Page 25 of Promise Me This

I can see her watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I remain focused on the miniature elephant resting in my palm. Suddenly a lump forming in my throat makes it difficult to breathe.

“Do you have any little ones?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. Her dangling silver earrings brush the hollow of her neck. “I can give you a discount since it’s the last market of the season.”

My mouth opens and then falls to a close without any words traveling out. I draw in a deep breath, forcing it past that lump, and hold it for what feels like an eternity. When I finally release it, I clear my throat once before glancing over at the woman.

“I do, yeah. But she’s eleven now. Too old for a toy like this.” I let it fall from my palm, instantly missing the feel of the scratchy wool against my skin.

“Oh wow, you don’t look old enough to have an eleven-year-old. Good on ya!” She pinches her stomach in the place where we all carry a bit of extra skin and fat, especially after stretching to accommodate a growing infant. “I hope to be looking as good as you when mine’s eleven. Just had her last June—my first—and I don’t have to tell you this I’m sure, but it’s a life changer.”

“That it is,” I whisper. I try to imagine what I’d tell her if my daughter really was still here. If she’d made it to eleven, and I’d lived through all the terrible twos and first days of school and the encroaching teen hormones making their way onto our horizon. Part of me nearly believes the story I’m weaving in my head. That I’ll go back to the inn, and my daughter will be kneeling next to her grandmother in the garden, proud of the turnip she’s just uprooted.

I realize the words I want to tell her as a mother of a baby who died are no different than the ones I’d tell her if my daughter had lived. The strong breeze shifts, hitting my eyes as I turn to face her. I’m hoping it’s enough of an excuse for her not to question the stray tear that leaks onto my cheek before I swipe it away. I pull a few bills out of my wallet, the equivalent of what the mobile would cost, and hand them to her, earning a confused expression.

“Use it to get your daughter something she needs. Or something you’ve been wanting for her. And give her a big squeeze when you get home and hold her extra before she goes to bed tonight. And try to remember how lucky you are to have her, even when you’re tired beyond belief. Sometimes I still feel the weight of mine on my chest, and I miss it more than I can bear.”

The last part is barely above a whisper, and I don’t know what she interprets from the syrupy thickness of my somber voice, but she nods with round, teary eyes before saying, “I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, and I walk away from the mobile and all the other toys I’ll never get to need. I’ve barely made it ten feet when I stumble to a stop as my eyes meet with a pair of questioning green ones.

Callum stands in line for an ice cream stand, with Niamh too focused on the treat coming her way to notice me. But he does. I don’t know how long he’s been watching, but the ravine between his brows tells me he’s seen too much.

For a half second I debate going over to him and explaining myself. Trying to patch up the confusion with another tall tale. Adding another layer of things I have to unravel when I finally come clean.

Then Niamh tugs at his shirt to let him know it’s their turn to order, and the wind shifts, blowing my hair across my field of vision, and I remember the look on his face when I walked away from his table last night.

I keep walking, and he makes no effort to stop me.

Chapter Twelve

Callum

Go to her.

Over and over, despite every excuse I threw internally this afternoon as I watched Leo, my brain rebutted with the same command. Go to her. Comfort her. It didn’t matter that I had no clue what was wrong, no clue why she was touching that infant mobile with a sort of reverence that wedged itself in the small space between my heart and my rib cage. Even if I couldn’t offer more than fumbling words and a gentle touch, I had to try.

But I didn’t. Instead I hesitated, and Niamh distracted me and before I knew it, Leo was walking away. I should’ve been happy about it; after all, the more space the better when it comes to her. But as she disappeared from the market in the early afternoon sunshine, it felt like a part of me trailed after her.

Niamh lands a solid kick against my spine at the same time a whistling gust of wind threatens to bust my eardrums, and the combination jolts me from my ruminating. I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Glowing red numbers let me know that it’s just past eleven. Another gust buffets the side of the house, causing the old cottage to groan under the assault. After one of the loveliest days of weather we’ve had in weeks, it almost feels like the universe is trying to punish us for enjoying it too much.

I’d love to roll onto my back, but Niamh has now curled up in a ball against me, pinning me in place. No matter how old she gets, the minute there’s a bit of bad weather, she comes padding down the hall, pushes open my door, and whispers, “Daddy, I’m scared.”

No matter how old I get, those words melt me in place. Which is why I’m currently occupying ten percent of the overall surface of my own mattress.

As if the other woman in my life is getting a bat signal from her granddaughter to interrupt my sleep schedule, my phone lights up with a call from Mam. I groan, reaching for my cell while trying not to jostle Niamh. When I pick up, Mam huffs, “There you are.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Took you long enough!”

“It’s the middle of the night,” I growl. Niamh stirs beside me, and I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to leave my warm bed and take this conversation into the hall. I slide ever so carefully out from beneath the covers, tucking Niamh in to keep her cozy in my absence. She looks like a cat curled up with how tightly wound she is, and my lips stretch into a smile as I tiptoe out of my bedroom. Into the receiver I whisper, “What is it, Mam?”

An exasperated sigh drifts over the line at the same time I hear something metallic clattering in the background. “Ah shit,” she grumbles. The static of a phone being shuffled around joins the whistling wind in grating against my ears before she finally pulls herself together and breathes into the microphone once more. “The power is out, and I’m trying to get a fire going before the guests start freezing in their rooms and come looking for warmth.”

I can practically see her clambering around the living room, knocking over fire pokers and giving herself splinters as she tries to stock the hearth. I pinch the bridge of my nose and press my back into the wall, letting it support me for a moment. “What can I do?”

“Have you got firewood?”

The image of my empty rack in the garage, still waiting to be refilled after the last cold snap, fills my mind. It’s the one task I always forget about, and Mam knows it. “No, I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

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