For You (8 page)

I didn't know how old her kid was, or even if there was more than one, but my house was no place for a kid. Was it even a good place for me?

I looked around at my life, but mainly at the wall behind me, full of holes from the darts. The wall had once been someone's pride and joy, covered in floral wallpaper. And now it was garbage.

My life had also been about pride. Once. A long time ago. Before I let everything slip away and turn to garbage. Sometimes I wondered if I'd ever be able to see something good when I came across it.

Aubrey was good.

But she was sad, through and through. It seemed she knew the difference between right and wrong, which was more than I could say for a lot of the people I knew. Most people were too comfortable to ever have to make a choice, to find out what they were made of.

I could see in Aubrey's eyes that she'd stared down the darkness and survived. I wanted just a little bit of the courage she had.

Or maybe I just wanted someone to put my arm around, who'd listen to me ramble on about philosophy and what path to choose in life.

My father sent me a message while we were playing pool, saying one of his top guys was moving out east, and did I want to work for him? I'd enjoyed working summers at the shop. The work was challenging in the right ways, plus it paid well. I knew he wanted to pass the whole business along to me and take early retirement, but did I really want it?

Stepping into that role seemed too easy.

I always went for the tricky shot, the less-traveled path.

AUBREY

Back at the apartment, I had an hour before my grandmother would be bringing Bell home, so I got the laundry started and spread out the grocery store sale flyers.

The brand of string cheese Bell loved was on sale, but only at the store that was the furthest away and had the snottiest cashiers. I thought about buying the cheap brand and throwing away the package so she wouldn't know, but I didn't dare mess around with the few foods she would reliably eat. The absolute last thing I needed was for the people at her school to start making phone calls about her being too thin.

I'd been a skinny kid too, with blue veins visible over my ribs when the other girls my age were getting womanly figures. When my breasts did finally start growing, they came in not as the soft fat of my friends, but as these hard lumps just under the skin. I was terrified—thought for sure I was dying, and that my mother would be pissed at me for it. We'd only been living with Derek a short time then, and my mother was putting all her attention into keeping him happy.

I finally got up the courage to ask her to take me to a doctor, saying I'd get a job and pay her back. She demanded I tell her what the problem was, and when I wouldn't say, she called me a slut and a whore for getting knocked up.

When I finally admitted the problem was the bumps on my breasts, she put her hands up my shirt and felt them with her cold fingertips.

“I had the same thing,” she said coolly.

“This is normal?”

“Close enough to normal. Don't worry about it, and don't you dare go to a doctor. I've got some old bras you can have until you buy your own.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, just behave.”

She used to say that a lot.
Behave.
What the hell did that mean?

Thursday morning after I walked Bell to school, I brought my rolling wire cart with the wheels to the grocery store. It was embarrassing to be using something that was for senior citizens, but my grandmother had insisted on buying one for me, and the thing was more practical than carrying bags all the way home.

I loaded up on the name-brand string cheese first, and then went down my list, only buying what I had written down. Some frozen dinners I liked were on sale, but it was an in-store sale, not advertised in the flyer. I put six boxes in the cart, even though it would be stretching my budget.

After the frozen dinners, I rushed around, all too aware that stuff was thawing already and would only thaw more on the walk home.

I pushed everything quickly to a lineup. The cashier at the checkout line didn't look snotty, but she did appear to be high.

“Self-checkout's open,” she said, nodding to the station where shoppers could weigh and punch in their own groceries from start to finish.

“Maybe next time.”

She stared at me with enormous pupils and a vacant expression. “Would you like to donate five dollars to this week's charity?”

“No.”

She wrinkled her nose and blinked down at my groceries, then began scanning and bagging them.

I watched the digital readout as she chucked things indiscriminately into a plastic bag. This store charged five cents for plastic bags, and I chided myself for not bringing my own from home.

“The self-checkout is really easy,” she said, not willing to let it go.

I pretended to be really interested in the
Archie
comics to the left of the checkout.

She said, “The self-checkout saves the store money that it passes on to customers.”

I clenched my stomach muscles and focused on my breathing. There was no fucking way I was going to use the self-checkout, so she was wasting her time.

“That's nice.” I pulled the comic off the wire shelf and read the first page.

“Fifty-seven forty-four.”

“Nope. That's not right.”

She gave me her bored-cow look. “That's what the machine says.”

Between my teeth, I said, “There's been an error.”

She scrolled through the items on the display.

“There,” I said. “I've got regular apples, not the organic apples.”

Sneering, she turned and picked out the bag of apples from my grocery bag. One fell to the floor, and she picked it up and dropped it back in the bag.

“Now that one's bruised,” I said.

“Nah, it's fine.”

