“I have depression.” She sniffs. “Why is that so hard to say?”
I’m expecting the whole café to have turned into an expectant audience wondering what I’m going to say, but I look around and see everyone is busy going about their own day.
“Oh Santy.” I reach out and clasp the tips of her fingers.
I let her tell me about her problems. The therapist that costs eighty euro an hour who she thinks is flirting with her. Her beef with CBT workbooks and meditation. The yoga retreat she went to over reading week where she cried all of the time but didn’t tell anyone because they might have suspected her secret—her terrible secret that she’s a little bit sad sometimes.
I want to shake her. I want to slap some sense into her beautiful face. I want to tell her that she can’t be depressed. The diagnosis the doctor gave her must have been a mistake. If I haven’t earned the title of depression, then neither has she. Because she is a lot less miserable than I am. Or she certainly ought to be.
Snow
We have been snowed in for two weeks now. I’m glad of the excuse not to go to college. There’s a video on Griff’s Facebook of an epic snowball fight in Front Square. I watch rosy-cheeked people prancing around campus in the latest skiing fashion. The elation on their faces gives me anxiety. I don’t think I’ll ever feel like a student. If I were there, I would hide in the library until it was over.
Billy keeps trying to get me out of the house but I tell him I’ve loads of college work to do. I’m supposed to be writing an essay on Jude the Obscure. Every so often he asks how Jude is getting on and I try to impress him with an answer. He hasn’t read the book but he knows the gist of it. It gives me license to convince him of whatever nonsense I’m trying to sort out in my head.
I want to do well on the essay because I like the tutor. She has short pink hair and brings in pastries to class. And she’s not condescending like the others. She talks to us like we can teach her things too.
In our introduction class to Thomas Hardy, she said she was tired of teaching him.
“But I like him,” I said in a small, petulant voice.
She looked at me and said, “I liked him too, when I was sixteen.” Then she clasped her hand to her mouth as if she had said something horrible. “I have no idea why I said that. I’m so sorry.”
I had no idea why she felt the need to apologize. At the beginning of the next class, she called me by name. “Debbie. I had a think about what I said to you last week and why I said it. I’m really sorry for patronizing you.”
“That’s OK,” I said.
“When I was your age, I loved Hardy as well. But then, as I grew up, I realized that he treated his characters unfairly. All of Hardy’s characters—their desires are beyond their remit. So I’m angry with him really, because they all have unachievable dreams.”
“His dreams were as gigantic as his surroundings were small,” I replied. It was a line that struck me when I was googling Jude the Obscure quotes.
“Exactly.” She smiled.
“Read Tess,” she said to me later, as she passed me on the way out of class. “You’ll love it.”
* * *
When I couldn’t get to class, I sent her an email saying why I couldn’t make it, playing up to my poor culchie persona. She sent me an email back offering to meet for a coffee after the snow to go over some material I had missed. But then the whole country went into shutdown. The university has been closed for a week now so she’s probably forgotten. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. If I speak to her one-on-one, she’ll only find out that I’m a dope.
* * *
Milking has been a nightmare. I spent this morning outside in the dark, early hours, trying to unfreeze the pipes with a blowtorch. We wouldn’t be able to cope without Mark Cassidy. He has been a godsend cleaning out sheds and feeding calves. Billy has been out in the digger trying to clear the roads so that people can get to the shop. He went to the shop in the tractor yesterday to get provisions for Shirley and brought Mam back a crate of mini bottles of wine from the pub. The tinkling of the bottles Billy shoved under her bed woke her up. She whispered a surprised thank-you.
* * *
Mam is struggling with cabin fever. A lot of her recovery has focused on being outdoors and reconnecting with nature. Usually, she goes outside in her pajamas as soon as she wakes up. Then she puts her bare feet in the grass, closes her eyes, and breathes. It’s called grounding. Billy and I have agreed that it’s better than letting her sting herself in a bunch of nettles. When the snow started, she was stubborn about sticking to her morning ritual. She shoveled the snow off her patch of grass. Then she got the flu and gave up.
* * *
Mam can’t get to her appointments in town. The psychiatrist must have gotten sick of her endless phone calls so he recommended a local therapist. Very local. She lives across the road from us.
“Audrey Keane?” Billy frowns. “Is a shrink?”
“A psychotherapist, yes,” Mam says.
“Audrey Keane, my old piano teacher?” I ask.
“Yes,” Mam insists. “And she’s supposed to be good.”
“Ah Jesus. You can’t go to Audrey Keane, Maeve.” Billy sighs. “That’s just . . . it’s too close to home.”
“Billy, I’m not well. I need to talk to someone.”
“Well, talk to your daughter over there.”
I shoot Billy a look.
“She’s been very good about the fee. It’s only fifty,” Mam says.
“Fifty euro!” Billy shouts. “How many mini bottles of wine would that get ya?”
