Chapter Two
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 thumb outside your 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’s it. 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 of each 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 is incredibly cheerful 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 …”
“It’s for my sister.”
“Right.” She hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want the gingerbread men?”
“They look delicious.”
“They are.”
“Exactly.” I can tell she doesn’t get it, though, and after oohing and ahhing over a few things, I promise her I’ll swing back if I can’t find anything else and go to check out the next few sellers. But to my disappointment, everything is very … normal.
I keep going, past the butchers and the bakers and the literal candlestick makers.
Past the handmade wooden toys and silk scarves and endless jewelry stalls and hundreds of things that would make a beautiful and thoughtful gift for someone.
I walk until I reach the very back, where the stalls become tables and the office workers thin out and I find a disheveled man standing guard over his wares.
“Are you part of the market?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Checks out. I glance at his table, examining the variety of unmarked jars and a basket of what looks like little pastries.
“Is that baklava?” I ask.
“No.”
I point to the pint of murky liquid next to it.
“What’s that?”
“Soup.”
“What kind of soup?”
He scowls at me. “Christmas soup.”
Jackpot.
“I’ll take it.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. “Allergic to pickles?”
I shake my head, handing over the money. “So there’s pickles in it?”
“No,” he grunts and gives me the container. It’s unusually heavy and I have to grip it with both hands.
It also feels a little warm. “This will keep until next week, right? It’s a gift.”
“Should be good until March.”
“If I put it in the freezer?”
“No.”
Worrying.
“Have a wonderful day,” I tell him, but he ignores me as he restacks his jars.
I clutch my soup to my stomach and make my way back through the market, humming along to a tinny version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ playing from one of the stalls.
I think I could really get into this holiday thing.
Sinead was right. A few decorations never hurt anyone.
Maybe Tiernan and I could pick out a tree together.
Or we could get matching pajamas. Or both.
“Christmas,” I whisper as I punch the crosswalk button. That’s who I am. Little Miss Christmas. Little Miss—
“Watch out!”
My smile drops as an oncoming cyclist hits a pothole, and I jerk back as she careens onto the pavement.
Something whacks into my ankle, the front wheel perhaps, and when I lift it up instinctively, I slip.
The world goes into slow motion as I start to fall onto the busy road, shouts of alarm echoing all around me.
Someone behind me yanks at my purse, trying to pull me back, and there’s a horrible pain in my arm that I register a second too late.
A horn blares, and as I hit the tarmac, I look up just in time to see the flash of oh shit on the bus driver’s face.
And then everything goes black.
*
Another festive trip to the hospital. I fear this is starting to become a tradition for me.
I sit sideways on the bed in my little curtained square, trying to ignore the dull ache in my arm.
The one currently in a sling, strapped to my chest. They had to cut my blouse open to get to it.
It was extremely dramatic or at least I thought it was.
The doctor didn’t seem to care. He also didn’t ask me before doing it and it’s not like I would have said no, but it was an expensive blouse and I don’t know if my insurance covers that kind of stuff.
At least my coat is okay. I mean, excluding the massive murky stain on the front.
At first, everyone thought I threw up, which would be understandable. But no. That was just the soup bursting open all over me. They cleaned me up as best they could, but I still smell of pickles and I want to say chicken liver? I can’t know for sure. But also, I don’t think I want to.
I pluck at the shapeless gown thing they gave me as a top, restless.
The emergency department is smaller than I thought it would be.
Though maybe that’s because I’ve only seen one teeny tiny part of it.
A little curtained part. Other than that, I guess it’s not so bad.
No one’s crying or screaming in pain. No one has any horrific injuries like on television.
There’s just a lot for talking and waiting and beeping machines.
It’s pretty boring, actually. Boring enough that I pull out my phone and message my sister.
Hey guess what
She texts back immediately.
What
I got hit by a bus
When a minute passes with no response, I send her a selfie with my sling and the bandage on my cheek.
My phone starts ringing exactly two seconds later. Uh-oh.
“Zoe!” Molly’s dulcet tones screech in my ear. “Are you serious?”
“I’m fine.”
“You got hit by a bus?”
“And I’m fine. A few bruises and a day off work.”
“Did you break your arm?”
“The bus broke my arm. Let’s not victim-blame here. But listen, I want to tell you about this soup I—”
“Oh my god.” Molly sounds halfway to a mega freakout. “I’m coming to Dublin.”
“No,” I say quickly. I should have anticipated this. “You’re not. It’s just an elbow sprain and I’m fine. Dad’s collecting me and he’s bringing me home.”
“How did you get hit by a bus?”
“Honestly, I’m just surprised it’s taken this long.”
“Zoe!”
The curtain snaps open.
“I’ve got to go,” I say as the doctor who cut my blouse steps inside. “I might be dying.”
I hang up, flashing him a smile. He’s handsome.
