Snowflake

by Louise Nealon

  “Billy, bring some firewood inside so it can dry out for the morning,” Mam says.

  He does what he’s told. The rest of us pile into the house with the bags, relieved to get out of the rain.

  “Oh wow.” Audrey is the first one to really notice the place. We’re in the part of the house that was originally a one-roomed cottage. The focal point is the fireplace. There is a big brass box filled with coal and old newspapers. The fire utensils gleam on their stand like the dangling jewelry of giants.

  There are wetsuits hanging inside the door. They smell like summer. I look at the collage of photos that are framed on the old stone walls. Happy faces, full of devilment. Kids building sandcastles, standing with their ankles in the sea. A posed family photo with a little boy acting the eejit, sticking out his tongue to the camera.

  Billy appears beside me and points to the little boy. “Do you recognize the cow’s lick?”

  “Oh my God! It’s you!”

  “Once upon a time,” he says. He points to another photo of him looking more like his old self, pushing a child in a wheelbarrow. “And that’s you.”

  “I can’t remember ever being here,” I say.

  “No one ever believes me,” Mam says, kissing me on the cheek.

  “No, I mean, I just thought I’d remember it, even vaguely.”

  “Well you were three.”

  “Three and a half. I remember you kept telling everyone you were half past three.”

  “You were such a gorgeous chubster,” Xanthe says.

  “I look like a Cabbage Patch doll.”

  * * *

  There’s a bit of awkwardness as we sort out sleeping arrangements. Mam insists on sleeping on the single bed in the kids’ room and Xanthe and I bagsy the bunk beds. Billy says he’ll sleep on the couch but Audrey is having none of it.

  “I’ve brought my own mattress. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “You won’t sleep on the floor, you’re the guest and you’ll take the bedroom.”

  It sounds like Billy is threatening her. Audrey shakes her head and stands her ground.

  Mam claps her hands. “So that’s settled, Billy’s on the couch and Audrey has the other bedroom.”

  “I feel uncomfortable taking a bedroom to myself,” she says.

  “Well I’d be uncomfortable sleeping on anything other than a couch,” Billy says. “I’m already out of my comfort zone. Don’t make me sleep in a bed in a house.”

  “Fine,” Audrey gives in, graciously conceding defeat.

  * * *

  We’re hungry and too tired to cook, so we have cereal and crisp sandwiches.

  We sit around and wait for Mam to say aren’t you glad we stopped in the shop but she keeps quiet, smug in the knowledge that we’re all thinking the same thing. We all agree we should go to bed. It’s freezing. Mam discovers a pile of dressing gowns in a wardrobe. They smell of must but they’re warm so we wrap them tight around us. I forgot my toothbrush so I use an ancient one that feels like straw on my teeth.

  Xanthe takes the top bunk. I push my feet against the steel net that supports her mattress.

  “What the fuck is that?” she asks.

  I drop my feet and the net squeaks down again. “Sorry, it was just me.”

  “Are ye two still awake?” Mam whispers.

  “No,” we say in unison, feeling like bold children.

  “Go to sleep.”

  * * *

  I wake up to the sun shining in through the white shutters and the smell of a fry. Mam and Xanthe are still asleep. I traipse out of the room, my bare feet slapping the floor. I’m embarrassed that Audrey is the first up and figure I should help with breakfast.

  The radio is playing “Jack and Diane.” Billy is standing over the frying pan in a pink dressing gown, pipe in his mouth, dancing along.

  I lean against the doorframe and watch. He doesn’t notice me until I say, “Do your best James Dean.”

  He almost throws the sausages out of the frying pan and clutches his dressing gown. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  “No, it’s just me,” I say.

  “Good morning, Debbie,” he says.

  “Good morning, Billy. Where in God’s name did you get the pipe?”

  “It’s my holiday pipe.”

  “Are you trying to impress us with your culinary skills?”

