Page 27 of Jane Deyre
“Do you like to color?” Adele asks me.
“I like to draw.”
“Bien!”
We make a final stop in the arts and crafts section where we load up on coloring books, crayons, sketchpads, colored markers, and pencils.
“I think we’re done,” I say.
“Good, let’s get into a checkout line,” Relief laces Ward’s voice.
“Wait! We need one more thing!”
“What now?” he asks between clenched teeth.
“Remember? A car seat.”
I can actually hear him seethe. After roaming the vast store for fifteen long minutes, we finally find them. The choices are staggering.
“Just pick one out already,” sighs an impatient, worn-out Mr. Rochester.
Adele and I finally decide on a leopard-print one. It won’t go that well with the red Rolls, but if Adele likes it, I like it. And it seems to have excellent safety features.
Minutes later, we’re at one of the cash registers. The huge car seat box teetering on top of the mountain of stuff piled in Ward’s cart. Next in line, he turns to me. “Do you need anything before we blow this pop stand?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I need an entire new wardrobe. Maybe next week I’ll come back after I get my first paycheck and splurge on some new things. Even treat myself to some lacy underwear. Replace the embarrassing, hole-ridden undergarments I’ve worn for years. Thank goodness I have my own washer and dryer so no one can see their condition. Especially Mr. Rochester. I blush at that thought.
Our turn. Ward starts unloading his cart. I can’t help noticing the checkout girl’s eyes on him. Everywhere he goes women have that goo-goo-eyed reaction. And so do some guys. He’s that breathtaking.
Trying to be friendly, the girl rings up the car seat and says, “You know if you open a Target card today, you’ll save ten percent.”
“Thanks, but no, thanks,” he growls, laying a pile of clothing on the conveyor belt. “Just keep ringing up this crap and make it fast.”
A bitter mix of anger and resentment ripples through me. So this is how rich people behave, not caring about saving a buck. And acting rude to people they believe are below them. I’m tempted to make him apologize and go for the card, but bite down on my tongue.Keep your mouth shut.
Looking slightly affronted, the checkout girl continues to ring up our items, placing them in humongous red and white plastic Target bags.
My turn. “Sorry for the wait,” she says.
“No problem. I’m with him.”
“We’re together!” Adele beams, standing on her tippy-toes and helping me unload our cart.
Surprised, the cashier casts her eyes at Ward, then at Adele who’s eyeing the candy rack, and then at me. “You have a beautiful family, ma’am. I’d say with all this stuff, your adorable daughter is one lucky little girl.”
I say nothing to correct her. Wearethe vision of a perfect family.
Suddenly, I remember something.
“Mr. Rochester, I’ve forgotten something.”
He looks like he’s going to blow a gasket. “Give me a fricking break.”
“I’ll be right back.” I dash off before he can question me.
In a jiff, I’m back. Breathless. Holding a hammer and a package of picture hangers in one hand... and in the other, a small video monitor, something I passed by and decided I needed. Mr. Rochester says nothing. They’re the last things to be rung up.
Fifteen hundred dollars later, we’re on our way back to Thornhill.