The Book of Tomorrow (11 page)

Okay so that’s when I knew it was all ridiculous because it was the most beautiful hot day today. No rain whatsoever. I continued reading with a cocked eyebrow, armed with the knowledge that I was being punked or something, and I waited for Zoey and Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind the crumbling pillars.

…I feel smothered with a cold. Rosaleen practically wrapped me up in cotton wool, stuck me in front of the fire and force-fed me chicken soup. I lost half the day sweating profusely next to that ghastly fire and trying to convince her I wasn’t dying. She made me cover my head with a towel and stick my face over a bowl of boiling hot water filled with
Vicks
to clear my nose, and while under there snotting myself, I was almost sure I heard the doorbell ring. She assured me it didn’t. I should have taken Sister Ignatius up on her offer of drying off in her house. How scary can a house of nuns be?

Tomorrow I plan to avoid another heart attack on a plate and find a quiet place to write this. I’ll probably sunbathe in my bikini. Give the pheasants something to look at. It might not be so bad. When you close your eyes you can be just about anywhere you want to be. I can lie by the lake and imagine I’m by the pool in Marbella, that the splashing of the swans as they shake
out their feathers is Mum. She always used to lie, not on a sunbed like everybody else, but along the edge of the pool, near the filters. She’d allow her hand to hover over the water, slapping the water lightly. It sounded like toddler’s barefeet walking about the place. It was either to keep cool or because she liked the sound. I used to like listening to it. Though for some reason I always told her to shut up. Something to say in the silence, something that would make her open her eyes and look at me.

Who could have known all of that? Only Mum.

Maybe I’ll sunbathe right in the path of Arthur’s lawnmower on the grass and hope he’ll run me over. If it doesn’t kill me, the least it could do is save me from a full body wax.

Arthur’s not so bad, actually. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t even make many reactions, but I get a good feeling from him. Most of the time. Rosaleen’s not so bad either. I just have to try to figure her out. She reacted so unusually at dinner today—shepherd’s pie, yum—when I told her I’d spent time with Sister Ignatius. She said Sister had called round to her during the morning and mentioned nothing about meeting me. That must have been when I was in the shower. Would love to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Then she kept interrogating me on what kinds of things Sister and I talked about. Honestly, it was constant, and even Arthur seemed uncomfortable. I mean, did she think I was lying about it? Really, it was weird. I wish I hadn’t told her what I’d learned about the castle. Now I know that whatever information I need to learn, it most
certainly can’t be from her. I suppose Rosaleen and Arthur are just different. Or maybe it’s just me that’s different. I never really thought of it that way before. Perhaps it was always just me.

In case I die of dehydration and somebody finds this diary, I should mention that I cry every night. I go through the entire day, save for bluebottle and ruined-castle breakdowns, as strong as can be and then as soon as I crawl into bed and lie in the darkness and stillness, the world only then seems to me to be spinning. Then I cry. Sometimes for such long periods of time my pillow becomes soaked. Rolling down the edges of my eyes, along my ears and tickling down my neck, sometimes down to my vest, I just let the tears go wherever. I’m so used to crying, I don’t notice it sometimes. Does that make sense? Before, if I cried it was because I’d fallen and hurt myself, or because I’d had a fight with Dad, or I was totally drunk and the slightest thing made me upset. But now, it’s like, whatever…I’m sad so I’ll cry. Sometimes I start and then stop as I convince myself that everything will be fine. Sometimes I don’t believe myself and I start again.

