What The Universe Does

It seems right to start by describing Deirdre, since she was the first person I saw that morning and is often the first person I see in the mornings. Here is a short list of some of the finer aspects of Deirdre: She describes her dreams out loud to herself the moment she wakes, so that later, when lucidity has erased them, she might recall her dreams by recalling her words. She has a strange sympathy for lobsters, and turns away whenever we pass their miserable tank flanked by tables of dead fish at the farmers’ market. She does not believe in insults. She Deirdre believes that any flaw in a person great enough to garner an insult will be self-evident and therefore need not be said.

That Sunday, Deirdre appeared in the middle of my kitchen when I had only just gotten out of bed. When I saw her, I paused for a moment. It seemed like a tableau that described what we were like in the morning. Deirdre looked as though she’d been awake for hours, though it couldn’t have gotten light over an hour ago. She was in an outfit that was both practical and looked as though cartoon characters, possibly of the Disney variety, had picked it out for her. Her necklace, the beaten metal one in the shape of a dragonfly, rested on top of a shirt that had a rainbow of butterflies on it. I had woken up an hour ago, then spent an hour contemplating if having breakfast before noon was worth getting out of bed before noon. It didn’t seem to be, but I remembered that I had bought a whole new box of cereal the day before, and I experienced a brief minute of motivation.

“The book is gone,” Deirdre announced, as I migrated to the kitchen island at a glacial pace.

I blinked several times at her. There was something in my eye. I think it was sunlight.

“The book in Sage Garden” she clarified.

I blinked again, but the sun didn’t go. I hadn’t thought about the book in days, since we had gone to the Sage Garden and Deirdre had found a tree she thought was worthy of the fair folk’s attention. She’d explained that she had filled the notebook with poems, since she was thirteen, and now had no use for it except to let someone else read it. We’d gone to the Sage Garden in the local park (which was not truly named the Sage Garden, but the smell of sage was the first thing Deirdre had smelled upon entering, so she had called it, so the name stuck) and Deirdre had considered depositing the book in several potted plants, then the thicket of a rose bush, before deciding on the hollow of a tree.

I got a bowl and some cereal from the cupboard, then the milk from the fridge. I poured them both into the bowl. Around a mouthful of cereal, I said, “So you went there this morning?”

“Yes. The book was gone. I think the fairies must have taken it.”

I poured some more cereal and milk into my bowl, then prodded some cheerios with my spoon until they were milky enough to eat. “It could have been a squirrel. They’ll take anything. The pages might be good insulation for the nest. Do squirrels have nests, inside trees?”

Deirdre frowned. “I don’t think they’re called nests.”

I got out the bread and peanut butter and twisted the top off the peanut butter. I set them both in front of Deirdre, along with a plate. I put a knife in her hand. “Birds, too. Could have been a bird. The notebook has a silver design on the front right? It’s kind of sparkly. A magpie might have gone after it.”

Deirdre looked pleased for a moment at the idea of a bird being the one to take her notebook, as though she thought it might really read her words. She started spreading peanut butter. “I’m very sure it wasn’t a bird. Do you have jam?”

There was no point in trying to make Deirdre understand that it probably had less to do with magic and more to do with vagabond animals, because, as my mother had once pointed out, the difference between adults and children is that adults know what’s real and not. But it didn’t seem like Deirdre needed to be able to tell the difference. The world never attempted to break her from her childish mould. Magical-ish things coalesced around her. It was as though the universe had conspired to keep Deirdre in a constant state of belief.

I got Deirdre some jam from the cupboard. It was the black currant jam from the farmers’ market that Deirdre had wanted to get because it has a ribbon wrapped around it and she found the idea of black currant jam charming. I wasn’t sure it was charming with peanut butter, but she could find out.

“… and we could go have a look and find out,” Deirdre mused.

I pretended I’d been listening and nodded. When I turned Deirdre was looking at me curiously, her lips quirked. “Aren’t you going to go put shoes on?”

I’d missed a step, somewhere. “What?”

“You should put on shoes before we go out. There might be glass on the street.” Deirdre took a bite of her peanut butter and black currant jam sandwich, and the curious tilt of her lips intensified. “I think I would prefer the jam on its own. And the bread toasted.”

I put some toast in the toaster. “Out where?”

“To the Sage Garden,” Deirdre said, patiently.

