Page 19 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“I strongly recommend?—”
“Just the card will do.”
He disappears, and returns a few minutes later, with the debit card and copies of all the signed forms. He sits back down, studying me as though I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.
“That’s everything. If you go to the front desk, one of the tellers will activate your card and pin. If you need anything else?—”
“I won’t.” I stand, pause long enough to shake his hand, then walk out before he can tell me it’s all a joke, and take it back.
The teller who activates my debit card won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she was at school at the same time as me. The way she’s behaving suggests she knows who I am. When she slides the card across the counter, she uses her fingertips, and lets go before I reach it, afraid our fingers might touch.
I say nothing, pocket the card and papers, and walk out, already considering what I should do next.
I decide on necessities. Sheets. Towels. Cleaning supplies. The house needs more than just dusting before I can sleep or eat there.
The big box store on the edge of town is overwhelming. The place didn’t exist when I was last here, and I hoped it would be easier to shop in than one of the smaller stores in town run by people who probably remember me. But it’s too bright, and too big with too many choices stretching endlessly in every direction.
I stick to the edges, moving slowly up and down the aisles. Sheets in dark blue. Towels, Pillows. Cleaning supplies—bleach, all-purpose cleaner, sponges, trash bags.
Each item that goes into the cart adds to the surrealism of the moment. Any minute now someone is going to stop me and ask what I’m doing. Demand to know who the hell I think I am.
The payment goes through without any issues, but it still feels wrong.
After that, I find the grocery store, and spend my time filling a cart with real food, instead of gas station shit, or whatever is the cheapest thing on the shelf. I pick up things I haven’t let myself think about in years, haven’t eaten in longer than I can remember. Fresh fruit. Meat that isn’t processed beyond recognition. Ingredients for proper meals, instead of TV dinners that I can throw into the microwave of a motel room.
Real coffee. Not the instant crap.
I’m loading bags into the back of the Honda when blonde hair catches in the sunlight to my left. My heart stops.
Actuallyfuckingstops.
One of the grocery bags slips from my fingers, oranges spilling across the road.
Lily.
For one brutal second, I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t doanythingbut stare. Blood rushes in my ears. My heart squeezes painfully. Every scar, every memory I’ve tried to bury comes roaring back.
The factory. Her hands on my skin. The way she looked at me. The promises we made that I broke when I let them take me away.
And then she turns.
It’s not Lily.
Relief hits harder than the panic, leaving me shaking and my stomach twisted into knots. I grip the trunk, needing something solid under my hands. Oranges continue to roll under other cars while I try to remember how to breathe.
Seven fucking years, and just the possibility of seeing her tears me apart.
I chase down the oranges with shaking hands, and gather them up, even though they’re probably bruised now. But I can’t waste food. An old habit I haven’t been able to break.
Once I get back to the house, I have myself under control. I unload everything in the kitchen, while I give the refrigerator a wipe down. It isn’t the deep clean it needs, but it’s enough to be able to put groceries in without worrying about getting ill. Once that’s done, I clean the kitchen table, the chairs, and the countertops. Then I sit at the table and spread out Mitchell’s paperwork, trying to make sense of everything that needs to be done. The house creaks around me, settling into the idea of someone being here again. Or maybe just settling into its own slow collapse.
I can associate with both options.
There’s another letter, paperclipped to the back of the photocopy of the will, addressed to me. I eye it for a second, then set it aside.
One thing at a time.
That’s how you survive.