I have lots of dreams about Dad. Rarely is he really Dad, but instead a mixture of different people’s faces. He starts off as him, then becomes a school teacher, then becomes Zac Efron and then some random person that I saw once before in my life, like the local priest or something. I’ve heard people say that when they dream about a loved one that has died, they feel that it’s real, that the person is really there, sending them a message, giving them a hug. That somehow dreams are a blurred line between here and there, like a meeting room in a prison. You’re both in the same room, yet on different
sides and really, in different worlds. I used to think that people who talked like that were quacks, or fundamentalist religious freaks. But now I know that that is just one of the many things I was wrong about. It’s got nothing to do with religion, it’s got nothing to do with mental stability, but it has everything to do with the human mind’s natural instinct, which is to hope beyond all hope, unless you’re a cynical bastard. It’s got to do with love, with losing somebody you love, a part of you being torn away that you’d do almost anything or believe anything to have returned to you. It’s hope that someday you’ll see them again, that you can still feel them near you. Hope like that, as I thought before, doesn’t make you a weak person. It’s hopelessness that makes you weak. Hope makes you stronger, because it brings with it a sense of reason. Not a reason for how or why they were taken from you, but a reason for you to live. Because it’s a maybe. A ‘maybe someday things won’t always be this shit.’ And that ‘maybe’ immediately makes the shittiness better.

I thought that we were supposed to become more cynical the older we got. Me? I was born looking warily around the hospital room, from one face to another, and just immediately knowing that this new scenario was shit and that I was better off back inside. I continued life like that. Everywhere I was, was shit, and somewhere else, in the backwards direction, was better. It’s only now when the matter-of-factness of life has hit me—very dead, death—that I’m beginning to look outwards. Scientific people think they’re looking outwards but they’re not. They think that emotional people only look inwards but they don’t. I think the best scientists are the ones that look both ways.

Despite all that I’ve said, I know that Dad isn’t in my dreams. There is no secret message or secret hug. I don’t feel him with me here in Kilsaney. They are merely obscure dreams with no meaning or words of advice. Mirrored segments of my day broken up as though a jigsaw, and thrown in the air to hang in my head without order, meaning or sense. Last night I dreamed about Dad, who turned into my English teacher, and then the English teacher was a woman and we all had a free class and I had to sing for everybody, but I opened my mouth and nothing would come out and then the school ended up being in America but nobody spoke English and I couldn’t understand anything, and then I lived on a boat. Weird. I woke up when Rosaleen dropped a pot or something downstairs in the kitchen.

Maybe Sister Ignatius was right. Maybe this diary will help me. Sister Ignatius is a funny woman. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I met her two days ago.

Yesterday. I’d only met her yesterday.

I like her. The first thing I like about being here—okay the second thing, after the castle—is her. It started lashing rain while I was in the castle yesterday and I could see Rosaleen coming down the road towards me with a coat in her hand, so I feel bad, but I just had to run in the opposite direction. I didn’t want her knowing that I spent time here; I didn’t want her to think that her guess was right. I didn’t want her knowing anything about me. I had no idea where I was running to. The rain came down really, really hard—less of a sun shower and more of a power shower, and I was soaked right
through to the skin, but it was like I was on autopilot, my body just switched off and I ran, and without really concentrating I ended up at the walled garden. Sister Ignatius was standing in the greenhouse, waiting for the rain to stop. She had a spare beekeeping suit for me. She said she had a feeling I’d be back.

Because I’d interrupted her the day before she hadn’t been able to get back to checking the hives. She’d other duties to attend to. Praying and stuff. So she showed me the inside of the hives yesterday. She drew on the queen bee with a marker so that I could see which one it was, she pointed out the drones, the worker bees too, and then showed me how to use the smoker. Looking at it made me feel dizzy. Something weird happened to me. She didn’t notice. I had to put my hand out and hold on to the wall so I wouldn’t crumple to the ground. While I was feeling like that, she invited me back next week to help her extract the honey, which she then puts in jars and brings to the market. I was so busy trying to breathe that I just said no. I just wanted to get away. I wish I’d just told her that I didn’t feel well. She seemed so disappointed and now I feel really bad. I also need to get to the market so I can see more people. I’m going insane here, seeing the same people every day. Also I want to know if everyone will stare at Rosaleen and Arthur like they did outside the pub. They must have done something in the town to be looked at like that. Organised swinging parties or something. Gross.

