has never come with us before.

  “It’ll be very busy on the eighth now,” Billy warns her.

  “I know. That’s why I want to go. It’s an important step to prove to myself that I can cope with spending an afternoon in a city.”

  “Right. You know what they say about baby steps though?”

  “Billy, will you take me out or not?”

  “Of course I will. Is there any way I can speak to this doctor though?”

  “No.”

  “Right so. The eighth then?”

  “The eighth.”

  “See you then.”

  * * *

  We’re sitting outside the psychiatrist’s office. He wants to talk to Billy before he discharges Mam.

  “I feel like I’m being called to the principal’s office,” Billy mutters to me.

  “Dr. Allen will see you now,” the receptionist says.

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “You’re coming in with me.”

  “I don’t think I’m invited.”

  “I just invited you. Come on.”

  A tall, handsome man stands up as we walk in. “Mr. White,” he says, extending his hand.

  “Call me Billy.”

  “And this must be Debbie,” the doctor says, and smiles. “Nice to meet you.”

  I force myself to meet his brown eyes and feel myself blush.

  “Please, take a seat. My name is Dr. Patrick Allen. I am a senior consultant and have been overseeing Maeve’s treatment. I think you’ll find a significant change in her. She has improved under our care.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Yes. So we have diagnosed Maeve with bipolar disorder, sometimes known as manic depression. Have you ever come across it before?”

  “Is it the yo-yo one?” Billy asks.

  “Well, yes. Alternating moods of abnormal highs, known as manic states, and lows of depressive periods. It is called bipolar disorder because of the swings between these opposing poles of mood. Sometimes, severe episodes of mania or depression can trigger symptoms of psychosis. When we were able to get Maeve to talk, she told us about the recent death of a good friend and neighbor, James. It is our opinion that it was James’s death that produced this psychotic episode.”

  “Well, I could have told you that, Doc,” Billy says.

  “Yes. Well, we have discussed treatment plans. I have started Maeve on a course of medication, which you will have to monitor. It is important to make sure she takes the proper dose at regular times. And of course, she will continue to have weekly talk therapy with me.”

  “I’ve to arrange to bring her up here once a week?” Billy asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s it?” Billy asks.

  “Well, yes. I mean, you have my secretary’s phone number. If you ever want to contact me, don’t hesitate—”

  “—to call your secretary.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is she supposed to help if my sister starts bashing her teeth out on the stairs again?”

  “Well, she will relay any messages you give her to me.”

  “Right, along with the hundreds of others you can’t afford to keep in beds in here,” Billy says.

  “I can assure you, Mr. White, we see to it that all of our patients get the care they need.”

  “Call me Billy. I know it’s not your fault, Paddy. It’s the system that frustrates me.”

  Billy stands up and shakes the doctor’s hand again. He tells us that Maeve will be waiting for us in the lobby.

  “I think you’ll see a great improvement in her,” Dr. Allen says.

  * * *

  Mam gives us a sheepish smile when she sees us.

  “We have to do something about those teeth,” Billy says.

  Mam closes her mouth.

  “The teeth are grand,” I say. I call her Mammy and give her a long, tight hug.

  The cast has been removed from her nose and the swelling in her face has gone down. The purple bruising across the bridge of her nose has faded to yellow.

  Billy rubs his hands together and winks at us. “Are we ready for the annual culchies’ day out?”

  * * *

  The whole thing feels surreal. Mam has been returned to us walking, talking, and evangelical about the power of therapy. She seems to have gotten a kick out of her diagnosis. She says the word, “bipolar,” with a kind of bemusement, like she found a fifty-euro note in the pocket of her jeans. “Can you believe it?” she asks us, wide-eyed. “Dr. Allen is thinking of using me as a case study for his next paper.”

  Mam’s attachment to her therapist comes as no surprise. She has always craved external validation. She needs to be admired. Worshipped even. Whatever she lost in James, she seems to have found in this guy.

  She shakes her pillbox at us. It rattles like a box of tic-tacs. It’s a plastic, multicolored wheel divided into triangular boxes marked with the first letters of the days of the week. It looks like it should be part of a trivia board game. “He made me promise to take them,” she says, leaning her chin on her hand. “Even though they freeze my brain. You know when you hit a bump in the road and your brain kind of jumps up in your head? Well, it’s like that, only constantly”—she throws her hands up—“up, up, up in the air.”

  “Well, if it works?” Billy says.

  “We’ll see,” she says. “He’s especially interested in my dream research.”

  “Really?”

  “I lent him some of my journals.”

  “You gave him your diaries?”

  “They’re not diaries, Billy. It’s research.”

  “Still, Maeve. Surely that’s violating some code of ethics?”

  “Studying my dreams has been an integral part of my treatment actually.”

  “Right,” Billy says.

  * * *

  We park the car in Jervis. Mam wants to go to Bewley’s, so I try to tell Billy it makes more sense to park in Drury Street.

  “I know where Jervis is,” he says. “We’re going to Jervis.”

  We make our way across the bridge to the other side of the Liffey. They both trust me to navigate our way through the crowds. I usher them on at traffic lights. They’re scared to cross as soon as the green man turns orange.

  “Ye’re like a couple of tourists,” I say.

  “We are a couple of tourists,” Billy says, clasping Mam’s hand and leading her across the road. It’s nice to see him being so good to her.

  They stop to look up at the lights on Grafton Street.

  “Nollaig Shona,” Mam says and puts her arm around my shoulder. “I wanted to call you Nollaig when you were born.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Your grandad wouldn’t have any of it. He said you’d be bullied.”

  “I wasn’t born around Christmas anyway.”

  “Why does that matter? It’s a nice name.”

  “Dublin’s fierce racist these days,” Billy roars over the noise of the busker playing an electric guitar. “There’s a shop called Brown Thomas. But then again it’
d be worse if it were Black or White Thomas. Or Yellow Thomas.”

  “You can’t call black people black anymore, Billy. They’re colored,” Mam says.

  “Oh God,” I moan.

  “Daoine gorma is the Irish term. Blue people. I forget the origins. Something to do with the devil.”

  “You know, sometimes, I forget why I’m so worried about the stuff that comes out of your mouth, Billy. And then you come out with a cracker like that,” Mam says.

  “You’re worried about what comes out of my mouth?”

  * * *

  There’s a queue to get into Bewley’s. Mam’s eyes light up as soon as we see the stained glass windows, polished floors, and the gigantic Christmas tree.

  “I once saw Sinéad O’Connor in here,” Mam says, beaming. “She knew I recognized her and winked at me, like she was asking to keep it our little secret.”

  “Then she stole a Bible in Eason’s and the rest is history,” Billy says.

  “Me or Sinéad?”

  “These days, I find it difficult to tell ye apart.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Mam says. “The woman’s a genius.”

  I try and change the subject. “You know Lisa O’Neill used to work here?”

  “In Bewley’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, there’s a talent,” Billy says.

  “Who’s she?” Mam asks.

  “You’d love Lisa O’Neill, Mam.”

  “Maeve is suspicious of music she’s never heard before,” Billy says. “She prefers the music of the dead.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is too. Mozart, Bach, Luke Kelly—”

  “Sinéad O’Connor is alive and I found her on my own.”

  “Because she was such an obscure artist like. ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ was played to death on the radio in the nineties. Her little, bothered, bald head crying on the telly in every pub.”

  * * *

  On our way to Henry Street, Billy starts hurling abuse at a billboard. It’s an anti-dairy campaign. There’s a poster of a cow licking her calf. The caption reads: Dairy takes babies from their mothers and is followed by a call to arms to #GoVegan.