by Wendy Owens
I park my Ford Focus and grab my iPhone wallet case, shoving it into the pocket of my sweatshirt. Yanking up the hoodie, I secure myself behind the veil, and somehow this makes me certain nobody can see me in my disheveled appearance. I’m not sure, in the three years since Travis and Katie left me, I have been on a real trip to the store. If I’m not getting delivery food, I’m living on a bag full of junk food I occasionally pick up, but since I discovered the Prime Pantry online I barely see a reason to leave home. Percy once tried to tell me that a person could not live on a diet of Chinese take-out and Captain Crunch; I’m determined to prove her wrong.
Pulling open the door in the freezer section, I retrieve a gallon of the Buckeye Blitz ice cream, and then hesitate. My intake of the delectable treat has been increasing, and if I’m honest with myself, I know I will be right back here within the next four days. Perhaps I should save myself the bother of getting dressed and facing the scrutinizing gazes of the world and purchase a second gallon now.
Suddenly, my tongue catches in my throat, the door handle slips from my fingertips, and it swings shut. Directly in front of me, I find myself staring at the back of a little girl’s head. Her hair is a mess of long golden ringlets with hints of strawberry tones. I can’t swallow. I try to breathe, but my body is no longer responding to the commands from my brain. I reach out with my free hand, as a tear tickles the corner of my eye, threatening to spill out. I know I shouldn’t let it, but a hopeful thought enters my head. It wasn’t real, none of it. The last three years has all been a horrible dream. Right here in front of me, now only feet away, is my little Katie.
I open my mouth to speak her name, but nothing comes out. I can’t reach her; she's too far away. When I take a step forward, the gallon of ice cream falls from my hand, tumbling to the floor, and my foot kicks it across the aisle. It comes to rest at the heels of my Katie. I wait, all sound now fading to a dull white noise.
Her head lowers, and she turns and looks at the dessert container. Bending down, she picks it up in her tiny hands, turns, and shifts her body upright, looking into my eyes. And in that moment, my Katie fades away, disappearing back into my nightmare. The divine conspiracy for me to be absolutely miserable in every moment of my short existence has returned. The little girl smiles at me, and while she’s quite cute with her one-sided dimple, she isn’t my Katie.
“Is this yours?” she asks in her small voice.
My bottom lip is shaking, and before I can stop it, a tear manages to slip out. I reach out and take the gallon of ice cream from her, croaking out a weak “Thank you.”
“Maddy,” the little girl’s mother calls out. She lingers, staring at me. I wonder if she can see the lonely place I’m in. I’m frozen, and I know I must look insane, but I can’t take my eyes off of the little girl.
“Mommy,” the little girl says, rushing over and grabbing onto her mother’s coat—her mother who has now continued to move down the aisle. “That lady looks sad.”
My heart aches as I realize she can actually see me in the dark place I live now, a place where I’m always lost and waiting to understand my new life. Waiting on an understanding I know will never actually come. People tell me how lucky I am that I survived the crash, but here, a shell of a woman I once was, staring into the eyes of this little girl, I know she sees the truth as much as I do. The luckiest thing that could have happened to me that day three years ago would have been dying with Travis and Katie.
“Honey, you shouldn’t talk to strangers,” the mother begins, not looking at her daughter. I want to scream at her, to tell her to hug her little girl. I want to shake the woman wildly and tell her she has a priceless gift at her feet and she’s ignoring it. A grocery trip doesn’t matter—none of it matters except for your little girl. But I don’t; I stand there silently and watch the little girl, glancing back at me, walk away with her mother.
I know the mother has done nothing wrong, and really, I want to scream at myself. I should have cherished the little moments more.
Then, as if the mother could hear the thoughts inside my head, she stops, kneels, and looks her little girl in the eyes. “What lady are you talking about?” she asks.
The bright blue-eyed little girl points in my direction and says, “That fat lady; she’s crying.”
