Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What did you do?” I ask, allowing her to come in.
“I told Mammy.”
It’s funny to me that the Irish use the names mammy and daddy so much more commonly than Americans use the equivalent mommy and daddy in adulthood.
It would have been nice if I’d done that, rather than the exceedingly self-conscious transition I put us all through when I turned sixteen.
My daily use of Mommy shifted to the sober syllable Mom; Daddy became Dad .
And they both teased me mercilessly about it, each of them still signing cards and things with their original names.
“Told your— Told her about what, me? About my…” I twirl my finger at my temple and she nods.
“Why?”
“I dunno!” she says, tossing down her hoodie.
Everyone here seems to travel with an extra layer, and even in the last few days I’ve started to see why.
The chill sets in.
“She was plyin’ me with French onion soup. She goes through these cooking phases,” she adds as explanation.
“She’s on soups now.”
“That’s fun.”
“And she’s getting proper good, too. Anyway. I was there, having a chat, and I cannot overstate how good this soup was. It was the right amount of cheese and onions and had such a depth —”
I do a hurry up gesture, needing to know quite how serious this is.
I can’t see why it matters that she told her mom, but I assume it’s bad.
“Right. So. Somehow in the haze of it, I started telling her about how you didn’t have your memory anymore and how you had this whole idea that you were a famous actress in Hollywood and all.”
“All right,” I say.
“But what’s the problem? I mean, it’s your mom. I think that’s fine.”
She makes a tight face and says, “You don’t know me mam. Apparently.”
“Well, no.”
“Did you ever see that old Norman Rockwell painting with the game of telephone and the gossip?”
“Yeah…”
“Right. Well, the one who sets it all off? That’s Kay.”
“Ah.”
“My mother.”
“She’s a big gossip, then.” I remember now from my first night, Cillian said something about bloody Kay Donahue running around unchecked .
“Yes.”
“She’s going to tell everyone?”
She shakes her head.
“If she hasn’t already, I’d be stunned.”
“Okay. Huh.” I put my hands on my hips and exhale.
“Isn’t that kind of fine? It’s not like it’s a secret. Cillian’s dad knows. I told Aimee earlier.”
She gasps.
“Oh my God! The café with Aimee! I completely forgot. I’m a terrible friend. Was it all right?”
“Yes, actually.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“… yes?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“She believed me and everything.”
“ Really? ”
“Yeah. I was kind of surprised too, but yeah. All good.”
“That woman is like a human lie detector.”
“So does that make you believe me too?”
“No.”
“Why not!”
“Because! It’s a batshit crazy thing you’re walking about here saying. I’m sorry, but I’m not as easily sold as your old friend. She’s the one who’s always going on about UFOs and things. But I? Am a bit more practical than all that. It’s never that I think you’re lyin ’.”
I let out a frustrated sigh.
“I don’t think I’d believe it either, if I’m totally honest.”
“But like I said,” she says, “I believe that you—”
“Believe it,” I say, filling it in.
“I know. And I appreciate that.”
She goes over to the kitchen and opens a drawer, then pulls out a paper carryout menu.
It’s funny, because in some way, coming to this small village is a bit like time traveling.
In LA it’s almost impossible to find a tangible menu for carryout.
And everyone orders everything on Caviar and DoorDash anyway.
She hands it to me.
“Pick what you like, I’ll call.”
After a few minutes of perusal, I say, “Chicken tikka masala with a side of basmati.”
“Should have known,” she says.
“That what I usually get?” I ask, hesitant still to buy into this, even after all that I’ve seen.
“That’s right. I suppose you want some garlic naan as well? And some raita and lime pickle?”
“Ooh, yes,” I say, “I forgot about naan, oh my God, I haven’t had it in forever! Raita definitely. I’ve never had lime pickle.”
She scoffs.
“You have, and you love it. You haven’t had naan in forever?”
“No. Before coming here, I think the last time I had bread was like… I can’t even remember. The only starch I ever do is brown rice, and even that’s rare. I basically have to be about to pass out to have something like that.”
“Sounds like disordered eating to me, if I’m honest. Like Gwyneth Paltrow with her IV of nutrients.”
