I press the garage’s remote button and say aloud, ‘I’m closing the garage door.’ I rap my knuckles three times against the steering wheel. As my Subaru crests the top of the steep driveway, I look back over my left shoulder. The broad door is still closed.
I drive with care. If I hit the slightest bump, it’ll set me back timewise, as I’d need to pull over, get out of the car, and visually inspect the area to make sure I hadn’t hit anything. Sometimes I need to check twice.
The Dollar Store is only a couple of miles away, but I get stuck in the wake of a school bus and curse my luck. I hate forcing the drivers behind me to wait while I count to twenty after the last child is safely inside, but only then can I let my foot hit the gas pedal again. Thankfully, the bus stops only once before I pull off the road.
The store seems to be busy, its parking lot crowded, and I fight the impulse to go home. Just fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be done for a week or two.
I find a spot and wedge in between a motorcycle and a white minivan. I try hard to not to make the connection between it and the van I drove years ago. Too late. I bite down on the inside of my cheek so that I don’t evaporate into memory. The salty taste of my own blood is usually enough to do the trick, and it works this time, too.
Head down, I keep my eyes on the pavement and my feet moving, hoping the momentum will keep me going. I reach for the large glass door festooned with posters and ads and realize, belatedly, that these had blocked my view: as I step forward, I nearly collide with an older couple on their way out. I apologize and we dance around each other, bound in opposite directions.
I grab a bunch of store-supplied alcohol wipes to use on the handle of my cart: three swipes, back and forth. Finished, I try to move quickly, but it’s hard to get through the narrow, messy aisles without nearly grazing somebody’s arms or shoulders. With my free hand, I hug my overcoat closer to my body.
I have a list. Paper towels, napkins, Lysol spray, garbage bags, soap, hand sanitizer, and some other small items. I run out of these things so quickly, it’s too expensive to buy them online. Searching the shelves, I will myself to block out the middle-aged woman and her elderly mother as they make what passes for conversation in their world.
‘Don’t even touch that, Mom. It’s nasty,’ says the younger woman.
‘It’s pretty. It reminds me of the sky,’ says her mother, showing her daughter a pale blue and yellow polyester scarf.
‘It’s pure crap,’ says her daughter. ‘Put it back now!’
‘Then why are we here?’ wails the older woman.
I don’t wait to hear if there’s a response. I head to the back where the discounted cleaning supplies are. The plastic containers all have colorful off-brand labels that suggest the designs of their more famous counterparts. It’s my favorite section of the store.
A boy of about six or seven appears at my elbow and lightly touches my fingers where they grip the elbow of my coat.
‘Are you cold?’ he asks.
I can’t help it – I jump out of his reach. Why do I even bother to shop during school hours if parents can’t be counted on to follow the rules? The child’s eyes are huge, liquid brown, his smile missing a front tooth or two. My Jamie would be about his age now.
I abandon my cart and run into the parking lot. I lean up against a cement-potted pole and wait for my heart to slow down and my vision to clear.
The trip back home isn’t too bad, the traffic sparse and orderly and smooth. I pull into my driveway and inch down its snowy slope, my foot on the brake. Once inside the garage, I close its door electronically and sit, caught in the spiky embrace of the cold darkness. After a while, I lock the car and head inside. I pause on the stairs to rap my knuckles three times against the woodwork and say, ‘I’ve closed the garage door.’ I look back over my left shoulder to make sure.
Inside, I take off everything I’m wearing and put it all into one of the large plastic bags collected for that purpose. I carry the bundle into the laundry room and put it in a hamper. Securing the door behind me, I head to the bathroom.
I avoid my reflection in the mirror. My eyes land on a pack of disposable razors instead, and I almost choke out a laugh. I step into the shower and absorb its obliterating scald. Not nearly hot enough, but the best I can do.
Carolyn R. Russell is the author of YA dystopian thriller ‘In the Fullness of Time,’ (Vine Leaves Press, 2020), humorous YA mystery ‘Same As It Never Was,’ (Big Table, 2018) and ‘The Films of Joel and Ethan Coen,’ (McFarland & Company, 2001). Her essays and short stories have appeared in numerous publications including The Boston Globe, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Dime Show Review. Carolyn lives near Boston with her husband and two children. Find her at carolynrrussell.com.