“It’s a reduced rate.”
“So I’m supposed to give you fifty quid of my money for you to go and spill your guts to our neighbor. What am I supposed to be getting out of this?”
“Please, Billy.”
He makes her sweat for a bit before leaving a fifty note on the kitchen table and going out to milk.
Mam has a shower and blow-dries her hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen her wear makeup since the wake.
“You look nice,” I say.
“Thanks.” She smiles and then shuts her mouth, conscious of her teeth. “See you later.”
“Good luck.”
* * *
Three hours later, I’m sitting in an armchair waiting for her to come home. She opens the door and jumps when she sees me.
“Jesus.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s OK, I just wasn’t expecting you,” she says.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“Great, yeah,” she says flopping down on the sofa. “It was really nice just to talk to someone outside my head, if you get me.”
“I do,” I say. “Did she make you play the piano?”
“Haha, no.”
“You know what my favorite part of going to piano lessons was?”
“What?”
“Going to the bathroom. Audrey Keane had the most glorious bathroom I’ve ever seen. It was so magical. I went at least twice a session. Candles lighting. Relaxing music. Matching towel set. Pure heaven.”
“I didn’t get to see it.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I can’t remember you doing piano lessons,” Mam says.
“I begged Billy to let me go because the girls in school were doing it. I didn’t last long. Audrey Keane is an absolute lady though.”
“She is,” Mam says. “She actually offered to see you for a session, if you were up for it. I think it might be good for you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Smooth Artemis
I’m trying to remember what Audrey Keane’s garden looks like underneath all of the snow. There’s a neat laurel hedge under there, and an arch that leads to the pond. Her Christmas lights are up. The rose bush is still hanging in there, pink petals frozen in the snow. I had to wait until Billy went to the pub to sneak out. He left the fifty on the kitchen table for Mam and she gave it to me reluctantly,
like I was cheating her out of a session.
Audrey opens the door. I smell pine needles, cinnamon, and baking.
“Come in out of the cold.” Audrey pulls me in by the hand and shuts the door. “Debbie,” she says looking at me as though double-checking who I am. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Your hair is amazing,” I say.
Audrey’s hair has turned a gorgeous shade of silver.
“You haven’t changed a bit.” I smile.
“You have!”
“Thanks.” I grin. I desperately want Audrey to like me. She takes my jacket, hat, scarf, and gloves and drapes them over the radiator.
“Come on through,” she says and opens the door to her left.
Nostalgia pulls me toward the piano room down the hall. I don’t know why I imagined the session would take place in the same room as I learned my major and minor scales, but Audrey shows me into the sitting-room conservatory. Two armchairs sit opposite each other by the fire, waiting for us to take our seats. A blanket of blue snow covers the glass ceiling. It feels like we’re underground.
Audrey puts the fireguard to the side, opens the brass box, and uses the tongs to throw a bit of turf in the fire. The brass glints like gold.
“Would you like tea, coffee, or hot chocolate?”
“Tea would be great.”
“Weak or strong?”
“Strong. And a drop of milk please. A big drop.”
“Help yourself to the biscuits. The bathroom is up the corridor. It’s the second door on the right.”
She closes the door behind her. I delay sitting down because I don’t know which armchair is mine. I have a proper gawk at her bookshelf. I like that she has the Harry Potter series next to her therapy books.
A terra-cotta bowl of shells sits on the small table by the fire, along with a plate of shortbread biscuits that smell like they are just out of the oven, two glasses of water, and a box of tissues. I take a pair of smooth artemis shells from the bowl—two white shells with their mouths and tails clasped together. I turn them over in my hand and examine the pattern. Blue semicircles run across their ridges.
I pry their mouths open. The two halves break in my hands, spilling sand on the table. I’m still cleaning it up when Audrey comes back in.
“Don’t worry, there’s a lot of sand in those shells,” she says, putting my cup of tea on a coaster. “Your mother actually did the same thing.”
She takes her seat and I follow her lead, as though we’re on a chat show.
“Is this where the psychoanalysis starts?”
“Touché,” she says. “Have you seen someone like me before?”
“No.” I lie because I think it’s more important to be polite than honest.
“Well, I’ve been to a lot of different kinds of therapy,” she says. “Some were more helpful than others. Sometimes, I knew from the first session that I wasn’t going to go back for round two.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. “You can use all the techniques in the handbook, but when it boils down to it, therapy is just two people talking in a room. Me trying to understand you. So I always treat the first session with a new client as a trial run. If you feel at the end of this session that I’m not the therapist for you, there will be no fee. It has happened many, many times. I can’t expect to be everyone’s cup of tea. I will still shake your hand during the Sign of Peace at mass.”
I laugh too loud. “OK.”
“Everything you say to me stays inside this room. I will never stop you in the shop to talk to you about a session. When I meet you outside this room, I am your old piano teacher. Not a lot of people around here know what I do now.”
