Chapter 29
I text Dylan back: Happy new year. Fun party?
He instantly responds: nothing special. what do you have going on this month? Should I visit?
I screenshot the photo and send it to him with a message that says: that depends. is this you?
I see three dots appear to indicate that Dylan is typing. Then they disappear. In the next minute, they pop up and disappear twice more, but he writes nothing.
A few hours later, Dylan still has not responded to my question, which confirms that he was hooking up with the blonde within an hour of texting to say he missed me.
Even in an “open relationship,” that’s some fancy footwork.
This kind of thing might have sent me into an emotional spiral in the past, but today, in this brand-new year, it brings clarity.
Dylan is free to keep his options open, but I am no longer one of them.
I block his number and turn to more pressing matters. Gemma will be here tomorrow, and I have to prepare.
When she arrives, we are ready. Carl has outdone himself with the signs, which he hand-carved. He even treated them to make them look weathered, imbuing them with a sense of gravitas, and affixed them to three trees along our driveway—a fitting welcome for our first official supplicant.
For her contribution, Paula has choreographed what I can only describe as a full-body chant. It involves deep breathing, rhythmic movement, and primal vocalizations, and it’s exactly the kind of thing Gemma will love.
I need not have worried about Gemma making it up the road.
A few minutes before our scheduled meeting time, she arrives in an SUV that is just short of an armored tank.
For all her talk about natural products and bodily purity, she doesn’t seem too concerned about her carbon footprint.
As she exits the vehicle, I see that she is accompanied by a stylish woman who looks familiar.
I step out of the house to greet them, and Gemma pulls me in for a ferocious hug. “Cricket.” She inhales me as if I am somehow vital to her, then releases me and turns to her friend. “You remember Inez?”
“Of course,” I say, holding out my hand to shake hers.
Inez Garcia-Gates is the editor of a prominent culture magazine, and I met her a few times when I worked for Actualize.
Her magazine once profiled Gemma, characterizing her as the woman who was “gently, intuitively disrupting the wellness industry.”
Today, Inez looks polished and alert. Gemma, I have to admit, looks haggard.
“I really need this,” says Gemma. “And I know I look like shit. I feel so inflamed lately. I think it’s the snail-mucin serum.”
“Could be,” I say.
“This place is gorge,” says Gemma, quickly changing energetic gears. I lead them around the house onto the porch so that we can enter through the official front door. The day is spectacular: the morning’s clouds have receded to reveal an azure sky above the fresh snow, which shimmers in the sun.
I lead Gemma and Inez into the house, and Carl greets us at the door with steaming mugs of cinnamon tea.
“O … M … G,” says Gemma as she inhales her mug and then spins around, taking in the great room. She runs her hand over the wooden globe and pets the taxidermy-fox umbrella stand. “Adorable. Very dilapidated chic. Very faded WASP.”
I know she means this as a compliment, and I’m relieved that she is charmed by our house. She seems eager to embrace this experience, and she is on board with the eclectic dinginess we have unintentionally cultivated.
The two women remove their fancy snow boots, which look like they’re being worn for the first time, and we all sit around the fireplace.
My father is finishing a nap and Paula is stretching upstairs, which should give me the right amount of time to set expectations.
I throw another log on the fire, plus some dry fir boughs that cause the flames to spit and spark.
Gemma gasps in excitement, just as Carl emerges from the kitchen with two shots of a liquid that I have concocted.
“This is our proprietary elixir, made from foraged local ingredients,” I say.
The truth is, it’s just a mix of lemon juice, honey, and some smashed-up basil. Though in a moment of strange inspiration, I also threw in a few chunks of Crystal Light from the container at the back of the cabinet.
Gemma gulps her shot and then lets out a satisfied sigh. “Amazing.”
“Now, I’m not sure if you’ve seen other clairvoyants,” I begin.
Inez shakes her head no, while Gemma nods her head yes.
“But I want you to discard any specific associations or expectations. What we do here is unique. As you know, my father has dementia, and his grasp of ‘reality’ as we know it is fading. What is emerging, however, is a heightened connection to Source. An ability to zero in on the truth—that which you, yourself, cannot yet see. Sometimes his prophecies are concise and clear. Other times, they are rambling, circuitous, confusing. Things might not make sense at first; but in time, they will. Think of this session as the beginning of a journey of discovery that will unfold indefinitely. This is just the first step.”
Inez looks a little skeptical, but Gemma is nodding and rocking with readiness. I sense that she’s going through something and is hungry for healing—not the kind of healing that she sells, but the real deal.
She has come to the right place. Though I am flying by the seat of my pants, the Adirondacks do have a history as a therapeutic destination.
In the late 1800s, those suffering from pulmonary disease, specifically tuberculosis, flocked here for what was known as the Adirondack cure.
Some combination of the altitude, the balsam-infused air, and the crystal-clean waters worked their magic on many a patient.
While I wouldn’t claim to have the permanent cure for any specific ailment, I am confident we can help quell Gemma’s nonspecific angst, if only momentarily.
I dab lavender oil on the women’s foreheads and instruct them to gaze into the fire as I lead them through some simple breathing exercises.
The flames pop, and suddenly the room that often feels too quiet (when it’s just my dad and me) now feels charged with possibility.
I am enjoying being the master of ceremonies, and I feel a little high on my own authority.
After a few minutes, Paula enters the room and I leave Gemma and Inez under her jurisdiction while I go to get my dad. I can hear their exhales as they begin to flail around the space.
