Under My Skin

Page 93

She almost messes up on the four, but I redirect her finger and we end up with a label for the onions, which she enthusiastically slaps on.
The process has taken only about eight times longer than it should.
“You did great,” I say. “I’m going to do the other two myself, really really fast. Wanna watch?”
She bobs her head, her black curls bouncing, and I go back to the scale, saying the numbers out loud as I punch them in, like some real life skit on Sesame Street.
When I’m done, I hold on to my vegetables and turn around to lead her back to the cart.
She’s gone.
A bolt of panic cuts through me, and I tamp it down. She can’t be gone. She’s just in the next aisle. She’s just behind one of these people.
But she’s not, and reality is smacking me in the face. I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Jackson’s little girl.
My stomach lurches, and I swallow both bile and fear. I don’t have time for that. All I have time for is finding her.
“Did you see her? The little girl who was beside me?” I practically shout the question at two women who are chatting in the aisle by the tomatoes. But both just look at me blankly. One as if I am nothing more than a nuisance, the other with an apologetic smile and an explanation of, “Sorry, I haven’t seen a thing.”
Oh dear god.
“Ronnie!” I am completely uninterested in the looks that people are shooting me as I scream her name at the top of my lungs even while I race along the back of the section so that I can look down each aisle that runs perpendicular to this wall. “Veronica!”
Nothing. And I have no idea what to do. I don’t want to leave this part of the store, but I need a manager. I need help, and I’m just about to scream that someone needs to help me when a short woman with a friendly face taps my elbow and says, “Is that your little girl?”
I peer down to find Ronnie under a free-standing display of brussels sprouts and cauliflower.
“Oh my god,” I say, my body going limp with relief. “Ronnie. Ronnie, come here, baby.”
She scrambles out, then shows me the tiny red bouncy ball that she’d spied under the display.
“Can I keep it?” she asks, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy clutching her to my chest as I try to get my breath back and calm the beating of my heart.
I turn around to search for the woman who had found her for me, because who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t been there today. But the woman is nowhere in sight.
And with Ronnie held tight in my arms, I abandon our cart and rush toward the door.
I can’t think about food or dinner or ice cream or meat loaf.
All I can think is that I screwed up.
All I can do is race toward home.
“Calm down,” Jackson says as I pace the bedroom trying to hold back yet another flood of tears. “Baby, calm down. It’s okay. She’s safe. You didn’t lose her. You didn’t hurt her.”
Ronnie is down for a nap, and I don’t even think she’s upset at all. She cried in the car, but I’m pretty sure that was because I was fighting back tears, my body tense as I kept two hands on the steering wheel.
“I did lose her,” I snap. “Just because she was only a few feet away doesn’t mean I didn’t. It just means I got lucky. What if I’d raced to get the manager before that woman found her? She might have crawled out from under the display and wandered out of the store. The produce section is right by the automated doors and the parking lot is right there and have you seen how fast cars go through there even though they’re not supposed to?”
I’m breathless, my words—my fears—tumbling out on top of each other. And I know that he’s right. She is okay. And I am not the first person to take their eyes off a child in a grocery story. But that isn’t the point. That’s just a catalyst, and it’s sparked all of my fears and doubts into one big explosion.
I know what I have to do—and I hate it. Because it will be the hardest thing ever. But I have to. For Jackson. For Ronnie. And even for me.
Jackson halts me on my next pass across the room, then pulls me into his arms. “Sweetheart, you were scared. I get that. But you need to step back. Take a deep breath.”
I rip myself out of his arms. “Scared? I wasn’t scared, Jackson. I was fucking terrified. Just like I was last night. She had a nightmare, and—”
“I know,” he says gently. “Stella told me. But, Sylvia, you’re doing fine. The fact that you’re struggling doesn’t mean you’re doing badly.”