The Book of Tomorrow (17 page)

I took the measuring jug from her and I felt like I was outside of myself as I walked to the pantry. In the small room off the kitchen I looked at the floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with everything a person could possibly need for ten years. Condiments separated into Mason jars with screw-on lids, labelled in perfect penmanship with contents and expiry dates. A shelf of root vegetables: onions, potatoes, yams, carrots. A shelf of canned goods: soups and broths, beans, tinned tomatoes. Below that
the grains, all in their glass jars: rice, pasta of all kinds of shapes and colours, beans, oatmeal, lentils, cereals and dried fruits—sultanas, raisins, apricots. Then there was the baking supplies: flour, sugar, salt and yeast, and so many jars of oils, olive oil, sesame oil, balsamic vinegar, oyster sauce, rails and racks of spices. There were even more jars of honey and jam: strawberry, raspberry, blackberry and even plum. It was endless. The sugar and salt had both been emptied from their packets and poured into jars. The jars were labelled, in that perfect handwriting. My hand shook as I reached for the salt jar. I remembered my lesson from last night: I could change the diary. I didn’t need to follow its story. If I hadn’t found it, life would be going on without any of my knowledge.

But then I thought of Weseley. If I gave Rosaleen the sugar, then she wouldn’t return home tomorrow, she wouldn’t catch the doctor before he went upstairs, she wouldn’t convince him not to see Mum. If I changed the diary, then I would have absolutely no idea what would happen, so I wouldn’t be able to tell Weseley and he wouldn’t believe me about the diary. I’d have lost a new friend and looked like the biggest weirdo on the planet.

But if I told him what was to happen tomorrow, then Mum wouldn’t see a doctor. How much longer could I wait here while she sat upstairs sleeping and waking as though there was no difference between either?

I made my decision and reached for a jar.

I got very little sleep that night. I tossed and turned, felt too hot and kicked off the covers, then felt too cold and covered up again, one leg out, one arm out, nothing was comfortable. I could find no happy medium. I daringly went downstairs to the kitchen to phone Weseley about the diary entry. I didn’t use the stairs, instead I did my gymnastics teacher proud by climbing over the banister and landing gently on the stone floor. Anyway, I did pretty well not to make a sound going down the stairs and yet
still,
just as I reached for the phone in the kitchen, Rosaleen appeared at the door in a nightdress from the 1800s, which went to the floor and hid her feet making her appear as though she was floating like a ghost.

‘Rosaleen!’ I jumped.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

‘I’m getting a glass of water. I’m thirsty.’

‘Let me get that for you.’

‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I can do it. Thank you. You go back to bed.’

‘I’ll sit with you while you—’

‘No, Rosaleen,’ I raised my voice. ‘You need to give me
space, please. I just want a glass of water, then I’m going back to bed.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She raised her hands in surrender. ‘Good night.’

I waited to hear the creaks on the steps. Then I heard her bedroom door close, her feet moving across her bedroom and then the springs in her bed. I rushed to the phone and dialled Weseley’s number. He picked up after half a ring.

‘Hi, Nancy Drew.’

‘Hi,’ I whispered, then froze, suddenly so uncertain about what I was doing.

‘So, did you read the diary?’

I searched for any sign that I shouldn’t tell him. I listened out for tones—was he jesting me? Was he setting me up? Was I on speaker phone in a room full of his hillbilly friends—you know, the kind of thing I would have done if some dork that had moved to my area gatecrashed my party and started spurting crap about a prophesying diary.

‘Tamara?’ he asked, and I could hear no tone, nothing to make me change my mind.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ I whispered.

‘Did you read the diary?’

‘Yes.’ I thought hard. I could tell him I was joking, that it had been a
hilarious
joke, just like the one about my dad dying. Oh, how we’d laugh.

‘And? Come on, you’ve made me wait until eleven o’clock,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve been trying to guess all kinds of things. Will there be any earthquakes? Any lotto numbers? Anything we can make money out of?’

‘No,’ I smiled, ‘just boring old thoughts and emotions.’

‘Ah,’ he said, but I could hear his smile. ‘Right then, out with it. The prophecy please…’

That night, I woke up every half hour, the outcome of the day to come keeping me on edge. At three-thirty a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer and I reached for the diary to see how the day had been affected and what the events of tomorrow would hold.

I reached for the torch beside the bed and with a pounding heart opened the pages. I had to rub my eyes to make sure what I was seeing was correct. Words were appearing, then disappearing, sentences half-formed, which didn’t make sense, would appear then vanish again as quickly as they’d arrived. The letters seemed to jump off the page as everything was jumbled, without order. It was as though the diary was as confused as my mind, unable to formulate thoughts. I closed the book and counted to ten, and full of hope, I opened it again. The words continued to jump around the page, finding no meaning or sense.

Whatever plans I had put in place with Weseley, tomorrow had certainly been affected. However, exactly in what way was still unclear, as it obviously depended on how I lived the day when I awoke. The future hadn’t been written yet. It was still in my hands.