  “I was hungry. I’m not hungover for a change, and there’s not a cow in sight. I had to do something. I tried to start the fire but it wasn’t having any of me.”

  “I could try and google it?”

  He laughs. “Wait until your mother is up. They call her Hestia out here.”

  “Hestia—the firstborn of the Titans,” I say.

  “Swallowed by Kronos in the end. She is an awfully underrated character. Goddess of the hearth and home.”

  I look at the fireplace. “This place makes me want to have a fireplace when I’m older.”

  “County councils won’t let you build chimneys nowadays.”

  “Don’t be telling me that. This house is so great,” I say, touching the old walls of the sitting room. “They don’t build them like they used to.”

  “It’s like Padraic Colum’s house.”

  “Sure that wasn’t his house at all. It was the old woman of the road’s.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Why did you stop coming out here?” I ask.

  “Ah just, fell out of the habit. It’s hard to get away from the farm.”

  “From the pub, you mean.”

  I spot a map of the island marked in Irish, but the terms are translated at the bottom. “There’s a map out here,” I shout. “Some of the names of things are hilarious.”

  Billy comes out of the kitchen and stands beside me.

  “Oileán na nGamhna—island of the calves,” I say, pointing to one of the smattering of islands off the main one.

  “Now that’s less of an island and more of a rock in the sea,” Billy says.

  “Loch na Reillige—lake of the graveyard.”

  “I know where that is,” Billy says, stroking the stubble around his chin. “We used to do treasure hunts out here.”

  “I’d like to scope some of these out. Oileán na Luchoige—island of the mice.”

  “Oh yes. They have a rodent-only immigration policy,” Billy says. “Have you seen the conservatory?”

  “There’s a conservatory?”

  “Well, it’s tiny. It’s out through that door, past the bedroom.”

  I twist the doorknob gently, afraid I’ll wake Audrey. When I sneak into the sunroom she is sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, meditating.

  “Sorry!” I whisper.

  “No, come on in!” She laughs.

  The sunroom gives a panoramic view of the island. I sit down on the couch and breathe out. There is a small commune of holiday cottages alongside us. You can see the beach past the hills, the sleek black roads, and our small, wonky front garden.

  “Had you a nice sleep?” I ask.

  “Oh, I slept like a baby.”

  Her face is shining and her hair is wet. “You’d a shower already?”

  “I had a swim in the sea.”

  “What?!”

  “It was glorious.”

  Mam and Xanthe burst into the room. Mam throws her hands out to frame the view.

  “Oh my God, it’s amazing!” Xanthe squeaks.

  “Audrey has already been in the sea!” I say.

  “You mad bastard, Audrey!” Mam says.

  “Oh, we’re all mad here.” Audrey winks.

  “What time were you up?”

  “Sunrise. It wasn’t that early. Seven o’clock.”

  “I was just rolling over for my second sleep,” Mam says.

  “I can’t wait for a swim,” says Xanthe.

  Mam gasps and bends down to pick up an old button accordion behind a rocking chair. “I can’t believe this is still here.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “It was my gra
ndmother’s. She used to play in a marching band. She only knew the one tune. Hang on.” Mam winces as her fingers try to find the memory. She slowly begins to play the song.

  Billy comes into the room in his dressing gown with a tray of tea. I help him carry in a plate of cremated sausages and toast.

  He slaps his hands together, delighted with the feast. “Get it into ye Cynthia. We’ve a long day ahead.”

  * * *

  We get a grand tour of the island. Maeve and Billy are sharing the role of tour guide. First up is the abandoned house. When we peer in through the windows we’re able to see furniture and decor from the seventies, religious iconography, and, bizarrely, a calendar of Mariah Carey stuck on July.

  We stand on top of huge rocks on the wild side of the island and look out at the wind-whisked sea. There are huge fringes of foam on the waves. The wind picks them up and they fly past us like snow.

  * * *

  We go to Brian’s Beach—the one we can see from the conservatory. I put on my swimsuit underneath my clothes but I’m not sure if I’ll get in.

