Snowflake

by Louise Nealon

  I put down the toothbrush and lie back on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. Tears collect in the corners of my eyes and roll down my temples into my hair, tickling like wet feathers.

  * * *

  Audrey has given me a diary so I can plan my week. I make lists of things I want to do in the next month. I’ve booked an appointment at an STI clinic, which makes me nervous, but that’s probably the easiest thing on the list. The other tasks seem impossible. Apologize to Xanthe. Don’t drink alcohol. Don’t kiss people I don’t fancy.

  “It’s important to remember that if you do drink alcohol or kiss a stranger, it is not a disaster. The likelihood is that you will do these things again. You’re only human. And you’re a college student, which means you should cut yourself even more slack. But you should be proud of yourself for recognizing that it may be self-destructive behavior.”

  “I don’t know if I should tell Xanthe about Billy,” I say. “I don’t think Billy would want me to. And it would only make her feel bad.”

  “It sounds like you’ve made your decision,” Audrey says.

  “I don’t have to tell her?” I ask.

  “Debbie, you don’t have to tell anyone anything.”

  “OK.”

  “Does that make you feel better?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “We haven’t touched on the dreams. In our first session, you said that was something you most wanted to address.” Audrey flicks back through her notebook. “You said, ‘I’m afraid of going the same way as my mother. I’m afraid of being stuck at home forever, not being able to deal with reality. And if I don’t talk to someone about it soon, I feel like it will kill me.’”

  “I can’t remember saying that.”

  “Do you feel ready to talk about it?”

  “I thought you said I didn’t have to tell anyone anything?”

  “And I mean it. If you’re not ready to talk about them that’s fine.”

  “It’s not that I’m not ready,” I say. “I feel like I’ll never be ready. I can’t describe it. And I’m afraid that you won’t believe me.”

  “Is it important that I believe you?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Why does it matter whether I believe you or not?”

  “Because I don’t even believe myself. They make absolutely no sense. My whole life I’ve been told that the dreams are bullshit and my mother is crazy and I’ve never really questioned that. So yes, if I put the work in to try to explain them, it is important that you listen to me without immediately thinking I’m bonkers. It’s important that someone, anyone, believes me.”

  “OK.” Audrey closes her notebook and sits forward. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, it’s not fair that you just put me on the spot like this. I don’t know where to start.”

  “How are you feeling, right now?”

  “Angry. I’m angry you can’t see inside my head and know what’s going on. I’m angry that I have to explain myself.”

  “I can see that. Have you ever thought about trying to write it down?”

  “The dreams?”

  “Yes, and how they affect your waking life. Your mother writes a lot. I think it helps her to cope.”

  “Mam’s writing is terrible.”

  “So, in your opinion, it’s OK to write, as long as the writing is ‘good’?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “But you would like your writing to be ‘good’ and not ‘bad.’”

  “Well, yeah,” I say.

  “How do you know if the writing is ‘good’ or not if you haven’t written anything?”

  “It’s all right for Mam because she doesn’t care what people think.”

  “That sounds liberating. Not caring what people think,” Audrey says. “But perhaps that comes with time.”

  “Well . . . if I try to write about it, it comes out all wrong. It sounds like I’m lying. I don’t expect anyone to believe me. I suspect that in a few years, I won’t believe myself. Telling a story—even if it’s just talking about my life—requires some kind of hindsight. I’m eighteen. I don’t have a whole lot of hindsight. And I can’t really say, once upon a time, this happened to me, because it’s still happening.”

  Audrey looks at me as though the solution is obvious. “Then don’t say once upon a time.”

  The Diviner

  When I was younger, Billy was always going to see a man about a dog. I used to get excited until I started copping that I was getting fairly few dogs out of these appointments. Whenever James gave out to Billy for getting my hopes up, Billy shot back with: “Good. It will teach her not to expect anything from anyone. A healthy dose of skepticism never did anyone any harm.”

  Sometimes, I asked if I could go with him and he’d shrug and mumble, “If you want,” in a way that let me know that he didn’t want me to. Then he’d flat-out pretend he forgot about me wanting to go. He’d tear out of the driveway with me running after him.

  So I’m surprised when Billy comes into my bedroom and wakes me up by throwing a bunch of car keys on my duvet.

  “Come on,” he says. “We’re going to see a man about a dog.”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to come or not?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, because you’re driving.”

  * * *

  I have to turn off the radio to concentrate. My heart is going ninety, but time is floating along quite nicely. I’m getting lucky. The crossroads are quiet and there aren’t any confusing intersections. I’m following Billy’s directions.

  “Left, turn left.”

  I turn on my right indicators.

  “Your other left.”

  * * *

  We go down twisty roads until he orders me to pull into a driveway with high stone walls and big fuck-off gates. The place is called Ballymore Manor. There’s a smaller sign that advertises HAPPY FACES MONTESSORI AND PLAYSCHOOL—NOW ENROLLING!

