Figure Eight

by Calia Read

  “And nothing else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  Once again, I take in the squalor that I’ve been living in. How did it get like this? Sure as hell didn’t happen overnight. Everything in life usually takes work, and so did this monstrosity. But it was the kind of thing that you didn’t want anyone else seeing. The kind of thing that pulled out all your internal baggage and made it external. God, I’m a fucking mess.

  Sam’s right. I do need a break from all of this. I sigh and stand up. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  The relief on Sam’s face is palpable. For a second I feel good because I know I’m responsible for that.

  AT ONE IN the afternoon the grocery store is relatively empty. It’s filled with moms with Bjorns strapped to their chest, or others telling their younger kids for the twentieth time to keep their hands on the cart. A few elderly people are scattered throughout the store, quietly taking their time.

  All is well and peaceful. There’s even some nice alternative music playing from the speakers above us, but I feel like I bird trapped in a cage.

  According to Sam, the store is a ‘fucking sauna’ and she takes her jacket off, placing it right next to her purse, where you’d put a toddler or a car seat. As for me, I keep my sweatshirt on and cross my arms tightly over my chest.

  “When’s the last time you went to the grocery store?” Sam asks as she pushes the cart down the sugar and cake mix aisle.

  I shrug, my gaze furtively moving around the aisle, taking in all the stocked goods. Is it me or is the space slowly getting smaller and smaller?

  “Se?” Sam has stopped in the middle of the aisle, twisting around to look at me.

  “Uhh…” I grasp for an answer. “It’s been awhile.”

  “So I figure we’ll just stock you up on all the generic things until we figure out your living situation.”

  “My living situation?” I groan. “Not this again.”

  She drops a container of peanut butter, then jelly, into the cart. “It’s a conversation that’s not going to go away.”

  Quickly, I catch up to her. “The house is fine,” I say with a smile.

  “From the outside, maybe. But it’s like a shirt that’s bursting at the seams. It’s going to pop and then everyone will see what you’ve been living in and I don’t want that. I know you definitely don’t want that either.”

  We turn into the next aisle and pass an elderly woman. She gives me a small smile. Her eyes linger on me too long. Why is she starring at me? Can she tell how messed up I am right now? Is she going to talk to her friends and tell them about the damaged woman she saw at the supermarket? I bet she is. She looks like the type of person who would do that. She’ll give them a play by play. Describe how I look. Compared to Sam I am a fucking disaster. I knew this little shopping trip was going to be a mess.

  My hands start to shake. I dig my nails into my palms. I move one foot in front of the other, but my feet feel weighed down. It’s starting to feel really, really hot in here. Do they have the heat blasting? I’d take my sweatshirt off but I don’t have anything on underneath.

  Beads of sweat start to form around my temple as Sam continues to move down each aisle. She’s oblivious to my little breakdown. Everyone is. Other than the sweat on my forehead I know my outward appearance gives nothing away, but inside my mind there’s a riot. Alarm bells are going off. Screaming voices are telling me to go home. My heart is pounding so furiously I think I’m seconds away from having a heart attack. Still, I continue to walk behind Sam.

  Finally, she says four glorious words: “I think I’m done.”

  I practically sag against the cart with relief.

  We make our way to the front of the store. I glance to my right and that’s when I see it. Or shall I say, him. It’s out of the corner of my eye, but I’d recognize that profile anywhere.

  Jackson.

  Son of a bitch. Bastard. Asshole. Think of every name in the book and I’m calling him that.

  But there’s also a part of me that’s happy to see him.

  I grab Sam’s arm, not taking my eyes of Jackson. “Hold on one second. I forgot something in the deli section.”

  “What? Selah, come back!”

  But I take off, not bothering to excuse myself back through the crowd of people waiting to be checked out. All I see is Jackson. His head is bent as he takes in the sandwiches the deli has to offer. He’s carrying a basket in his left hand. It’s filled with a few little items. Bachelor food items, I call them. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket that I’ve never seen on him but I know it’s him. I’d recognize his brown hair anywhere. Or the cut of his shoulders.

