Written: back in my at-home office!
Powered by: Monday mojo
Inspired by: a story idea I wrote in one of my old journals: emotional weight carried by women – portrayed as unworthy when the weight causes them to do something wrong
Betty knew what she needed. A few good lemons, a carton of milk and baking soda would make the simple recipe she had been making on this day for the past eight years. Jane didn’t need to be picked up from her father’s house for another twenty minutes, so Betty swung into a parking spot in front of the grocery store and hurried in.
The lemons were all too green but she did the best she could, then hurried over to the baking aisle, squeezing her way between slow-moving carts and clusters of families studying breakfast cereal options. Of course there was a line of people as she reached the checkout lane, each with their own stockade of items.
It had been going well so far. Her father was accommodating about having his weekend cut short in order for Betty to spend time with Jane on her actual birthday, and Jane was excited about having a special celebration with each of them. So Betty couldn’t understand why waiting in this line was making her so agitated, why she found herself habitually squeezing the lemons in her fists like they were stress balls.
She jogged across the parking lot and tossed her bag into the passenger seat, glancing into her rearview mirror as she switched gears and pressed the gas. Maybe if she got there early, Jane would still be finishing her breakfast. Maybe he would invite her in, and she could see how he was living. Maybe they could sit together for a few minutes at his new dining room table. She heard he had a dog now—
The bump was light, but noticeable. Like going over a speedbump with her trunk instead of her tires. Her foot hit the break, she looked again into her rearview mirror and saw a horrified woman staring at her. Beside her was a little girl in a soccer uniform holding her elbow.
“I’m so sorry, are you both alright? I didn’t see you when I looked-” Betty searched for explanations and apologies. The girl is looking forlornly at a popsicle in pieces on the pavement, she must have dropped it when the car hit her. Betty can’t seem to think the words, when the car hit her.
“I didn’t see you,” she says again, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you dare,” the woman’s face is red, “You didn’t see us? What is wrong with you? You just hit my daughter with your car!”
“I know, I’m so sorry, is she-” people in the parking lot stop loading up their grocery bags, some moving towards them.
“No she is not alright, what is wrong with you? You just ran into us! You just hit a child! How dare you? How could you be so careless?” she tucks her daughter in closer to her, grabbing onto the elbow she had been nursing earlier. The girl begins to cry, watching her popsicle melt in the morning heat.
“It was an accident, is she hurt?” Betty leaned in towards the girl, but her mother jerked her away as if Betty were a wild anima. She began to back away, from the screaming woman, the crying daughter, the murmuring crowd.
“Of course she’s hurt, you hit her! Wait, what are you…? Where are you going? Someone stop her, she’s leaving!”
Betty closed the door and pulled through her parking spot to the other lane, passing the people who motioned for her to stop, the hysterical woman who abandoned her child to run after her. She did not look into her rearview mirror as she pulled away.
At his house, Jane is playing soccer in the front yard. He has placed her backpack on the front steps of the porch, and waves to her from the closed glass door as she picks it up. She helps Jane buckle in and drives her home.
“Mom,” she says as they pull into the driveway, “Can we make a chocolate cake this year? Dad made lemon blueberry pancakes.”
Betty looks at the bag in the seat next to her, the unripe lemons, the carton of milk beginning to sweat, the small box of baking soda. “No,” she says, not looking at her daughter as she gets out of the car, “This is our tradition.”