CERTAINTY BRINGS TROUBLE.
Before I go to bed, I shoot Carl a text asking if he can whip up three wooden signs—one for each maxim. I send a second text to Paula to see if she would be willing to lead Gemma in some kind of dancing meditation—the weirder, the better.
When I wake up the next morning, I have enthusiastic responses from both Carl and Paula. Between the three of us, we are confident we can fashion my father into the Oracle at Catwood Pond. It’s a wild idea, but I figure there’s no harm in experimenting.
Chapter 29
I had been dreading New Year’s Eve, my first at Catwood Pond since Seth’s accident. But ultimately, it passes me by: I fall asleep at 10:00P.M.The next day, I wake up to drunken texts from Olivia and Tasha (we love you cricky!!!! come back to us!!!!) and Dylan (HNY babe. Miss u). It’s the first I’ve heard from any of them since Thanksgiving, I realize. I open Instagram and scroll through a dozen photos of the party they attended. In one, I swear I can see Dylan making out with a blonde in the background, although it’s hard to tell because, in the foreground, Olivia is brandishing a sparkler whose light flare partially covers up his face. I study the photo and feel a million miles away from my former life.
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 isgorge,” 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 Adirondacksdohave 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.
