Beyond Repair (4 page)
“That's strawberry.” As I put it back on the shelf, the man stands aside. He looks at me. Then he turns away.
I grab Leah with one hand, the cart with the other. “Let's go.” I haul them along the aisle.
“Hey, I wanted chocolate!” Leah screeches.
“Not now.”
“What's the hurry?”
“Shut up,” I hiss. We round the corner to the next aisle. I stop the cart. “Stay here. Don't move.”
I sneak around the corner, then dart back. My elbow catches on a couple of cans of beans on a display. They tip over and roll across the floor.
I hold my breath. But the rest of the pile holds.
“What's wrong?” Leah's holding a big box of Choconut cereal against her chest.
“Shut up. And put that back,” I tell her.
“Why are you being so weird?”
I grab the shopping cart and nudge her with it to get her going up the aisle. “Hop on. Quick.”
She dumps the cereal box into the cart and climbs on. We race to the end of the aisle, round the corner and back the way we've just been.
There's no sign of the guy now.
I swing past the shelves of coffee again, getting evil looks from shoppers who have to move out of our way.
“This is fun.” Leah's laughing. “Where are we going?”
As I get to the end of the aisle, I turn past the beans again.
Shoppers are pulling stuff off the shelf, checking lists, easing their carts along. An old lady is bending down to grab something from the bottom shelf.
None of them are the guy from the coffee aisle.
The stalker.
Or was it?
I don't know what spooks me out more. That the stalker has followed us to the grocery store. Or that maybe I'm losing my mind.
I patrol the canned-vegetable aisle, checking out everyone and everything.
We cruise up one aisle, then another. I scan the checkouts each time we pass them. I check out the few solo male shoppers.
As I head for the cash register, I think about the kids who grab whatever they want from the shelves and squawk when their mothers make them put it back. From a kid's point of view, Mommy gets everything she wantsâ laundry powder, toilet paper, vanilla. Lucky Mommy. But the kid can't grab one can of ravioli without having it taken away.
I've only just thought of it like that.
I let Leah grab a can of Builder Bob spaghettiâas if it's any better than the regular spaghetti in tomato sauce that tastes like puke.
“You forgot cookies,” whines Leah. Now that we're no longer racing around the store like maniacs, she's bored.
But my heart is still thudding in my chest like a fist against a door. Can it be coincidence that that guy who wanted to shovel our driveway and turned up at the video store now shows up here? I flip open my phone to call Mom. But then I change my mind and call DJ instead.
His phone's on voice mail, so I flip mine shut and pocket it.
I head for the checkout, looking in the other lineups to see if the guy's there.
“Where are we going?” asks Leah. “Did we finish already? Mom said oil. I remember now. And ground beef. Cam!”
I lean across the cart and stick my face into hers. “Will you please shut it? We'll come back later.”
“Mom will be mad,” she says. “You can't blame me if we didn't get everything. It's not my fault.”
“Will you kindly button it,” I tell her. “And get off now.” I start stacking groceries on the checkout counter. “Help me unload.”
“I'm going to tell Mom,” Leah says, her bottom lip quivering.
I ignore her and grab her Choconuts from the cart and add them to the pile on the counter.
When I look up, the guy from the coffee aisle is walking out of the store. “Hey! Stop!” I yell. It must be him. The same coat. The same height. That same walk.
Or almost.
I take off with Leah right behind me. “Cam! Where are you going? What about the groceries?”
“Forget about the groceries.” I reach back and grab her arm. “Stick with me.”
“You're going too fast.”
I dart around an old lady pushing a walker and dodge a couple holding hands.
“Hey, you! Hold on a minute,” I yell to the guy's back.
When he bends down to get in his car, I realize it's not the same guy. This guy's got a beard.
Crap. I stand in the middle of the lot, wondering what to do next. I'm not ready to quit, although I have no idea what I'd do to the guyâsay to himâif I do catch him.
If only DJ were here. He's never stuck for what to say. He'd know what to do.
But he's not here. “Stay here, okay?” I push Leah against the cart rack between two parking stalls. “Don't move. I will be right back for you.”
“What about the groceries?”
“Forget the groceries. And don't you dare move.”
I dart between cars, dodging one way and then the other. He must be here. The stalker. I swear that was him in the store.
I peer through windshields and side windows. My head is spinning as I look one way, then the other, at a shadow, someone passing, a movement, any movement.
So this is what paranoia feels like
, I think as I stand panting and wondering what to do next.
“Hold on there.”
The guy marching toward me is wearing a navy and yellow uniform. A rent-a-cop! A badge on his shoulder says Prestige Security. I always figure security guards are wannabe soldiers who can't get into the real army. They'd rather be in Iraq or Afghanistan instead of some crummy grocery store. They all have an overdeveloped sense of their own importance.
Pretending not to have heard him, I turn and look back at Leah. She's climbed on top of the shopping-cart rack and is looking for me in the wrong direction.
“You want to tell me what's going on?” asks the guard.
“I'm looking for my little sister.”
“She drive, does she?”
“Course not.”
“Or maybe you forgot what your own car looks like.” He peers at me. “You're hardly old enough to drive, I'd reckon.”
I feel a sudden flush of anger in my chest. Who does he think does the chores that my mother doesn't have time for? How does he think I manage to get the week's groceries home?
