Dana stared into the dark, thoughtful eyes. Her stepmother’s question showed how special Radhi was. Both Gabriel and Aradhana had discovered the truth about Dana’s mother before they left Ireland. Gabriel soon forgot what he had learned about his first wife, remembering only that she had promised to stay in touch with Dana. It was the nature of Faerie. The spell of forgetting was woven like a wall around it. Adults in particular could not hold the reality of fairy existence for long. If they did remember, they inevitably dismissed the experience as a dream or a figment of their imagination. There was a time when Dana wished she could have shared that side of her life with her father, but his forgetting made things easier. She could move between the worlds without permission or explanation.
Up to that moment, she had assumed that Aradhana, too, had forgotten the true story.
“I respect your privacy,” her stepmother said now. She chose her words carefully. “Your life with your mother is not any of my business. But I want you to know, my Irish Barbie, that if you need to speak of such matters, you may do so with me. In India we live with many gods and spirits. They are not strangers to us.”
Tears pricked Dana’s eyes. She felt as if she were at the bottom of a dark well, looking up at her stepmother who peered over the edge. She wanted to call out to Radhi, but found she couldn’t. All she could do was shake her head.
• • •
By the end of the week, Dana began to feel better, as if the shadow that had fallen on her had finally dispersed. When her father announced they were going to her grandmother’s in Creemore for the last family gathering of the summer, she couldn’t have been happier.
The village of Creemore was just an hour and a half drive north of Toronto. It was given its name in the 1840s by Judge James R. Gowan. He called it after a townland in his native county of Wexford in southern Ireland. The founding father of the village, Edward Webster, also came from that townland, but his family had emigrated to Canada long before the judge. While there is no recorded history of the moment, Edward and Judge Gowan may well have christened the village together over a malt whiskey in Kelly’s Tavern on the main street.
The modern Creemore was a picturesque village of tree-lined avenues, old churches, and stately homes of red or yellow brick. Nestled in the valley of the Mad and Noisy Rivers and surrounded by rich farmland, it was a quiet, sleepy place during the week. Every weekend, however, it would fill with tourists as well as the city dwellers who kept summer cottages in the Purple Hills. The main thoroughfare of Mill Street was a browser’s delight with quaint storefronts, hanging flower baskets, and hand-crafted street signs. Antique shops, art galleries, and tea rooms bloomed like roses. The village also boasted North America’s smallest jail, little more than a shed.
Dana’s grandmother, Maisy Gowan, was “bred and buttered” in the village, as she liked to say. Though married, she was called by her maiden name since she belonged to one of the oldest and most respected families in the town. A small, sturdy woman of endless energy, she wore her salt-and-pepper hair in closely cropped curls. On Sundays she dressed in a skirt and blouse with pearls or brooches and sometimes a hat, while the rest of the week saw her in tracksuits and running shoes. In her late sixties, she lived a busy life, working in her garden and keeping up the family home. She also served on various committees including the Creemore Tree Association, the Creemore Horticultural Society, the Purple Hills Arts and Heritage Society, and the Royal Canadian Legion.
The Gowan home was just off the main street. Built by Maisy’s grandfather in 1901, it was a fine big house of red and cream brick with stone quoins on the corners and gabled windows. Geraniums blossomed on the sills. A wooden veranda encircled the house, furnished with a swing seat, a rocking chair, and wickerwork tables. A wide front lawn ambled down to the road, shaded by maple and cherry trees. In the past, the rooms were heated with wood stoves whose pipes went up to warm the second floor before connecting to the chimneys. According to Gran Gowan, the house was never as cozy once “newfangled” central heating was installed. But old-fashioned comfort was still to be found in polished pine floors, iron beds with goose-down quilts, and open fireplaces. In the backyard was a drive shed where the horse and carriage were once kept. Now it housed Gran’s pride and joy, a dark-green Triumph Herald that once belonged to her husband.
Dana loved her grandmother, who doted on her and also her two aunts, Yvonne and Deirdre.
