I even grabbed Zane’s dumb reusable bags out of the garage before I left. I feel absurd with them in the cart since no one here has started using them. I’m either pretentious, or a hippie, and I can’t relate to either. I drop my purse on them and pull out my cellphone. Taking a deep breath, I drop a quick text to Zane, knowing he’s about to go into court.
“You’re gonna do great. Give them that winning smile I know so well.”
I’m about to drop my cell back into my bag when it buzzes with a message from Zane.
“You mean this one?”
Two seconds later his picture pops up in the window, eyes crossed, nose scrunched, jaw crooked with his lips twisted in either direction like my horse when he yawns.
“Or this one?”
Another picture pops up, eyes squinted, cheeks blown out like a monkey. My laughter draws some heads around, but I don’t care. They don’t know what it’s like to be friends with Zane Alexander.
“Definitely the first one. It’s a winner,” I write back.
There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s been called inside the courtroom. I drop my phone into my purse and start toward the pasta section. My phone jars the entire cart with vibration. I dive over the bar, nearly fracturing a rib as I try to get my hands on the phone. I click it on and read his message.
“I still feel your hand in mine.”
I haven’t admitted to anyone how much he’s getting to me. Not even myself. But staring at those words, it’s hard to ignore it anymore.
“I’m right there. You’ve got this.”
Hopefully, that’s what he wanted to hear because he’s quiet for the rest of my shopping trip. It’s a chore to silence the voices in my head telling me I did it wrong and the fifty million things I could have said better. But I can’t change it now, and I have groceries to load up. The clerk eyes my reusable bags as I’m started for the end to bag my groceries.
“I brought them from home,” I say.
That’s the sort of thing a shoplifter would say.
“They’re good for the environment,” I add, hoping it will help.
That’s not much better. Now I’m a pretentious shoplifter.
Just keep your mouth shut, Finley.
The groceries slide to the end of the conveyor belt. I have four bags and no way of knowing if it’s the right ratio of groceries to bags fulfillment. I pop open the first bag and start loading things inside. Surprisingly roomy, and Zane’s right, the cloth is rather sturdy. He might convert me after all.
I pack the second bag with ease and even the third. The clerk is still eying me, but I think it’s genuine curiosity since we don’t use these new fandangled type items in our neck of the woods. I shake open the final bag, but the final corner won’t pop into place. I reach inside and push the corner out.
Gush.
Something squished under my finger.
My eyes go wide, and I rip my hand free to stare into the bag.
One large hairy brown spider and at least two hundred tiny spiders stare back at me.
I gasp and smash the bag closed on the conveyor belt. Three babies escape. The belt sucks them under to whatever world exists under the grocery belt. The clerk stares at me, and I need to give her an answer. Telling her that I have the whole cast of Arachnophobia in my bag seems like a bad idea.
“They’re surprisingly spacious,” I say, grateful my hysterical voice also passes for overly enthusiastic. “Sometimes I have to squeal with delight.”
Five more babies escape and vanish to the abyss below.
Good riddance.
I ball the bag up tight, hoping to squash the little beasts without feeling it. The clerk looks like she’s going to call security any second.
“You know,” I shove the balled-up bag into my cart and drop the milk on it a couple times, rattling my cart in the process, “I should probably use a couple normal bags to compare.”
“I have your total when you’re ready.” She says it like anything could tip me over the scales to a full psychotic break. With that many spiders in my cart, she’s not wrong. It feels perfectly viable to light the whole thing on fire and start over.
But I need to pick Oliver up from school, and if I’m late I’ll have to talk to Jennie. I swipe my card, smile once more in hopes that the clerk won’t call the cops and 5150 me once my back is turned.
I still haven’t heard back from Zane. In reality, it might be awhile. After a little research last night, I realized that every time he’s appeared in court, new charges have been filed, as if people are lined up waiting to get their vengeance. It’s no wonder he didn’t want to go.
