Chapter Four
I lied.
I haven’t rested a day in my life and it’s not like I can do it when I have a child who won’t stop climbing on things.
“Tiernan,” I snap. “If you’re going to get on top of the cabinet at least tell me to get my phone so I can film your fall for the internet.”
I lift him off, ignoring his protest as I set him down on the ground for the third time since lunch. It’s more than a little difficult with only one hand. “You can’t sprain your arm, too,” I tell him. “That’s my thing. Find your own thing.”
Honestly, I thought I’d have until his teenage years before all the rebellion.
It’s like the kid delights in defying me in every way he can.
But I can’t blame him too much. I know he has cabin fever.
No nursery and miserable weather have left him bored out of his mind, and there’s only so much I can do to keep him entertained while I also feel like climbing the walls.
I never knew how much I thrived on routine until it was taken away from me, and it’s kind of scary how quickly everything can collapse without it.
The apartment looks like a tornado’s gone through it. Dishes on the counter. Bins needing to be taken out. I’m behind on laundry. There are toys everywhere. Leftovers from everything I’ve been doing to try and distract Tiernan. Paints and crayons and Legos and dinosaurs.
On top of that, it’s been a week since the accident and my arm still hurts, the painkillers have given me a headache, my period’s coming in four days and I think my zit is growing another zit on top of it.
People keep telling me to rest, but rest would mean a proper night’s sleep, professional childcare, and my morning walk to work. Rest is routine. Not whatever the hell this is.
“I just think you need some help,” my mother frets down the phone. “Just for a little while. Maybe I should come over.”
“Everyone’s come over,” I say, nudging Tiernan toward the television while I take my phone from between my ear and my shoulder. “Sinead’s been over. Christian’s been over. My neighbor’s been over. Sinead’s been over again. I’m fine. Why does no one believe me when I say that?”
“No man is an island, Zoe.”
“I know that. That’s why I got a Roomba.” I lean against the counter, closing my eyes. It’s not that I don’t want help. I just don’t need it right now. It’s always been a bugbear of mine, people underestimating me. Especially when I’ve spent my life proving them wrong.
“Well, I certainly can’t do everything by myself,” Mam continues.
“Just today, I found out that Dunnes don’t have the type of cheese your father likes, so I have to go into town and get that and then pick up the dry cleaning.
All of that before visiting the girls for tea and dropping your father off to—”
“I can do that,” I say quickly. I can do that because I can do anything. “I’ll pick up the cheese. It’s my side of town. It will save you the trip.”
“You can’t—”
“I can.” I say the words through gritted teeth. It’s like she purposefully chose the exact words to rile me up. Or maybe that’s exactly what she’s doing. “Wait?” I ask. “Is this reverse psychology?”
“What?”
“Never mind. I can get the stuff. Visit your friends.”
“But—”
“Just text me the cheese.”
“If you’re sure.” She sounds doubtful, but I know she needs the help when she folds in the next second. Almost as soon as we hang up, my phone rings again.
Christian. “I’m calling in that favor,” he says when I answer.
“I don’t owe you a favor.”
“All right, then I’m asking for a favor.”
“All right, then no.”
“We’re going down to Cork first thing in the morning,” he continues, ignoring me. “Going to try and beat the traffic.”
“You want me to come wave you off?”
“Megan’s mother asked her to pick up one of the raffle prizes for her Christmas gala. It’s all ordered, just needs collecting.”
“This sounds like a rich people problem.”
“It’s for charity,” he says. “But Megan asked me to get it and—”
“You forgot,” I finish for him.
“I’m doing a site visit all day and we’ve got the awards dinner tonight. Look, I didn’t want to ask because of the accident but on the off chance you’re feeling okay—”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” He sounds suspicious, which is fair.
“I’m going into town anyway to pick up something for my mam. It’s fine. I need a new side quest. My main quest sucks right now.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’ll send you the details. We’ll swing by after the dinner and pick it up.”
We say goodbye and I mentally run through a list of people who could look after Tiernan, but I dismiss the thought as soon as I think it.
I can handle a bit of shopping. I’m great at shopping.
And it’s an excuse to get out of the apartment.
Get some fresh air. See the Christmas sights.
Do some family bonding. My mood lifts the more I imagine it.
This. This is what I needed. A life purpose in the form of small achievable tasks.