Though they were older, Dana’s aunts looked and acted like teenagers. At thirty-two, a painter and sculptor, Yvonne was a brash blonde who dressed in dramatic colors, usually scorched orange or red. She liked tight skirts and slinky dresses, stockings with seams, stiletto high heels, and ruby red lipstick. Younger at twenty-nine, Deirdre, also called Dee, was a filmmaker who specialized in radical documentaries and political animation. Having shaved her head for years, she now sported a blue brush-cut. Slashed jeans and leather jackets were Deirdre’s preference, worn with hobnailed boots, but sometimes she added strings of pearls to “soften” the look. Given their own idiosyncratic tastes, the aunts would not interfere with Dana’s appearance despite their older brother’s pleas.
“There’s no such thing as a good influence,” Yvonne told him. “As Oscar Wilde said, ‘All influence is immoral.’”
“Is she saying ‘grunge’ do you think?” Dee wondered. “It’s a valid statement.”
“What,” snorted Gabriel, “‘I will not wash?’”
“‘I will not be a slave to conventional forms of beauty,’” his sister corrected him. “Didn’t you see my doc on youth and fashion? Does no one in my family look at my work? I’m a prophet in my own home, unrecognized and undervalued.”
“I know all your work,” Yvonne pointed out, “and Gabe was out of the country for that one.”
In the end, of course, Gabriel knew it was hopeless. His sisters would never side with him against Dana. He was a parent: “one of them.” She was a daughter: “one of us.”
• • •
The barbecue and corn roast was held in Gran Gowan’s back garden with its broad lawn bordered by a fence and tall privet hedges. The smell of charcoal mingled with that of hamburgers and hot dogs sizzling on the grill. A pot of boiling water bobbed with yellow cobs of corn. On a cloth-covered table were baskets of crusty bread and soft rolls along with bowls of potato salad, coleslaw, mixed greens with tomatoes, sliced beet-roots and pickles, and various pots of mustard and relish. Ice clinked in wet jugs of homemade lemonade sprinkled with white sugar. As Gran Gowan did not approve of alcohol and barred it from the premises, the aunts had been forced to stash a cooler of beer in Dee’s bedroom. Getting it up the stairs without their mother noticing involved stealth and timing, but they were practiced hands. Gran also didn’t approve of the vegetarianism of her son and granddaughter who had brought lentil patties to accompany the corn and salads.
“I have no objections to Aradhana not eating meat,” Maisy stated in her no-nonsense way. “It’s her religion and I would never stand between someone and their God. You two, on the other hand, are just being contrary.”
As the afternoon meandered on and they all had eaten their fill, the croquet set was arranged on the lawn.
“We’ll divide into teams,” Yvonne declared. “Radhi and Gabe, Maisy and Dana, Dee and me.”
“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. We’re going to take you to the cleaners,” said Dee, swinging her mallet like a golf pro.
“There’ll be no gambling here,” Gran Gowan said.
“Don’t mind those two,” Gabe said to his wife. “They’re all bluff and bluster. It’s the dark horses we’ll have to watch out for, Dana and Mom.”
Dana listened to the banter as she lined up for her shot. She felt safe with her family, and was happy to forget about the nightmare of the previous week. Clack went her bat as it hit the hollow ball that rolled over the grass. When it sailed through the wire hoop, everyone cheered.
By late afternoon the barbecue had cooled and the table
was cleared. Aradhana went to her room to rest, while Gabe and his mother sat on the chesterfield in the parlor to watch the news. The two aunts stayed outdoors, sneaking gin into their lemonade from a flask. They sent Dana into the kitchen to fetch more ice. That was when she overheard her father and grandmother talking in the next room.
“… dreadful,” Gran Gowan was saying, “even paler than usual. And she still has no friends! I’ve said it before, Gabriel, and I’ll say it again, Toronto is no place for the girl. You’ve taken her from a small town in Ireland and dropped her into a big foreign city. A year has passed and she has not settled in. Every time I see her, she looks unhappier than the last. She should be here with me in Creemore. I know you love her, but you’re too busy with your new job to look after her properly and you have a wife now as well. Dana was used to having you all to herself.”
