It’s my first Monday back at the farmers market, and it’s weird to be here. I already feel like I’m keeping a secret everywhere I go, but it especially feels like that here. In this place. Where I had contact with Baby Kat.
I made sure we brought the pop-up canopy today. I work on opening it as my mom organizes sprigs of herbs tied in twine and essential oils along our folding table.
Mary strolls by with a bin of apples in her arms, backtracking when she sees me. “Juniper Jade, where have you been, sunshine? This place hasn’t felt the same without your smile.”
“I was sick,” I say. My mom ruffles my hair like I’m a two-year-old and the blowup fight in our living room didn’t happen last night. “Poppy and Sequoia, too.”
“Oh, my. It must’ve been bad for you to be out for so long. What did you have?”
I open my mouth to talk, but my mom cuts me off so hard with an arm across my chest that she practically knocks the wind out of me.
“It just seems to be one thing after another when you have three kids,” my mom says.
“Ah, yes. I remember those days.” Mary pulls her apple bin closer and takes a step away from us. “We all saw a CDC notification in the paper about a person who had the measles being at the farmers market. I hope it wasn’t that. Ten confirmed cases in California is the last I heard. And of course we all know about that baby who died.”
My eyes dart to my mom and back to Mary, who’s studying me intently.
“It wasn’t the measles,” my mom states firmly. “We’re all fine and back at school.”
“In the kitchen,” I say.
“Well, that’s good.”
“It certainly is,” my mom says.
Mary smiles at my mom. “Welp. Here’s to good sales today.”
My mom gives her a thumbs-up. “Back atcha, Mary.”
I turn my back to my mom and roll my eyes as I tie my apron around my waist. Melinda Jade: Queen of Overkill.
Once Mary is out of earshot, my mom hisses at me, “That woman is the biggest gossip in town. Don’t you dare tell her a thing. Nobody needs to know you had the measles. Keep it to yourself.”
I clutch bottles of essential oils in my hands, wanting to grip them tight enough to shatter them. The crowds are smaller today. Maybe because summer is over and nobody wanders in from the beach for snacks and fresh fruit. Our stand is never as busy as the others, but today, we hardly sell anything.
At one point, I notice Mary huddled up with another woman. My heart skitters because I recognize her. First from here and then from the urgent care clinic. The severe bun. The perfectly put-together outfit. The woman who reminds me of Mimi. Mary pulls in two young moms pushing babies in strollers. They lean into the elderly woman’s hushed whispers. Their eyes follow her finger pointing at me. Land. Judge. They pull their strollers closer, trying to create distance. Then one of them snaps a photo of my mom and me with her phone.
Why is she taking a picture?
My gaze jerks away from them when the woman with the business suit and the flip-flops stops at our stand. “Do you have mint?”
“We do,” I say, staring at her shoes. I want to ask her why she wears them. Does she actually get away with it at the office? Does she have an office? Or does she always work from a table at Starbucks? Instead of asking her any of those things, I untangle sprigs of mint from each other. “How many would you like?”
“One is plenty. I like it for my tea.”
She pays me, and I shove the money into the front pocket of my apron. “Thanks for stopping by. It’s been a little slow today.”
“Yes, well, things always seem to slow down once summer has ended,” she says.
“I guess.” I stop myself from saying more. “Enjoy your mint. And tea.”
She holds the bundle up in the air as if to say cheers. “I will.”
When we’re packing up a few hours later, that same elderly woman with the severe bun passes our stand.
She glares at my mom and me.
I square my shoulders. Stare back.
“I know who you are.” She says it like a threat. And it sends a chill straight to my bones.