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DEVRA

Devra wasn’t sure what alarmed her more, the garish red and green lights strung along the roof of the house across the street or the missing For Rent sign on her neighbour’s front lawn. The sign had been up for the last six months. The fact that the owners had found a tenant now, in December, felt like a bad omen. Chances were the person moving in next door would be a drug dealer, or an axe murderer, or worse—someone with excessive Christmas spirit.

Deep breaths. Don’t panic. The tragedies usually struck closer to the big day, which was still three weeks away. Although her family curse was most predictable in its unpredictability.

Bracing herself against the frigid, unwelcoming world, Devra cautiously stepped outside her front door. In this season of rampant shopping, her online order for a kitchen sink O-ring had already been pushed back twice, and she was growing tired of filling pots from the bathroom faucet. So she was determined to make the short trek to the hardware store to buy the part in person, despite her commitment to screen-based interactions whenever possible.

The cold wind lashed at her cheeks. A brittle, barren maple with branches drooping from a fresh layer of snow tried to grab the toque from her head. She saved it just in time and secured it over her wavy mess of brown hair. Removing one glove to pull out her phone, Devra texted the family group chat, made up of David, Papa, and her. Everyone doing okay so far?

Her brother, David, replied instantly: Stubbed my toe while unloading groceries, but I doubt the curse will let me off that easily.

Papa, on the other hand, took longer to craft his reply, the three dots appearing and disappearing several times. Devra smiled at the thought of his index finger clumsily tapping his newish smartphone. At seventy years old, he was constantly muttering about the ills of technology, never understanding Devra’s opposite view, despite always supporting her career goals. Algorithms were predictable in a way real life was not.

Her smile fell as her image of Papa, the charming curmudgeon, morphed into a scarier one: his face going pale, sweat beading at his temples, his eyes losing focus.

Her father was sick. Her father was vulnerable.

And now it was December.

All good here, sweetheart, he responded at last. No need to worry about your old man.

But she did worry. Every single day.

Devra treaded carefully down the sidewalk, the not-yet- shovelled snow having turned hard and icy underfoot. She passed other bundled-up pedestrians shuffling along with their heads down and took a wide berth around a leashed husky that snarled in her direction. After migrating back onto the sidewalk, she hit a patch of black ice, her feet shooting out from underneath her before she inevitably landed on her butt. She rubbed her bruised tailbone, acutely aware of how safely the other pedestrians had walked over this exact same spot, and rued the unjustness of this awful season. Still, she picked herself up, brushed the ice from her pants, and kept going.

It was only when she approached the hardware store that she stutter-stepped to a complete stop. The chill seeping into her veins seemed to crystallize. The store’s entrance was blocked by an unsightly, horrific, grotesque…Christmas village.

The seasonal tent was massive, guarded by a huge tree lot where two giant inflatable snowmen stood sentry, the front tent flaps rolled up to reveal the rest of the inflatable army within. Rapidly blinking lights were everywhere, both inside and out. Devra’s body seemed to lurch sideways even as her feet remained firmly planted.

She wanted to turn right around and leave. She wanted to be safe and cozy at home working on her latest tech project, not venturing deeper into this onslaught of merriment. Besides, she didn’t really need to use her kitchen sink, did she?

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to think of Tabs. The stubborn cat had appeared in her yard several winters ago and refused to leave. Devra had tried to shoo her away, to ignore her. She even took her to a shelter, unwilling to risk making any new attachments, even if it was with a vicious little thing that piled dead animals on her back step. But after twenty-four hours of nothing but scratches and hisses, the shelter demanded she take Tabs back. The cat staked her claim in Devra’s life, and Devra grew to admire the animal’s determined nature.

In moments like this, Tabs reminded her to be bold even though she felt meek.

Come on, Devs.

With a growl, she zipped her jacket the final inch and pulled her toque a touch lower, as if securing armour in the final seconds before battle. Lowering her head, she plowed past the coniferous forest and into the capitalist hellscape of her childhood fears.

Overhead speakers were blasting an upbeat holiday pop song that clashed with the tinny music from battery-operated toys. It took everything in her not to clamp her hands over her ears and make a hasty retreat. Instead, she kept her gaze down as best she could, stumbling around train sets and zigzagging through rows of oversized lawn decorations. When she crashed into a blow-up Grinch, she attempted to elbow the creature out of the way, only to have it flop back in her direction and nearly bowl her over.

“Need some help?” asked a man wearing the store’s standard orange apron.

Devra barely heard him. Finding her footing, she was prepared to continue her surge toward the real entrance, except she’d lost her bearings. In every direction was another endless corridor of cherubic faces and bright lights and ringing bells.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” the employee asked. “A bunch of Fraser firs came in this morning. A bit pricey, I know, but I’ll be sure to be sloppy with the measurements. That’s a Bradley promise.”

Devra breathed unevenly, still searching for the entrance. Or even the exit. At this point, either would work. Backward or forward. She just needed out of this overwhelming embodiment of every awful—

“Hey.”

The salesperson placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and she startled from being touched so unexpectedly. Or perhaps simply from being touched. It had been a while.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Devra was on the taller side for a woman, but she still had to look up to take him in. His messy blond hair and scruffy blond beard. His kind eyes, blue yet pale, the way the sea appears azure until you scoop some in your hand and realize it holds no colour at all.

“I’m fine.” Her breath settled, and social norms returned to her. “Thank you,” she added.