I’m sitting with my back against the bedroom door writing this because I don’t want Rosaleen to walk in. The less she knows about this diary, the better. Already she is trying to climb inside my head; I couldn’t risk her knowing my innermost thoughts are lying about my
bedroom. I’ll have to hide it. There’s an interesting-looking loose floorboard over by the corner chair that I might investigate tonight.

Once again, Mum zonked out straight after eating her dinner. She’s been sleeping so much the past two days. But this time she fell asleep in her chair. I wanted to wake her and put her in bed but Rosaleen wouldn’t let me. I’ll write this until I hear Arthur snoring and then I’ll know it’s safe to check on her.

While I’m in the safety of the house, I just want to say that I had a funny feeling while in the castle yesterday morning. I felt like somebody was there. Like somebody was watching me. It was such a sunny morning, right up until that freak cloud squeezed itself right on top of my head, and I was just sitting on the step, with this diary on my lap, and I couldn’t think of what to write and how to begin the first page and so I sunbathed instead. I don’t know how long I had my eyes closed for but I wish I’d kept them open. Someone was definitely there.

I’ll write again tomorrow.

I finished reading and looked around, my heart so loud in my ears that my breathing was rapid and sharp. That was now. I’d been writing about me
now
.

I suddenly felt a thousand eyes on me. As I stood up and ran down the steps, tripped on the last one and slammed into the wall. I grazed my hands and my right shoulder, dropped the book on the floor again. I felt around on the ground for it, and as I grabbed it my hand brushed against something furry and soft. I yelped and jumped away, ran into the room next door. There were no doorways out of there, all four walls were intact. I felt a few raindrops on my skin and they quickly
fell faster. I went to a hole in the wall where a window used to be and tried to climb out. Once up on the ledge, I saw Rosaleen charging her way up the road with what looked like a raincoat in her hands. She was power-walking forward, a stormy look on her face, her hand held above her head as though that alone could stop her from getting wet.

I rushed to the other window, looking out to the back of the castle and I climbed out, my knees scraping against the wall as I leaped up to catch the windowsill. I landed on concrete on the other side, feeling the sting in my feet as the lack of support in my flip-flops sent pain shooting up my legs. I spied Rosaleen coming closer to the castle. I turned away, and ran.

I had no idea where I was going. My body felt like it was on autopilot. It was only when I reached the walled garden, completely soaked to the skin, that I made the connection to the diary and a shudder went through my entire body, summoning goose pimples from head to toe.

As I stood at the garden entrance, frozen with fear and trembling, a white shadow through the frosted glass of the greenhouse caught my attention. Then the door opened and Sister Ignatius appeared with a spare bee suit in her hand.

‘I knew you’d come back,’ she called, and her blue eyes sparkled mischievously against her pale skin.

I joined Sister Ignatius in the greenhouse. I stood beside her, my body rigid and tight. My shoulders were hunched up past my ears as though I was trying to disappear into my body like a tortoise. I clung to the diary so tightly my knuckles were white.

‘Oh, look at you,’ she said, in her joyful, carefree voice. ‘You’re like a drowned rat. Let me dry you off—’

‘Don’t touch me,’ I said quickly, taking a step away from her. I angled my body away from her but I sneaked a look at her now and then over my shoulder.

‘What’s happened, Tamara?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t already know.’

A quick look over my shoulder showed her eyes narrow momentarily, then open wide. She registered something. She knew something. She looked like someone who had been caught.

‘Admit it.’

‘Tamara,’ she began, then paused, searching to find the right words. ‘Tamara, look at me. I’m…let me explain…we should go somewhere else to talk. Not here. Not in this greenhouse. Not with you like this.’

‘No. First I want to hear you admit it.’

‘Tamara, I really think that we should go inside and—’

‘Admit that you wrote it,’ I snapped.

Her face instantly changed to utter confusion. ‘Tamara, I don’t understand. Admit that I wrote what?’

