Page 24 of Merrily Ever After
Some days you get out of bed and just know things aren’t going to go well. Call it a feeling. An intuition. The mysteries of the universe.
Whatever it is, I wake up the next morning with nothing but dread in my bones. It makes me suspicious, and I’m extra careful with Tiernan’s routine, watching him eat his breakfast like a hawk in between feeling his forehead. But there’s no temperature. No sign of illness beyond the usual snotty nose that I’m starting to think is just going to be a part of my life for the next eighteen years. He doesn’t choke on his food or start talking in tongues. He even lets me brush his hair, which is when you know he’s in a good mood.
I put his lunch into his backpack. He puts his shoes on without a fuss. I remember every single little thing and we leave the apartment a whole three minutes early.
And still, I can’t shake it.
I remain on guard the whole way to his nursery, where one of the childminders, Annette, meets us at the door as usual.
“We’re making Christmas tree decorations today,” she tells us as she takes Tiernan’s hand. “We’ll see you at—”
“Have I forgotten anything?” I interrupt.
Annette looks confused. “Like what?”
“Like, is it like a costume day? Are you having a concert I forgot about?”
She shrugs. “Unless I’ve also forgotten something, it’s just another day. Is everything all right?”
“I have a feeling,” I tell her and when I don’t elaborate she gives me a slightly concerned smile.
“I’m going to take Tiernan inside now,” she says as my son waves dutifully at me.
“Remember,” I tell him. “If you need to punch another kid, keep your thumboutsideyour fist.”
“Have a great day,” Annette says firmly.
The morning keeps going.
It’s a cold one. A gray December one. There’s a stiff breeze coming from the sea and a threat of rain so obvious that most people have an umbrella in hand. It would be downright miserable if it wasn’t for the spray-painted snowmen in store windows and city council-approved lights strung around lampposts. It’s budget friendly, but I appreciate the effort. Dublin can’t compete with the picture-perfect markets of quaint towns on the continent, but my god, will we have the occasional bus driver in a Santa hat.
Is that what’s putting me off? Am I simply adjusting to the festivities? I don’t feel ill or hormonal. And my walk to work is perfectly pleasant. A friend texts inviting me for dinner. I point a tourist in the direction of Trinity. I see a really big dog. Even the headlines are the same. Bad news. Fluff news. Politics. Sport. Weather. I go through my diary, but there are no meetings or deadlines I’ve missed. No—
“Aha!”
A man passing by twists around in alarm, but I don’t care. Relief washes through me as I reach my office and catch sight of the poster taped to the window.
Festive Market.Friday–Sunday.
That’s it. That’sit. I knew there was something I’d forgotten and that something is Molly’s weird Christmas present.
It’s the only tradition we have, and we both take it very seriously, gifting each other the worst things we can think ofeach and every year. It baffles everyone around us and, to be honest, I forget how it even started, but it’s ours and it’s special and I have no intention of stopping.
Thrilled with myself, I whirl on the spot and head across the road to the small plaza where the market has already opened. It looks cute. Wooden stalls. A man roasting chestnuts. A bored security guard sitting on a fold-up chair.
I bypass the line of people who I’m pretty sure are getting more than a drop of Baileys from the coffee truck, and approach the first shop, where a beaming woman greets me with a wave.
“I’m looking for a Christmas present,” I explain.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place!” She isincrediblycheerful for this hour of the morning and I, for one, am here for it. “We’ve got cinnamon sticks. Hot chocolate mixes. These gingerbread men come with—”
“I need something weird,” I interrupt, eyeing the admittedly delightful yet ill-suited display in front of me.
But the woman looks unsure. “Weird?”
“Good weird. Respectful weird.”
“I don’t …”
