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The nurse was surprised that Tori seemed overwrought about her pregnancy. But sometimes that happens, especially if it’s not planned and if you’re in your late thirties.
How did we get to this point?Tori wondered.
She wasn’t ready to go home. She needed time to think. She couldn’t have another baby. Not with him. Her job at the law firm paid well but not well enough for her to be on her own. Plus, he would never let her leave. Not without a fight. It would be ugly. His ego would not be able to take it.
Tori had been driving for almost an hour. She had no particular destination in mind. She was deep in thought, recalling the past twenty years, looking for the tipping point, the point at which things started to go south.
As expected, after they ran away, no one came looking for her. Them. His family was even worse than hers. Maybe that’s why they connected at such a young age. They commiserated. His father was a drunk. Her mother was a drunk. They would often joke that their parents should get divorced and marry each other. They were going to rescue each other from their lives in “Casa Aluminum.”
Dusk was setting in. The sudden ring from her cell phone caused her to swerve. Fortunately, no one else was on the road. She hit the Bluetooth button. Before she had a chance to say hello, the taut voice of her husband came through the speaker. “Where are you?”
“Running some errands. Sorry, hon.” Tori steadied her voice. “Everything OK?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just wondering where you’re at.” He softened a bit.
“Like I said, running errands. You need anything while I’m out?”
“Nah. I’m going to meet the guys at Ringo’s. Shoot some pool.” He was referring to the watering hole the local boys in blue frequented. That was one place where he could let loose and know his fellow officers had his back. It was understood. No one let anyone drive if they were trashed. They’d try to sober up whoever was “overserved,” at least to the point where they could walk, then someone would drive them home with another “brother” following in the sloshed person’s car. It wasn’t that often, but everyone seemed to bring some personal drama at one point or another. Cheating. Divorce. Loss of a loved one. Or it could be a cause for celebration. A “good collar,” getting engaged, having a kid.
Tori wasn’t about to give him a reason to celebrate. Not yet. Not tonight. She still had a lot of thinking to do. At that moment, she had to come up with an idea of what she was bringing home from her “errands.” She knew he would eventually ask. Such a control freak.Aha. There it was again.
“You gonna grab something to eat at Ringo’s?” Tori hoped he’d say yes.
“Probably. When do you think you’ll be back?”
If she pushed the speed limit, she could be home in an hour. She would also have to stop at a grocery store or a drugstore to have a bag with something in it when she returned.
“About forty-five minutes.” Tori knew he was not going to wait more than a half hour, so forty-five minutes was a safe time frame. If he was still home, she could always say she had gotten stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle. They had a lot of them where she lived. Tractors, mobile homes, wide loads. All common in that area.
“OK. If you’re gonna be that long, I’ll head over to Ringo’s now,” he said, his tone of voice signaling his indifference.
“Have fun.” Tori squeezed out her best attitude. She was truly relieved she could postpone the conversation, at least for a while. She showed no signs of being six weeks into her pregnancy, so she had a little time. Time to think. Something she had neglected to do a long time ago.
Tori took the next opportunity to make a U-turn and head home. She did a mental inventory of the refrigerator and the pantry. There were a few things she could use. Thirty minutes later, she was pulling into a supersized grocery store. It was three times the size of the one closest to home. She pulled into the massive parking lot and found a spot close to the entrance. It was nearly six. Dinnertime for most people, which meant the store wasn’t crowded. She grabbed a shopping cart, walked through the automatic doors, and pulled a sanitary wipe from the large dispenser that held a sign that read:
SAFETY STARTS HERE
She wiped the handle of the cart and continued into the large, well-lit store. It was like being in an amusement park for foodies. She was dazed for a moment, not being able to remember what she actually needed. The place made you think you needed a whole lot of everything.
There were separate sections for gluten-free, vegan, international, organic this, organic that. Nuts and seeds by the pound. As she made her way toward the dairy section, she was stunned by the selection of milk. At her neighborhood store they had skim, fat-free, whole, and one brand of soy milk. But here there were several brands of oatmeal, coconut, raw, goat, almond, cashew, soy, lactose-free, fat-free.Too bad it isn’t free milk.She laughed to herself. Then she thought about almond milk and chuckled again to herself.I wonder how you milk an almond?It struck her this was the most relaxed she had been all day. She felt anonymous perusing the aisles of the megastore and imagining herself creating wonderful meals. But for whom? They rarely shared a real meal together. He’d come home and take his dinner—pizza, whatever—and plop in front of the television. Forget inviting friends over for dinner. They hardly socialized except for parties with his work buddies and their wives. Sure, every summer they would barbecue, but that, too, wasn’t exactly an afternoon with Bobby Flay at the grill. Burgers, dogs, and sometimes sausage. She’d make a potato salad, and guests would bring other sides. Beans, macaroni salad, watermelon. Typical summer fare. The men would play horseshoes and drink beer, and the women would gab about their kids or the latest local gossip. Her life was a cliché.
As she passed through the enormous produce section, she overheard three women talking in the next aisle about an event they had recently attended. It featured that psychic-medium guy who used to have the TV show. He talked to dead people. Actually,theytalked to him, and he’d convey the message to their loved ones. She listened intently, making every effort to appear not to be eavesdropping. Then one of them said, “I hear there’s a woman at the Stillwell Art Center who does readings. She runs a café or something.”
Another remarked, “Yes, but it’s only by referrals.”
A third voice asked, “How do you get one?”
“I’m not sure, but I was thinking of taking the kids there next weekend. They have a place where you can watch them blow glass, make baskets, throw pottery.”
“Oooh, artsy,” one of the women said in a mocking tone.
“They also have a sandwich shop and an outdoor area for dogs.”
“What about kids?”
“They say that the kids get a kick out of watching the artists at work. I dunno. But I thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Let me know how it goes and if you get in to see that psychic person.”