“Dana loves Radhi!” Gabriel protested.
“Don’t interrupt your mother. That’s not the point. I’m not going to stand by any longer and watch that bright, lively child grow more miserable by the day. She’s withering away. It’s not natural. She would flourish here. Creemore is a close friendly community. She’d go to the high school in Stayner—a good size, but not too big—and there are plenty of young people to be her friends, like that sweet Holly Durnford down the road.”
“Dana’s eccentric, like her aunts,” Gabriel argued defensively. “They had no friends either, and they grew up here in Creemore.”
Gran Gowan was stumped by that truth for a moment, but she recovered quickly.
“Well, they had each other. Dana has no siblings. Which is another point. You’re married now and not getting any younger. It’s time you started thinking of a family. There is already too much of a gap between—”
“Aradhana and I will have kids when we’re ready!” Gabriel’s voice thundered. This was forbidden territory.
“Hmph,” said his mother, retreating quickly.
Dana could hear her father spluttering. Here was undoubtedly one of the reasons why he had lived in Ireland for so long. Gran Gowan had no qualms about interfering in her children’s lives.
Dana backed away from the door. Why was everyone always talking about her? As if she were nothing but a problem! She was overcome by the shame, the unfairness, the sheer awfulness of her life. It only compounded the nightmare of the week gone by. Her eyes flooded with tears. She barged through the screen door and out into the garden.
“Where’s the ice, O slow but faithful one?” Dee called out.
Her aunts were lounging on deck chairs on the far side of the lawn, where Gran Gowan was unlikely to detect the scent of liquor.
Dana didn’t answer, but raced blindly around the side of the house and onto the street. She had no idea where she was going; she just wanted to get away. Too miserable to see anything, she didn’t notice the car parked across the road—a black sedan with tinted windows. Nor did she notice that it moved off to follow her as she ran down the street.
Now, like a panther stalking its prey, it pulled up beside her. The passenger window slid noiselessly down.
Shocked by the sight of the driver, Dana stopped.
“Hello, my dear,” came the whispery voice. “Fancy meeting you here. Small world, isn’t it? I missed you at school all week. Are you feeling better now?”
Mr. Crowley looked even thinner than she remembered him. His frame was skeletal and his face, gaunt and gray. The only part of him that seemed alive was the eyes that burned into hers, though they, too, had something hollow about them.
“Would you like to come for a ride with me? Yes. Open the door. Yes. Get in.”
Alarm bells rang in Dana’s head, yet she found herself inexorably drawn to the car. Her hand reached out to open the door. She knew it was wrong—what am I doing?—but she couldn’t resist. Crowley’s voice was mesmeric. His eyes transfixed her.
“Yes. Get in,” he insisted. “Come with me now.”
Dana was almost in the car when she heard a shout. Slowly, with huge effort, she turned to see her aunts. They were running toward her.
“Get in!” Crowley urged.
His will seemed relentless; but the shouts of her aunts jarred against it. The two forces pushed and pulled at her. As the aunts drew nearer, Dana saw the panic on their faces. Dee was ahead, boots pounding the pavement, with Yvonne close behind despite her high heels.
Crowley cursed and leaned over to grab Dana.
Just as Deirdre arrived in time to grab at her also.
The car door slammed and the sedan screeched away.
Dee clasped her niece.
“What’s the license number?” Yvonne shouted, catching up to them.
Deirdre squinted at the speeding vehicle as it disappeared down the road.
“I don’t have my lenses in,” she said, nervous and jittery.
Yvonne was the same.
“For chrissakes, how can you go around half-blind like that!”
“New perspectives. Fuzzy edges.”
“Great. A myopic filmmaker.”
“We’re babbling,” Dee warned. “Shock.”
“You’re right,” her sister agreed. “We should call the police.”
They both pulled out their cell phones as if they were pistols.
“Did you get a good look at him?” they asked Dana. “What did he say?”
Dana was bewildered. She was glad that Deirdre was holding on to her. Her head hurt and she felt loose and disconnected, as if she were unraveling. She had a vague sense that something terrible had just happened, but she couldn’t remember what. At the same time she was confused by the memory of a harmless conversation.