I considered. My Sundays normally consisted of staying within my apartment, which was large enough to hold everything I owned without providing me with multiple opportunities to trip over boxes or piles of books, but small enough that, in any given room, whatever I needed in that room was probably in arm’s reach, so long as I stood in the centre of it. Or, in the case of my bedroom, everything was in arm’s reach of the bed. The only real problems occurred when I had to change position on the bed or pee. My apartment was stalked for Sunday. There were microwavable chips in the freezer and a cupboard full of crisps and I still hadn’t put on anything but pajama pants and a shirt. I had been prepared for Deirdre coming (she wasn’t hard to prepare for, because she had a key and could let herself in, and because she was Deirdre).

But I hadn’t been prepared to go out. I put another piece of bread in the toaster because it would take me longer than Deirdre preparing and eating one piece of toast with jam to get ready.

I went to my bedroom and changed into going-out pants and a going-out shirt. I put on shoes so I wouldn’t hurt my feet on any glass, then grabbed my wallet and keys.

Deirdre was waiting for me at the door. She waited while I opened it, stepped out, and locked it. Then she took my hand as we headed downstairs.

We hold hands. A lot. Nearly all the time, whenever we go out. It doesn’t mean anything. But here’s the thing: at some point, in western society, someone decided that holding hands did not just equal two hands in contact with one another, usually palm to palm, fingers either curled around the backs of hands or interlaced. At some point someone decided that holding hands was the equivalent of, “We are involved”. It is a sad function of society, to pair people because they’re different sexes or look cute together or happen to fall asleep on the couch together. Not that she and I were making any statement by holding hands. We could just have easily not held hands, and it certainly would have done something probably to improve both of our “single” situations by not seeming as though we were already taken, but it was never a concern for me, and she wasn’t the kind of person who was easily concerned about anything.

When we got to the Sage Garden, Deirdre commented that it didn’t seem much like a Sage Garden today, and more like an Oregano Garden. I wasn’t sure Oregano even grew there, but Deirdre had a better nose that I did. She led the way to the tree and reached up to feel around in the hollow. She was too short to see inside it, but on my tip toes I could see that the space where the book had been was now empty.

“What do you think?” Deirdre asked when I dropped back onto my heels.

I glanced at the watch on my wrist. “Let’s get coffee.”

In five minutes we were sitting in a café across the street from the park where Deirdre had given her book to the fairies. I’d ordered for Deirdre while she inspected the potted plants by the window, and then we took a seat in the sunlight. I had to adjust so Deirdre’s dragonfly necklace didn’t shine in my eye.

“What do you think the fairies are doing with it?” Deirdre asked.

I shrugged. “Reciting the poems to one another?” They could be tearing up the pages and lighting them on fire. They could be doing anything. It could have been an animal that got her book.

Deirdre bumped my knee with hers. I looked at her over the rim of my mug. There were pieces of looseleaf tea sticking to my lips. I never used a teabag if I could help it. “You don’t really believe it was them, do you?”

“I’ve never seen a fairy,” I said. “I can’t prove they exist. I can’t prove they don’t. I’m not invested in either side of it.”

“You’ve never seen the edge of the universe, but you haven’t travelled far enough to say that there isn’t one,” Deirdre said. “You should have as much faith in fairies as you do in the theory that the universe is infinite.”

“Right. But, see, it’s still a theory.”

She stared at the cinnamon bun as though she hadn’t just seen the server put it down in front of her. Then she began to unravel it, carefully. “Gravity is a theory.”

It was hard to argue with Deirdre. Because you could reduce most things to belief, even in science. And Deirdre didn’t understand what the difference was between a scientific theory, and a theory that just couldn’t be disproven. She didn’t understand why people were so determined to make the distinction between real and not real. “Do you mind that you won’t see your book again?”

Deirdre shook her head. “I left it there for a reason. Oh, are you done? Let me have a go, then.”

I handed over my finished tea, with the leaves scattered around the bottom of the mug. They looked like unhappy lumps of wet leaf to me, but Deirdre turned the cup and inspected them. I didn’t think she actually believed in tasseography. I think she appreciated the opportunity to look at something that might not exist, but that the universe would make real for her.

“This is strange,” she said, after some time.

I wished I had more tea. “What?”

“It says you’re going to fall in love,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what it says here. You’re going to fall in love. Soon. Or maybe you’re already in love.”

“You think a cup can tell me that? I don’t think that’s how it works.” I took my mug back from her. I gave it a cursory glance and saw that the tealeaves had settled into an almost recognizable shape.

I turned the mug as Deidre hummed a not-quite-agreeing noise. The leaves had coalesced into the unmistakable shape of a dragonfly.

Deirdre said, “Well, it’s just a theory.”

Art by Alex Konahin

Text by Lucie MacAulay