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There’s a scene in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlett Letter when one of the characters comments that, even if the woman were to cover up the letter A that displays her sin for the world to see, she would still be marked by the shame within her heart.
I can relate, suddenly. I crept in the house as quietly as I could when I got home, but my stealth was no match for Pearl’s hound-dog nose. I’ve spent all morning dodging her questions about last night, and when Donovan enters in his lab coat, I physically have to look away. I can feel her watching me, gauging my reaction.
“He’s such a good doctor,” Pearl muses when he exits. “Such good bedside manner. Don’t you think, darling?”
“Does anyone need anything?” I ask suddenly. I need an excuse to get out from under her prying eyes.
Otto sits on the table, and he shrugs. “I’m a little hungry,” he says.
“Yeah?” I perk up like a dog with a tennis ball. “I think I saw a vending machine down the hall. Will that tide you over?”
He nods. “Packet of crisps?”
“Copy that,” I say. I swivel around in my chair and get to my feet.
“Wait.” My mother starts fishing around in her purse. I realize she’s picking out coins.
“Pearl. You’re aware that I’m a grown-up, right?” She blinks at me, big eyes, confused. I wave my wallet at her. “I’ve got this.”
“Are you sure…?” She sounds suspicious, as if my money isn’t mine, as if I don’t have a salary that would let me afford a meager snack.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. And I exit the room before she takes any more air out of my confidence.
The vending machine is all the way down the hall. It’s pretty quiet on this floor, and I make it to the machine undisturbed. There, lo and behold, are salt and vinegar chips, dangling from the ring at the very bottom.
Except when I take out my wallet, something stops me. A piece of tape over the credit card reader and a message in ugly marker: CASH ONLY.
“Son of a…”
I don’t have cash. I never carry cash. This is the twenty-first century…who uses cash?
Pearl does. And she’s going to roll her eyes, and the next hour will be full of I told you sos if I go back and beg her for quarters now.
On the other hand…
I bite my lip.
The chips are, really, very close to the bottom. Nearly hanging off, really. I’d practically be doing gravity a service if I released it.
I glance behind me. The hallway is empty. The coast is clear.
I crouch down, knees on the polished floor, and lift the flap to reach my arm deep into the machine. There’s a wide enough opening that I can slip my hand into it. I have to shift in my spot and twist a bit, but I’m almost there…
My fingertips brush the ruffled edges of the chip bag.
But I can’t reach enough to actually pull it down. Damn.
I hear footsteps down the hall. Startled, I yank my arm back—
But it won’t budge.
I twist, squirm, but, somehow, I’ve got myself trapped. A snack thief locked in a bear trap of her own demise. I put my good hand against the glass and try to tug my arm out, but it’s somehow lodged itself in the contraption that’s meant to release the candy.
This is how I die. Utter humiliation in the middle of a hospital. Like a kid with her hand literally stuck in the cookie jar.
“You need a hand, pretty lady?”
That voice. I could crawl away with shame…if I wasn’t stuck.
