Aisle Eight

Aisle eight is where I come to cry. It’s the catchall aisle housing paperbacks, obscure medicines, batteries, lightbulbs, and, of course, greeting cards. The cards draw me to them like magnets every time, even if I had only intended to come to the store for milk. I stand facing the seven rows and nineteen columns of greetings of all varieties. The birthday wishes, the thank-yous, and the graduation kudos all mean nothing to me. What I focus on, what I torture myself with, what I read over and over again until the tears obstruct my view, are the baby congratulation sentiments. The pink and blue hues, the rattles and bunnies, the teddy bears and onesies, all taunt me like they know about my past.

I feel myself leaning on the shopping cart again, using it like the support I’ve never really had. Occasionally, over the years, another shopper will walk by and stare or sometimes ask if I’m okay. I always nod and say, “Rough day,” trying to imply that all the days before this day were fine, and all the days after will be fine too. This is of course, not true, but these innocent bystanders do not come to the grocery store to deal with a total stranger’s problems. A manager once walked me to a bench in the back, refusing to leave me alone to cry in my favorite, dreadful spot. She sat me down, patted my shoulder, and said I could take all the time I needed. She didn’t ask me what was wrong, and I appreciated that. She just let me be.

Today the store feels exceedingly quiet. No one has walked past me, which is strange, even though this aisle is the least popular of all the aisles. I can hear the wind whipping outside. It sounds like the predicted snowstorm has entered the scene, but I can’t see outside from here. I pull the waist tie on my coat tighter as an imaginary chill runs down my back, warning me to prepare for what awaits me. I look down into my cart. I only have half of what I came for, and the chocolate ice cream that I use to soothe and distract myself from this life is already melting; it’s dripping down the sides of the container like the tears on my face. How long have I been standing here?

I’ll just come back tomorrow to get everything else. I need to get home before the storm shuts me in here. I wipe my tears and snot on the sleeve of my coat, and then, regretting that, take a wipe out of my purse and clean the coat sleeve. While I’m looking down, the lights in the store flicker; or, I imagine it?

I turn my cart around and walk briskly toward the front of the store. The lights flicker again--not my imagination, it seems. The storm outside must be getting bad. When I reach the checkout area, I notice a sound is missing. It’s something I never liked but would actually be comforting right now in this strangely silent store. Missing from the checkout lanes is the beeping of products being scanned. Not a single beep is sounding. Am I the only customer in here?

I wheel my cart down the row of lanes to find an open one. It’s hard to tell where the employees are planted with the tall signage and impulse-purchase stands blocking the view of every lane. As I approach the last lane dread starts to fill my stomach. No one is here, not a soul. I don’t even need to look down the last lane to know.

I abandon my cart, including the ice cream that is dripping onto the floor now, and try the exit doors. Locked. I jog forty feet to the other doors, but I know it’s pointless. As I reach the doors, three things happen in quick succession.

1.    I shake the door handles to discover the doors are locked.

2.    The lights flicker for a third time then shut off, blanketing the store in a heavy grey.

3.    A baby cries out.

I’ve lived much of my life afraid, but a fear unlike anything I’ve ever known consumes me. My brain wills this all to be a dream, but my body knows it’s not. I’m not asleep in my bed right now; I am upright, in a dark, locked grocery story, alone. No, not alone. With a child.

Adrenaline shoots a shaky hand into my coat pocket to pull out my phone. My hope to call 9-1-1 gets squashed as I see “No Service” on the screen. I turn on the phone’s flashlight and make my way toward the sound I heard, that beautiful, wretched cry that I have so ached to comfort all of my life. I was destined to be a mother, a caregiver, a comforter. This is the only sure thing I have ever known, yet my body has refused to give me what I need. The pain and losses my body has caused are unexplainable, unrepairable.

The baby cries out again. I shine my light down each aisle, focusing on my breathing, unsure of what might happen to me in this store, but knowing if it’s the last thing I do, I will save this baby.

