Chapter 5 #2
A bell trills somewhere above me. It’s warm inside and thick with the smell of bread and coffee.
There’s a row of fresh produce along the left wall, crates of tomatoes and lettuce and oranges piled high under harsh fluorescent lighting.
Further down the aisle there’s a deli counter with rows of meats and a dozen different types of cheese.
Tall shelves lined with pasta stand next to it.
It’s all so beautiful I could start crying again.
Instead, I pick up a basket and start filling it with my favorites—kale and pears and a few sweet potatoes—then venture down the next aisle, grabbing two bags of ziti and a few jars of tomato sauce.
When I find the tea section, I’m so excited I grab six boxes as if the entire city might run out of chamomile at any moment.
By the time I make it to the register, my basket is laden with so much food, I need to use both hands to hoist it onto the counter in front of the cashier.
“Hello,” I say, offering him an overly eager smile.
His name badge says Darryl P., and he’s eyeing me cautiously as he scans each item. Maybe it’s my enthusiasm for fresh produce. Or my bangs, which I haven’t touched since I left the hospital and probably look like they’re trying to jettison from my head.
“That will be ninety dollars and thirty-seven cents,” he finally says.
I instinctually reach for my phone, ready to unlock it and offer my digital wallet. But then I remember I don’t have my phone. Even if I did, I couldn’t do anything with it.
My heart begins to pound as I pull my wallet from my coat pocket. When I open it, there’s only one debit card and I don’t recognize the bank emblazoned on the front of it.
“I don’t know if this works,” I say, holding it up.
Darryl P. cocks an eyebrow at me, then at the card in my hand. “Is it stolen?”
My mouth falls open. “No, it’s not stolen. It’s my card. I just don’t know if there’s any money in this account.”
“There’s an ATM around the corner. You could check the balance.”
For a split second I truly believe this is a genius idea. But then I remember that if I don’t remember the passcode to my phone, there’s a good chance I don’t remember the four digits needed to get into my bank account, either.
“I don’t know my pin,” I say. “I mean, I might know the pin. I just don’t know if I know. I hit my head and can’t remember much from the last year, and normally it wouldn’t be an issue since I never change my cards or passcodes, except I apparently changed the one on my phone, so…”
“So you have a debit card that you didn’t steal but you can’t access because you don’t know the pin?
” He laughs to himself, and I can picture Darryl P.
telling this story to his grocery store employee friends tonight at the local bar.
You’ll never believe the story this one tried to pull on me to use a stolen debit card. Oh, the laughs that will be shared.
“Can you just swipe it to see if it’ll go through?” I ask, trying to smile.
“Depends,” he says with a shrug. “Is your signature gonna match the back of the card?”
“Just… run the card, please,” I say through gritted teeth.
He considers for a second, then presses a few buttons on the register until the machine instructs me to tap my card on the reader in front of me.
I do, ignoring the panic clawing at my chest as we both stare down at the screen, waiting. Who knew a grocery store purchase could trigger this much anxiety?
Another moment passes, then, miraculously, the screen lights up with the word “approved.”
Darryl P. doesn’t look totally convinced, but I don’t care. If this is as close to magic as I get today, I’ll take it.
I emerge from North Market, a teeming shopping bag in hand, feeling triumphant. Sure, I don’t know if I have a job or a boyfriend, or what I’ve been doing over the past year of my life, but I have a working bank card! And tea! The day couldn’t possibly get any better.
Then I see Ben is standing right where I left him, and my heart stumbles. His feet are planted firmly on the sidewalk like he’s taken root there, even though he clearly hasn’t since he has a new shopping bag in his hand with Wireless Warehouse printed across the front.
“You’re still here,” I say, stopping in front of him.
His brow creases like he’s the one who should be confused. “Should I not be?”
“No, I just didn’t expect you to stay. You already walked me all the way here, and honestly, that’s above and beyond what I expected…
” My tongue trips over everything I want to tell him.
How grateful I am for his help. How excited I am about my bank card and all the items in my shopping bag.
But his expression suggests he’s genuinely confused by my reaction, so I keep it short. “Anyway, thank you.”
“It’s fine,” he says, like it’s nothing. As if walking his neighbor half a mile to the grocery store is on par with his usual Monday morning. Then he holds out the plastic Wireless Warehouse bag to me. “This is for you.”
I blink. “What is it?”
“They sell prepaid phones next door. Nothing fancy, just something temporary until you figure out your passcode.”
I reach out and take what might be the best gift I’ve ever received in my entire life.
“You got me a burner phone?” I ask, my voice wobbly with emotion as I look inside the bag and see a box with a photo of a flip phone on the side.
He frowns, the full shape of his lips down-turning in such a way that I don’t know whether to feel ashamed or turned on. “Not a burner phone, just a basic model with prepaid minutes so you can call and text until you don’t need it anymore.”
I smile up at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of a burner phone.”
This time I’m absolutely sure the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Just don’t use it for any illegal activity.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Very reassuring,” he replies dryly, adjusting the leather bag over his shoulder. “Ready to head back?”
“Don’t you have to go to work?”
“I have time.”
I’m tempted to accept the offer, but I also know I’ve already given him more than he bargained for on this short walk, so I wave him off. “It’s okay. I got it.”
He’s watching me like he knows that I do not, in fact, got it. “You remember the way?”
Nope, not even slightly, I want to say. But I reply, “I think so. It can’t be too complicated, right?”
He frowns again as he flips the leather flap on his bag over so he can rummage inside.
It’s not that I’m trying to look, but I also can’t help a quick glance at the contents.
There’s a laptop, a leather satchel neatly tied closed, and a paperback book whose title I don’t catch before he pulls out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses along with a notebook and pencil.
Then he puts on the glasses and starts writing.
A minute passes. Then another. He’s too tall for me to see what he’s doing, and I refuse to stand on my tiptoes—I have already been through too much—but I still lean in to see. I can’t quite read what is on the paper, but I do get a whiff of sawdust and sandalwood from his jacket.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, only finishes the line he’s working on, then rips the page out and hands it to me.
“Directions.”
I look down at the grid paper and see that, yes, that’s exactly what they are. He’s even added little arrows to show which way to turn at each step.
When he catches my expression over the rim of his glasses—eyes wide, mouth agape—his head cocks to the side slightly. “You said you should have written them down, right?”
“I did, yeah.”
“There you go,” he says, as if the topic has been resolved.
Then he slides his pencil and notebook back in his bag, along with his glasses.
“I put my number there in the corner. Text me when you have the phone set up and I’ll send you Gino’s information.
He’s old, so he moves pretty slow, but he’s thorough. ”
“I will,” I reply. “Thanks.”
A moment passes and I’m not sure if I’ve missed a cue, if I’m supposed to say something else. Before I can decide, he takes a step backward.
“I’ll see you around, Marnie,” he says.
Then he turns and heads down the street and around the corner.
It takes another minute for me to recover enough to look back down at the directions.
I read over each line carefully before I take a deep breath and follow them.
Walk to the corner, then turn right. Pass the cigar shop with the man sitting outside, still grumbling to himself.
Take a left at the street sign with numerous arrows jutting out, pointing to different Italian cities.
Pass the basketball court, through the off-kilter intersection, then turn left.
Fifteen minutes later, I see our building there just a few doors down and can’t help but smile.
Sure, Ben Morgan might think I’m insane, but he also got me home, safe and sound. And, with tea.