  The electric gates open. I get Violet into gear and we trundle up the avenue. Billy instructs me to drive around to the back of the house. The back door opens and a woman waves as we approach.

  “Pull up here and don’t run her over like a good girl.”

  He reaches into the back and picks up a massive stick.

  “Ah here, Gandalf, where are you going with that?”

  “I’ll need it,” he says, putting the branch of a gnarled old tree between his legs.

  We get out of the car and shuffle over the gravel driveway toward the woman, who is wearing a fluffy dressing gown and slippers. The traces of sleep are still in the process of disappearing from her face.

  “So you’re the man with the stick?” she asks Billy.

  “I am, indeed. And this is my apprentice,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, I’ll show you around the place then,” she says.

  She leads us over toward the garden. There are several flowerbeds and a well-kept lawn. The apple trees are old and smell funny. The fruit is rotten and crawling with insects and flies. There’s a hut made out of sticks—an impressive teepee with plastic mugs and plates inside. One of the mugs is filled with mushed flowers. It reminds me of the time I used to make dandelion perfume that smelled like piss.

  Billy is wandering around the garden with a stick. He holds it at the top where the branch splits into two parts like a wishbone. The woman watches him like she’s trying to work out what he’s doing. He isn’t actually doing anything but walking around, stopping every so often to wave the stick about.

  “The children go home crying to their parents,” the woman says. “And you know how word spreads. People don’t want to leave their children here. You’d swear I was doing all sorts of awful things to them. It’s a nightmare. We’ve lived in this house for four years and there has never been anything like this. Ever. We’ve had visitors over to stay for summer holidays and their children loved the garden—that’s where the idea for the Montessori came from. I’ve al
ways loved having children around. There’s just this weird feeling over the place. So many freak accidents. I’ve had five broken bones in the past year—five!”

  “This house used to belong to the owners of the stud over the road,” Billy says.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You bought it off the son. He inherited the property.”

  “Yes, Michael Corcoran.”

  “You extended the garden recently.”

  “Yes, for the Montessori.”

  Billy is using the same voice he adopted when he told me stories as a kid.

  “This used to be a field—part of the stud. The man who sold you this house, the Corcoran man. His sister . . . when she was a little girl, she fell off a horse here. She was about seven or eight. She broke her neck.”

  The woman gasps. “That makes so much sense.”

  “Before you extended the garden, am I right in saying those apple trees were healthier than they are now?”

  “Yes! I used to make apple tarts. Children always loved playing in the orchard but now they don’t go anywhere near it. How do you know this?”

  “The land tells stories. All I do is listen. Now, I’m no John the Baptist. I’m a bit rusty. I haven’t done it in a while. My father used to divine, and he tried to pass his skills on to me but I thought it was a load of shite, excuse my language.”

  The woman laughs. Billy has charmed her already.

  “I can neutralize the ground for you, which usually clears the tension. The extension into the garden has brought up a lot of bad energy surrounding the death of that little girl. Children tend to be very intuitive. They’re very good at picking up on energy. I have a feeling that is what is causing the broken bones.”

  The woman nods. “That makes sense.”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I have a feeling that once the land is healed, the trees in your orchard will yield ripe fruit again.”

  “Thank you, so much.”

  “Hold your horses now, I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Whatever you have to do, go ahead. How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh, nothing at all.”

  “I have to pay you.”

  “No, you don’t. I can’t guarantee it will work.”

  The woman looks uncomfortable. “Well, come in for a cup of tea at least, when you’re finished.”

  “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me and my apprentice.”

  “Oh right. Well. Good luck,” she says, backing away and giving us a thumbs up.

  “Come on,” Billy says to me and walks back toward the car. He opens Violet’s boot, takes out two long steel poles, and hands them to me.

  “What do we do with these?” I ask.

  “Stick them in the ground. It’s kind of like acupuncture.”

  He takes out four more poles and a hammer. We walk back over to the lawn, toward the fence at the back. Billy instructs me where to place the poles and hammers them into the ground.

  “How did you know all of that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “But you did know.”

  He stops hammering. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t know how I know. That’s why I haven’t done it in a while. I feel like a con artist.”

  “But you were right.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  “So you’ve done it before? When you were a kid?”

  “Yes. My father used to bring me.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “Because I didn’t believe in it. Couldn’t believe in it.”

  “So why are we here then?”

  “Because I want to get better. And someone told me that if I started doing this, and helping other people, it might make me feel better in myself.”

  “Oh, right. Well that’s good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you bring me?”

  “Someone told me that it might be a good idea to let you in on what I was doing. Because, well, you seem to think you’re mad. There are lots of kinds of madness that run in the family.”

  “Are you going to tell me who this someone is?”

  “Audrey Keane.”

  “You went for a session?”

