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THE LOCAL SPARKLE WAS crowded, not a surprise, considering it was the only grocer in town. Gail browsed the aisles, occasionally plucking various items off the shelves and adding them to her cart.
She went to the deli, ordered a pound of chipped ham, farmer’s cheese, and ham salad. After she took her items from the counter, she turned and headed for the baking aisle. She planned on making strawberry shortcake. The dessert was easily Lexie’s favorite, so she wanted to have plenty for her to take to her new place.
Although Lexie stayed at their house last night, the movers brought her things to her new place yesterday. She was nervous, scared of being alone in an empty house, with her emotions, the memories, and the fear that plagued her in the night, but she needed to learn to stand on her own two feet again. Lexie needed to reestablish her independence, which had always been so ripe, even as a child. Gail loved having her daughter underfoot, but she wanted her to make herself a home again, to feel comfortable and safe in her new place, to build a real life for herself.
Gail didn’t have a magic wand, however. She couldn’t wave her hand in the air and magically transform Lexie into the woman she used to be with a shower of Pixie Dust. Instead, she settled for the only thing she could think of to ease her discomfort, homemade strawberry shortcake—and a bouquet of fresh cut sunflowers she threw in the cart for good measure.
Gail walked swiftly through the store. She wanted to be home before Lexie arrived at the house, so she turned, cutting through one of the center aisles. She stared straight ahead, her mind on her daughter and the evening’s supper she wanted to prepare when she looked at the shelves beside her. She slowed, her feet heavy like lead, and no longer able to put one in front of the other, then came to a stop.
She stared at the display of sippy cups, baby spoons, and assorted Gerber foods. A hand fluttered to her chest, an automatic response to her wrenching heart. She thought about her grandchild, the one without a name, the one waiting in Lexie’s belly until the day she chose to enter this world.
Her throat ached. She wasn’t familiar with adoption or their policies. Would she even get to see her granddaughter before they took her away? Would she remain faceless, as well as nameless?
The aching in her bones intensified. She yearned to hold the infant in her warm embrace. She wanted to look her granddaughter in the eyes, coo at her, rub the fuzz on her head, let her curl her tiny fingers around her wrinkled ones, and promise her the world like only a grandmother could.
But none of that would be hers. Maybe she was selfish to want it, but it didn’t change the fact that she did so, desperately.
She wasn’t angry with Lexie’s decision to give up the child. Because of the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy, Gail could bear no ill will towards her unwillingness to consider keeping the baby. The pregnancy was a daily reminder of her brutal attack. Keeping the baby would only magnify that.
Gail tore her eyes away from the shelves and left the aisle, trying to repress the voice inside her head, begging her to fight for her granddaughter, to keep her.
On numb legs, she made her way to the baking supplies, chose a sack of sugar and baking mix, no longer focused on the task at hand. When she reached the checkout, she got in line behind a woman with short, dark hair, whom she didn’t recognize. She gabbed exuberantly with the cashier, Marge, bouncing from one topic to the next.
Gail loaded her purchases on the conveyor belt, praying that “Chatty Cathy” hurried. She was no longer in the mood to linger and certainly not in the mood to be drawn into conversation.
“Did you hear about the football player from Ohio State who was accused of raping that student?” The brunette asked with eyes as round as marbles.
Gail’s ears pricked.
Marge, the chubby, middle-aged cashier, brushed her blond bangs from her face and spoke in hushed tones. “I did. Poor girl. How awful.” She continued scanning and bagging the purchases, without skipping a beat.
Gail’s stomach roiled. She hadn’t watched the news over the weekend. She had been too busy at the new market.
The brunette’s eyebrows rose, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. He was one of their star football players. I mean, he could have gotten any girl he wanted. Why would he force himself on a girl like her? She wasn’t even pretty, if you ask me. Seems like it would have been the other way around. I heard she’s famous for partying. She’s probably making the whole thing up,” the woman said, with a wave of her hand.
Gail’s cheeks flamed and her nostrils flared. Swallowing the words that stung the back of her throat like cyanide, threatening to overflow, Gail busied herself with her purse.
“But why would she accuse him if he’s innocent?” Marge asked.
The woman continued her tirade, impervious to Gail, standing behind her with penetrating eyes. “She probably slept with him, and then he dumped her, so she made up some story about being raped.”
Gail thought of Lexie and the terror one man’s act had inflicted on her life. She was furious, not only at the injustice of it all but at the ignorance and audacity of women like the one that stood before her.
Unable to hold her temper in check any longer, rage swept over her, a rising tide of repressed emotion. She dropped her curled fist onto the conveyor belt with a loud thwack, rattling several of her items and tipping them. Her face contorted, her eyes wide and incredulous.