“Not reall— I mean, sort of. It’s part of the job. It’s not forever. If I get successful enough, I can… well, I mean, I’ll always have to keep it in check.”
“It’s what I’ve never understood about these actresses. They work so hard to get recognition. Then they do. Then they have to stay skinny and beautiful all the time. And if they don’t, then they’re constantly having to defend themselves. That’s no life, in my opinion.”
“You get money.” I shrug.
“And you get to be remembered.”
“That’s true. But that’s the rub, isn’t it? I feel like people get famous only so that they can go into hiding and get what they really want, which is simply to have a nice life. I don’t even know if the money matters that much, except that it means you can relax. And what’s the point in having all that money if you can’t have a good pudding whenever you feel like it?”
I open my mouth to speak but find that I have no response.
When am I going to really live?
I’m withholding carbs from myself like there’s a finish line, when I know there isn’t.
She’s also right that celebrities often get famous, then spend their lives trying to go unseen.
Is it really all about the money?
No, I guess it is the notoriety too.
But still, it all feels a little pointless when it’s lined up like that.
I think of my walk earlier, how much I appreciate it after so many years in a chaotic metropolis.
“You don’t have to worry about it tonight, anyway,” she says.
“All right, I’m ordering.”
A moment later, she’s on the phone—like speaking to a person.
Another thing that never happens in my real life.
When she hangs up, I say, “So, Aimee invited me to Clare’s birthday party tomorrow.”
She lifts her chin dramatically as she says, “Ah, wow. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I mean, she said she believed me about the whole… thing, and then she invited me over there. You too.”
“If this is all a ploy to get a blank slate with her and Cillian, I’d say you’re one down, one to go.”
“It’s not!”
“If it were, it’s not a terrible idea.”
“Well, it’s not. Also, what’s the play that’s happening this weekend?”
“Did she tell you about that as well?”
“No. I met some woman at the coffee shop after she left. She had a huge dog and his name was Bernard? Or, no, the husband’s name was Bernard.”
“Ah, Bernard and Sara. She’s a busybody, but she’s harmless. Mae West is the one you have to look out for. You’ve never experienced anything like being surprise-humped by a female dog that’s bigger than you.”
“Gross.”
“Pfft. You’re telling me. That dog happens to like me quite a lot.”
“So do I not act? Even though there’s a theater here and plays going on?”
“Afraid not.”
“Why not? Do I suck?”
“No! Not at all.”
I can tell she’s not saying something, so I ask, “What?”
She moves her head from side to side and then says, “You sort of act like it’s beneath you.”
“Jesus Christ . I’m the worst.”
She nods tightly.
“You’re not as big a dick as you sound, I promise. And I mean, I get it. It’s a little playhouse, that’s hardly the same as walking the red carpet.”
“I am an absolute brat.”
“You’re not a brat.” She steels herself.
“You’re insecure, I think.”
I get the feeling it’s something she’s never said to other-me.
I nod.
“Sounds like it. Is Aimee involved in the play?”
“Yeah, she’s the director.”
“Wow.” So I wasn’t that far off when I came up with the other fake life for her.
I mean, far off in that community theatre isn’t the same as Broadway, but it was headed in the right direction.
“Yeah, the show this weekend is one of her own. There’s some big critic coming in from The Guardian, so she’s hoping for a good review. She’s always hoping for a good review, obviously, but if she gets one this time, and from a critic like that, then it could make her career. I think she’s really nervous.”
“Wow. That’s huge. And what does Theo do?”
“Theo recently got made redundant and he’s having trouble finding a new job.”
I laugh derisively.
“That feels typical.”
“It’s not really his fault,” she says earnestly.
“He’s not as bad a lad as you seem to think he is.” Her phone rings and she pauses our conversation to answer it.
I go over to the fridge and get out a bottle of gewürztraminer, which will be good with Indian food.
I open the cabinet and consider which glasses to use, then decide to go with the same ones Kiera picked the other night.
A small act of contrition for my pretentiousness.
“I know, Mammy,” she’s saying in the bedroom.
“I told ye, please don’t tell anyone! Well, what do you mean it’s too late, I told you before I left not to— Well, why would you do that? You know Sara’s got a mouth the size of a bowhead whale.” She lowers her voice further.