  “Why is it called Brian’s Beach?” I ask Billy.

  “Brian was the name of the guy who parked his caravan at the top of it.”

  “Did Brian inspire you to take your first step on the caravan property ladder?”

  “God no. He was a terrifying old fucker.”

  Xanthe and Audrey strip off down to their swimming suits straightaway and run into the waves. Mam hangs back with me and Billy. We walk the beach, picking up shells that take our fancy. I’m going for the whitest cockles I can find. I’m looking forward to seeing what shade of gray or beige they will turn when they dry.

  “I feel like your shells wouldn’t be friends with my shells,” Mam says.

  I inspect the injured razor and moon shells in her palm. “You’ve a bunch of rejects.”

  “Well, aren’t you a snob,” says Billy.

  “Trinity has changed me.”

  “It’s a morbid hobby, really,” Mam says, looking at her collection. “Why not study mollusks? They’re the ones that make the shells in the first place.”

  “They’re rotten though,” I point out.

  “Exactly. They’re slippery, slimy yokes. We prefer to wait until the little life dies and disappears, leaving an empty, clean skeleton. That’s all shells are. What if we collected human skeletons the way we do seashells?”

  “Why would you even think like that?” Billy asks.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I don’t buy that. Shells aren’t skeletons.” I point to the center of the cracked moon shell in her hand. “They have belly buttons.”

  A surprised cackle escapes Mam. “That’s so true.”

  “I’ve never seen a belly button on a skeleton,” I say.

  Mam traces the navel of the shell and hugs it into her chest. “They symbolize birth, not death.”

  “Oh Jesus, here we go.” Billy throws his eyes up to heaven but I can tell he is relieved as well. Mam is skipping through the sand dancing with the shell in the palm of her hand like it’s her tiny lover.

  Billy and I stand back and watch Mam dance around in the sand. “They found traces of calcium carbonate on Mars,” I tell him. “Shells are made of calcium carbonate.”

  “She can’t hear you now. You can stop showing off.” But then he laughs and shakes his head. “Shells in space. Imagine Maeve in space.”

  “She already is,” I say.

  He grins at her. “Our very own space cadet.”

  * * *

  We trawl through clumps of rushes on the sand dunes. Billy uses his penknife to cut some reeds to make St. Brigid’s crosses later. He brings them back up to the house with him when he goes to check on the fire. Audrey and Xanthe come out of the water shivering and run back up the road for hot showers.

  “Are we going in?” Mam asks me.

  I take a deep breath. “OK.”

  I bend down to take off my trousers and turn around to see my naked mother bouncing up and down to keep warm. We both start laughing at her boobs going everywhere. I look down at my black Lycra. I feel like I’m cheating, but I can’t bring myself to take it off.

  The tide is out, but the water rushes to meet us. The first touch of cold water shocks me back into myself. I squeal and turn to walk away but Mam takes my hand. She’s being very patient with me. My chin starts quivering. My hands are red. I have the complexion of a plucked turkey.

  We wade into the water. It feels like we’ve been walking for ages, but the water is only up to our thighs. The sea stretches before us, glistening like mercury. The clouds are fluffy, tinged with purple and blue. It’s like we’re walking toward heaven, only it’s a test and I’m failing miserably.

  “Relax,” Mam says.

  “I’m really sorry, I don’t think I can, Mam.”

  “Just keep breathing,” she says. “Breathe with the waves. Stop where you are now and listen. Notice how the water is breathing.”

  “My breath—keeps—catching—in my chest.”

  “Your body will adjust.” I’m glad to see her teeth are chattering. I feel like I’ll never be warm again. “You’re OK. Now, duck your head under the water.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  She walks in and recites her faithful lines. “Sunlit zone, twilight zone, midnight zone, abyss and—” She dives under the water.

  “Hadal zone, the territory of Persephone, the winter queen,” I finish it for her.