I load the non-spidery groceries in my newly cleaned trunk first, checking of course for any refugees who might have jumped ship. But then I’m down to the one bag. It’s not my best move, I’m not perfect, but I ditch that bag, and its contents, right there in the cart return.
Maybe they’ll all escape and live a long spider life outside. Charlotte’s Web was a good book after all.
Maybe they’ll all die in there, and I won’t complain about that either.
Or maybe some poor unsuspecting bystander is going to think they won a prize and got a free bag, but all they’ve got is a spider nest.
Either way, I’m pulling out of this parking lot, and for once Finley Sullivan is looking out for number one.
And it might be the first time.
Chapter 10
I plan the timing to perfection, at least in my mind. I sit in my car until six moms wait at the front door to pick up their kids. I climb out and scurry behind them, not so close that we have to talk, but close enough I’ll get lost in the crowd. They venture over the snowy carpet. I stick to the tile prison by the door. Thankfully, my son has always been my little rescuer, and he sees me right away. Without a thought for the kid he’s playing with, he tosses his toy, grabs his shoes, and slams against me without alerting scary Miss Genevieve.
“Ready to go, Oli?” I ask as I drop to his height.
His silky blonde hair shifts forward as he nods yes before he bolts for the car. I turn to leave and see Jennie Baker is headed for me. No time to waste, I jog after my son. He rips open the car door, hops inside, and I have the seatbelt on his car seat fastened before I hear Jennie’s heels on the sidewalk.
“Finley! Finley!” she calls after me. I’m curious if I can pretend I don’t hear her. But as I pull my head out of the backseat, she’s close enough she could peg me with a rock and won’t be ignored.
“Oh, Jennie,” I use her high school name on purpose, hoping it’s a profanity in her new world, “I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s Genevieve,” she says as I close the door. “I needed to talk to you about Oliver’s day today. He had a rough time.”
Not the words any parent hopes to hear.
Without waiting, Jennie plows on. “Well, beyond his normal behavioral issues, today we were talking about what we are grateful for. The children came up with excellent answers, of course, but Oliver really struggled.”
“To find things he was grateful for?”
“Well, no.” Jennie smiles and my stomach twists. “His answers were the most unconventional, I suppose, like his pony and the bacon he got from the pig, but he struggled when the other children started talking about their families. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and fathers.”
The air gels. Tears sting my eyes and nose like I’ve gone under water too fast. We haven’t dealt with the topic yet. His sheltered life on the farm hasn’t forced me to explain the nature of family, or my lack thereof. How can I explain to my almost four-year-old the circumstances of either of our lives?
“He simply didn’t understand the concept of fathers,” she says. “I didn’t know how you wanted me to handle it.”
I can’t look at her. My heart thuds as if I’m at a dead run. Why is there so much saliva in my mouth? Thoughts flash through my mind faster than I can process them.
This is why I told Mona I didn’t want to do preschool yet.
There’s a tree in the distance, leaves turning flame red as if it’ll burst into fire.
Fall is in full swing.
I don’t have answers.
I met Todd in the fall.
I’ll never have answers.
I’m having a panic attack.
If I could, I’d turn those leaves to flames to facilitate my escape.
“No one talks about it, but we all know it ended badly for you and Todd.”
No one talks about it.
That might be her biggest lie yet. The post office still falls silent when I walk in. Three years later, I’m still a favorite vein of gossip in this town. They all know exactly what happened, but why side with the poor orphan when Todd is on their Christmas card mailing list?
“What did you mean when you said beyond his normal behavioral issues?” I ask, hoping to shift this line of conversation away from memories of my failed marriage.
“Well, his hitting and yelling,” Jennie says as if I should know. “It was much more pronounced today with his other frustrations so near the surface. We are constantly reminding him to use his words and not act so aggressively.”
This is news to me. Oliver never hits at home, maybe once or twice I’ve seen his aggressions at the playground, but never unprovoked.
