Читать книгу Hell's Belles - Kristen Robinette - Страница 10

Erica felt like an alien as she pushed the buggy through the supercenter. Thousands of products were crammed from floor to ceiling, and her head ached from trying to take it all in. After working in countries where a twist tie or a hair barrette caused fascination, the commercial explosion was overwhelming. The words jumped out at her, screaming “Buy me!” in English and Español, their brand names underscored with “New!”, “Improved!” and, her favorite, “As seen on TV!” Well, guess what, oh wise advertising execs, she hadn’t watched television in about a decade.

So take that demographic and process it.

And the people. God bless America, but she wanted to run screaming from the crowd. There were people from all walks of life, from senior citizens to pierced teenagers, but the majority appeared to be exhausted-looking women with a fistful of coupons and at least five kids in tow. Was it just her, or did every kid in the place have a runny nose, a bad attitude and the tendency to stare at her as she passed by? She’d like to think it was the sight of an adult with her arm in a cast, but Erica suspected there was more. They sensed she’d never been in a supercenter, smelled her fear.

And she was scared. Back-against-the-wall, shaking-in-her-boots, boogeyman scared.

Erica took a deep breath. She’d assessed the store’s layout as she’d once assessed the danger of a guerilla-controlled village, finding the pattern, forming a safe plan of approach. If her instincts were right, she was getting close. She bypassed a little old lady who was reading the fine print on a roll of paper towels, then dodged a toddler who had stalled mid-aisle, her finger shoved up her nose. Jeez, where were all the cute kids when you needed one?

Her stomach did a little flip-flop when she spotted the feminine products at the end of an aisle. It was a bit of a contrast in needs, but she’d bet her combat boots that the pregnancy tests were stocked next to the maxi pads. She wheeled her buggy down the aisle, which was, not surprisingly, less crowded. Sure enough, boxes of douche were cozied up next to the personal lubricant, which shouldered the tampons and maxi pads. And, lo and behold, the pregnancy tests were hanging with the condoms. Well, someone clearly had a sense of humor.

She gripped the buggy handle even more tightly and fought the urge to make a U-turn. This wasn’t Greene’s Pharmacy back in Haddes. Here, no one knew who she was and couldn’t care less that she was a single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. Even better, they didn’t care that she was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test.

Oh God. She was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. The air rushed from her lungs in sheer panic.

She’d driven ten miles out of the way to shop at the supercenter rather than Greene’s. It wasn’t as if the town of Haddes had formed a welcome committee to celebrate her return, but in Greene’s she would be certain to run into a familiar face or two. The supercenter was much safer. The plan was to anonymously buy the pregnancy test under the cover of the hordes of other discount shoppers, then hightail it back home and take the test. A wave of light-headedness washed over her at the thought of actually peeing on the stick. How had she gone from taking photos out the open door of a helicopter in the mountains of Afghanistan to pushing a shopping cart in a rural Georgia supercenter? And why did that scare her more?

In truth, the test shouldn’t scare her. She already knew the answer to the question. One thoroughly missed period and weeks of nausea were probably as confirming as the little plus sign on a plastic stick. But she had to know for certain. It was the responsible thing to do.

Of course, responsible should have come up six weeks ago. Condoms didn’t hold up well in hundred-degree heat. And she’d been in the desert. Do the science, Erica.

One thing she didn’t “do” was regret. She was a pro at living in the present, and had two happy decades to prove it. Looking back served no purpose. Even if, in this case, it meant forgetting John Phillips. Erica’s hand unwittingly went to her abdomen. John had been her friend and a fellow journalist for years before the two of them had given in to loneliness and desire, and become lovers. And now her friend was gone, lost in the seconds it took for the land mine to detonate. There was no bringing him back, and no amount of dwelling on the past would change either of their fates. Her arm suddenly throbbed as if reacting to the painful memory of the explosion.

“Excuse me, dear.”

Erica whirled to face the elderly woman who had been so absorbed in reading the paper towel package. Her face must have flashed ten shades of red, because the woman’s expression registered instant sympathy.