‘The diary,’ I exploded, and pushed it in her face. I flicked ferociously through the pages. ‘Look, it’s been written in. I hid it in my bedroom, and this morning I brought it to the castle to write it, just like you told me to, and look. How did you do it?’ I shoved it under her nose and flicked through the pages, my wet hands blurring the ink. She blinked furiously to try to focus on the pages as they raced by.

‘Tamara, calm down. I can’t see anything, you’re going too fast.’

I went faster. She reached out and with those thick hands, strangling hands, she grabbed my wrists tightly and said firmly, ‘Tamara. Stop.’

It worked. She took the diary from my hands and opened the first page. Her eyes raced across the first few lines.

‘This isn’t for me to read. These are your private thoughts.’

‘I didn’t write them.’ I knew by then that she hadn’t either. The way her face had changed to such confusion couldn’t have been faked.

‘Well…who did?’

‘I don’t know. Look at the date on the first page.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Some of the things written are about what happens tomorrow.’

The rain pelted against the glass, so loud it felt like it was going to break through.

‘How do you know that, if tomorrow hasn’t happened yet?’ Her voice had softened, as though she was trying to coax a mental patient to put down a knife. She may very well have
been, only I didn’t pick up the knife, somebody had put it in my hands. This was not of my own doing.

‘Perhaps you got up in the middle of the night and wrote it, Tamara. Maybe you were so sleepy you don’t remember doing it. I’ve often done funny things half asleep or half awake. I’ve wandered around the house looking for things when I don’t know what I’m looking for, moving things, and when I wake up in the morning and go to find something, I’m in a right muddle.’ She chuckled.

‘This isn’t the same thing,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve written about things that have happened today that I couldn’t have known about. The rain, Rosaleen and the coat, you…’

‘What about me?’

‘I wrote that you’d be here.’

‘But I’m always here Tamara, you know that.’

Sister Ignatius kept talking then, trying to rationalise it, telling me a story about a time she’d wandered into Sister Mary’s room during the night, apparently looking for gardening gloves because she’d been dreaming of planting turnips, and she frightened the life out of Sister Mary. I tuned out. How could I have written five pages and not remembered? How could I have predicted the rain, Rosaleen’s arrival with the raincoat, Sister Ignatius waiting right here in the greenhouse with the spare beekeeping suit?

‘Our minds do unusual things sometimes, Tamara. When we’re looking for things it takes it upon itself to go down its own route. All we can do is follow.’

‘But I’m not looking for anything.’

‘Aren’t you? Ah, now it’s stopped. I told you it would. Why don’t we get you to the house to dry you off and get something hot into you? I made a soup yesterday with my own grown veg. It will be just right now, I’d say, if Sister Mary hasn’t sucked it up with a straw. She dropped her dentures
yesterday and Sister Peter Regina accidentally stomped on them. Everything’s been through a straw since.’ She covered her mouth. ‘Oh, forgive me for laughing.’

I was about to protest when I remembered my comments in the diary about being smothered with a cold. Perhaps I could change what was going to happen. I followed her out of the garden and through the trees to her home.

The house was just like Sister Ignatius. It lacked a deceptive brick in its making, as it was as old on the inside as it was on the outside. We entered through the back door, a small hallway filled with Wellington boots, raincoats, umbrellas and sunhats, every necessity for every kind of weather. Uneven, cracked stone flagging floored the walkway to the kitchen. The kitchen was something from the 1970s. Shaker-style cabinets, linoleum flooring, plastic counter tops, avocado and burnt orange in every possible place from an era obsessed with bringing the outside in. There was a long pine table with a bench on either side, long enough to feed the Waltons. From a room off the kitchen a radio blared. Brown swirly carpet led my eyeline to a big television set with a booty that came out thirty inches from the wall. On top, cream lace dangled over the front of the screen and a statue of Mary stood. On the wall above it was a simple wooden cross.