Very handsome. He’s got that tired, I’ve-been-up-for-seventeen-hours-keeping-people-alive air about him and is the kind of man my friends have tried to set me up with dozens of times.
Authoritative. Capable. Good jaw structure. Probably makes decent money.
But so do I. And I also have a much better bedside manner.
I wait as he grabs the clipboard beside me, checking all the details I filled out thirty minutes ago.
I wait for so long I begin to wonder if maybe he just didn’t notice me sitting here directly in front of him.
Or that maybe the bus killed me and now I’m just a ghostly memory of myself, cursed to be young and beautiful forever.
“You probably get really busy around Christmas,” I say just to say something before I lose it. “All those turkey accidents. Stepping on LEGO. Slipping on ice.”
He says nothing, examining my file.
“I gave birth on Christmas Eve,” I continue.
“Well, Christmas Day, but all the work was done before midnight so I’m claiming both.
” I scratch my nose. “It’s just weird how I’ve ended up here again.
Maternity ward. Emergency department. I suppose as long as the next one isn’t spent in the morgue, I should count my blessings. ”
He glances up.
Oops. “Too dark?”
“You don’t seem to have any other injuries.”
“I mean, you barely checked,” I say. “You just poked my stomach.”
“Your pupils are responding normally and you show no signs of a concussion.” He clicks his pen and scrawls something at the bottom of the clipboard. “You can go.”
I frown. “I feel like you’re rushing me.”
“I am. Because you can go.”
“Or because you want to see other patients.”
“You mean like the man with the third-degree burns beside you?”
My eyes slide to the curtain on my left. “Yes.”
Another pen click.
“I think I’m bleeding on my crown, so—” I go quiet as he leans over, examines it, and then grabs a tube. Something cold and wet lands on my scalp, making me flinch.
“Shouldn’t need stitches,” he says, and I blink.
“Did you just squirt a bunch of glue in my hair?”
“You can wash it out after a few days. Someone will be in to you in a minute,” he adds. “Happy Christmas.”
Seriously? He leaves me to my new cubicled existence, and I gently touch my poor, sticky hair.
Well. This is clearly why we need more women in STEM.
It’s another long wait before the curtain opens again. This time, it’s a nurse, a young woman with suspiciously gorgeous skin who actually looks me in the eye.
“Hiya!” she greets me. “Sounds like you were lucky.”
“For getting hit by a bus?”
“Means everybody will be super nice to you.” She winks. “You’re probably going to get some great presents.”
I mean, I can’t find any fault with that logic.
“A strange man squirted glue in my hair,” I tell her.
She purses her lips. “A strange man or a doctor?”
“Anyone can put on a pair of scrubs, you know.”
“It will wash out.”
Hmmm. “Not that I want to sit on this bed for five hours, but I’m feeling very rushed through this process.”
“That’s because you’re weirdly okay,” the nurse says. “I think the duffel coat might have padded your fall. But you’re going to be sore for the next few days. Any big changes, call your doctor, but otherwise you just need to rest.”
“I don’t really rest.”
She smiles. “Now you do. You’ve got your prescription?”
I nod, glancing down at the sling. “How long do I have to wear this thing?”
“Usually two to three weeks for an elbow sprain. But you’ll need to check that with your GP. Do you need a work cert?”
“No,” I say. “I need to bathe my four-year-old.”
She winces. “Best to make that Dad’s job for the next few days.”
Right. Great. I’ll call the sperm clinic.
“Before you go,” I say as she reaches for the curtain. “How does your skin look like that?”
“Genetics,” she says apologetically, and I sigh before letting my father know I’m coming.
There’s a small huddle of people at the exit, all staring listlessly through the automatic doors. It isn’t hard to guess why. The cloud cover I woke up to this morning has turned to heavy, loud rain that’s soaking everything in sight.
I squeeze through them anyway, now desperate to get out of here as I step out onto the covered path outside.
The only other person risking the downpour is a stubbled man in a hospital gown, who’s chugging on his vape like he’s going to die if he doesn’t.
He acknowledges me with a nod. “Raining.”
“Sure is,” I say, and glance down at my phone to see a message from my dad.
Out on road by bus stop.
Why can’t you meet me in the hospital?
Six euro for parking
Wonderful.
Vaping man blows a stream of watermelon-scented chemicals my way. “What happened to you?” he asks.
“Um …” I shoulder my purse awkwardly on my good arm and peer through the vast parking lot, looking for the exit. “I got hit by a bus.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m getting a vasectomy,” he offers.
“Nice. Christmas present for the wife?”
He just looks at me.
Okay. “Have a good one,” I tell him, and tug my smelly coat over my head as I step out into the rain. My foot immediately lands in a puddle, but I ignore the uncomfortably wet sensation just like I ignore each jolt to my arm. It’s fine. I’m fine. A bad day. That’s all.
And, I mean, hey.
It’s not like things can get any worse.