Eat, Prey, Decay: 7 Tales of the Apocalypse (Zombie, Dark Fantasy, Dystopian, Horror, & Post-Apocalyptic Boxed Set), page 121
I didn’t think about mom anymore. I barely remembered her face now. But Grandma was always looking for her, always calling for her daughter. It made me sad to always have to tell her that her Rosie Lynn wasn’t home. Sometimes, she’d mistake me for mom, because- according to Dad- we had the same dark auburn hair and forest of freckles. I wore glasses though. Mom never needed them so her blue eyes were never hidden behind thick frames.
“Dad!”
“I’m up. I’m up!”
“Want me to throw a pop tart in the toaster?”
“Do we have any brown sugar left?”
Walking away from the kitchen doorway, I opened the wall cabinet that held most of our dry food. We never had much on hand towards the end of the month. SNAP-approved items courtesy of $247 in food stamps and small paychecks never lasted as long as we hoped. Generic pop tarts and instant oatmeal packs were stuffed into a brown basket on the lower shelf. I rummaged through for a moment. All we had left was strawberry, Dad’s least favorite, but the only kind Grandma would eat.
“Sorry! We’re all out! Want something else?” I was almost screaming now and startled when Dad walked into the kitchen, his hands vigorously rubbing a towel against his damp hair.
“Don’t have to yell, Baby Bird, I’m not deaf.” Dad walked over and kissed my forehead, then playfully dropped the semi-wet towel over my head.
“Hey! It took me an hour to make it straight!” I faked anger, slapping the towel off of my head.
“I like it curly.” He walked away and opened our fridge.
“When it’s curly, Grandma always mistakes me for Mom. She seems to remember I’m me if it’s straight.” I didn’t let my voice be sad. I was over mom leaving, really okay with it, but Dad was still hurt… I was pretty sure he’d always be sad Mom left.
Dad was quiet for a moment, but then shook his head and started moving things around in the fridge. “We out of milk too?”
“Yeah, Grandma keeps pouring it into bowls and leaving it on the stoop for that stray cat; she used the last of it yesterday.”
“I think she wastes more food than she actually eats.” Dad sighed, grabbing the bag of fruity pebbles on the counter. “Breakfast of champions,” he joked, taking a fistful of dry cereal and stuffing it into his mouth. He crunched happily, filling a glass of water to wash down the healthy meal.
“It’s grocery day, at least.” I smiled, nibbling on a strawberry pastry. “Want to make hot dogs and mac and cheese tonight? We’ve still got some Worcestershire left over from last time and hot dogs in the freezer.” We’d been making hot dog mac and cheese ever since I could remember. Dad would slice and fry up the chicken hot dogs (they were cheaper than the beef ones) in the sauce until they caramelized. Then he’d make the mac and cheese (with extra butter when we could afford it) and mix everything together until it was a gooey, delicious mess.
“I’m working late tonight, Baby Bird. Not sure I’ll be up for cooking.”
“Oh…” I trailed off. It wasn’t that I was surprised. Dad was always working late at his first job or picking up an extra morning shift at the gas station.
“Sorry. Bill called out sick and the plant offered me his shift tonight. I’ll be home around three for an hour though. Let’s make some quick ramen and watch that show you taped last week. What was it?”
“A documentary on post-World War II Germany, but it’s almost three hours long. And I know you; you’ll just end up falling asleep five minutes in.”
Dad laughed, bits of rainbow cereal snowing from his open mouth. “You’re probably right. You watch it and I’ll nap.”
“It’s a date.” Chewing the last bite of pastry, I looked at the clock. “Crap! It’s almost 7, Dad.”
He looked at the time and tossed the still-open bag of cereal onto the counter. Some of it spilled. I’d be the one cleaning that up. “Where’s my shirt?” Dad was scrambling now, trying to find his socks, shoes, uniform. It was another part of our typical morning routine.
“Your socks and shoes are next to the door and your shirt is right there,” I pointed to the small breakfast table- which we rarely used- where his shirt was hanging over a chair. “I washed it last night, your name tag is already on it, and your lunch is in the fridge.”