The mother’s face flushes red as she glances up at me, grasping her child’s finger and pulling it down to her side. She’s trying to whisper, but I can still hear. “It’s not nice to point, and it’s certainly not nice to call someone fat. Now come along.” The woman is on her feet and making her way out of the section as quickly as she possibly can.
I look around me, half expecting to see someone else standing near me, but I’m not surprised when I see I am alone. Looking down at the ice cream in my hand, my eyes shift to the round, T-shirt clad belly that protrudes from the flaps of my sweatshirt. Without thinking, I rip open the freezer door and haphazardly shove the tub of ice cream back onto the shelf, tearing out of the store and into the parking lot as fast as I can.
And then, like a wave rolling over me, I release it, the flood of tears I’d been holding back. Peering into the rearview mirror, my eyes are not the only things that are puffy. My face is full and round—a face I’d begun to avoid looking at.
Nobody can ever understand how much I will always blame myself. I was driving; I’m the reason they’re gone. I’ve tried to eat away the pain a little at a time. Every cupcake a way to try and forget, but no matter how much I eat, it’s never enough to get them completely off my mind. Now I look at myself, and all I feel is shame. My baby girl would not even recognize her momma. Would Travis still think I’m beautiful? I can’t help thinking my weakness would be an embarrassment to him.
I’m lost; there’s no more road for me to travel down. I already know the only thing that awaits me at the end of each avenue is a dead end. Sometimes I don’t think I will have the strength to get up off my knees and keep going. Everyone thinks I should put the pain behind me and move on with my life, but how can a woman put the death of her husband and precious little girl behind her? I don’t want to think about it anymore. I wish I could put my pain in a box and place it on a shelf, but it’s always there.
If only I had the courage to end it all, but growing up Catholic I think ending my own life might mean I won’t get a chance to see my Katie in the next one. It’s the only thought that keeps me breathing in and out.
I turn the ignition and whip out of the space, deciding everyone around me can watch out, because I’m getting home now, no matter who gets in my way. The rain pounds my windshield. At first I try to crank my wiper blades, my vision blurred, but I quickly realize they are already on high, and the reason I can’t see is the tears that won’t stop flowing out of my eyes.
My head is throbbing, and the image of the little girl in the store flashes through my mind. “Damn it!” I shout to nobody in particular.
I press my foot on the gas, racing through the parking lot and whipping around the corner so I can drive behind the building. I squeal as the back end of my compact car swings out. Trying to take a deep breath, I wipe the tears away, pressing on my brakes because I can’t see anything in front of me. I pull my hand away just in time to see the blur of red brake lights.
My arms lock, hands grip the wheel, and my foot slams the brake pedal to the floor. The wheels lock up, and I can feel the tires leave the road. In an instant, the night from three years ago flashes through my thoughts. I’m there. It’s night; the wipers are clicking in their harmonious rhythm. Katie is asleep behind me. Travis is flipping through the email messages on his phone. The heat is on in an attempt to defrost the windows. My lids are heavy, and though I’m fighting them to stay open, one blink lasts too long. Just an instant too long, or were they closed for an eternity? The sound of Travis shouting, tires skidding, crashing metal, flashing lights, and then nothing. I remember nothing except waking up in the hospital.
The Ford Focus attempts to stop, but the tires are loc
ked, and there is nothing to do except brace for the impact. Much to my surprise, the seven mile per hour collision packs quite a jolt of force, throwing me back against my seat. My heart feels like it might burst from my chest, the adrenaline pumping through me at full steam. I’m still pressing with all my might on the brake, even though both cars have come to a sudden stop.
I’m staring through the rain at the brake lights and blurry image of a crumpled New York license plate in front of me when there’s a knock at my window. A dark figure stands on the other side, the rain obscuring a clear picture. A second later the door pulls open.
“Are you okay?” a voice calls to me.
The head of the voice is out of sight, but I see a pair of men’s distressed jeans are next to me, a gray V-neck, now wet, is clinging to a set of well-defined abdominal muscles, and a black leather coat hides the man’s skin from the rain. I don’t say anything. The engine hums, the car jerking forward as my foot slips off the brake.
