The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,33
Gothic film, me in the role of the woman locked away in a tower. But I’ve kept my wits for almost thirty years. Over ten thousand days. I can keep it together for one more. For as many one mores as it takes. I can do this.
There’s no going back to sleep—my alarm’s set to go off in less than two hours—so I grab my robe and pad into my home office. I do some more poking around Rachel and Gia’s Facebook pages, looking for anything to help engineer an accidental meeting. Rachel posts the occasional meme, articles about scientific breakthroughs, heartwarming stories about people beating the odds. Gia’s posts are far more interesting. Lots of intelligent political thoughts and strong opinions. From a recent picture of the Annapolis harbor, I springboard to her Instagram. Snapshots of places from her travels. No selfies. Food porn. Fresh fruits and veggies, all bright and tantalizing.
Then I spot it amid recent pictures of the kiwi, the carambola, the jackfruit: the background, the lettering on a sign above a pineapple display. I recognize it from a smaller, upscale grocery chain with only one location in the area.
The most recent picture was posted last Saturday. The previous, also on a Saturday. I tap my toes on the mat beneath my chair and return to Facebook. Both pictures were posted in the late afternoon. Back on her Instagram, I check the older pictures. Different store, but still taken on Saturdays. I sit back with a sigh. This I can work with.
* * *
At two thirty, the parking lot at the grocery store is packed. It’s another gorgeous day to be outside; warm, but not hot, with a sky so blue it seems like it was painted. The kind of weather September does best. I circle a few times until a spot fairly close becomes available and sit with the engine off, idly picking at a cuticle and fighting a yawn. Wednesday night wasn’t a one-off; I haven’t slept well all week.
I know the likelihood of Gia shopping at the exact same time I’m here is slim, no matter the timing of her photos. But if I see her, I need to hang back. Keep track without following. Then at some point, maybe while in the corner near the frozen food, bump into her. Literally or figuratively, it doesn’t matter. Act surprised. She’s an old friend. Catching up is a great thing. Invite her for coffee right away. No, exchange numbers and email and then text or write in a few days. If she sent the necklace, she won’t expect that. It might shake her up.
When a white-haired woman, a grocery bag looping her wrist, gives me a look, I realize I’ve been sitting here long enough for her to go into the store, buy what she needs, and return. As she gets in her car, I get out of mine.
I push a cart through the aisles, gaze skimming from shoppers to shelves. The music seeping from hidden speakers seems too loud, the people’s voices shrill and demanding. The air smells of rotting vegetation, of turned milk, of fish. I grab a few things—bananas, pasta sauce, green olives—so my cart won’t be empty. No Gia in any of the aisles, not even after I make a second circuit of the store. And is it my imagination, or is that woman standing at the cheese display looking at me? Is the man by the eggs staring? And what about the woman behind the deli counter?
This is preposterous, seeing specters in everyone. None of these people know me, know what I did. I leave the cart at the end of an aisle and, in the Barnes & Noble café three doors down, order a large latte in a to-go cup, but I sit at a table in the back. All I smell is coffee; all I hear are soft murmurs.
Maybe whoever is doing this left the ribbon to make sure I knew. Maybe they feared I didn’t get the necklace. Maybe—maybe they can go fuck themselves. If they know what I did, aren’t they being foolish by provoking me? I got away with it once, yes? I’m a hell of a lot smarter now. My bravery feels ready to shatter into a thousand pieces, but it’s all I have right now. I sip my latte. Swallow. Repeat. When the cup’s half empty, I’m feeling good. Strong and confident. I will not let them win. I will not—