The house smelled old. Musty damp mixed with generations of cooked dinners and greasy cooking oil. Somewhere in there was the scent of Sister Ignatius’ a clean talcum powder soapy smell, like a freshly bathed baby. Like Rosaleen and Arthur’s house, this had the feel that generations of people had lived there before, families had grown up, run and shouted through the hallways, had broken things, grown things, fallen in love and pulled themselves back out of it again. Instead of the occupants owning the house, the house owned a part of each of them. We never had that feeling in our house. I loved
our house but every bit of life was cleaned away by our cleaners who everyday rid the rooms of history’s perfume and replaced it instead with bleach. Every three years a room was done up in a new style, old furniture thrown out, new furniture moved in, a painting to match the sofa. There was no eclectic collection of items gathered through the years. No sentimental clutter crammed together oozing secrets. It was all new and expensive, lacked anything of sentiment. Or that’s how it had been.

Sister Ignatius hurried off in her beekeeping suit, walking like a toddler with a bulging nappy. I took off my cardigan, lay it across the radiator. My vest was see-through and stuck to me, my flip-flops squelched but I daren’t take them off in case dirt from the previous family stuck to my sole. Too much of outside had been brought in on these floors.

Sister Ignatius returned with a towel in her hand and a T-shirt.

‘I’m sorry, this is all I could find. We’re not in the habit of dressing seventeen-year-olds.’

‘Sixteen,’ I corrected her, checking out the woman’s pink marathon T-shirt.

‘I ran it every year from ‘61 to ‘71,’ she explained, turning to the Aga to prepare the soup. ‘Not any more, I’m afraid.’

‘Wow, you must have been fit.’

‘What do you mean?’ She struck a pose in her beekeeping suit and kissed a padded bicep. ‘I haven’t lost it yet.’

I laughed. I lifted my vest over my head and lay it on the radiator too, then I put the T-shirt on. It went to mid-thigh. I took off my shorts and used the belt to turn the T-shirt into a dress.

‘What do you think?’ I walked an imaginary runway for Sister Ignatius and posed at the end.

She laughed and wolf-whistled. ‘My word, to have a pair of legs like that again,’ she tutted and shook her head.

She brought two bowls of soup to the table and I devoured mine.

Outside the sun shone, the birds sang again as though the rain had never fallen, as though it had all been a figment of our imaginations.

‘How’s your mother?’

‘She’s fine, thank you.’

Silence. Never lie to a nun.

‘She’s not fine. She sits in her bedroom all day looking out the window, smiling.’

‘She sounds happy.’

‘She sounds crazy.’

‘What does Rosaleen think?’

‘Rosaleen thinks that a lifetime’s supply of food in one day will keep anyone going.’

Sister Ignatius’ lips twitched at that but she fought her smile.

‘Rosaleen says it’s just the grief.’

‘Perhaps Rosaleen is right.’

‘What if Mum whipped off her clothes and rolled around in mud singing Enya songs, what then? Would that be the grief?’

Sister Ignatius smiled and her skin folded over like origami. ‘Has your mum done that?’

‘No. But it doesn’t seem far off.’

‘What does Arthur think?’

‘Does Arthur think?’ I responded, slurping the hot soup. ‘No, I take that back, Arthur thinks, all right. Arthur thinks but Arthur does not say. I mean, some brother he is. And he either loves Rosaleen so much, nothing she says bothers him, or he can’t stand her so much he can’t be arsed talking to her. I can’t really figure them out.’

Sister Ignatius looked away, uncomfortable.

‘Sorry. For the language.’

‘I think you’re doing Arthur an injustice. He adores Rosaleen. I think he’d do absolutely anything for her.’

‘Even marry her?’

She glared at me and I felt the slap from her stare.

‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that she’s so…I don’t know…’ I searched for the word, searched for how she made me feel. ‘
Possessive
.’