  “She came over to the caravan one day out of the blue and asked me around to hers for dinner. I didn’t want to be rude and I know that she was a big help to Maeve so, I said yes.”

  “Oh. So you just went around for dinner.”

  “I did.”

  “Just the once?”

  “Well, she’s a good cook and I felt bad her going to all the effort. I wanted to repay the favor so I took her out to dinner, as a kind of thank-you.”

  “Where did you go, the pub?”

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “What did you wear?”

  “Clothes.”

  “And she got a lot of chat out of you?”

  “She did. Well, we went to school together. And her father was good friends with mine. They used to go bird watching together, and Dad told Keane about the divining. That’s how she knew.”

  “She’s a lovely woman,” I say.

  “She’s a lady.”

  “Are you going to take her to dinner again?”

  “I took her to dinner once. As a thank-you.”

  “Understood. She is a lovely woman though.”

  “She’s a lady.”

  Amuse-Bouche

  We’re still on Christmas holidays, but I’m going to the library to do some reading for essays that are due when we get back. The campus is quiet. The only people I interact with are the security on the way into the Berkeley. I spot Griff coming out of the turnstiles as I’m going in, but he’s too busy fixing his hair to notice me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a message from Xanthe.

  Hey. Do you want to meet my parents?

  She sends me an address and says to meet them at seven.

  * * *

  The restaurant looks more New York than Dublin. There are red-bricked walls and plants that could pass for trees. I think the waiter assumes I’m lost, wandering in in a tracksuit with a school bag on my back. He is a man in his fifties who is already sick of my shit and over this shift, but he smooths on a smile because tips are his trade. He leads me to an outdoor seating area with heaters and fairy lights. Xanthe is sitting there sipping a glass of white wine. I’m nervous, but she seems relieved when she sees me.

  “Hi,” we say.

  The waiter pulls out my chair. I take off my schoolbag and sit down.

  “Anything to drink?” he asks, already beginning his retreat.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  Xanthe waits until the waiter is gone. “Listen, I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t. There’s no need. I was an arsehole too.”

  “OK. Good.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t think Dad is coming and Mum is running late.”

  “It’s only five to seven.”

  “I told them dinner was at six.”

  “Oh.”

  We sit in silence for a while until we hear footsteps. I turn to see a woman walking toward us in a navy blue suit. Her hair is blow-dried. She seems to take delight in the sound her stilettos make on the restaurant tiles.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asks Xanthe when she gets to the table. She has a posh radio voice, the kind that is difficult to situate. I notice the frames of her glasses match her suit—they are the exact same shade of blue. I wonder if she has different glasses for different outfits.

  Xanthe stands up and introduces us. “Mum, this is Debbie. Debbie, this is my mum, Jean.”

  Jean shakes my hand and looks me up and down, taking in my greasy hair and tracksuit. “Oh God, you’re not going to tell me you’re gay, are you?”

  I shake my head vigorously.

  “What if I did?” Xanthe asks.

  I look at Xanthe and back to her mam. “I’m not gay,” I say, pointing at myself to make things clear.<
br />
  “Why would that be an issue though, Mum?” Xanthe sits back down, crosses her legs, and leans her chin on her hand.

  Jean smiles at me and takes a seat. “Xanthe likes to shock me. She likes the shock factor.” Her eyes widen every time she says shock. “I’m surprised she didn’t bring her dad along to this meal.”

  “He was invited.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “He just texted me there to say he’s running late.”

  “If your father shows up I’ll sign over the deed to my house to this man here,” she says, patting the waiter on the arm.

  The waiter gives her a tight smile. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asks.

  “Can we see the wine list?” she asks.

  “The selection of wines are on the back of the menu,” he says, turning the menu over for her.

  “Is that all there is?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says. The way he says it, he might as well have told her to go fuck herself.

  “We’ll just have water then.”

  “Still or sparkling?” he asks.

  “Tap is fine,” she says.

  The waiter leaves and Jean looks at me as though she’s registered me as a person for the first time, rather than an extra on the film set of her daughter’s life. “I never caught your name.”

  “Debbie,” I say.

  “What are you studying, Debbie?”

  “English.”

  “At Trinity?”

  I nod.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I live on a farm in Kildare. It’s a dairy farm,” I add, for something else to say.

  The waiter comes back with water and fills our glasses individually.

  “Can we have some bread and olives for the table please?” Jean asks him.

  “Of course.” He takes the wine glasses off the table. They make the sound of the bell ringing at mass as he clinks them together.

  “How many cows do you have?” Jean turns her attention back to me.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never counted,” I joke, but Jean doesn’t smile. Billy has me prepped to answer this question. If he were here, he’d say, “The taxman wouldn’t even ask me that.” Asking a farmer how many cows he has upon introduction is like asking someone you’ve just met how much money they make in a year. Most people don’t realize that.