“What would I do without you, Baby Bird?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lose both your jobs, forget to shower, eventually smell like a sewer. You’d be pathetic, that’s for sure.”
“Totally pathetic.” He laughed again. I loved that sound; it was deep and rich- like Mufasa from the Lion King.
As Dad shoved his arms into the pale blue shirt he had to wear at the gas station, I brushed the spilled cereal off the counter and into my cupped palm so that I could dump it back into its box. We couldn’t afford to waste.
Like clockwork, Grandma came into the kitchen. This morning, like many mornings, she was still in her long nightgown with her hair rolled up in soda cans. Dad had bought her curling rods last Christmas, but she’d tried them once and returned to her old faithful method. I always wondered how she could sleep with her head lumpy and lopsided.
“Morning, Mom.”
“Joe? You’re up early. I thought they put you on third shift this week. Did you already collect the eggs this morning? I can go get them.” Grandma looked confused, her gaze darting about the kitchen as if the checkered valence and white coffee maker weren’t familiar. I knew what she was seeing- I’d been in the old house she’d shared with Grandpa before he’d passed away. Their kitchen had been mostly brown- brown curtains, brown table cloth, white and brown plates.
“Mom, it’s me, Clark.” Dad pointed to his name tag. “See. I’m your son-in-law. Dad passed away four years ago.”
Grandma shook her head and then placed her index fingers against her temples. “Clark. Oh. Where’s Rosie this morning? Does she want some eggs? Hopefully the chickens have laid us a few.”
“Mom, we don’t have the chickens anymore and remember Rosie left on a trip a long time ago.”
I could see that Dad was getting frustrated; he always tried to be so patient. But mornings were rough for Grandma. Once she’d been awake for a few hours, had a cup of tea, she’d be okay. “Grandma, do you know who I am?” I moved in front of her, pushing my straightened hair behind my ears. I waited a moment, but Grandma’s lips were concreted shut. “I’m Bonnie, Grandma. We’re going to get dressed and take the bus to the Murphy’s today for groceries.”
She smiled at me now. “Can we get some ice cream? I’d like some ice cream.”
“Sure.” I lied, knowing the frozen treat would melt on the more than thirty minute ride home from the store. Murphy’s was only ten miles away, but there were nearly half a dozen stops. Even with the insulated bag, buying frozen items was a gamble. And we really didn’t have the extra money to take that chance. Dad used to stop at the store for treats like ice creams since he had the car and could get it home quickly, but his schedule had been so erratic the past two months that he hadn’t had the chance.
The clock struck 7 and it pinged an alarm. “Dad, shoes.” I reminded, wanting him to make his 7:30 shift start. He’d been late four times last month and the owner hadn’t been very happy with him.
“Shoot,” Dad darted out of the kitchen. I followed with his lunch bag, and then watched him skip socks and just shove his bare feet into his white sneakers.
“Your shoes are going to smell tonight.” I crinkled my nose, remembering the last time he’d skipped socks. I’d had to wash his shoes twice over the weekend and sprinkle in baby powder and that had only masked the smell rather than eliminating it.
“Look on the bright side; it’s grocery day so we’ll have lots of detergent.”
“Very funny.”
Dad grabbed the car keys off a small peg on the wall and jokingly waltzed out of the front door, throwing up jazz hands to make me laugh. He didn’t need the keys; they were mostly for show. The car was so banged up, Dad used a flat head screwdriver to unlock the doors and turn the ignition. Someone could steal it in a heartbeat, not that anyone would want to. The radio was broken, the seats were decorated in cigarette burns- courtesy of the last owner- and the side mirrors were duct taped to the car. That was Grandma’s fault. She’d gone on a midnight, joyride forgetting she was 75 with no license and absolutely no sense of depth perception.
We’d used to have a really nice car, but mom had taken that the night she’d left us.
***
I waved to Dad from the front porch as he pulled away from our house in the ancient Toyota wagon. The car was going to be mine when I turned sixteen and could drive, but I doubted the poor vehicle would still be around. It coughed and sputtered just reversing from the driveway.