  “Jackson,” I call out.

  He doesn’t turn around but that’s okay. I’ve been told many times that I have a soft-spoken voice. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I raise my voice.

  “Jackson!”

  Still, he doesn’t turn my way. I’m so close that I can reach out and touch him. There’s a beaming smile on my face—waiting and ready. It fades the second the man turns around.

  This isn’t Jackson.

  For a moment I’m in shock. Embarrassment steals my voice and I stand there in complete silence. The man arches a brow. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”

  It’s not Jackson. Why did I think it was Jackson?

  “I’m sorry.” I take a step back, then another and another and tip over the display of freshly baked croissants and sugar cookies. Everyone, and I mean everyone, stares at me. I’m still staring at the Jackson wannabe.

  “You were Jackson,” I finally manage to get out.

  He frowns and appears afraid to come any closer. “No. My name is John.”

  “Jackson,” I plead.

  Just say the fucking name and I’m good, I think to myself. Say his name. Just so I know I’m not crazy.

  “No, ma’am.”

  The seconds tick by and I take in the man’s features. His hair’s too dark. Eyes too blue. He really isn’t my Jackson.

  The man looks around like he’s searching for someone, or possibly for help. It’s then that I really look around and see Sam rushing over, her face beet-red with embarrassment. Now that I think about it, everyone looks embarrassed on my behalf.

  Jumping up, I dust my pants off, rejecting Sam’s outstretched hand. “Everyone just stare at the crazy person!” I yell

  There’s complete silence in the store. I swear, even the radio is silent.

  “I know what you’re all fucking thinking. And you.” I point to the older woman I’d passed down one of the aisles. “I saw the way you judged me. I knew what you were thinking and I know you’re going to talk about me. I know what you’re all about!”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” I twist around and see a man with a name badge that reads ‘Eddie. Assistant Manager’ standing behind me.

  I turn to Sam. She gives the guy an apologetic smile. “Of course we’ll leave. I promise we’ll pay for this mess.”

  While Sam offers up apology after apology, the crowd slowly filters away. Even the man who I wanted so desperately to be Jackson hurries to the self-checkout lane. He doesn’t bother to glance my way. Not that I blame him.

  I stand there awkwardly while Sam pays for our groceries.

  Her lips are compressed into a tight line as we hurry out of Kroger. We make it to her rental car and together we put the groceries in the trunk. When we’re done I slam the car door shut and sit in the passenger seat. She takes the cart back and a few seconds later slams the driver side door.

  We sit there in uncomfortable silence. I’m shaken by my actions. By what I thought I saw. And Sam is just mortified. I can feel the anger coming off of her in waves. Should I apologize? Yes, but I don’t know where to start or how to explain where my brain is right now.

  I don’t think anyone will understand.

  “Selah. The hell was that about?”

  I drop my hands into my lap and turn to look at her. “I saw him.”

 
; She looks confused. “Saw who?”

  “Jackson.” My voice breaks at the end of his name.

  Her face falls a bit. She sags against her seat and drops her hands heavily into her lap. “You didn’t see him,” she says dully.

  “Yes I did. But when I went over to talk to him, he disappeared and—”

  “Selah,” she cuts in. “Are you hearing yourself right now? No one just disappears into thin air. It was someone else the whole time. You just wanted it to be Jackson. That’s all.”

  Her words hold some weight but I still can’t get the fleeting image of Jackson’s back out of my head. The back of the skull, haircut, shoulders were all the same. I stare straight ahead and place my shaking hands on my lap.

  “Why can’t you just believe me?”

  “I’ll start to believe you when you start making sense.”

  “You make me sound crazy.”

  “I’m not making you sound anything. You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.”

  “Why are you being such a bitch?” I snap.