My father is awake and sitting in the armchair in his room, staring out at the pond.
“Dad, we have two guests who would love your advice,” I say.
“Do we? How nice,” he says. I help him up from the chair and offer him his shawl-collar cardigan—the one with the leather buttons that gives him a professorial air. Once outfitted, he follows me out to the great room, where the ladies have just completed their dance meditation.
I make the introductions, and the two women regard my father with eager reverence as he settles into his usual chair by the fire. Dominic hops into his lap and regards the women warily, his green eyes wide.
“We’ll start with some bibliomancy,” I say, handing my father the dusty poetry anthology we often read from.
He takes it, contemplates the cover, and then hands it back to me. “I think we’ve exhausted this one.”
I didn’t expect this. For a moment, I’m nervous, but I decide to roll with it. I replace the anthology in the bookshelf and begin to run my hands along the spines. “Tell me when to stop, Dad.”
When I reach a small gray book, he claps his hands. “Bingo.”
“This one?”
He nods. I look down and see that it’s an instructional guide called When Duct Tape Just Isn’t Enough, and I immediately regret not curating the shelves better.
I brace myself, fearing that this is when our experiment will go off the rails, but I bring the book to my father nonetheless.
He looks at the cover and then flips it around so Gemma can see it.
Her eyes widen and she bursts into tears.
We all sit in silence for a moment, allowing her to experience whatever it is that’s happening. She looks to Inez, who nods in understanding.
“It’s about my marriage.” Gemma sniffles, gesturing to the book. “When duct tape isn’t enough. Isn’t it obvious? It’s a metaphor.”
“There, there,” says my father.
“We weren’t perfect, Jared and I, but I always had this belief that we were fated.
Because we met at Burning Man, and it was beautiful in the beginning.
So ever since then, I’ve told myself that the pain is worth it somehow.
But when is enough enough? I know relationships are hard work, but is this the right kind of work?
Is marriage supposed to feel like this?”
I worry that my father will be overwhelmed by Gemma’s outpouring, but he seems steady and engaged. He leans forward and looks at Gemma. “Sometimes the marriage has a problem. But sometimes the marriage is the problem.”
Gemma gasps and nods, tears falling fast down her cheeks. I look at my father in near disbelief. That was real. He nailed it.
“So what should I do?”
“You already know. Or you will before long.” He strokes Dominic’s fur and gets a far-off look in his eye. “Kierkegaard said something … What did he say…”
We’re going full Kierkegaard? I hold my breath, praying that my father remains coherent.
He looks at Gemma. “Ah, yes: Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”
Holy shit. Somehow, the abstractness of my father’s thinking and speaking has found its natural outlet.
He is drawing on recesses I didn’t even know were there.
Whereas he is often lost in day-to-day conversation, this is a space where he can wax in any direction and still hold authority.
We have created an experience, but the supplicant must make her own meaning.
I’m confident that Gemma has already gotten what she came for, but suddenly, I am struck by an idea that might round out her pilgrimage.
I excuse myself and run down the path to the pond, where the afternoon light is low.
At the end of the dock, I check to see if Nils’s plunge hole is still in decent shape after all the snow we’ve had.
A thin layer of ice has formed across the top, but after I poke it with a stick, it gives way. I run back up to the house.
When I enter, the conversation has lulled and Gemma’s tears have dried, though she is now smiling.
“Gemma, I wonder…” I say. “We don’t offer this to just anyone, but would you like to do an ice plunge in the pond?
The experience was designed by a Swedish consultant, and the Adirondack waters are very healing.
It’s not for the faint of heart, but I think you would really benefit. ”
“Say no more,” says Gemma. I had a feeling she would rise to the challenge.
Extreme wellness is her preferred sport, after all.
I offer her a swimsuit but she insists she would prefer to experience the elements in the nude.
I give her a robe to change into. When she returns, we leave my father in his seat by the fire, and Gemma, Inez, and I walk down to the water.
Gemma doesn’t need much coaching—she’s done her share of ice baths—and she drops her robe and slips into the water without hesitation, eager to be baptized by ice.
When she pops up to the surface, she is calm.
She lays her forearms on the edge of the hole and breathes steadily as I time her.
After three minutes, Inez and I help hoist her out of the water and wrap her in her robe.
As the three of us make our way back up the hill to the house, the change in Gemma is palpable.
The edginess that oozed from her when she arrived is gone, replaced by a centered calm.
When we reach the porch, she grabs my arm and pauses before we enter the warmth of the house.
She seems unbothered by the cold, though the long strands of her hair have frozen into solid shards.
“This is a magical experience, Cricket,” she says. “You’re going to change people’s lives.”
Once Gemma and Inez finally leave, my father turns to me with a befuddled look and asks, “Who were those flibbertigibbets?”
Carl, Paula, and I dissolve into laughter. “Friends from the city. Actually, I used to work for the one with the long hair. She was my boss.”
“Your boss? She should be working for you,” my dad says, and I have to agree.
“So, Arthur, did you enjoy that? Do you like being an oracle?” Carl asks. “I think you really helped her.”
“I hope I did. It’s always nice to have visitors. Will we have more?”
“Would you like to?” I ask.
“I don’t see why not.”
So that settles it. I doubt we will be able to lure many others to us out here in the woods, but it’s good to know that my father is enthusiastic if the opportunity presents itself again.
It was a fun experiment, and a confirmation that my father is indeed as wise as I suspected, Alzheimer’s be damned.