Aisle six is empty, followed by aisle seven, and I stop in my tracks at aisle eight. There, in the spot I had just been standing, where I always stare at the mocking cards and quietly sob, is a tall wicker basket that wasn’t there before. Fear tries to chain me to the edge of the aisle, but I break free and run toward the basket.

I grip the edge of the basket, take a look over my shoulder, then shine the light inside. The sight is angelic. A tiny, squinty-eyed, brand new face looks up at me. I am completely taken by it. From this moment on, I am forever at this child’s mercy. I wrap my hands around the wiggling blanket, support the baby’s head, and pick it up. In what sounds like a sigh of relief, the baby exhales and lays its head on my chest. This could very well be the best and scariest moment of my life, the most sure and unsure I’ve ever felt at once.

I carefully stuff its legs into my coat and hold its back with my left hand. With my right I shine the light into the basket one more time. Inside is a note. I squat down gingerly to pick it up.

A loud crash sounds from the front of the store, and I cover my mouth with the sleeve of my coat to stifle a scream. The baby is not fazed by the crash. I turn my flashlight off to try to stay hidden. I know there has to be an emergency exit in the back of the store. I stuff my phone and the note into my pocket and tiptoe my way with the baby to the “Employees Only” swinging door. We slip into the dark storage area. The baby and I are a “we” now, an “us.” It’s us against the world.

I spot a red “Emergency Exit” sign. We shuffle over to it, careful not to knock anything over or make a sound. As we reach the door, I push against it, and it opens but only a crack. Something seems to be blocking it, maybe a pile of snow and ice. I hear a deep voice, possibly a security guard, boom from the direction of the swinging doors: “Hey! Who’s there?”

With a might that only a mother protecting her child can muster, I slam the side of my body into the emergency exit door, sounding the alarm this time. It opens just far enough for us to slip out into the cold.

We run in slow motion through a foot of snow, the wind ripping water from eyes, my hands protecting the baby from the elements. My car is all the way around on the other side of the building. It takes what feels like days to get there, and I never look back to see if we’re being followed; I use all my energy to push us forward.

At last, we reach my car and climb inside the back seat, locking the doors and lying down to stay out of sight. I lie on my back, the baby on my chest, and it seems to be sound asleep inside my warm coat. I pull my phone out of my pocket, considering calling 9-1-1. I hesitate because if I call, they will come and take this child from me. I’m grateful when I see I still have no service. I put my phone aside and take the note from my pocket. I unfold it and read it as the baby’s and my chest rise and fall in unison. I gasp when I see my name at the top.

Dear Annelise,

I’ve watched you for years on aisle eight. I know what you’ve been through, I’ve looked into it. It doesn’t matter how I know. Think of me as your giver of life.

This is Eli. He is yours. You have adopted him. The paperwork is already complete and in your mailbox. Start your life together. This is your destiny.

Sincerely,

Giver

My heart has never beat this fast. I read the note over and over until I have every word memorized. Who is this person? Is it the store manager? Is it another shopper, someone who has spoken to me? Or is it a face I have never seen before? All I know is it’s someone who knows where I live, knows my past, and has the power to orchestrate locking me into the grocery store alone with this child. My child.

The tears surface again, not hot and painful this time, but gentle, in awe and wonder. This is the ultimate gift. If all of this is true, how can I repay this person? I wonder if there are others like me, others this Giver has blessed. Why me?

I sit up and peer out the window into a sea of white, the storm that gave me a child. The whipping wind, snow, and ice don’t scare me now. Nothing scares me now because I am a mother, a warrior, and my purpose is to protect this child. I place my lips to the ear of the sleeping baby on my chest. Eli, I don’t know how, but you’re mine. I never thought my storm would clear, but it has. It left destruction in its wake, but beauty rose from the ashes. You are my beauty forever. I already love you. In fact, I always have.