“Whoa there,” the man says, bending down and leaning over me, sliding the car into park. He crouches now, looking at me with concern in his oversized brown eyes. His jawline is strong. The rain is gathering on his back and flowing directly into my lap, but I don’t move. I feel the stiffness on my cheeks from the dried tears. I can tell he can see it—see that I’ve been crying.
“Can you hear me?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay, sweetie, you seem pretty shaken up. Let’s make sure you’re okay.” He reaches across me, unbuckles my seatbelt. He pauses, removes the keys from the ignition, and stands up, offering me a hand. I don’t know why I take his hand, but I do. When I stand, I see the crumpled front end of my Focus pressed against his old Mustang, which only has a small dent, besides the license plate, from what I can see.
The stranger doesn’t release my hand. He leads me to the passenger side of his car. Pulling open the door, he motions for me to get in. I hesitate, and he sees this.
“We need to exchange insurance, and I really don’t want to do it out in the rain, do you?”
“Oh—” I relent, taking a seat. When he pulls his hand away, he’s left my keys in my hand. If he’s a psycho killer, he wouldn’t give me back my keys, would he? I familiarize myself with where the door handle is while I wait for him to join me, just in case he is crazy.
When he sits down on the leather seat, he presses his hands back through his dark brown hair, causing the water to drip off the back of his head. He then wipes his hands on his soaked jeans.
“Now, let’s try this again. How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks, waving two fingers in front of my face.
I surprise myself when I laugh in response. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, dropping his hand and leaning forward to look at my eyes. I wish he couldn’t see me. I wish I had put on clean clothes. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
Suddenly I’m angry. I don’t know this guy, so how dare he say something like that to me. I stiffen and insist, “I said I’m fine.”
“Okay, sorry, I just hate to see a woman cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I snap quickly, knowing it’s a technicality that I’m not crying in that exact moment. “Didn’t you say you wanted to exchange insurance info?”
“Yeah, of course,” the man says, leaning over and opening the glove box to pull out a paper card. As he slams it shut, I begin flipping through my phone for my agent’s contact info.
“Do you have something I can write on?” I ask, glancing around the car.
He reaches over the backseat and retrieves a fistful of blue flyers. “I guess the back of one of these will work.” He hands me a sheet along with a pen that’s resting in the cup holder. I jot down my name and the insurance info as fast as I possibly can.
When I’m done I hand him the pen, and he proceeds to do the same for me. Dropping the pen back into the cup holder, he hands me the sheet with his information. Before I can grasp the door handle, my breath catches in my throat as I realize his hand is gripping my arm.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” he asks. There is something in his eyes that makes me feel bad. A pureness that says he is genuinely concerned for my well-being. The well-being of a complete stranger.
I glance down at the paper in my lap and see his name written on it. “Christian?”
He smiles at me, glancing at the paper I’d handed him. “Yeah, MacKenzie, is that right?”
“Uh-huh,” I begin, offering a slight smile, and he releases my arm. “I promise, I’m fine.”
“Well, I promise I’m not going to ask you about why you were crying, but maybe you should stay here for a minute, just until the rain lightens up,” he offers, and I wonder if he is just kind or if he might be flirting. Glancing down at my body, I think it must be that he’s just a sweet guy.
“Really, I’m all right,” I answer, but I don’t move. I hesitate, and I can’t tell him why. I can’t tell him that in this moment I would rather be sitting next to a complete stranger than spend another single second alone. I flip over the flyer in my hand and read the other side. Immediately, a word jumps out and catches my attention.
“Personal chef?” I question.
He looks at what I’m reading. “Oh, do you know anyone?”
“I might,” I answer, and my heartbeat begins to quicken. I’d been attending culinary school when the accident happened. I was close to finishing, but it never seemed important after—well … after.
“It’s for a band. We need a chef to travel with us on tour. Our last one got poached by an act we were opening for,” he explains, but he seems amused by the story rather than annoyed.
“Are you in the band?” The question slips from my mouth before I realize what I’m asking.
“God no, my brother is the one with musical talent, not me,” he begins.