When she lifted her hand, ignoring the sharp sting from slamming it down, she pointed a finger at the woman, while Marge stared at her with bright eyes and a mouth opened so wide, she could catch flies.
“People like you—” Gail said. “Re-victimize women like that poor girl. You have no idea what she’s going through, what her family’s going through.” The words flowed from her lips, off the tip of her tongue. Suddenly, she wasn’t talking about the OSU student anymore. “You are the reason rape victims are ashamed, afraid of speaking out. No woman wants to be raped. And now she must live the rest of her life, remembering what happened, frightened that it may happen again, and that she didn’t do enough to stop it. She’ll suffer through the repercussions of that pig’s actions forever. Not one doggone thing is okay with that. And there’s nothing I would want to gossip about less. Why don’t you have some dignity and spread your own garbage someplace else.”
The woman stared at Gail, red-faced and gaping like a fish.
With hands trembling from emotion and adrenaline, Gail moved around her, not bothering to look back at Marge, the other customers, or familiar faces (which may have overheard her tirade) and left the store, her groceries forgotten.
She seethed on the ride home, the rumble of the old Chevy’s engine, synonymous with her jagged emotions. It wasn’t until she passed the Cherry Valley Bulk Foods store that she realized she had left her groceries at Sparkle, so there would be no strawberry shortcake and no flowers.
She made a split decision and turned into the lot of the store. From Memorial to Labor Day, the Amish sold baked goods. Gail would just have to purchase a pie instead. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would do.
She got out of her car, waving to Sarah, the little Amish girl with blonde hair who played on the swing set next to the lot and headed towards the entrance of the store. Fresh fruit and pies littered the folding tables outside the store, so Gail picked up a blueberry pie on her way inside.
She entered the store. Dim fluorescent lights lit the narrow aisles and cramped quarters. The back of the store held Amish furniture for sale, while the rest held dry bulk foods. She scanned the shelves, walking past the sacks of flour, wheat, and sugar. She hoped to find something to replace the sunflowers as a housewarming gift but saw nothing suitable. She passed the bags of candy and grabbed a bag of chocolate covered pretzels. Sighing, she decided this was the best she could do.
She walked over to the counter where they calculated her total, and she handed over several bills. While she waited for her change, she glanced next to her, at a display of paring knives and bread knives. With little thought, she plucked a silver paring knife off the shelf and examined it. The blade glistened in the soft light, beckoning her.
Desire, strong and vicious, gripped her. She wanted to take the knife and flee. She wanted to find her daughter’s rapist, to corner him like a panther stalking its prey, and cut off his most prized appendage, the one that doubled as a weapon. She wanted his penis on a platter, like John the Baptist’s head. She swayed, dizziness surrounding her, and wondered briefly if the lure of vengeance made a play for her soul. Her mind raced to news headlines, to 1993, to Lorena Bobbitt. She completely understood the depth of her actions, the madness of them.
“Ma’am?” Gail jumped, and her gaze left the knife.
A young woman in a black dress and cap, with a white apron stared back at her. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line and her unadorned face wrinkled in worry. Gail realized she had been trying to get her attention for several seconds.
The cool prick of moisture beaded her face. When Gail tried to smile, her expression only tightened. “Thanks,” she said, taking the change from the girl’s hand.
She turned to leave before she realized her hand was still clenched around something, her knuckles aching with the effort.
She uncurled her fingers, revealing the knife. Quickly dropping it back onto the display, she hurried outside, red-faced and out of breath. Only when she got into her truck, did the pent-up breath leave her lungs. She gripped the wheel—her left hand still aching with the memory of the weapon—and closed her eyes. She had to get a hold of herself before she got home. If Lexie was waiting for her, she didn’t want her to see her so frazzled.
Gail started the car and swung out of the parking lot. She turned the radio up, the lyrics to a country song, she didn’t recognize, blasting over the airwaves—she wanted to drown out the rush of emotions. The drive, however, was too short. Her nerves had only begun to settle by the time she reached the farmhouse.
Lexie’s car was in the drive, which meant she was home from her doctor’s appointments.
Taking a deep breath, Gail got out of the car and let herself in the front door. She entered the kitchen and was greeted immediately by Lexie, barefoot, frowning into the refrigerator.
Her daughter’s hair was pulled back from her face, and she wore a pair of gray pants and a white maternity top. Gail wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but Lexie’s stomach seemed to have grown overnight. At just over six months, Lexie carried a small basketball in front of her. Gail’s gaze moved to Lexie’s face, noting the downturned mouth and the dull sheen to her eyes—she looked unhappy.
A sudden trickle of anger took Gail off guard. Why couldn’t Lexie just be happy? Why couldn’t she find something to be happy about?
Her anger was misplaced, and she knew it. Lexie wasn’t the one she was mad at, so she said nothing, placing the pie and pretzels she purchased on the counter.