  She throws her hands up in the air like she’s giving up. “I’m not being a bitch. I’m just trying to figure you out.”

  “I don’t need you to figure me out, I just need you to believe what I’m trying to tell you.”

  I’ve been looking out my window but suddenly I duck. My arms wrap beneath my thighs as I turn my head and look expectantly at Sam.

  “What are you doing?” She looks around in alarm. And she should. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is she there?” I whisper.

  Sam frowns. “Is who there?”

  “That old lady from inside the grocery store? I just saw her get into her car. She looked right at me.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I say pointedly. “She’s been following me around for the past two days.”

  Sam tilts her head to the side and gives me a strange look. “What are talking about? No, she hasn’t.”

  The more I think about it the more I know it’s true. I’ve seen that woman around Wildwood and I’ve been feeling someone watching me. It’s her. It has to be. Sam hasn’t been around enough to know that. And I’m just too tired to explain that, or anything, to her at this point.

  Sam rests an elbow on the armrests and tentatively asks, “Have you been taking your meds?”

  I mimic her actions, just to piss her off. “No, I haven’t,” I pronounce slowly.

  “You need to. It’s not an option.”

  “Of course it’s an option. It’s my body. My decision. My life.”

  “But when you don’t take your meds you stop acting like yourself.”

  “Enough, Sam!” I yell loud enough to make her jump.

  I take a deep cleansing breath and itch at my neck. The old lady might be gone but I still feel fidgety. Sam’s eyes aren’t the only ones on me.

  It’s then that I realize that Sam’s right. There is something wrong with me. But how can I explain to her that there’s a war in my mind? It’s me against paranoia, fear and madness. Together they form a trifecta that’s hell-bent on controlling how many times my heart beats. They snatch my thoughts, normal thoughts, and warp them at such odd angles there’s no way to smooth them out. I don’t know how to fight back. Or where to take cover. I just want to escape and make it out alive.

  Crossing my arms over my mid-section, I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window. I exhale loudly and watch fog appear on the window. “Just take me home. Please.”

  “Selah, I’m really concerned about you.”

  “I know. You’ve told me that already,” I say, watching as I fog up the window.

  She puts the rental into reverse and looks at me, a sad expression written across her face. “I just want you to be all right.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” is my reply.

  Sam pulls out into traffic and drives us back to the house.

  I breathe onto the glass one more time and write into the heavy mist, HELP ME.

  LATER ON, HOURS after Sam has dropped me off, I finally get the courage to step back into Mom’s room.

  I’d fallen asleep while the sun was still up. I vaguely remember Sam tapping me on the shoulder, saying she was sorry for everything. I think I told her I was sorry too. She mentioned that she was going to try and clean things up and then she would leave.

  I wake up at 9 p.m. to an eerily silent house. It makes goose bumps break out across my skin. I instantly turn on the TV before I get out of bed. I grab my robe and walk downstairs. It’s obvious that Sam tried to clean up. Blankets are folded in the living room and draped over the couch. All fast food bags, empty soda cans and coffee mugs are gone from the coffee table. Magazines are neatly stacked.

  In the kitchen it’s the same: counters are cleaned off (as much as they can be), the trash is taken out, and the sink has been washed down. All the dirty plates, utensils and mugs are in the running dishwater.

  “Thank you, Sammy,” I say quietly.

  My stomach rumbles but I bypass the fridge and go to the cupboard and find my stash of Svedka exactly where I’d left it. I take one shot and ignore the taste. And instantly take another. I take two more and walk back upstairs.

  When I enter Mom’s room, I take a deep breath and turn on the light. I’m not a glutton for punishment; I just need more answers. Everything is just as I left it. The clothes are still scattered about the room and the bed is still unmade. I turn on the TV and start to make my way toward the closet. Earlier in the day I’d made sure to close the closet door. I can see the glow of the multiple screens underneath the crack of the door.

