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“Well, well. Seems as though someone’s drank all the eggnog,” Granda Joe accuses from the kitchen, setting his gaze on Gerry, who shakes his head defensively.
“Oh, no. Don’t look at me. I don’t even like eggnog.”
Granda Joe twists his face in disgust. “And what kind of bloody Catholic doesn’t like eggnog? Sure, the next thing you’ll tell us is you don’t love the Virgin Mother.”
“Wh- That is not the same thing.”
In the living room, Erin laughs at the interaction. She and James have assigned themselves with the ask of decorating the tree, while Orla sits cross-legged on the floor beside them, hand-crafting Christmas cards with an excessive use of glitter. Michelle has busied herself with her annual viewing of Christmas Vacation on television.
“You know, I’ve always liked Christmastime,” James says, placing a gold mirrored ornament on the tree. "Everything is just... nicer this time of year. Don't you think?"
“Yeah,” Erin agrees, moving the ornament he’d just placed a few centimeters to the right.
“I feel like there’s just something different about the air,” he adds.
“Yeah, no fuckin’ shit,” Michelle chimes in. “The air is fuckin’ cold, dicko.”
“No, it’s not just that. I agree with James,” Orla speaks. “The air is different. It’s hard to describe, really. But I think it’s due to the pheromones.”
“The what!?” Erin asks.
“The pheromones. From all the reindeer flying about. Jesus, Erin! It is basic biology. You know. Animals all give off these pheromones, you see. They’re-”
Erin stops her. “I know what pheromones are, Orla.”
“Christ, Orla. There are no flying reindeer!” Michelle interjects.
“Aye, alright. But then how do you explain how Santa Claus get around?” Orla challenges.
“He’s traded in the reindeer for an engine-powered sled,” James says, before either Michelle or Erin could respond with something discouraging. Though he can’t believe a person Orla’s age could still believe in Santa Claus - in any way, shape, or form - he enjoys Orla’s childlike enthusiasm for the holidays. He almost wishes he could bottle it up and keep it for himself.
Orla pauses for a moment before accepting his answer. “About time. Those poor creatures were overworked. I’m surprised the animal activists haven’t raided the North Pole by now.”
The doorbell rings just then, and Erin’s mother rushes to answer the door. Moments later, Clare walks through the entrance in the living area.
“I’ve just come to drop off my gifts for the girls and James, Mrs. Quinn. Really, there’s no need-”
“Nonsense, Clare. It’s Christmas Eve. You'll stay for a bit. I will not hear otherwise.”
Clare steps fully into the room, her arm cradling various small, but impeccably wrapped, boxes. “Feliz Navidad!”
“‘Merry Christmas!’” Michelle shouts, rising to her feet as the film’s credits start to roll. “‘Shitter was full!’ Ah, what a class film!”
Not long after, the five of them find themselves in Erin’s bedroom, as usual, sprawled out across the floor, listening to a tape of Christmas songs on Erin’s old radio.
Michelle pulls a bottle of eggnog seemingly out of nowhere, and pours them into disposable cups.
“Ah, so you’re the eggnog thief, then.” Erin says.
“What’s a little thievin’ in the name of Jesus Christ?” Michelle responds.
Clare gasps. “I really don’t think you should say-”
Michelle raises her cup of eggnog, cutting Clare off mid-speech. “Alright. I’ll start. Here’s to the dickhead’s first Christmas in Derry! A toast to the spirit of Christmas!”
The lot tap their cups together and proceed to take a swig of their eggnog. Clare spits hers out immediately.
“Christ, Michelle. What did you put in these?”
“Would it kill you to live a little, Clare?” Michelle responds, downing the rest of her eggnog.
Several drinks later, and the group is mostly asleep on the floor of Erin’s bedroom. Except for Erin and James, that is, who are tipsily perusing an old Quinn photo album at the foot of her bed.
They come across an old photograph of Erin, presumably around the age of 5 or 6, nearly fully submerged in a pile of tinsel and lights. Her Granda Joe is standing in the background, holding Orla in his arms with a bemused expression on his face.
“I like that one,” James says out loud.
“Yeah?” Erin smiles, vaguely recalling the moment the picture was taken.
“Yeah. I wish I had Christmas memories like these.” Childhood memories, for that matter. But he doesn’t say that aloud.
“What do you mean? You’ve got to have happy Christmas memories.”
“Well, yeah. Mostly, anyway.”
Erin looks at him, an eyebrow raised. “Mostly?”
He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. Most of them are happy memories. It’s Christmas… And I really do love Christmas. It’s just… For so long, it was just me and Mum, you know?” He’s silent for a brief moment before asking, “Is it bad that I miss my mum?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean, I don’t completely understand why you should miss her, I won’t lie. But she’s your mum, and I don’t blame you for missing her. Especially during Christmas..”
He forces an appreciative smile, then continues. “Right. Well…. At the same time… I don’t know. She’s in so many of my memories. And at the same time, she’s not really there . If that makes any sense. And I really just don’t know how to feel about it.”
“You don’t have to know how to feel about it,” she reassures him. “I’m sorry, James.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m… Actually really okay. This is the best Christmas I’ve had in a very long time. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
There isn’t much else to be said in the moment, but Erin takes his hand in hers and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He smiles weakly, for a second time, before noticing the time on the clock beside her bed.
“Just after midnight,” he says, letting his eyes meet hers in the lamp-lit dark. “Happy Christmas, Erin.”
She returns his feeble grin. “You too, James.”
For a moment, they remain that way, just staring at one another in the dark.
Neither of them seem to register that Jame’s hand is still wrapped in Erin’s. And neither of them realize it when they have fallen to the power of Michelle’s eggnog, resting their heads on Erin’s mattress, foreheads pressed together, before drifting off to sleep.