Page 19 of The Other Mother
10
THE STRANGER IN THE GLASS
The Whole Foods parking lot shimmers with heat even though it's only ten in the morning. October in Palm Desert means the summer furnace is finally starting to cool, but the asphalt still radiates warmth through the soles of my sandals. I fumble with Eva's car seat straps, trying to get the buckles aligned while she squirms and fusses in that way that means she's getting tired but fighting sleep.
The desert sun beats down mercilessly, and I can already feel sweat beading along my hairline despite the early hour. This is why I try to run errands before noon, before the heat becomes truly unbearable. Eva's face is getting red and blotchy, and I know I need to get her into the air conditioning soon.
"Come on, baby," I murmur, finally clicking the chest clip into place. "Almost done."
That's when I feel it. The prickle of awareness thatcomes with being watched. I look up from the car seat, shading my eyes with my hand.
Mara.
She's standing by the shopping cart return, maybe thirty feet away. Not moving. Not pretending to return a cart or check her phone. Just watching me with that same intense stare I remember from the meeting. Her dark hair hangs straight and flat against her shoulders, and she's wearing the same style clothes as before: jeans and a plain t-shirt that could belong to anyone.
My breath catches in my throat. My hands freeze on Eva's car seat handle.
But before I can move, before I can call out or wave or do anything at all, a white delivery van pulls between us, blocking my view. The driver is taking his time, checking something on his clipboard, and I lean to the side trying to see around it.
When the van finally moves, Mara is gone.
I scan the parking lot frantically, looking between the rows of cars, checking the store entrance. Nothing. It's as if she simply vanished into the heat shimmer rising from the asphalt.
By the time I get home, my hands are still shaking. I carry Eva inside and set her bouncing seat on the kitchen counter while I put away groceries, but I keep glancing out the window toward the street. Every shadow, every movement makes my pulse spike.
I need to get outside. I need to do something with my hands, something normal and grounding. The smallgarden bed I've been working on behind our house beckons like therapy.
Desert gardening is nothing like what I grew up with in Ohio, where you could basically throw seeds into rich black soil and watch them grow. Here, the native caliche is like concrete mixed with rocks, and everything has to be carefully planned around the extreme temperatures and minimal rainfall. I've spent weeks amending a small patch with compost and sulfur, trying to lower the pH enough to grow something other than cacti and desert broom.
October is actually perfect timing for planting in the low desert. The brutal summer heat is finally breaking, and I have until late spring before temperatures climb back over a hundred degrees. I've been researching more drought-tolerant vegetables that can handle the alkaline soil: Swiss chard and kale.
I'm on my knees, working compost into the stubborn soil with a hand trowel, when Sharon Henderson appears at the side gate. She’s a little bit older than I am and lives three houses down in a similarly modern new construction home with desert landscaping out front. Sharon has twin boys, about a year old, and the kind of deep tan that comes from walking her golden retriever twice a day in the desert sun. Her husband is a doctor who often works nights.
"How's the garden coming along?" she asks, checking the baby monitor video on her phone. Her dog, Buster, strains toward me on his leash, tail wagging.
"Slowly," I say, sitting back on my heels and wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my gardening glove. "This soil is like working with cement."
"Tell me about it. I gave up and went with all natives." She gestures toward her yard, which is beautifully landscaped with palo verde trees and barrel cacti. "Less water, less fuss."
We chat for a few minutes about the challenges of desert landscaping, her kids and about the roadrunner she saw in her yard yesterday. Normal neighbor conversation that should feel comforting but somehow doesn't.
"How's little Eva doing?" Sharon asks, peering through the sliding glass door where Eva is visible in her bouncing seat.
"Good," I say, though the word feels hollow. "Growing fast."
"I bet. Hard to believe it's been what, six weeks since you brought her home?"
An opening. I try to keep my voice casual, just making conversation. "Do you remember that day? When we came home from the hospital?"
Sharon nods immediately. "Of course. She was crying the whole way out of the car. You looked completely wrecked. I remember thinking how exhausted you must have been, dealing with that heavy gray car seat.”
"Gray?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.
She smiles, like we’re sharing a joke I don’tremember. “And two days later you’d swapped to the sleek white one — guess the loaner did its job.”
Loaner. The word sticks. I don’t remember borrowing a seat.
Sharon chats for a few more minutes about something involving the homeowners association and palm tree trimming, but I can barely focus on her words. When she finally leaves, I wait until she's back in her own yard before I rush inside.