Instead of getting into it with him, I take a breath. “You've got it wrong. My sister is a handful. She has a nasty habit of looking for cars that are open,” I tell him. “She hides in them. It scares me and my mom to death.”
He tips his hat back on his head and scratches his cheek. “So where is your mother then?”
“She's not here right now. It's just me and my sister.” I pretend to be scanning the parking lot. I do a phony double take when my eyes land on the cart rack. Leah's still there. But now she's swinging from the overhead bar like it's a jungle gym.
“Leah!” I use the kind of voice that's meant to show,
Thank goodness I found
you. I was so worried
. “There she is,” I tell the security guy. “I'd better grab her before she takes off again.”
When he puts out one arm toward me, I step out of reach. But it turns out he's just trying to let a car go by.
“I need a few details,” he says, taking a notebook out of his pocket. “Incident report. You know how it goes. Just hang on and let me have your name. I'll have a quick word with your sister too.”
“I can tell you everything you need to know, officer.” As I say it, I know how dumb I sound. He's a security guard, not a cop. “My name is Jason Burke,” I tell him. Jason sits two rows behind me in math and aces every test. Never did like him.
I've got to keep the security guard away from Leah. She's bound to mess things up worse than they are. Another lie comes quickly to my lips. “My sister is retarded.” No. That's not the word. “She has serious developmental problems,” I say. “We live at 137 Drake Drive.” I'm not even sure we have a Drake Drive around here. “Now. If you don't mind, sir. I must get my sister home.” I push back my sleeve and make a big deal of looking at my watch. “Time for her medication.”
I feel like I'm channeling DJ. He's always making up wild stories on the spot.
The rent-a-cop looks from me to Leah and back again to me. He closes his notebook and puts it back in his pocket. “Well, all right then. That seems to be above board.” He adjusts his jacket. “Think twice before you go nosing around parked cars again, son. You must know how it looks. Now go on. Your sister needs you.”
Leah is holding on to the metal bar above the shopping carts with one hand. She's waving at me with the other. Luckily, a car drives by, so only I know she's calling my nameâwhich does not sound a bit like Jason.
“It's nice to know that a special kid like that has someone to look after her. Don't see it that often,” the security guard says.
Now I feel bad. Maybe this really is his dream job, making sure cars don't get stolen and people don't get mugged for their groceries. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day, now,” I say like a law-abiding citizen.
I weave through the cars until I reach my sister.
“What were you doing with that man? I thought he was going to arrest you,” says Leah. “What did you do?”
“You ask too many questions,” I say. “Let's go home.”
“What about the groceries?”
“I told you not to ask questions. Come on.”
A car skims by so close that I feel the moving air against my side. I don't bother to check to see who's driving. I just stare straight ahead as I lead my sister to Mom's old Honda.
I should go back into the store and see if the cart we abandoned is still there. But all my energy has seeped out through my shoes.
I can't keep this to myself anymore.
Whether I want to or not, I have to tell Mom about the stalker. If it is only my imagination and the man of the house is about to lose his mind, she should know.
I find the car and shove Leah in. I hope the muffler doesn't fall off before we get home.
When we get home, Mom is at the kitchen table with yesterday's paper spread in front of her. Behind her, the coffeemaker is gurgling.
“I thought you were at the store,” she says, when she sees we're empty-handed.
“We got broccoli for you. And brown spaghetti,” says Leah. “But I left the list at home. We couldn't finish the shopping because Cam saw someone and ran out of the store.”
“I said I would explain to Mom.” I poke Leah in the back. “Okay?”
“Fine then,” she says. “Mom, can I watch
TV
?” Leah leaves the room without waiting for an answer.
Mom folds up the paper and looks up at me. “Explain what, Cam?”
“Remember the guy on the driveway? That day it snowed?” I say. “You want this coffee, or can I have it?”
“Finish it. I'm done. What about the guy on the driveway?” Mom turns to watch me pour the coffee into a mug and add cream and three sugars. Then one more.
I sit down and stack the sections of the paper.
“The guy in the driveway?” Mom prompts me.
“One day he came into the video store,” I say. “And he was at Shop Rite just now.” I watch her face as I tell her, “I think he's still stalking us.”
Mom folds her hands on the table so I won't notice the trembling. “You sure this is the same man?” she asks.
“Pretty sure,” I say. “Well, the first time I couldn't be sure. But this time? Yeah. Well maybe. I'm pretty sure it was Bryan Klausen.”
Mom shivers. It starts in her shoulders, then runs down her arms.
“He was in the coffee aisle,” I say. As if it makes a difference.
Mom's hands are still shaking. “I knew I should have done what I threatened that first time. Get a restraining order.” She stands up and pulls her housecoat tight around her. “Why didn't you tell me, Cam? When you saw him at work?”
“Well, like I said, I couldn't be sure.”
“But now you are?”
“I don't know I'd swear to it in court. But yes. I think so.”
Mom pulls the phone off the wall.
“Mom. It's Saturday. Do the cops handle this kind of thing on the weekend?”
She tips the phone sideways so she can answer me. “I'm not going to call the police. I'm calling Gail. Her husband is a lawyer. He'll know what to do.” She punches in the number, then holds the phone against her chest. “God, I wish your father was here.”
For a second I think of saying how stupid that is. If Dad was here, the guy wouldn't be stalking us, would he? But one look at her face, and I keep my mouth shut.