“The whole town will know by morning, and now Meg’s going to be at Aimee’s party with every old geezer— I know, Mam. I know you’re sorry. I know. But please, next time keep your mouth shut, won’t you? I know it’s a bit late now, I’m talking about next time!”
I walk over with a glass of wine and she gives me a grateful, apologetic look.
I mouth “It’s fine” as I sit down to give Maureen some scritches under the ears.
“Look, Mam, I’ve got to go— Mammy, no, don’t start in telling me about more gossip, that’s— No way, serious? I thought the two of them didn’t get on anymore? Really?”
Her eyes catch on me and my look of amusement.
“Ah, Mam, now you got me doing it!” she says.
“I’ve got to go. Goodbye— No, goodbye, Mammy.”
She hangs up.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“Really, I think it’ll be okay.”
A while later, we’re sitting outside at a little table, string lights turned on and music coming through the open windows.
“So, she’s directing the play? Who’s in it?”
“Some of the college kids. I think she’s having a lot of trouble with them though.”
“Maybe I can help out,” I say.
“I don’t know how, but I mean… I act. I know about this kind of thing.”
“You two haven’t worked together like that in years. I’d be surprised if she lets you in. Plus, it’s only a few days away, I’m sure they’re in final rehearsals, no? You know better than I would.”
She’s right, of course.
“I’ll give it a shot,” I say.
“Maybe I can remind her why we used to be friends. I just want to help. Even if it’s just as an usher or something, I don’t know.”
The food arrives and we set about arranging the feast on the table.
Indian is always a highly aromatic cuisine, but this smells particularly good.
It tastes even better.
Every bite I take, I groan with amazement at how wonderful it is.
“I can’t believe you waited so long to eat. You’re awfully good at it,” says Kiera.
Inside, Nancy Sinatra’s “Lightning’s Girl” plays and I bob my head to it and sing along: Better stop your groovin’ round another rooster’s hen , if Lightning ever catches you he’s got to do you in .
“I’m so happy right now.”
Kiera smiles and narrows her eyes at me.
“It’s nice to hear you say that. Most of what you talk about is wanting to get the hell out of here. Which I can only imagine is what you were saying in Alligator Land before you came here.”
Kiera takes a big bite of naan and winks at me as I kick her under the table.
“Well, you’re right,” I say.
“I was desperate to get out of Florida. And it sounds like I was desperate to get out of here. And I’m sure you can guess how I was feeling in LA.”
She nods deeply.
A breeze lifts and bends the grass toward us, the smell of greenery I can’t identify and lavender I can identify in the yard mixing with the cumin, basil, cinnamon, and garlic in our food.
I stretch back over the old creaky chair and look up at the still-twilit sky.
My toes grab at the grass beneath my feet.
It’s starting to get a little cooler out and the blades feel chilly on my skin.
“That’s the thing, Kiera—whatever’s happening right now, what you keep calling time travel or visiting from another planet”—I smile as she nods soberly—“I can’t understand why I’d ever let it end. But… will this go on forever? I never get back to my other life? Why would I want to, when—”
She looks at me.
“When what?”
I narrowly avoid blurting out the truth about Aimee.
I don’t want to tell her.
Or anyone.
Maybe part of me is afraid it’ll become true again if I utter the words.
I wish I had someone shepherding me through this strange experience.
“I feel like I’m my own Christmas ghost,” I say, aware that it sounds like nonsense.
She puts her fork down.
“I completely understand what you mean. You’re your own guide on this journey.”
“Ohmigod, yes, exactly!”
“Go on.”
“You really get me.”
“Best friends for years for a reason. Carry on.”
I really like her.
Yet another person I’m beginning to fear losing.
“I don’t want to leave. There’s nothing whatsoever in my real life that I’d choose over this one. I miss my dog. I can’t think about her. I can’t. But… nothing else is missing for me here.”
“Maybe not yet, but you didn’t seem completely happy to me. Not the Meg I know.”
“But this life is better. It suits me better. I’m happier here.”
“The Meg I know could very well say the same thing about a life in LA.”
I consider this, tearing off another piece of bread.
