Page 54 of Merrily Ever After
“What time does she get in?” Molly asks.
“This afternoon,” I say, checking my phone. “Which means I better get going. I just stopped by to show it off.”
“Get going where?” Andrew asks.
“To the airport. I’m picking her up.”
“I thought you were just going to camp,” he says, suddenly worried. “You’re going to the airport? Inthat?”
Mam looks confused. “Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because she’s a bad driver,” Andrew says.
“She drives just fine.”
“You’re only saying that because—”
Molly bumps him with her hip.
Andrew sighs. “I’ll drive you,” he says to me.
“No,” I say firmly. “The whole point of this is that none of you are there.”
“Right.” Andrew nods. “Great. I’m really feeling the Christmas spirit.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m just so glad we flew three thousand miles to not spend time with my family.”
“We’re going inside now,” Molly assures me, taking him by the arm. “Have a safe trip and we’ll see you when you get back.”
“Unless we change the locks,” Andrew calls and waves as he’s dragged inside the house.
*
I’m not a bad driver. I’m not a good one, but I’m definitely not a bad one. I mean, I passed my test. It was on the ninth attempt, but I still passed it. And it’s not like I get into accidents or anything, I’m just weirdly cautious when it comes to being on the road. But, surely, being too scared to merge is better than hitting someone. And I don’t need to nose or reverse into a parking space when I can simply find somewhere along the curb with no other cars anywhere near me.
That being said, I’ve never driven a van before. I was fine getting back to the house because the roads were empty andthere was no one to yell at me, but once I’m on the motorway, it gets a little harder.
And again,notmy fault that the speed is not speedy. Even in the inside lane, I get overtaken and beeped at, but I pretend not to notice, moving stubbornly along and not meeting anyone’s eye. Honestly, I think I’m doing pretty well by the time I reach the outskirts of Dublin.
But then the rain comes.
It’s slow at first. A big gray cloud overhead. I’m not too worried when I see it. I mean, it’s winter and Ireland. There’susuallya big gray cloud. And it’s not like I’m on horseback, so a shower or two won’t hurt me.
Only it’s not just a shower. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop, cascading down like a waterfall on the earth. It makes everything ten times slower. Not to mention the fact that road spray is terrifying. And that the wipers don’t always move fast enough. I’m so focused on not crashing the van that I don’t think about the fact that I’ll have to beoutsideit soon. And it’s not until I reach the airport that I realize how much of a problem that’s going to be.
A digital billboard flashes a message in red as I crawl down the road, telling me I can’t even panic about getting into a parking space because therearen’tany. Full up. Booked out. Tough shit.
I maybe should have anticipated this so close to Christmas, but I hedge my bets like everybody else, driving around just in case the billboard is lying to us.
It’s not.
I eventually find a Hannah-friendly space in a housing estate a fifteen-minute walk away, but have no umbrella and only a hoodless winter jacket to protect me as I flat-outrunto the terminal. Not that there’s any point in hurrying. I’m drenched almost as soon as I step out, and a security guard gives me ayikeslook when I finally stumble panting through the automatic doors.
I usually like airports. I like people-watching. I like buying miniature versions of things and having a pint at ten in the morning. I like going places and I like coming home. Especially at Christmas. Airports are wonderful at Christmas and Dublin is no different.
There are decorations everywhere, and a live band plays festive tunes as people wait by the double doors carrying homemade signs and balloons. Some of them are in costumes. Dressed as Santas and elves and snowmen. Ready to welcome their loved ones. But I can’t drum up the energy for a smile as I catch my breath and try to avoid the television cameras filming homecomings for the news.