“His speech is delayed,” I say. Cars doors slam in near unison, but not before the other moms, women who were once girls I went to high school with, cast judgmental glares in my direction. “I’m working with him, but he does get frustrated. I didn’t know he was having an issue at school. Mona never mentioned it.”
Jennie shrugs and shifts her stance. “The speech delay is apparent. I don’t know if you’ve had him checked for brain damage. With Todd as his father…” she leaves it like that, hovering in the air because she doesn’t want to know if I let Todd beat my infant. What do I say at this point?
No, I wear this scar because I wouldn’t let him hurt Oliver. Don’t worry, Todd didn’t beat him stupid, Jennie Baker.
“We’ve been cutting him a lot of slack. You’re a single mom, and you didn’t have the best childhood. It’s not like you know any better.” A knot balls in my throat at how cavalier she is with the fact that I’ve never had real parents. “And then you add the fact that Todd was his father,” the knot clenches and tears spring to my eyes once more, “and I think some level of aggression is to be expected.”
I draw in a breath, but it jams on the emotion. I look away, to the tree, to the ground, to the moms, but they’ve gone home to their perfect lives with a nuclear family, not a family that went nuclear. The vibration starts in my hands but ends in my jaw and lips. How long am I expected to hold this together? How much can one woman break before she’s simply unfixable?
“Finley, I’m sorry,” Jennie takes a step forward as my tears tumble one over the next down my cheeks. The sob chokes from my throat as I fall forward. Her hand rests against my shoulder, but I fling her from me as I shake, hunched over, losing my mind in front of her perfect house and perfect life.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Jennie says, the haughty tone absent.
Sure, now she feels guilty.
Now that I’m a puddle of human goo.
Whoops too far.
“Oliver is an excellent little boy. We didn’t know how to handle things today because—”
“Because you’re afraid that I’m not good enough?” My voice rocks off the houses around us. “Because I was stupid enough to marry an abuser, and now my son will probably grow up to be like him?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Jennie steps back, hand over her heart.
“You act like it’s never occurred to me that he’s Todd’s son.” Her face swims in my vision, both of us underwater, drowning in my tears. “You think I don’t realize that every time I look at him? You think I don’t go to bed every night hoping that I’m enough to keep him from that path? You think it doesn’t keep me up at night worrying that I’ll fail? That someone else will fall victim to what I lived with?”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t—”
“You all knew!” I fling the words at her with shredded edges and piercing peaks. “You all knew what he was doing to me, and you said nothing. But you’re more than willing to make me pay for his sins, aren’t you?”
Her face pinches in as guilt twists her features. “We didn’t—No one knew—”
“Save it,” I tell her. There’s nothing more to say. I push past her and climb into my car. Guilt pricks at me as I pull away from the curb, leaving Jennie Baker to cry on the sidewalk.
I’ve done it all wrong again, and I can’t find my way out of this one. I’ve broken the cardinal rule.
I talked about the abuse.
✽ ✽ ✽
“Whas wong, mama? Why you sad?”
His words are worse than normal, or maybe I’m worse than normal at being his mother.
I carried him inside once we arrived home. Then the groceries, and then the hollowed-out shell I call my body. Like a drone on auto pilot I put away the groceries because we don’t have the money to waste while I have a mental break down.
But I can’t deny my little boy staring up at me, eyes wide with concern, heart breaking for my ache. He has his father’s nose, and the shape of his eyes. His hair is mine, and I hope it never darkens to match Todd’s. His teeth are straight like Todd’s, thank the heavens above because I can’t afford braces. I think he’ll be left-handed like his father. I wasn’t lying or exaggerating about what I said to Jennie. I do see Todd when I look at my son. I do feel the fear when his temper flashes, or when his frustration turns intense. I can’t deny the fact that half of him belongs to Todd. Is there really any hope of escaping his genetics? Especially when I don’t know what mine are? I have no way of knowing what I unwittingly gave Oliver. Perhaps I’m just as much to blame.