  She emerges from the water a few seconds later. “I feel so much better.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Come on.”

  “Stop talking to me. I just need a minute.”

  I spot a wave on the horizon and watch as it comes toward us. As soon it reaches me I’ll surrender, I think. It looms toward me. Passes me.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I say.

  “Try again.”

  “Stop looking at me.”

  I wait until something inside me breaks. I bend my legs and kneel into the sea, surrendering. A wave comes and my head goes under. Mam is cheering. The water sleeks my hair back off my face. My nose is running. I taste salt. I’m so stupidly proud of myself.

  Mam splashes me. “Doesn’t it feel better?”

  “No,” I insist.

  “Keep moving.”

  I start to move differently under the water. The waves pull me this way and that so that it feels like I’m stretching beyond myself. Mam holds my hand and kicks her legs out from under her. I follow her lead until we’re both floating on our backs and sky is all we see. Mam squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. Water floods into our eardrums. For a moment, the only thing connecting us to the world is each other.

  * * *

  I’m shaken awake in the middle of the night. There’s a hand over my mouth and I moan in panic.

  “Sshhh, don’t wake anybody,” Billy whispers. “Come on outside. Bring your duvet.”

  I lie in bed for a moment, considering the likelihood that this exchange has taken place in a dream.

  I go outside anyway, suspicious of reality. Billy is waiting for me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  He produces a dandelion from behind his back. “There’s a full moon out tonight. Come on.”

  There’s a gentle wind stroking the island, rocking it to sleep. We shuffle toward the sound of the waves soothing the shore and stop at one of the flat rocks on Brian’s beach. Billy rolls out his sleeping bag like it’s a red carpet and shimmies his way into it.

  “This is where I started noticing them.”

  “The stars?” I wrap the duvet around me and lie down on the rock beside him.

  “I used to come out with Mam when she wasn’t able to sleep,” Billy says. “We’d both sneak out of the house and lie down here. She’d pick a star and tell me a story.”

  “About the Greeks?”

  “Yep.”

>   We listen for a while to the sounds of the beach.

  “I don’t like thinking about them,” Billy says.

  “The Greeks?”

  “No, the dreams. Even as a child, when Mam would tell us about them. Maeve lapped it all up but I was jealous of them. They took my mammy away from me. I saw what they did to her. She was an angry person. She had a temper, but it was made worse by the lack of sleep. She never left the house. I thought it was easier to ignore them. After she died, I stopped believing in them. I told myself it was all in her head. And it was all in her head. Look at Maeve. It’s still all in her head, that’s the problem. It’s too much for any one person to handle. It’s all just . . . too much. So I worry about you—about what they’re going to do to you.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the dreams, and aside from the fact that people would think I was crazy if I ever brought them up in conversation, I don’t think they’re the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced,” I say. “Like, there are polar bears in the world. They actually exist. That’s much more of a statistical impossibility than me slipping in and out of dreams, regardless of whether or not they belong to me. I’m not sure anything belongs to me, anyway.”

  “Debbie?” he asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me a story.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who made this book possible. There aren’t enough words to thank my agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, for believing in me and the story I wanted to tell from the moment we met. Thank you to my secondary school English teacher, Sarah Butler, who offered me encouragement and guidance when I needed it most.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to Paul McVeigh, who judged the Seán Ó’Faoláin Short Story Competition and is responsible for starting a chain of events that completely changed my life.

  A good chunk of Snowflake was written during a six-month workshop facilitated by Seán O’Reilly and The Stinging Fly, which was enormously helpful. There, I met the members of my writing group. I cannot thank that group enough for the chats, laughs, free therapy, embarrassing sentences, and the best feedback.

  Thank you to my amazing US editor, Emily Griffin, for her razor-sharp eye and invaluable input. It has always been a very quiet dream of mine to have a US publisher based in New York. Being published by Harper is beyond my wildest expectations.