‘Possessive.’ Sister Ignatius pondered that. ‘That’s an interesting choice of word.’

I felt happy for some reason.

‘You know what it means, don’t you?’

‘Of course. It’s as if she owns everything.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I mean, she’s looking after us so well and everything. She feeds us three hundred times a day, in keeping with the dietary requirements of a dinosaur, but I wish she’d just chill out, back off from me a little and let me breathe.’

‘Would you like me to have a little word with her, Tamara?’

I panicked. ‘No, she’ll know I talked to you about her. I haven’t even mentioned I’ve met you. You’re my dirty little secret,’ I joked.

‘Well,’ she laughed, her cheeks pinking, ‘I’ve never been
that
.’ Once she’d recovered from her embarrassment she assured me she wouldn’t let Rosaleen know that I’d spoken about her. We talked more about the diary, about how and why it was happening and she assured me that I shouldn’t worry, my mind was under a lot of pressure and she was sure I must have written it sleepily, and forgotten. I instantly felt better after our chat, though was more concerned about my sleeping habits by the end of it. If I could write a diary in my sleep, what else was I capable of? Sister Ignatius had the power to make me feel that everything obscure was normal, like
everything was divine and wonderous, and nothing worth stressing myself about, that answers would come and the clouds would clear and the complicated would become simple and the bizarre would become ordinary. I believed her.

‘My, look at that weather now.’ She turned to gaze out the window. ‘The sun is back. We should go quickly and see to the bees.’

Back outside in the walled garden I was suited up and feeling like the Michelin man.

‘Do you keep bees for extra time off?’ I asked as we made our way with the equipment to a hive. ‘I do that at school. If you sing in the choir you sometimes get classes off to take part in competitions or at church, things like when the teachers get married. If I was a teacher and I got married, I wouldn’t want some snotty little bitches who give me hell all day to sing at the happiest day of my life. I’d go to St Kitts or Mauritius. Or Amsterdam. It’s legal for a sixteen-year-old to drink there. But only beer. I hate beer. But if it’s legal I wouldn’t say no. Not that I’d be getting married at sixteen. Is that even legal? You should know, you know your man.’ I jerked my head towards the sky.

‘So you sing in a choir?’ she asked, as though she hadn’t heard a word of anything else I’d said.

‘Yeah, but never outside school. I’ve never been there to compete. The first time we were skiing in Verbier, and the second time I had laryngitis.’ I winked. ‘My mum’s friend’s husband is a doctor so he used to give notes whenever. I think he fancied my mum. You wouldn’t catch me dead at one of those competitions, though apparently our school is actually really good at the choir competitions. We won the All-Ireland under somethings, twice.’

‘Oh, what kinds of things do you sing. “Nessun Dorma” was always my favourite.’

‘Who’s that by?’

‘“Nessun Dorma?”‘ She looked at me, shocked. ‘Well it’s one of the finest tenor arias from the final act of Puccini’s opera
Turandot
.’ She closed her eyes, hummed a bit and swayed. ‘Oh, I love it. Famously sang by Pavarotti, of course.’

‘Oh, yeah, he’s the big dude who sang with Bono. I always thought he was a celebrity chef, for some reason, until I saw him on the news the day of his funeral. I must have been confusing him with someone else—you know, the guy who makes pizzas with weird toppings, on The Food Channel. Chocolate and stuff? I asked Mae to make me one once but it totally made me retch. No, we didn’t sing anything like his songs. We sang “Shut Up and Let Me Go” by the Ting Tings. But it sounded completely different with all the harmonies, really serious, like one of those operas.’

‘The Food Channel, now I don’t have that at all.’

‘I know it’s a part of the satellite stations. Neither do Rosaleen and Arthur. You probably wouldn’t like it, but there is The God Channel. There’s probably stuff on that you’d like. They just talk about God all day.’

Sister Ignatius smiled at me again, wrapped her arm around my shoulders, squeezed me close to her and we walked like that towards the garden.