But there, in those round eyes and soft hands, I find some solace. His compassion, his ache when I ache, none of that is Todd’s. I’m not sure it’s mine either. Maybe Oliver is something new, something neither one of us can claim. Perhaps, despite all my failings as a single mother, and all of Todd’s issues I can’t control, Oliver will still succeed.
“Mama had a hard day.”
I let the fridge fall shut. I should talk to him about his dad, explain where he is, but how? I can’t tell him that he used to hurt me, my four-year-old won’t understand. I can’t lie and tell him Todd is dead. Once he knows the truth, he’ll never forgive me. I scoop him into my arms and say it again, “Mama had a hard day.”
“Me too.” His voice tickles against my neck. His sticky fingers catch my arm as he pulls me close. I keep failing him. As hard as I try, I keep failing him. But that won’t stop me from trying again.
My phone buzzes twice, but I know it’s Mona looking to see if I’ll help at the nursery. Before she left yesterday, she made at least three pointed remarks about her failing business on account of my thriving career. None of it is true, Grannie’s Bloomers runs fine without her bossing Ester and Cecelia around, but nonetheless, I know they’d love my help doing some of the heavy lifting. I’ll answer in a minute, but my little boy will only fit in my arms so many more days. For now, I’ll hold him while I still can.
“Mama,” Oliver pulls back and points at the floor behind us, “Mama, wook!”
I follow where he’s pointing, and at first, I don’t see it. The hardwood floors are a deep provincial stain that has darkened with every passing year. But as my eyes adjust, I see the lines, the troops in ranks, walking one behind the next in search of food.
Ants.
Everywhere.
Is it too late to crawl back in bed and try again tomorrow?
✽ ✽ ✽
Two hours of cleaning every counter, crevice, container, nook and cranny is not how I planned to spend my day off. That’s the problem with old houses, after years of settling, the cracks are deep, and the little buggers get in from more than the traditional entrances. Not jus
t the windows, but from the joints where the cabinets meet the wall. Not just the walls, but from behind the oven andunder the dishwasher. They weaseled their way into my sugar, flour, and an old pitcher I used for juice over the summer tucked at the back of the cabinet I never use. I can only be grateful they didn’t find Oliver’s snack bag he takes to school. Jennie Baker would have called the authorities on me for being an unfit mother.
Maybe she should.
Sometimes I swear it’s true.
I glance up to find him through the back windows. Clouds dim the waning afternoon sky. Looks like rain is looming. I don’t know what that means for filming tomorrow. Last week, Jay went through an entire rant on the perfect amount of rain for romance and intrigue, and what’s too much. I should have been listening, but I was watching Zane out of the corner of my eye.
I read online that cinnamon disturbs the ant trails and discourages them from entering the house, so I make it rain on almost any surface I find. The kitchen smells like most grocery stores come November first when the cinnamon pinecones assault you at the front door, that heavy, heady, make you hate the holidays attack on your senses. I wonder if I’m part ant because the scent certainly disrupts me.
Oliver’s giggle lights up the air. It’s not hard to find him through the bay window out back. He’s let the chickens out, chasing them in circles while they squawk, and he shrieks. I can’t be all bad. How many kids grow up like this? Free from tablets and tv, content to run in a circle until he’s dizzy and collapses in a fit of laughter.
Exhaustion begs me to sit down, if only for a minute. I should check my phone, ask Mona if she still needs help. Heaven knows that woman has done more for me than I could ever hope to repay. What’s one unpaid shift lugging manure bags around, or balancing the register for Grannie’s Bloomers? A heap of dishes waits for me, likely what attracted the ants in the first place, along with the soapy water that’s been sitting in the sink getting cool. I’ll rest after I finish the dishes. It was a bad day, that’s all.
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 10