The woman behind me in line let out a disgusted sound. I thought she was annoyed at the dumb-as-shit cashier, but when I turned, she gave me a look of disdain. Me. The one whose greatest crime was not wanting to pay organic apple prices for bruised non-organic apples.

The music playing over the store's speakers—Elton John—was unbearable. Everyone was looking at me, and I didn't have fifty-seven dollars in my wallet.

The cashier leaned forward and paged someone to our checkout over her microphone.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, and I walked away.

The cashier was calling after me, and some guy got all up in my face before I could reach the door.

“Ma'am is there a problem?” He wasn't much taller than me, but he was a guy, so I had to assume he was stronger than me. He had a scruffy mustache and looked like he took his job seriously.

“No.” I shook my head, looking down at my shoes. “I just forgot something in my car.”

He reached for something—a cell phone—and said, “Let me just call someone to help us.”

“Get out of my way!”

He held his hands up. “Ma'am. There's no need to be upset.” He looked down at my purse. “What's in there?”

The grocery store manager reached for my purse and asked me again what was in it.

I replied, “My wallet. Why, do you want to search me? You want to strip-search me and stick your hands all over me?”

He looked left and right. “Not out here. If you'll come with me to my office?”

“No!”

He put his hands on his hips, his cheeks red now.

“Fuck off, you pervert. You're not laying a hand on me. Get out of my way.”

He puffed up his chest, trying to look bigger. I knew guys like him. A little authority, and they loved to lord it over weaker people, and that meant women.

I dodged to the left and whipped around him, running for the door.

He was shouting for someone, calling for assistance, and I just ran.

I wasn't even thinking. My mind went completely blank and all I knew was… this was the part where we ran.

We ran.

Me and Mom.

She stuffed the packages of meat inside my winter jacket.

I said no, that I didn't like the blood. The blood would get on my clothes. Couldn't she put the meat in the shopping cart like the other moms?

She said it was a game. A game just for us, and I was her helper.

The meat was cold, and made me shiver.

I knew it was wrong, and when the man in the fruit section gave me half a banana, I cried and told him I was sorry.

She looked at me like I was the betrayer, like I didn't know what was good for me, and I knew I'd be in trouble when we got home.

When we got to the middle of the aisle, where nobody could see us, she grabbed my arm and squeezed her fingers around my arm, so tight.
Mom it hurts. You're hurting me. I don't want the cold meat and the blood against me.

Her cold eyes flashed at me, and I sucked up my crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and I made myself small and quiet. I made myself as still as a stone.

We kept on shopping. Up and down the aisles.

At the checkout, the woman asked how old I was. She asked if I had a pretty smile. My mother said I did—I did have a pretty smile—but I wouldn't show the lady because I was rude and selfish and a liar.

The blood.

It was in my clothes. It was everywhere.

The people at the grocery store probably didn't think much about me after I left. To them, I was just another problem, probably a meth addict.

Some people watch movies and shows about zombies to get a thrill out of seeing human forms stripped of their civility. Desperate, angry, hurting creatures. I knew girls who got caught up in drugs, saw girls I knew from high school wandering around with skinny arms and banged-up knees. No jacket. Like so much of them was numb, they couldn't even feel the cold anymore.

In arguments, they fling their arms at people like sad, useless weapons. They give blow jobs to family men in parking lots, and by the way they swear and kick at the vehicle after it dumps them off, they don't even get paid.

Everywhere you go, the addicts are the same. Our neighborhood wasn't so bad, but you didn't have to travel far from where I lived to find Whalley, an area the city said was “in transition.” I'd seen people openly dealing and shooting up. That was their business, though, and I kept to mine.

The stupidest thing about me running out of the grocery store like a crazy person was that I got myself lost. It took me twenty minutes to retrace my steps and find my way back.

I stood outside, staring at the glass doors and people going about their business. My little two-wheeled cart was in there. The gift from my grandmother. I didn't know what it cost to replace, but the value had to be slightly more than my pride.

I could see my cart through the window, standing at the end of the checkout.

Digging around in my purse, I found a hair elastic and pulled my hair up into a high ponytail, a wholesome, middle-class, cheerleader ponytail. I peeled off my pink hoodie and rolled it up into my purse. The shirt I wore underneath was black, and the change in appearance gave me the confidence to walk back in.

Moving calmly, looking at my cell phone as I walked, like I was checking a text message from my husband, I walked by the checkout and grabbed the handle of my cart without breaking my pace.

I strode over to the newspaper stand, pretending to be distracted by a headline, did a three-point turn with the cart, and reversed direction back out the store again.

My heart was pounding. Even though I hadn't done anything wrong.

I had to keep reassuring myself that as I walked away from the store, fighting the urge to break into a run.