In the moments that I did manage to sleep, I dreamed of glass shattering, of me running through the field of glass but it was a windy day and the pieces were blowing, scraping my face, my arms and my body, piercing my skin. But I couldn’t get to the end of the garden, I kept getting lost among the rows and a figure stood at the window watching me, with hair in front of her face, and every time the lightning flashed I could see her face, and she looked like Rosaleen. I woke up in a sweat each time, my heart thudding in my chest, afraid to open my eyes. Then I’d eventually go back to sleep only to walk myself straight back into the same dream. At six-fifteen I couldn’t force myself back to sleep again, and I was
up. And though my entire plan was to help Mum get back to being herself again, I checked on her with the faintest hope that she still wasn’t okay. I don’t know why—of course I wanted her to get better with all of my heart—but there’s always the part of you, the part that hides in the shadows protecting the self-destruct button, that doesn’t ever want to leave the dark behind.

I was the first person downstairs at six forty-five for the first time since I’d moved here. I sat in the living room with a cup of tea and tried to force myself to concentrate on the book about the invisible girl that Fiona had given me. I was averaging about a paragraph a day but I must have got lost in the story without noticing because I didn’t see or hear the postman approach the house, but I heard the envelopes land on the mat in the front hall. Always happy to do something different in the house where everything went like clockwork, I went to the hall to retrieve them. They were literally just beyond my grasp when a hand came in and stole them away from me, like a vulture had flown down and scooped up its prey.

‘No need for you to do that, Tamara,’ Rosaleen said brightly, shoving the envelopes into the front pocket of her apron.

‘I don’t mind. I was only picking them up, Rosaleen. I wasn’t going to read them.’

‘Of course you weren’t,’ she said as though the thought had never crossed her mind. ‘You just relax and enjoy yourself,’ she smiled, and rubbed my shoulder.

‘Thanks,’ I smiled. ‘You know, you should let somebody do something for you for once.’ I followed her to the kitchen.

‘I like doing it,’ she said, getting to work on the breakfast. ‘Besides, Arthur is good at a lot of things but he’d be boiling an egg till September if you let him at it,’ she chuckled.

‘Speaking of September, what’s going to happen?’ I asked
finally. ‘The plan was for us to stay for the summer. It’s July now, and well, nobody’s talked about September.’

‘Yes, and it’s almost your birthday.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘And we need to talk about what you’d like to do for that. Have a party? Go to stay with some friends in Dublin?’

‘Actually, I might like a few friends to come stay with me here,’ I said. ‘I’d like them to see where I live now, see what I do everyday.’

Rosaleen looked a little shell-shocked by that. ‘Here? Oh…’

‘It was only a thought,’ I back-tracked quickly. ‘It’s so far for Laura and Zoey to come, and it would probably be too much hassle for you…’

I waited for her to jump in and reassure me, but she didn’t.

‘Anyway, I’d rather talk about my future than about my birthday.’ I changed the subject. ‘If we’re still here in September, which is looking like what’s going to happen, how am I going to get to St Mary’s from here? There aren’t any buses, or at least none that pass by here. I doubt Arthur would want to drive me to and from school every day…’ I waited for her to tell me that’s exactly what was going to happen. But again, she didn’t. She started getting breakfast ready, taking out the pots and pans that usually served as my wake-up call.

‘Well, that’s something you’ll have to discuss with your mother, I suppose. I can’t tell you the answers.’

‘But, Rosaleen, how am I supposed to discuss anything with Mum?’

‘What do you mean?’ Clatter, clatter, bang, crash. All systems go in the kitchen.

‘You know what I mean.’ I jumped up and stood beside her, but she still wouldn’t look at me. ‘She doesn’t talk. She’s completely catatonic. I don’t get why you refuse to admit this.’

‘She’s not catatonic, Tamara.’ She finally stopped and looked at me. ‘She’s just…
sad
. We need to give her space and time and let her figure it all out herself. Now, will you be a good girl and fetch me the eggs from the fridge and I’ll show you how to do a nice big omelette this morning,’ she smiled. ‘How about I put a few peppers in it for you?’

‘Peppers,’ I said perkily and her face lit up. ‘Lovely juicy problem-solving
peppers
,’ I said happily, then dragged my feet to the fridge to fetch them, as her face fell. I took out a green and a red one. ‘Oh, look, hello, Mr Green Pepper. How’s about you solve the problem for me? Where am I going to go to school in September?’ I held it to my ear and listened. ‘Oh, no, it mustn’t be working.’ I shook it. ‘Maybe I’ll try the red one. Hello, Mr Red Pepper. Rosaleen seems to think you can solve the problem about my life. What do you think is going to happen? Shall we send Mum to a madhouse or should we leave her upstairs for ever?’ I listened again. ‘No. Nothing.’ I tossed the peppers down on the counter. ‘Looks like the peppers can’t help us out today. Maybe we should try some onions,’ I said, faking excitement. ‘Or grated cheese!’