She pressed her soft hand against Erica’s arm and patted her in a grandmotherly gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, not at all.” Erica smiled, though uncharacteristic tears suddenly stung the backs of her eyes. The woman looked nothing like her own late grandmother, but there was something familiar about the comforting pat. It was a grandmother’s touch. “I was just a million miles away.” Literally.

“I hate to bother you,” the woman continued as she fished the paper towels from her buggy. “But I left my reading glasses at home and can’t make out the name of the manufacturing company.” She waved her hand. “Such tiny print. Could you possibly read it for me?”

“Of course.” Erica took the paper towels and turned the package to locate the print at the bottom. Jeez, no wonder, she thought. The print was tiny. She held it further away, as she struggled to focus, thinking how often she’d had to do that lately. “It says here—” she squinted “—Delcorda Paper.”

“Oh dear,” the woman exclaimed, a frown gathering the wrinkles on her face. “I was afraid of that.”

“Oh?”

“My, yes.” She took the paper towels and jammed them on a shelf next to a box of thong maxi pads.

Erica was temporarily distracted. There was such a thing as thong maxi pads? Wow. She’d been out of the States for too long.

“Delcorda Paper Company is a menace to the environment,” the woman explained. “Their lack of reforesting is shameful. Sheer arrogance.”

Erica wanted to laugh with relief. A kindred spirit. She’d been ready to dismiss the elderly woman, had judged her by her age and surroundings. But here, buried among the cat food and weight-loss pills was someone who realized there was a vast world outside their own city limits. And actually gave a damn.

“Oh.” Delcorda… Erica pondered the name. She’d done a piece that exposed irresponsible harvesting. If memory served, that particular paper manufacturer was one of the companies named. She felt a barb of guilt that they continued to get away with it—and that she’d had no idea. She’d wrongly assumed that the coverage had resolved the situation, but that had been at least seven years ago.

“Well,” the woman continued cheerfully, “back to the drawing board.” She pointed her buggy in the opposite direction and smiled warmly over her shoulder, her gaze drifting toward the pregnancy tests before returning to Erica. “Best of luck, sweetheart.”

A second round of tears threatened and Erica swallowed hard. The term of endearment made her feel young and, just for a split second, a sense of excitement had crept in. But she tamped it down without question. Her situation was what it was, and that was anything but exciting.

“Thank you,” she responded, adding a small wave.

Erica pushed her buggy forward with new determination and, after glancing at the myriad boxes that all made similar claims of 99.999-percent accuracy, chose the most expensive pregnancy test. Today she was one of those uninformed consumers that she hated, the ones who blithely assumed cost equaled excellence. She thought of the elderly woman’s determination to do the right thing and shrugged. So what? She knew when she was in over her head.

Erica looked down at the lone box sitting like a screaming conversation piece in the bottom of the buggy, and threw a box of maxi pads in with it. Then she leaned over and adjusted the larger box so that it shielded the pregnancy test from view. The paper-towel woman was as close as she intended to come to a conversation about the pregnancy test. She glanced around for more camouflage and tossed in a box of vitamins.

She didn’t waste any time leaving the Embarrassment Section of the store, and began winding her way back toward the checkout aisles as fast as her buggy’s wobbly wheels would go. But a tangle of teenage girls was buzzing about a display of bathing suits, blocking her way, and Erica was forced to detour down the candy aisle. She instantly slowed, like Dorothy in the field of poppies, smiling at the bags of candy. Only in the States, she thought. She’d missed a lot. There were new varieties she’d never before seen. What on earth were Nerds-On-A-Rope, anyway? But there were plenty of familiar faces, too. Jolly Ranchers, Lik-a-Stiks… Those had been staples at Mattie’s sleepovers when they were teenagers. She threw a triple-pack of Lik-a-Stiks in her cart for old times’ sake and picked up speed again. But just when she was about to make a clean exit, a buxom blonde came from out of nowhere and their carts rammed with knuckle-rattling force.

“Erica?”

“Della?” She felt as if every pore on her body perspired at once. “Jeez…” Her hand went to her chest, which felt like it was on fire. She wanted to look down at the contents of her buggy, make certain that the maxi pads and vitamins were still shielding the pregnancy test, but she didn’t dare call attention to the buggy.

“Wow. I—I never imagined running into you here.” Della looked every bit as flushed as Erica.