“I … it was … someone asking for directions.”
“Oh yeah?” Dee demanded. “Then how come he took off like a bat out of hell?”
“And what were you doing getting into the car?” Yvonne asked, more gently. “You know better than that, kiddo.”
Dana shook her head as she looked from one to the other. Tears trickled down her face. She had no idea what was going on. Could her life get any worse?
The aunts were calming down. Their terror at seeing their niece being abducted began to ebb away as they found themselves questioning what they had seen. The more they thought about it, the vaguer were their impressions. The only thing they were really sure of was Dana’s distress.
“Tea room,” Yvonne announced, throwing her sister a look. “Hot chocolate and chocolate buns with heaps of chocolate sauce and chocolate doughnuts.”
“When in doubt, administer chocolate,” Deirdre agreed.
• • •
The Mad Hatter Tea House was a favorite of the aunts. Everything about it was “darling.” The wood-framed building was painted eggshell blue with yellow trim. A line of pink flamingos marched past the front window. Inside, the big room was chock-a-block from floor to ceiling with shelves of teapots. Big ones, small ones, plain and patterned, delicate china or glazed ceramics, they came in every shape and color; a black-and-white cow, a hen on her nest, ladies in long skirts, a honey hive with bees, a piano, a chair. Each was a work of art and no two were alike.
The three settled into an alcove by the lace-curtained window. Though the menu offered sandwiches and other savories, they went immediately to the desserts. By the time they had tucked into the chocolate-mousse cheese-cake and chocolate-chip cookies, they had forgotten why they were there.
“Gran will kill us,” Dana said, her mouth full. “She made a rhubarb tart.”
“Hah! We’ll eat that too,” said Dee.
Yvonne dialed her cell phone.
“Maisy, we’ve gone for a walk,” she said, winking at the others. “Put the pie in the oven. We’ll be back soon.”
The aunts had huge appetites and ate like horses without any visible effect on their weight. “Good breeding,” their mother maintained. “Hyperactive madwomen” was their own prognosis.
“So why did we get so upset when that guy asked you for directions?” Yvonne wond
ered.
Dana shrugged.
“Toronto paranoia,” Dee concluded. “Do you ever get the reverse kind? When you think you’re following someone?”
“Oh yeah,” said Yvonne, dropping brown sugar cubes into her coffee. “Everywhere you go, you keep seeing the same person and you think ‘My God, am I trailing them?’”
Sitting between the two, Dana felt her spirits lift. She was always in good humor when her aunts were around. They expected nothing of her and accepted her as she was, regardless of her mood. She wished she could tell them about the attack at school, but it wasn’t possible. They knew nothing of fairy life, and she couldn’t begin to explain what happened when she didn’t know herself.
“I still miss Ireland,” she confided instead. “It’s like an empty feeling in my stomach that won’t go away.”
“Try the cheesecake,” Dee said. “It’s almost as good as—”
Her sister frowned her into silence.
“You’re just like your dad,” Yvonne said with sympathy. “We weren’t surprised Gabe stayed so long in Ireland. Aside from escaping Mom, of course, he was always crazy about everything Irish—music, books, history, language, Irish this and Irish that.”
“Irish Guinness,” Dee added.
“The trouble is,” Yvonne continued, “you haven’t seen enough of Canada. All you’ve seen is Toronto and Creemore.”
“Toronto’s good,” Dee interjected. “Creemore’s good.”
“Yeah but,” said Yvonne. “There’s so much more. Like Hugh MacLennan said, ‘This land is far more important than we are. To know it is to be young and ancient all at once.’”
“How do you remember these things?” her sister said admiringly.
“There’s been no time to travel,” Dana pointed out. “We’ve had so much to do from the time we got here. Find a place to live, Gabe and Radhi’s marriage, their new jobs, my new school.”
“I rest my case,” said Yvonne. “No time to smell the roses, to appreciate where you are and what you’ve got.”
“I appreciate you two,” Dana declared.
The Book of Dreams Page 6
