Faith took a cart and waded into the crowded supermarket, politely dodging a woman who was peddling samples of the Publix Apron Recipe of the Day. She had forty-five minutes to grab shampoo, toilet paper and something to cook for dinner, and then shoot back to pick Maggie up from ballet. Sometimes the teacher let the parents into the studio to watch the dance the girls had learned that afternoon, and if that was the case today, she only had thirty-five minutes.
Even before the ‘incident’, Maggie was funny about ballet class. Sometimes she didn’t want Faith to stay, practically pushing her out the door at drop-off, proclaiming she could ‘do it herself’, and other times she demanded Faith stay and watch, even though mommies weren’t actually allowed in the studio itself during class. Most moms sat around the lobby chatting amongst themselves or reading. Despite Maggie’s protests of independence, usually Faith did too, but today she figured she’d get shopping out of the way so she didn’t have to drag Maggie into the supermarket during dinner hour. Also, the truth was, she didn’t want to sit and chat with anyone. She didn’t want anyone looking at her for too long. She looked like she was about to crack, and if any of the moms started talking about something cute their kid did for them, or asked how Jarrod was, she might melt into a puddle of tears. And if anyone were to bring up the Palm Beach dancer or speculate as to the identity of the two Parkland witnesses to her murder – she would surely shatter into a million pieces. Right there, right then. That’s how emotionally fragile she felt. She could only keep trying to get through each day, hoping that perhaps with time she’d be able to figure out a single solution to the mounting problems in her life: one that could lift the crushing weight of guilt that affected her every thought, but yet not cause the implosion of everything else in her life. Because she couldn’t figure one out, she’d done nothing. As she’d already learned, that could be worse than doing something.
She headed off to the shampoo aisle and checked her watch. Hopefully she wouldn’t catch traffic on University on her way back to ballet. No matter Maggie’s mood at drop-off, she’d absolutely, completely panic if Faith wasn’t waiting with all the other mommies when the studio door opened at the end of class. Her anxiety level the past three weeks had been at an all-time high, understandably. One minute she was very clingy, the next minute she ran from Faith as if she were a complete stranger. Usually that happened when Jarrod came home or walked into a room, so Faith wasn’t sure if she was playing up to him or playing Faith while she waited for Daddy to come rescue her. She might be ‘developmentally delayed’, but like all kids, Maggie instinctively sensed weakness in her parents and exploited it to her advantage. She was four and not mature enough to realize, though, that the weakness she was exploiting, wasn’t just going to score her a cookie from Daddy that Mommy wouldn’t let her have – it was actually wearing away at an already compromised spot in the fabric of her parents’ marriage. As much as it killed Faith to watch her little girl, her baby, run from her to Jarrod, it probably killed Jarrod to watch his daughter run from her mother, even if he was at the receiving end of her affection. Faith didn’t know where she stood with her daughter, so she could only stand still, waiting for Maggie to give her a sign, watching as she ran – to her sometimes, away from her others. Meanwhile, the stress that filled the house was like carbon monoxide, silently, insidiously, poisoning all three of them, but since they couldn’t smell it, taste it, hear it, it was easier to pretend everything was going to be OK. No one argued. No one sniped. No one yelled. And no one talked about the ‘incident’. They got up and did all the things they were supposed to do for the day and went back to sleep as the poison continued to fill the house.
The store was abuzz with beeps from the scanners and registers, and overhead announcements from the deli counter and bakery department. On her way to the paper products aisle, she decided on dinner: spaghetti and meatballs. Something quick and easy. She picked up a package of pre-made meatballs from the meat department and headed over to the pasta aisle, grabbing a box of Apple Jacks off an end cap and two cans of chicken stock off another. It was impossible to come out of a Publix with only the original amount of items you came in for. Jarrod was even worse. She’d send him for milk and he’d come back with half the store. And usually no milk. She smiled to herself. And he always came back with Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby – her favorite ice cream. Always. She rubbed her eye to stop the tears before they started. She couldn’t lose it in Publix.
Bam! Her cart smacked right into another cart.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘I wasn’t paying atten—’ She stopped in mid sentence.
Standing right in front of her, his cart blocking hers, was the man in black.
‘That’s OK,’ he replied with a smile, pushing his glasses up on his nose. ‘Accidents happen.’
She began to shake all over.
‘As long as you say you’re sorry and promise never to do it again,’ he said.
Faith looked dumbly around her. The rest of the shoppers carried on as if nothing had happened. People checked prices and ingredients. She heard someone laugh raucously from the next aisle over. The manager urged customers on the overhead system to pick up fresh fried chicken in the deli department.
‘Excuse me,’ said a woman as she made her way past the two of them. Sitting in the front basket, protected from cart germs by a pink fitted cart Snuggie, was a chubby baby sucking on a pink rattle and fussing.
‘Cute,’ said the man in black, waving at the baby.
Faith opened her mouth but not so much as a squeak came out.
‘Thank you,’ said the mother. She shook the rattle at the baby, pushing the cart forward with her elbows.
The man put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhhh,’ he said as the pair passed. But his eyes never left Faith’s.
With the cart clenched in her hands, Faith backed up and into a shopper.
‘Ouch! Excuse me,’ exclaimed an elderly man: Faith had run over his foot with the cart. His wife glared at her.
‘That man, there, he, he’s a … he took a girl …’ she started to say. She’d finally found her voice, but it was soft and she did not even recognize it as her own. She pointed instead.
The old man was rubbing his foot. ‘What did she say?’ he asked his wife.
‘Just say you’re sorry,’ snapped the wife, angrily. ‘You ran into his foot and he’s diabetic.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but that man …’ she began, pointing.
The man in black was gone.
The wife shook her head. ‘Rude,’ she said loudly. Then she led her husband away by the elbow. He limped past Faith, pushing the cart until they disappeared around a corner.
Faith reached for her cell phone and tried to think who to call. Jarrod? Detective Nill? Vivian? The aisle was empty now. It was her standing there all alone with her phone in her hand, her mind paralyzed with fright. She couldn’t even think. She left the cart and hurried out to the main aisle. A dozen or more checkout lines snaked their way around display bins full of holiday favorites: gravy, candied fruits, canned pumpkin. Thanksgiving was in a week. Her eyes searched everywhere, but he was gone.
Someone touched her shoulder. ‘Faith!’ said a cheerful voice. ‘It’s been a while—’
She jumped in her skin.
‘You OK, Faith?’ said the stranger she was supposed to recognize. ‘You look a little pale.’
Faith shook her head, and with her hands over her ears, ran through the crowded supermarket checkout line and out the automatic doors as if the devil himself was hot on her trail.