For You(47)
Author: Mimi Strong

I pulled open my purse and grabbed a sucker for her. A moment later, she was slurping away happily on the sucker, breathing heavily through one crusted-up nostril. She had a head cold, and I kept tending to her with tissues, but she was fine with a little crust. I had my hands full digging out coupons and paying for our budgeted items. We were three dollars over what I wanted to spend, and I was considering putting something back when I heard someone behind us sigh heavily. Twice.

I turned to find a skinny woman in yoga clothes standing behind us. Her hair was soaking wet, like she’d just stepped out of a pool, and she had a yoga mat under her arm. “Sugar weakens the immune system,” the woman said.

There was a scent of garlic coming from the woman, and I realized the water was her sweat.

Fucking health freaks.

I was in no mood.

We’d just been kicked out of the place we’d been living. It was an illegal sublet we were sharing with another woman who had two little boys. Her kids seemed to sleep in shifts so that one of them could keep us up with his banging and playing.

I’d thought our living situation couldn’t get worse, but then it did, when the owner of the building came into the suite while we were all sleeping, did a head count, and told us we had twelve hours to get our stuff out before he called the police.

Some people would have stayed and used their knowledge of the tenant-friendly rental laws in that state to live there for months without paying rent. I knew plenty of people who did that, but I couldn’t take the risk of my name being entered into a database. The other woman was hiding out from her abusive ex-husband who was a cop. Off we scattered, the five of us, like rats in a basement when the lights flick on.

That day in the grocery store, the woman in the yoga pants got to me.

Her main concerns were buying non-medicated chicken and sticking her nose in my life.

I thought about thanking her for her concern. It takes a village and all that. And perhaps since she was so invested in Bell’s welfare, she could load us up in her massive SUV and drive us to her house to stay the night.

Instead, I said, “These suckers are made from fruit juice.”

She puckered her lips, her cheeks hollowing. Why did rich people try to look like they were starving? The world made no sense.

“Sugar is sugar,” she said.

Her front teeth looked healthy and sharp. I wondered, for a moment, what it would feel like to punch her in the mouth. To see the surprise on her face as her incisors caught on my knuckles and tore open my skin. The violent urge I felt scared me. All it takes is for us to be pushed to our limit, day after day, and then one more f**king awful thing happens and we snap. We lash out. We defend ourselves.

Calmly, I reached over into her grocery cart and shifted things around. There it was. A box of low-fat ice cream sandwiches hiding underneath the leafy vegetables.

“Sugar is sugar,” I said.

She glared at me. “All things in moderation.”

“Why don’t you mind your own f**king business… in moderation.”

I took out a second sucker and put it in my mouth.

She muttered something involving the phrase white trash.

“I might be white trash, but you’re a piece of shit and I bet your kids turn out to be ass**les, just like you.”

She backed her cart away, muttering about the horror of me swearing in front of my child, saying she would go to another lineup for the benefit of my poor, sweet child not having to hear more profanity.

I looked down at Bell, who was staring up at me with wide eyes, happily slurping on her sucker.

Next, I pulled another sucker out of my purse and popped it in my mouth.

No wonder Bell perked right up when I gave her one. Candy in your mouth goes a long way to making the world seem less shitty.

So does beer. And gin. And tequila. No wonder my uncle referred to the bar sometimes as a “candy store for grown-ups.”

I liked having a job where people generally left in a better mood than when they came in. At the fast food places I’d worked, people would leave after a heavy meal looking like they’d just dealt with something unpleasant but necessary.

My shift on Saturday was going well enough, though having to go five minutes between checking my phone for messages from Sawyer was painful. I’d never been too much into my phone, but I finally understood those people who kept the phone out on the table next to them at all times.

Sawyer and his roommate were having a party that night at their house. I’d considered going, but two things were stopping me.

My grandmother had a head cold and she was already taking care of Bell at the apartment while I was at work, so I didn’t want to push for a late night or overnight. I’d be lucky if Bell or both of us didn’t get her cold, though she assured me she was sneezing into her elbow and washing her hands frequently. Bell’s school had a pretty tough policy on sick kids staying home, and so a cold meant lost income for me.

Secondly, making an official appearance at Sawyer’s party scared me. Some of his friends were bound to hate me, it was just a matter of averages. Not everybody in this world likes you.

Sawyer was messaging me from a store, where apparently people mistook him for being an employee there. I couldn’t understand how this was funny. Finally, he explained that three separate people had approached him, which was different from just one or two, and he should have probably led with that, but whatever. Some people aren’t great at relaying anecdotes.

His frustration came through with his messages, and I wanted to tell him I felt it too. Of course I wanted to be with him at the store buying soda, seeing his blue shirt in person instead of trying to imagine it. I wanted to be at his house party that night, rather than at work. Who wouldn’t?

But it was too soon to have him meet Bell. She wasn’t settled in.

I had to hold on to the idea there was a future for us—some future time when Bell wasn’t acting like a ticking time bomb at school and I could consider introducing a new element to her life. In the meantime, Sawyer and I could see each other when our schedules allowed.

He didn’t know, but I had all day Sunday set aside just for us. Natalie and Dave were going to pick Bell up from our place and take the girls to the zoo in Abbotsford. They’d be gone all day, and I had my own wild animal plans for Sawyer.

My coworker with the purple-hued hair came and put her arm around me while I was trying to read Sawyer’s last text.

Lana said, “So, tomorrow. You’re gonna ring the dinner bell.”

I shushed her, embarrassed my uncle would hear—not that I had any idea what her expression meant. Was it a reference to o**l s*x? Or just something people around there said? I had a feeling it was a Lana-ism.