skin. I take a step toward him. Then I stop myself.
“I need caulk,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
I register the look on his face as one of confusion, and wonder if he, too, thinks I’ve said “cock.”
Then I realize that I didn’t say caulk at all. I actually said, “I need toothpaste.”
And I may have added “Dad.” As in: “I need toothpaste, Dad.” A giggle bursts out of my mouth and I clasp my hand over it.
“Are you OK, ma’am?”
I consider his question. No. I’m not OK. And I feel compelled to tell him the reason why. To explain my erratic behavior.
“I’m hungry.”
WHEN I PULL into the driveway at 8:37, Jack’s car isn’t there. My phone has rung seven times—eight? Ten? Really, I’ve lost track—since I left Dr. Saunders’ office, but I’ve been letting the tune play on, nodding my head to the rhythm of it, as if it’s just another familiar song on the radio. I jam my foot onto the parking brake, step out in the chilled, hollow night and walk around to the trunk, where the bagboy at Kroger helped me stash more groceries than Jack and I could possibly eat in a month.
There’s a movement in the bushes to my left.
I look over, trying to make out the shape of a squirrel or possum,but I’m blinded by our porch light and can’t see into the pitch black untouched by its glow.
Then a hulking form comes into view and I gasp.
“Daisy.”
“Holy shit, Sammy.” I put my hand over my rapidly beating heart “You scared the heck out of me.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you saw me when you pulled up.”
“What are you doing out here in the dark?” I ask, noticing that her house is shrouded in shadows. Not one light is on.
“I just got home from my shift,” she says, and now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see her shiny bike locked up to the railing of her porch steps. “Must have forgotten to leave some lights on. I was in a hurry when I left this morning ’cause mom called and she just talks and talks and talks. Never can get her off the phone. Finally, I was like, ‘Mama! Gotta get to work.’ She still talked for at least ten or more minutes. Luckily, boss was out of the office when I finally got to the station.”
She steps closer and I take in her uniform—government-issued blue cargo pants, black shoes, gray short-sleeved button-up with a patch on the arm that reads: Athens Clarke County Police Department. A belt cinches at her waist, and she looks like a gray and blue snowman: three round segments stacked atop one another to create a person. Sammy’s a cop. Well, a bike cop. I don’t know if that means she’s a full-fledged police officer, or a junior one—like a Cub Scout who hasn’t graduated to Boy Scouts yet. I’ve never had the heart to ask her. She spends most of her time ticketing drunk college students, and arresting them if they’re underage. I asked her once after she handcuffed someone how she then transported them to the station. She said that she called for a backup patrol car, but all I could picture was her somehow strong-arming these inebriated kids onto her handlebars and joyriding them all the way to their incarceration. The comical image has stuck with me.
“Having company this weekend?” she asks, eyeing the plastic shopping bags nearly spilling out of my open trunk.
“Nope.” I scan my purchases and I can’t recall even one thing that I bought—as if I were on Ambien and sleep-shopping. I scramble for an explanation. “I went to the store without a list.” As I say it, it hits me that I have never gone shopping without a piece of paper dictating what I will buy. Ever. This tiny rebellion thrills me.
“Ah,” she nods. “I make the same mistake when I go to the store hungry, which seems to be every time I go. Doughnuts, fried chicken, those little peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels . . . I just buy everything in sight.” She gestures to her doughy figure and grins. “Obviously.”
Sammy comments on her weight often, as
“I need caulk,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
I register the look on his face as one of confusion, and wonder if he, too, thinks I’ve said “cock.”
Then I realize that I didn’t say caulk at all. I actually said, “I need toothpaste.”
And I may have added “Dad.” As in: “I need toothpaste, Dad.” A giggle bursts out of my mouth and I clasp my hand over it.
“Are you OK, ma’am?”
I consider his question. No. I’m not OK. And I feel compelled to tell him the reason why. To explain my erratic behavior.
“I’m hungry.”
WHEN I PULL into the driveway at 8:37, Jack’s car isn’t there. My phone has rung seven times—eight? Ten? Really, I’ve lost track—since I left Dr. Saunders’ office, but I’ve been letting the tune play on, nodding my head to the rhythm of it, as if it’s just another familiar song on the radio. I jam my foot onto the parking brake, step out in the chilled, hollow night and walk around to the trunk, where the bagboy at Kroger helped me stash more groceries than Jack and I could possibly eat in a month.
There’s a movement in the bushes to my left.
I look over, trying to make out the shape of a squirrel or possum,but I’m blinded by our porch light and can’t see into the pitch black untouched by its glow.
Then a hulking form comes into view and I gasp.
“Daisy.”
“Holy shit, Sammy.” I put my hand over my rapidly beating heart “You scared the heck out of me.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you saw me when you pulled up.”
“What are you doing out here in the dark?” I ask, noticing that her house is shrouded in shadows. Not one light is on.
“I just got home from my shift,” she says, and now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see her shiny bike locked up to the railing of her porch steps. “Must have forgotten to leave some lights on. I was in a hurry when I left this morning ’cause mom called and she just talks and talks and talks. Never can get her off the phone. Finally, I was like, ‘Mama! Gotta get to work.’ She still talked for at least ten or more minutes. Luckily, boss was out of the office when I finally got to the station.”
She steps closer and I take in her uniform—government-issued blue cargo pants, black shoes, gray short-sleeved button-up with a patch on the arm that reads: Athens Clarke County Police Department. A belt cinches at her waist, and she looks like a gray and blue snowman: three round segments stacked atop one another to create a person. Sammy’s a cop. Well, a bike cop. I don’t know if that means she’s a full-fledged police officer, or a junior one—like a Cub Scout who hasn’t graduated to Boy Scouts yet. I’ve never had the heart to ask her. She spends most of her time ticketing drunk college students, and arresting them if they’re underage. I asked her once after she handcuffed someone how she then transported them to the station. She said that she called for a backup patrol car, but all I could picture was her somehow strong-arming these inebriated kids onto her handlebars and joyriding them all the way to their incarceration. The comical image has stuck with me.
“Having company this weekend?” she asks, eyeing the plastic shopping bags nearly spilling out of my open trunk.
“Nope.” I scan my purchases and I can’t recall even one thing that I bought—as if I were on Ambien and sleep-shopping. I scramble for an explanation. “I went to the store without a list.” As I say it, it hits me that I have never gone shopping without a piece of paper dictating what I will buy. Ever. This tiny rebellion thrills me.
“Ah,” she nods. “I make the same mistake when I go to the store hungry, which seems to be every time I go. Doughnuts, fried chicken, those little peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels . . . I just buy everything in sight.” She gestures to her doughy figure and grins. “Obviously.”
Sammy comments on her weight often, as
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