“Rosie?” Grandma called from the kitchen. She was probably trying to find the red tea kettle. I’d started hiding it from her, because last time she had tried to heat up water, she’d turned on the gas, but hadn’t lit the burner. It had taken an hour with all the windows open for our tiny house to air out. “Rosie?”
“Coming, Grandma.” I emphasized her name, hoping it would jog her memory before I entered the kitchen. I was disappointed that my stick-straight hair hadn’t seemed to help today. Just pretend she’s calling you; that she’s using your middle name. I’m not Mom. I’m Bonnie Rose… not Rosie Lynn. Grandma knows it’s me.
***
Grandma was okay now. She’d still been a bit disoriented during the bus ride, but once we’d gotten our cart and walked into Murphy’s, her eyes had cleared and she’d looked at me and smiled. Hopefully that meant that the worst of her confusion was over for today.
The grocery store was always busy the day SNAP benefits went out; our community had lost a lot of jobs last year when the bottling company moved across the border and many families were still without a steady income.
I always had Grandma push the cart. She needed the support and it kept her from grabbing items we couldn’t afford or didn’t need. “Let’s start in canned food, Grandma.”
“Are we still getting ice cream?” Her voice was sometimes like a child’s- innocent and sweet, not realizing the weight of adult responsibilities. Just another reason why I had to be the grown up more often than not.
“We’ll have to see if we have the money for it, Grandma. And I’m worried it might melt on the bus ride.” Her face fell and instantly I felt terrible for bursting her bubble. “Maybe we can stop at the gas station and buy an ice cream from Dad. We can get those push pops you like and Dad gets his discount.” My words made her face light up again. If a dollar and a half for two orange-flavored sherbet ice creams could make a person that happy, then it was worth the money, even when times were tight.
We took our time strolling up and down the aisles. The boxes of pasta were on sale 10 for $10, so I picked up twenty. I could make a lot of meals out of that- combined with the variety of sauces that were marked down in the clearance aisle. There was even a jar of vodka sauce for 75 cents. That was Dad’s favorite sauce, but I didn’t buy it as often because it was usually a bit more expensive than the plain old marinara. The expiration dates on the discount sauces were pretty good; about a month left and even after they ‘expired’ we’d be ok to eat them for quite a while. Most people didn’t like to do that.
My friend Karla’s mom would toss things if they were almost expired. She only lived a few blocks away, but it was another world- expensive houses, manicured lawns, security systems, groceries delivered to folk’s doorsteps. Karla had never held my small house or patched clothing against me, but I still always felt a little ashamed each time she’d show up with a bag or two filled with food. Course, we always had our best meals those days too.
Once, Karla had brought over a 10 pound roast with potatoes and all the trimmings. The meat was expiring the next day, but had been frozen since purchase. Our whole house had smelled amazing. And we’d been sad once the leftovers had been eaten.
I methodically stacked canned vegetables into the cart now. They weren’t as tasty or healthy as fresh, but they stayed good longer- and when you can only buy groceries once a month, shelf-life was important. Grandma picked up one of the cans, making a face. “I hate beets,” she whined.
“You don’t have to eat them, Grandma, but I love them. Look though, I got some of that succotash you like.” That seemed to appease her, and she put the beets back into the cart and started following me down the aisle.
“Don’t forget about my ice cream.”
“We’re going to get it at Dad’s work, remember?” Repeating myself didn’t bother me, although I often wondered what it must be like to lose yourself, begin to lose your mind I mean- your memory and all of that. It must be a terrible feeling, in the lucid moments. “We might have to take the food home first though.”
“As long as we get some ice cream.”
One track mind much, Grandma?
Peanut butter was next; we didn’t normally splurge on jelly, but this month, grape was on sale. That would give Dad a change at least, from plain peanut butter on wheat every day for lunch. I kept shopping, adding several loaves of bread (bound for our freezer to keep them from going stale), more oatmeal and breakfast pastries, cereal, coffee, creamer, canned tuna.