‘Tamara,’ I heard Arthur say, warning in his tone, and I stopped. I trudged out and sulked in the living room. Even though we’re not allowed to eat in the living room, Rosaleen brought the omelette in to me. A decent kind person would have apologised, instead, I asked for salt.

At ten o’clock I watched Rosaleen scurry out of the house with the tray loaded with enough food to feed an entire family, and among all of my worries about the day, one of them was that her mother would reveal my visit to her. Just because I hadn’t written about it, it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. At ten fifteen, Dr Gedad’s car pulled up outside the house. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘You must be Tamara,’ he beamed, while walking up the
path. He immediately made me smile. He was tall, slender, fit-looking. His hair was greying and was tight on his head. He had high cheekbones and soft eyes, which gave him a slightly feminine look, but yet he was masculine and handsome. I welcomed him in and shook his hand.

‘Well good morning to you. Isn’t it a great summer we’re having.’ He spoke from the back of his throat, as though he’d a piece of bread stuck there, slightly muffled, but in a lovely singsong way. His Madagascan accent was mixed with some words that were spoken with a pure Irish
blÁs
. It was a lovely, peculiar sound. I liked that I felt somebody from outside of here was going to freshen things up, shake things up, fix them.

‘Can I take your briefcase?’ I was nervous, jittery, unsure what to do. I looked anxiously at the door.

‘No, thank you, Tamara. I’ll need this with me,’ he smiled.

‘Oh yes. Of course.’

‘I believe I’m here to see your mother?’

‘Yes, she’s upstairs. I’ll show you the way.’

‘Thank you. Tamara. I’m very sorry to hear about your father. Weseley shared the sad news with me. It must be a very difficult time for you both.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I smiled, and tried to swallow that lump that always arrived whenever anybody mentioned Dad.

I made to lead Dr Gedad upstairs and I was almost beginning to believe that I was going to get away with it, was hopeful about getting Mum back, but was devastated about losing Weseley, when the front door opened. Rosaleen stepped into the hall with a tin-foil-covered plate in her hands. She looked at Dr Gedad as though he was the grim reaper. Her face went white.

‘Good morning,’ Dr Gedad said pleasantly.

‘Who…?’ She looked from the strange man in her hall to me, then back to the man again. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the new doctor.’

‘I am indeed,’ he said cheerfully, going back down the stairs.

No!
I shouted at him in my head.

‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs—’

‘Rosaleen,’ she said quickly, glancing at me then back to him. ‘Rosaleen will do fine. Well, welcome to the town.’

They shook hands.

‘Thank you very much. And I must thank you and your husband for giving young Weseley a job here.’

Rosaleen glanced at me, the discomfort all over face. ‘Well, yes, he’s a great help,’ she brushed him off. ‘Doctor,’ she said looking confused, ‘what’s…why…Tamara, are you sick?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Rosaleen. If you’ll just follow me, Dr Gedad,’ I said quickly, going upstairs.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To my mum’s room,’ I said as politely as possible.

‘Oh, you won’t want to disturb her, Tamara,’ she said with a smile to me and a little frown to Dr Gedad, hinting to him as though I was some kind of weirdo. ‘You know how important her sleep is to her.’ She looked at the doctor. ‘She hasn’t been sleeping much, which is understandable, of course, under the circumstances.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded gravely. He looked at me then. ‘Well, perhaps I should let her have her rest. I can come back another time.’

‘No!’ I interjected. ‘Rosaleen she’s been sleeping non-stop most days for the past week.’ I couldn’t control my voice, shrieking like a squeaky violin.

‘Because of her restless nights, of course,’ Rosaleen said firmly. ‘Won’t you have a cup of tea, Doctor? You wouldn’t believe it but it seems I used salt in the baking rather than sugar. My mother almost fell over,’ she laughed. ‘Though she shouldn’t have been having pie for breakfast, I know that,’ she said apologetically.

‘How is your mother?’ he asked. ‘I hear that she’s unwell.’

‘I’ll tell you over a cup of tea,’ she said chirpily, and he laughed and made his way back down the stairs again. ‘You’re a difficult woman to say no to Rosaleen.’

I stood on the stairs, my mouth agape at what was occurring. I had read it but didn’t believe that the doctor would so easily obey her when an apparently sick patient was upstairs.

‘I’ll just give your mother a little more rest, Tamara,’ Dr Gedad said, ‘and then I’ll see to her.’

‘Okay,’ I whispered, trying to hold back my tears, because I knew that whatever Rosaleen was going to say to Dr Gedad, he wouldn’t make it up those stairs. Despite knowing the outcome, I tried to join them in the kitchen but Rosaleen stopped me at the door.

‘If you don’t mind, Tamara, I’m going to have a few private words with the doctor about my mother. Just to make sure everything’s okay. She’s been slightly off for the last few days.’