“So it’s your brother’s band?”
“No,” he continues. “Actually, I’m just a roadie. It’s kind of a long story, but my brother and I own a building in New York that a bar rents from us, and the band is one of the acts that plays there sometimes. They got a nationwide tour, needed a hand, and I had nothing better going on.”
“Seriously? You just had nothing better to do, so you decided to pick up and travel across the country.”
He hesitates, and I wonder if I’ve offended him. “Let’s just say running away is sometimes a good way to forget about your problems.”
I swallow hard; maybe this stranger gets me more than I think.
“So do you know someone?”
“Excuse me?”
“For the chef job?”
“I doubt it,” I answer.
“Well, think about it, and if you do, the information is all on there. Starting tomorrow, applicants can bring their résumé to the address at the bottom. It’s the place we’re practicing while we’re in Cincinnati.”
I look at the address and instantly recognize it. “I know it. It’s the old brewery district, right?”
“Yup, that’s it. Well, if you think of someone, we need to fill the spot before we hit the road again this weekend.”
I pull on the door handle and step out, lean down, and add, “Like I said, I doubt it. Sorry about hitting you.” He opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else, but before he can, I push the door shut, smile, and wave at him through the glass before crossing over to my car.
As I get in, put the car in reverse and pull away, I don’t dare look over at Christian, but I can feel his eyes on me. The rain is now just a light sprinkling and, without the tears, my vision is unobstructed. Carefully I make my way out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of my apartment, trying my best to ignore the crunched front end of my car and the opportunity that’s staring me in the face. An opportunity to be a chef—one I would have jumped at years ago.
Chapter Three
I sit in my car, in a parking spot in front of my home, but I don’t get out. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sit
ting here. The rain has stopped completely, and the sun has found its way back into the world. The car has heated up under its rays, wrapping me in a cocoon of warmth. It’s paralyzing. My head is resting against the back of my seat, and I watch the small particles of dust dance in the sunlight. A ballet of the things so small, they often go unnoticed. A car horn blares to the left of me. A man angry at a woman who took too long to cross the street in front of him. I shake my head, wondering the question again that has haunted me for years. Why would Travis leave me alone in this world?
Pushing open the door, I climb out; suddenly I regret not purchasing the ice cream I had originally set out to buy. I ventured out into the world for a treat to drown my sorrows in and come home with a bashed up car. This was not how I envisioned my morning going. The trauma of the little girl’s comments has faded, and now all I want is to find comfort within the walls of my home and a gallon of ice cream, with Buttons on my lap. I don’t have it in me to try again, though. I’m already tired. I’m often tired these days.
I climb the stairs slowly, focusing on each one, using the iron railing to pull my weary body up to the next one. My chest feels tight and my eyes are burning. I tell myself I’ll be home soon, in my favorite chair, Katie’s blanket wrapped around me. Just a few more steps. Taking the last forward movement up to the landing, I spy a small yellow envelope peeking out from the corner of my welcome mat. Walking over, I retrieve it, and immediately recognize the handwriting on the front. It’s from Percy. Relief washes over me as I realize my trip was not a complete waste; I’d managed to avoid a visit from my stepmother. Of course, now that my father is dead, is she still my stepmother. If they parted at death, doesn’t that mean I get to part with her as well? She isn’t a horrible woman; in my heart I know that. I just choose to hate her, but I always have. I don’t really see the need for an explanation.
I slide my key into the door and make my way inside. Hanging the cluster on a hook near the entrance, all I can think about is the bliss of my chair. Rushing over, I collapse into the overstuffed goodness of the recliner that years ago I’d hated. The recliner was a purchase of Travis’s. I nagged him for the entire first year we were married to burn the damn thing. It was hideous. I hated it, and I was certain there was no possible way I could make it work with my furnishings. It wasn’t until my Travis was gone that I learned to appreciate that the beauty of the chair was in the comfort it held. I curled up the night after the funeral and didn’t leave its embrace for nearly the entire next day. Since that time, it has become my favorite spot.