The fridge section I always saved for last. Sometimes, I skipped it all together. It was amazing how quickly a budget could be destroyed in those aisles. Meats and dairy products were pricey and I always worried something would happen on the bus ride home. Before I’d gotten smart about shopping, I’d spent the majority of the grocery money on perishables. I’d learned my lesson the first time the bus had broken down, all of our food getting warm at my feet. Now though, I was armed with an insulated bag and the smarts to buy only a few cold items.
Looking down at my list, there were only four items left: milk, eggs, margarine and meat. I hesitated, opening the glass door to the milk section. A gallon was almost five dollars now. We might have to switch to powdered milk if the price kept rising. I skipped the eggs, since the milk was more than I’d expected it to be, and I found the cheapest, largest tub of margarine on the shelf. That would give us plenty for toast and if we ran out of sauce, we could just do butter and seasoning on our pasta. “We’re almost done, Grandma. Just need to get some meat now. How about we get some ground sausage? You can make Grandpa’s special gravy maybe?”
“Why would I make it? Joe’s got two hands and it’s his recipe.” Like a little child, Grandma was pushing the cart back and forth, jostling my neatly stacked cans. She was worse today than she had been in a long time.
“Grandpa Joe passed away. Remember, Grandma?”
She looked at me, her eyes beginning to water. “I know. I know.” She’d murmured.
I frowned, feeling both bad for her and bad for myself. “How about bacon instead?” I tried to take her mind off of Grandpa, redirect her attention to where we were and who I was. “Dad would like that and it’s been two weeks since we’ve had anything but hotdogs and canned soup.”
As we stood over the breakfast meats, Grandma’s hands shifting packages and checking the fat content as if it was the most important job she’d ever been tasked with, I heard a crash. Not a – my child knocked over a soda display crash – but a metal against hard floor impact that made me jump. Grandma didn’t seem to hear it; she was too hyper-focused on the bacon.
A blood-curdling, gut-wrenching scream of terror shortly followed the resounding bang.
“What in heaven’s name!” The sleeve of thick-sliced bacon slid from Grandma’s grip. “I tell you what, Joe, it’s the drugs. The drugs and the liquor that’s got all these young’ns whipped up into a tizzy.”
“Grandma, Grandpa Joe isn’t here. It’s just me, Bonnie.”
“Joe?” Grandma spun around, searching nearby for the tall frame of my deceased Grandpa. “Joe!” Her voice was frantic now; her scream for Joe was in chorus with another yell that made my heart skip a beat.
The second scream did nothing to calm Grandma’s nerves. I patted her arm, all the while searching the store for the source of the agonizing yells. “It’s okay, Grandma. It’s okay.” I murmured; trying to soothe my own brittle nerves as much as those of the little, white-haired lady beside me.
“Clary, Clary, it’s Momma. Sweetie, Baby, stop. Please stop.” The voice was desperate, full of fear. “Please, Baby. I know you aren’t feeling well. I’ll let you pick out any kind of treat you want, Baby. Just please stop.”
A woman in dark wash jeans and a burgundy blouse stumbled out of aisle five. Pasta-Sauce-Canned Vegetables. Her jeans and shirt were damp, but the dark coloring of the clothes made it hard to discern the liquid spilled on them. Just marinara or maybe olive oil. Bonnie assumed. Some jar must have broken. Maybe her daughter threw a fit and tossed some things around. Brat needs a spanking. Daddy would never let me act like that, let alone offer me ice cream. No wonder so many little kids act like animals.
I was about to comfort Grandma and turn back to the bacon, when a small girl came stomping out of the same aisle. Her mouth was painted red and her face was contorted in pure hatred. I wasn’t the only person staring now. The belligerent, bloody child had attracted a crowd of store clerks, shoppers, and cashiers. “Clary, Clary… please, Baby. Baby, what’s wrong with you?”
The woman’s body was pressed up against the beef display now; her hands were behind her, pushing into packages of ground chuck as she desperately tried to get further away from her own offspring. I wasn’t sure why, but the thought inappropriately popped into my head that I could understand a mother leaving a child who behaved like that… I mean… if I had been like that, I could understand my own mother leaving.
