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Shit.
She prattles on, still unloading her cart. I listen with all ears.
They’re expecting flooding and closures. What if I can’t get down to the airport in time for my flight? And even if I do, the flight might get cancelled.
I glance down at the few items in my cart. Forget it. I need to get out of here. Get to Ava’s as fast as I can. Then get to the airport before the storm hits.
Leaving my cart behind, I sprint out of the store. I get behind the wheel of Ned’s ridiculously expensive car and wait in line to exit the parking lot when his phone pings. It’s Ava again. Wanting to know where he is.
Should I tell her?
On impulse, I text her back.
I’ll be home in twenty minutes. And explain everything.
She needs to know the truth.
And to pay…
FORTY-NINE
AVA
I stare at my text message.
Ned’s on his way home. And is going to explain everything.
I should be happy, relieved with the storm coming in, but I’m not. The message disturbs me. Did he drive around all day thinking about our marriage?
I can’t stop thinking about yesterday morning. Ned looked at me like he despised me. Like he wanted me dead. Actually, it was more like I was already dead, and he wanted to dispose of me. At that moment, I knew our relationship was irreparably changed.
If he thinks I’m taking him back, he’s got another thing coming.
I read his text again and reply: OK. No hearts or smiley faces. Not even a little x. Then hit send and delete it.
We’ll weather the storm together. And then it’s going to be over for him. Very over.
My heart belongs to another.
Should I call him? Text him?
Tell him that…
Another sudden clap of thunder startles me, stopping me in my thoughts, and this time it wakes up Isa. She bawls. My poor baby. The thunder’s scared her.
“My sweet girl, I’ll be right back.” I find the baby carrier where I left it, strap it on, and put my wailing baby inside it, snuggling her close to me. Gently, I bounce her until her sobs subside.
“C’mon,” I tell her. “You can help me find our emergency preparedness kit.” I kiss her silky scalp. Our first mother-daughter activity.
We search the house. You’d think obsessive-compulsive Ned would have such a kit handy, but I can’t find it. Maybe he keeps one in my garage, but with the door busted, I can’t get inside.
I need to create one.
With Isa glued to my chest, the storm looming, I remember the plastic basket on wheels in the laundry room. Pulling it behind me like a wagon, I tear through the house.
Within five breathless minutes, my makeshift emergency kit is created. The basket is loaded with first-aid supplies, candles, folding umbrellas, warm blankets, extra clothing, and even a rain poncho.
After adding a stack of Pampers and wipes to the basket, I return to the kitchen to retrieve some bottles of water, canned foods, and snacks as well as the flashlight I saw in Ned’s tool drawer. I stop when I see my mother by the built-in trash compactor. Dressed in a nightgown and pink rollers, she’s dangling a familiar object from her bony hand.