In fact, she looked not only flushed, but terrible. Erica forgot her own troubles as she took a closer look. Della’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and she seemed at least ten pounds heavier than she had yesterday. She was dressed in a curious combination of a cleavage-baring aqua tank, sweatpants sheared just below the knee and a worn flannel shirt. A little eyeliner was smeared beneath the corner of her left eye and she wore no foundation.

Good God. Something was seriously wrong if Della wasn’t wearing makeup.

Erica resisted the urge to grill her friend for answers. “I, uh, never imagined running into you, either.” She hoped her voice sounded less alarmed than she felt. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Yeah. I just needed some stuff.” Della’s gaze darted to her buggy and Erica’s followed.

Lying in the bottom of Della’s buggy was a family-size bag of Caramellos, a pair of night-vision binoculars, a voice-activated cassette recorder, a camouflage blanket and a jar of ground white pepper. Erica frowned. “I see. Della, is everything okay?”

Della ran her hand over her hair and straightened with a challenging sniff. But rather than seeming imposing, as it had countless other times, the sniff seemed as though it belonged at the end of a long cry. “I’m fine. Everything’s just fine.” Della’s gaze darted to Erica’s buggy and her eyes went round.

Erica’s heart stopped.

“Lik-a-Stiks!” Della exclaimed.

Her heart began beating again.

“Uh-huh. Isn’t that something?” Erica pointed a trembling finger toward the shelf, which was liberally stocked with the candy. “They still make them. Right there,” she directed.

Della whirled in the direction of the candy and Erica nearly collapsed with relief.

“I picked some up out of nostalgia,” Erica continued, all the while maneuvering her buggy to one side, out of sight. She sent up a prayer of thanks that the pregnancy test had, apparently, gone unnoticed.

“Oh,” Della crooned as she squatted down to retrieve four packs. “I think I’ll get some, too.” She straightened with effort, then forced the flannel shirt down over her hips. “The kids always expect a treat.”

Erica didn’t dare point out that each pack was a three-pack. Nor did she ask why Della was shopping like she was going on a covert military assignment while looking like a department store makeup artist on a drinking binge. She couldn’t risk more conversation. She had to get herself and her pregnancy test out of the store and back home—a task that was beginning to loom like a matter of national security.

“I want us to get together again soon,” Erica lied. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She did want to see her old friends. Sort of. If things were different. Say, for instance, if it were 1984 again. And if Mattie hadn’t turned into a drunken lunatic. Oh, and if she wasn’t pregnant.

Della dragged her gaze up to meet Erica’s, looking like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “Yeah, me, too.” She hesitated, then slumped in a defeated gesture. “You know where to reach me.”

Erica nodded, her concern growing. “Listen, I’m staying out at Mom and Dad’s place if you need me.”

“You are?” Della sounded genuinely surprised. “It’ll be nice to see some life back in your parents’ place. It’s been standing empty for too long.”

“Yeah.” Erica felt a familiar tightening in her chest at the mention of her parents. “You’re right.”

Della began to push her buggy slowly, hinting that she was anxious to make an exit. “So give me a ring at the shop or at home.” Her voice drifted as she waved over her shoulder. “We’ll get together….”

Erica watched her leave, reminding herself that whatever had caused Della to dress like a castaway was actually none of her business. She had her own set of problems.

The bubble-gum popping salesclerk didn’t make eye contact and certainly didn’t acknowledge the pregnancy test. Thank God. Erica felt like a bomb had been defused when she watched it finally drop into the plastic bag. She paid in cash, readied her keys and walked quickly through the parking lot to her waiting Jeep Cherokee. The black leather interior was like a sauna. She sighed and stale heat filled her lungs. Ugh. Georgia in June. She cranked the engine and turned on the air full blast, leaning her face toward the ineffective stream of air.

There was a certain empowerment about driving, Erica realized as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the county highway that led back to Haddes. It was almost comical how little she’d driven her own vehicle. Though the Jeep was nearly five years old, the mileage registered less than twenty thousand. She was on assignment so much that she rarely used the vehicle or her efficiency condo in New York. Neither possession was really worth the effort, but the IRS refused to believe you were a real person unless you had an address, and her southern roots dictated that she own a set of wheels.