“Billy was surprised.”
Audrey seems amused. “Myself and Billy were in the same class at school.”
“Really? You seem older.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Is it the gray hair?”
I put my hand over my mouth. “Oh God. I mean wiser. Definitely wiser.”
Audrey doesn’t say anything. I sip my tea to have something to do. Recross my legs. Look down at my hands in my lap. Inspect my fingernails.
“So,” she says. “It’s difficult for us to start from scratch because we already know each other. Or rather, we think we know each other. I thought it might be a good idea to start by telling you two things that you probably know about me and one thing that you don’t know. Then I’ll ask you to do the same. Does that sound reasonable?”
I nod.
“OK, so two things that I think you know about me are rather obvious. I am a piano teacher and my father used to be the local chemist.”
“I remember him,” I say. Mr. Keane retired a long time ago but I can still picture him behind the counter in his white coat. He looked miserable and spoke through his nose.
“Something you might not know about me is that I trained as a doctor. I studied medicine in college, but I didn’t practice for long once I qualified. I was diagnosed with depression in my early twenties and spent some time in the hospital. I became interested in psychiatry and well, that’s how I ended up in this line of work.”
“Oh.” I’m struggling to find an appropriate response.
“Is there anything you think I left out that you know about me?”
“Yes. You have a magnificent bathroom.”
“Ha!”
“The most magical in all the land,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “Now, it’s your turn.”
“OK. Well, you know my mother. And if you have ever spoken to my mother for any prolonged length of time, you know about the dreams.”
I try to gauge her reaction, but her expression remains neutral.
“Something that you might not know about me is that I’m afraid of going the same way as my mother. I’m afraid of being stuck at home my whole life and 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 say, looking at my hands. “I mean, I’m not suicidal. I don’t have suicidal thoughts at all.”
“I understand,” Audrey says. “There are some things that you left out that I know about you. You were close to James Cassidy, who died recently. I know how that has affected your mam. It must also have had a massive impact on you. I can only imagine how difficult it has been for you all. And you jog on the road sometimes. You have a very determined stride when you run. You also seem to have a very close relationship with your uncle.”
“Mmmm,” I say.
“What does Billy make of you coming here?”
“Billy doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Who gave you money to come here?”
“Billy thinks Mam is seeing you. Not me.”
“So if you decide to see me on a regular basis, would money be an issue?”
“Well, Billy has already been so good to me putting me through college this year . . .”
I don’t tell her how thick Billy would be if he knew I was talking to her, but somehow, I think she knows.
“OK. Well, for now, if you decide to come back to see me, there will be no charge. That would certainly make me feel more comfortable about working with you.”
“Oh God no, I couldn’t do that.”
“That doesn’t sit well with you.”
“No. I mean, thanks a million, but you’re providing a service.”
“How about in return you clean my bathroom for me?”
“That would hardly cover the cost.”
“You underestimate how much I loathe housework.”
I laugh. “Are you offering to be my Mr. Miyagi?”
“A younger version, with better hair.” She puts out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” I say.
Even though the fire is blazing right in front of us, her hands are cold.
First Impressions
We weren’t sure if Xanthe would make it down with the weather. The trains and buses are still out of service. Her boyfriend picked her up on St. Stephen’s morning in hi
s dad’s Range Rover. She went to meet his parents.
She texts me to say that she is walking over to see the farm.
I’m not expecting her over so early. The sink is full of dishes and we’ve run out of toilet paper.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I grab some dirty dishes and put them in the sink. I text her back: I’ll meet you at the Church! X
It’s bright outside. The cold goes right down into my chest, burning my lungs. The snow has made everything seem celestial. It’s like a sheet has been thrown over the village, disguising everything boring and playing up to the fairy-tale narrative of home that I’ve constructed in college. It almost feels like cheating.
I see her waiting by the entrance to the graveyard. She spots me and we both wave too soon. She’s wearing a black faux-fur hat and a burgundy overcoat. She is carrying a basket that, as I get closer, turns out to be a hamper.
We do that thing that girls do when they haven’t seen each other in a long time: we stare at each other in disbelief, then hug and squeal as hard as we can for as long as we can.
“How are you?”
“How are you?!”
“You look great!”
“You look gorgeous!”
We both know it’s ridiculous but the script has to be followed.
“Where did you get the coat?” I ask.
“Oxfam.”
“Who donated a coat like that—Anna Karenina?”
I’m looking at the image she has chosen to present to her boyfriend’s family. Xanthe has managed to find a hair salon that was open in the snow. Her fringe is cut and her hair is blow-dried to perfection. She has black velvet earmuffs on underneath the hat. She’s beautiful. I’m still wearing pajamas underneath my tracksuit and a ski jacket from Aldi that I grabbed from the hot press.
“Where are you going with the basket?” I ask.
“It’s just something small.”
“Ah Santy, it’s huge!”
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