  A shudder racks through my body and I open the door. The three computer monitors are still on. I lean in closer to get a better look. I was outside just hours ago and it was snowy and bitterly cold. But judging from these pictures it’s windy and rainy outside. Clearly the cameras stopped taping a while ago. I just don’t know when because the date on the upper right hand corner reads 03/04/2000.

  I doubt it was recording in 2000. More like Mom, or whoever set this surveillance up for her, forgot to set the date. The only thing that was set is the time. I kneel in front of the computer screen and slowly move the mouse around. I have no idea how to work a surveillance video. Is it like a regular one that lets you stop, fast-forward or rewind?

  There’s a keyboard in front of me but I don’t know what it’s for. I lean closer to the modem-like equipment that the computer screen is resting on. To the right is the power button and to the left is a slew of other buttons. In the middle is rewind, fast forward and pause.

  I press fast forward. The seconds and minutes tick by at rapid speed. Placing my chin in my palm, I avidly watch all four screens as best as I can. At this pace the tree limbs move quickly. Leaves don’t skip, but run across the sidewalk. I notice a stray cat hanging around the front hedges. Our next-door neighbor comes home late. Another walks her dog and doesn’t clean up his poop. The mailman delivers some more overdue bills. Most of the action is in the front of the house. So I keep my gaze on cameras one and two.

  And it’s there that I notice something strange at 22:45.

  I watch as a man walks up to my front porch. To slow it down, I quickly press play and lean in. He has a hoodie on and his head is bent, making it impossible to tell who he is. He pounds on the door and then looks over his shoulder. He waits for a few seconds before he disappears out of sight of the camera.

  My heart pounds in my ears as I pray that the guy has given up and walked away. He emerges onto camera three in the backyard and my heart sinks. He’s either impervious to the motion sensor lights or just really stupid, because he takes his time and casually walks through the backyard. He opens the back gate and walks toward the patio. He appears on camera four. At this point I’m shaking with fury that a complete stranger is on Mom’s property when he has no business being there.

  “No, no, no,” I whisper to the screen.

  Here I have it: proof that someone broke into Mom’s house. Before I can
see what happens next the screen cuts out to static.

  YESTERDAY WE BOTH were at the bookstore at the same time.

  You just didn’t notice. The people roaming the aisles didn’t give you a second look. If they did, they would’ve realized that there was something wrong with you.

  You walked down countless aisles, alternating between picking up a book to read the synopsis on the back or blindly staring down at the floor. This continued for thirty minutes straight. You couldn’t focus to save your life and it was starting to make you feel sick to your stomach; you loved reading. It was a passion of yours but now that’s another thing being stolen.

  First your Mom. Then Jackson. Now the words.

  What’s next?

  Then you saw a lady who, from behind, looked identical to your Mom. God, that woke you up pretty damn quick, didn’t it? You looked around to make sure no one was watching you—and I have to say, I was really proud of how circumspect you were before you trailed behind her.

  You kept a healthy distance. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest as you tried to talk yourself into saying something to her. You felt stupid because all this time you’ve been searching for your mom and here she’s been. At a bookstore just miles away.

  Your cheeks turned red. Is it because you were embarrassed that you didn’t try hard enough? Once the lady ventured toward the checkout line you realized that you needed to spring into action before she tried to leave again. So you tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned around you felt the crushing weight of disappointment. It was so powerful that your knees almost buckled.

  Of course she wasn’t your mom.

  You gave her a weak ‘sorry’ and told her that you thought she was someone else. Before she could reply you quickly walked away. You didn’t want some stranger to see you cry.

  Stranger.

  You’re starting to really hate that word. Strangers are everywhere you go, and all you want are your Mom and Jackson.

  Is that too much to ask? You want to rage to the world.

  If you asked me I’d tell you no, it isn’t, and then I’d tell you that all is not lost because for a few blissful seconds as you followed that woman around, you were the former version of yourself. You were happy and hopeful. It looked like your heart was pieced back together again. And you know what? It was a beautiful sight.