I decide to use the pram because it’s too much walking for Tiernan and, obviously, there will be no carrying him with my tragic, dramatic injury.
It takes some cajoling to get him to leave his dinosaur behind and even more to get his shoes on, but eventually we manage to get out.
We even get the bus with minimal wait time.
And there’s space! The driver says hello!
And I’m thinking this might end up being a pretty great day, a real core memory for both of us, when our luck abruptly runs out.
Turns out Dublin gets really, really busy on the last Friday before Christmas.
It’s something I never had to deal with much before now.
Christmas wasn’t really a thing in my house growing up, so beyond a few presents, the consumerism rush has been lost on me.
That’s not to say I’ve never fought through a crowd for some discounted Jimmy Choos, but I had never had to do it with a sprained elbow before.
The glares I get as soon as I reach the city are something else. I mean, the pram isn’t even that big. It’s a normal-sized pram. It’s smaller than some of the shopping bags people have, but you’d swear I was driving a car through the street.
Inside the fancy shopping center for Megan, the first thing I notice is that the heating is blaring. And there’s me in my massive, still kind of soup-stained coat.
Tiernan starts fidgeting immediately, so I disrobe him, but the best I can do for me is unzip myself even though I’m already starting to sweat.
“We’ll be in and out,” I say, already getting the feeling that I’m lying to both of us.
Probably because I am.
It takes me ten minutes just to get into the elevator. Seven more minutes to find what I’m looking for and then fifteen minutes in the queue.
My arm aches. My head aches. I really need to pee. But I stand. I stay still and I stand because if I don’t, I will lose my place in the line, and we will have to wait all over again.
By the time we get to the front, I’m sweating under both arms and both boobs, and the blister on my left foot that I’d forgotten about is making sure I remember it.
The girl behind the counter smiles at me in an automatic, I’ve been-here-since-six-in-the-morning way and asks how she can help.
“I’m here to pick up an order,” I say before reading out the number. Tiernan stares longingly at the chocolate display beside us.
“We’ll go to the Christmas crib after this,” I tell him as the shop assistant goes off to find it. “And see the animals.”
“A camel?”
I balk. “Um, maybe. Might be too cold for camels, though.”
“A panda?”
Who the hell is teaching him all these things? “I don’t know. But I want to see a goat,” I say with extra enthusiasm. He just frowns, but before he can ask about antelopes or a jaguar, the assistant returns and plonks a giant stuffed teddy bear onto the counter.
“What’s that?” I ask, confused.
The girl glances at the monster. “Your order.”
“It’s twice the size of my son.”
“It’s the biggest one we have,” she confirms.
“You don’t say.” No wonder Christian didn’t want to get it.
“Gift wrapped?” she continues.
I shake my head, regretting my life choices. “Just a bag, please.”
“Two euro.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“Two euro for the bag.”
“Since when?” I ask as she holds up the flimsy brown paper that will probably rip in thirty seconds anyway.
“It’s our new environmental policy.”
“How is that helping the environment?”
The girl shrugs.
“Okay, well, my principles won’t allow me to pay two euro for something that should be free.”
“Then don’t buy it.” The words are said so logically that I have to respect her.
“No bag then.” I take the teddy. “Tiernan. Hold this.”
He dutifully holds out his tiny hands, his eyes lighting up in a way that lets me know I’m going to have to add another present to his haul this year.
“See,” I tell him as my phone buzzes. “We’re done. Now we can do fun stuff. Like meet some goats.”
I glance down at the text.
Your father wants to know
if you got the cheese.
Shit.
I stop and turn the pram back around, immediately getting glares and mutters from the people behind me, but what do they want me to do? Fail at my cheese task?
The food section is on the other side of the store, and first I have to get through the sunglasses and beauty section.
It’s like I’m playing a game of Tetris as I inch my way through, and I can feel myself losing more and more patience as a group of pre-teens gather around the skincare section, blocking my path.
“Move!” I say in my most manic voice and they scatter, dropping retinol and plumping serum in their haste.
There is, of course, another line for the cheese, and I almost expect them not to have it by the time I get to the front, but they do, and the guy cuts me a big wedge while I stand there and disassociate.
“Here you go,” he says cheerfully once it’s wrapped. “Do you need a—”
“No,” I say. “No bag. Just cheese.”
“You sure? It can get a little—”