“Hey Mom,” Lexie said.
Gail turned towards her, noting the dark crescents below her eyes. “Hey, I got you a pie. I figured you could take it with you to your new house tomorrow. How’d your appointments go?” She wanted nothing more than to forget what happened just minutes ago. Lexie’s move tomorrow was a big step, and she needed to be supportive.
Lexie shrugged and turned back to the fridge, where she removed a pitcher of lemonade. She retrieved a cup from the counter and poured herself a large glass. “Dr. McMillan gave me a hard time. My therapy session was good though.”
Gail leaned against the counter, one hand on her hip. She remembered Lexie’s play-by-play of her first appointment with her OBGYN. Gail had been furious and insisted she switch to someone with more compassion, more, in her opinion, aptitude, but Lexie assured her that she didn’t want to go elsewhere. She didn’t want to have to go over her history again, so Gail let the subject drop.
“What did the doctor say?”
“He lectured me about the baby, as usual. I still haven’t felt her move. He doesn’t believe me though. He did an ultrasound to make sure everything was okay, which it was.”
Relief washed over Gail. She, too, had been worried about the baby, but what worried her even more was Lexie’s lack of concern. “Well, that’s good.”
“I guess so,” Lexie said, her voice flat.
Gail’s emotions flamed, and she tried to force the frustration from her voice when she said, “What does that mean? I guess so.”
Lexie met Gail’s eyes. “If something were wrong, if something happened and this would just go away,” she said, with the sweep of a hand towards her stomach. “I’d be better off.”
Gail flinched. She thought she understood how her daughter felt toward the life inside her—or as much as she could understand—but maybe she didn’t after all, because it angered her that Lexie had so little disregard for the budding life in her womb. “That’s a crappy thing to say,” Gail quipped.
Lexie narrowed her eyes. “Well, it’s true. Maybe I’m wrong to feel that way, but it’s not like I was just careless and got pregnant. Every bit of this has been forced upon me. Every bit has been a nightmare.”
“I understand, Alexis. But you need to accept this. Trust me. When you’re in labor, you’ll be shot headfirst into reality. You haven’t even called the adoption agency yet, and you’ve got less than three months left!” Gail held up three fingers and advanced on her daughter. “You act as if you’re not even pregnant. I almost think that you don’t feel the baby move because you’ve half convinced yourself this whole thing is a nightmare, some kind of bad dream you’ll wake from.”
Lexie shot up from her chair, her mouth tight around the edges. An ominous laugh escaped her lips. “I wish. If only things were that simple. But dreams aren’t this cruel. Nice to know thought that you and Dr. McMillan are on the same page.”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious.” Gail’s voice echoed in her ears.
“I’m sorry I can’t accept this. Everyone acts like it’s so easy. Like I can just choke it down. No problem. Don’t worry about the fact that my first shot at motherhood is ruined. I’ll never be able to hold my first child with the awe and love a mother should have. I imagined the day I had my first that I’d look at him or her in exultation, knowing that my life would be forever changed for the better. Instead, my life has been changed for the worse. And it’s not my fault. Not one bit of this was my doing. Do you know how that feels? I won’t ever have a second chance at being pregnant for the first time, at giving birth for the first time, or at being a new mother. So, forgive me if it’s hard for me to accept.”
Lexie slammed her glass on the counter and shrugged past Gail, headed for the door, but Gail caught her arm before she could get very far. She looked down at her hand; the fingers pressed into Lexie’s flesh, and loosened her grip, along with her anger.
She was sorry she said anything to her. Gail’s mind raced for something to say, something to make everything right, but came up blank. Instead, all she could picture in her head was the baby aisle at the store, and suddenly, she knew what her anger was about.
With a weary sigh, she closed her eyes, torn between her shame for being selfish, for thinking only of her own loss in this moment, and justified in her desire to know her grandchild.
She swallowed hard then opened her eyes, staring into Lexie’s. “I know you’re going through hell. I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine...but you could make this, at least, into a good thing. You could let yourself love this child. The baby inside you, although unwanted and linked to tragedy, is yours. Your blood runs through her veins. Your body nourishes her—”
Lexie removed Gail’s hand. “No, Mom. How can I do that? How can I ever forget? Besides, everything in my life is broken. I have no job. I just got my own place to live, which I couldn’t even bring myself to stay in by myself last night. I’m depressed at times, angry at others. The child would never have a chance. I would always look at her with resentment. I would always look at her and remember...How could I not?”
Moisture pooled in Lexie’s eyes, mimicking her the grief Gail felt in her bones, so she pulled her into her arms. “I’m sorry,” Gail said, and they stayed like that for quite some time, wrapped up in each other’s arms, exchanging tears—Gail for her daughter’s pain and for the loss of her grandchild, and Lexie for being the one to take it all away.