“I just have this feeling it’s going to come to an end. That I can’t simply choose this life because I like it more. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies, but it never works like that. Isn’t that the point of every story about a genie? Every morality tale? Like… the old love potion thing. You can make someone fall in love with you but it won’t be real. This isn’t real.”
“I can assure you, this is real. It’s my life, you know.”
It’s the first time I feel like I’ve come up against the edge of Kiera’s patience.
I don’t blame her.
She’s right.
This is real.
It feels like it anyway.
As solid and firm as the reality I’m used to.
More so, in some ways.
I’ve always had a vivid imagination.
How far can that take a person?
“I’m sorry,” I say to Kiera.
“It’s confusing. I don’t know how to frame it. I keep having this terrible feeling that I’m going to wake up one day in my other life. Find I’ve been swept off like Dorothy, and all of you will be gone. Or maybe Oz is real, and Kansas is the dream. Something isn’t reality, and I don’t know which it is anymore.”
She looks a little relieved, like my delusion is starting to loosen.
Maybe it is.
I don’t know.
“It’s okay. I know it’s a mess.”
I’m afraid to know what the truth is.
I’m actually hoping I made up an entire life for myself, and that can’t be good for a person.
Maybe Kiera’s right.
Maybe I should trust it.
The little voice in my head makes a doubtful sound and I wish I could kick myself under the table.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says, scooting back from the table and crossing her arms.
“Of course.”
“Why do you hate Theo so bloody much? You’ve never told me, but I’ve always thought there’s more to the story than you’re letting on.”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
Fittingly, the song inside changes to “Boy and Girl” by Unloved.
“Okay, well, I don’t know what I’ve told you. But, so, before they started dating, I actually”—I shiver—“hung out with him one night at his house. He played in a band and, at least that night, I thought he seemed cool. Which he wasn’t. We hung out in his basement and he and his friends smoked weed and got drunk and played video games.” I cringe, thinking about how cool I was trying to seem to them .
“Then I lost a bet and had to smoke hash oil. I had never smoked anything in my life and I thought I was going to die. I was lying on the ground, feeling paralyzed, and they had a dog that was crawling all over me while everybody laughed.”
“ God, ” says Kiera.
“Vile.”
“Yeah. It took like three days to feel normal again, but I still hated everything that happened that night. He actually tried to kiss me, and I didn’t want to kiss him, and he was really nasty to me about it and then told me he’d fuck my friend.”
Kiera’s eyebrows shoot up.
“I didn’t tell Aimee about it because I thought she was way smarter than I was and that she’d never fall for his bullshit. I was also way too embarrassed to tell her I’d tried drugs, which we were super not into, or about the dog walking all over me. It was so awful and saying it out loud would have been… like, impossible at the time.”
I realize as I’m saying it that this was probably my first case of major denial.
“Surely once they started dating, though…”
I shrug.
“I was a teenager. I told her way too late. By the time I did, she told me I was ridiculous for trying to insinuate their entire relationship was about me. Which I understand. At that point, it had been a few months. But still.”
“Well, that’s truly villain shite.”
“It is, right?”
She nods.
“I know him now. I can say he loves his kids. He loves her. He’s sort of boring, if anything. A normal guy who seems like maybe he was cool to his mates once, but now he’s some interesting woman’s husband. If that makes sense.”
I clench my jaw and shake my head.
“Yeah.” I bite my bottom lip and stare at the ground.
“Still, she deserves so much more than that.”
Kiera says nothing, and when I eventually look up at her she gives me an empathetic smile.
“I’m sorry. That sounds like a terrible night and an absolutely horrid thing to carry with you. Especially once she started seeing him and you had to be around him all the time.”
“That was the worst of it. Then I saw him treating her the same way he treated me that night. It felt like insert girl here , you know? And then after—”
I catch myself again .
After not mentioning Aimee or her death in the last decade, I sure am champing at the bit to tell Kiera about it.
Maybe this is what would have happened if I’d truly let someone into my inner circle at any point.
“They broke up in my life,” I substitute.
“And then he got with some other girl and that seemed the same too. Like he doesn’t care who it is. As long as there’s someone there.”
There’s a long silence, and then Kiera says, “Well, should be fun to see him tomorrow at his daughter’s birthday party!”