The Egg is Cracked

Fridays are always hectic at my house, no matter how carefully I plan them. With a full-time job, a husband with a sex addiction, and twin five-year-old boys, no one in their right mind would consider trading places with me for a day—let alone longer. I’ve often dreamed about being on that show where you trade households for a couple of weeks, except my family is awesome. That’s why this weekend is so important.

My boys are celebrating their birthday tomorrow—their Big Five. So much change all at once. They’ll be going to big kid school soon, bringing home report cards, and learning so much. I actually had a good cry about it yesterday, but today, I’m back on task. Their friends from preschool will arrive around three. The movie reservations have been made and paid for. The Neapolitan ice cream is chilling in the freezer, along with a box of lactose-free vanilla for one of the kids. No matter how many kids we invite to various events, there’s always some exception. It’s like doing a load of laundry and not expecting one sock to go missing.

I’d spent the better part of my day playing hooky to buy them just the right birthday gifts. They’d been nagging me for walkie-talkies for the last three months.

Considering how much they love playing investigators, I wasn’t surprised, and it seemed like the perfect gift. The only thing left on my list was picking up the huge sheet cake from the grocer. They always did a fantastic job. One particular cake designer, Sheryl, is a genius. It’s like she has ESP, decorating my cakes as if she’s reading my mind.

When I arrived, an old woman was shuffling up the walkway and reached the door at the same time as me. Being courteous, I slowed my pace to let her go in first. She moved so slowly that the doors bounced several times, trying to close before realizing she was still there.

Once inside, I felt like a player on the starting lineup of a football team—moving back and forth, trying to find a way around her as she swayed like a drunken sailor.

“Excuse me,” I muttered as I finally found an opening and hurried past.

I was about halfway past the checkout lines when I heard a loud yell of anguish behind me. Practically everyone stopped what they were doing and looked in the direction I had come from. Naturally, I paused to see for myself.

The woman I had just passed had one hand on a display case for pantyliners, while her other was outstretched, holding something blue and rectangular. She appeared as if she might collapse at any moment. A teenage boy ran to her aid, placing one hand around her back and the other under her outstretched arm to steady her. They exchanged words, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying and assumed she was confirming she was okay. But I was wrong.

As everyone returned to their tasks, the teen called out my name. “Carolyn Pratt?”

Stunned, I stopped in my tracks and spun to face the boy who knew my name. He didn’t look familiar at all. But the old woman’s eyes were transfixed on me. I couldn’t tell if she could really see me or struggled with glaucoma.

“Yes?” I was dubious as I cautiously approached, keeping an eye on the two of them.

“Your mother said you dropped your wallet,” the young man told me, his cheerful boy scout demeanor radiating good deed vibes. In the woman’s bony hand was the blue wallet that matched my purse. How on earth did she end up with my wallet? I wondered, trying to recall if I had taken it out of my purse for any reason between the entrance and where I now stood. Still, I found myself stopping directly in front of them.

“She’s not—,” I managed to choke out before the crazy woman cut me off.

“Thank you so much, dearie,” she said to the boy. “I’m so old, my vocal cords aren’t nearly what they used to be back in the day.” A charming little grin crossed her mouth as she continued holding out my wallet, although her eyes never left his face. “Thank you for being my voice.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” He gave an unusual bow, probably an attempt to match the woman’s old-fashioned manners, before nodding to me. “Your mom is sweet. I’m happy to help.”

“But—,” I tried again to correct the situation, but was interrupted once more.

“Come on, Carolyn. Let’s let this boy go help his mother. He’s already done so much for us today.”

“It was nothing,” the boy said, giving her a hug. “You keep track of your kids now,” he added with a playful wink, as if to say he was just kidding, before saluting me and jogging down the cereal aisle.

As the boy left, I turned toward the woman, whose arm, like the branch of a withered old tree, remained jutting out at the same angle it had been all along. My hand reached out to take the wallet, but it wasn’t that simple. The strength of her grip caught me completely off guard.

Smiling as demurely as I could manage, I gave the wallet another tug. “I truly appreciate you finding this for me. Thank you.”

For the briefest moment, the expression she shot me cut me down a few notches, as if she really were my mother. Her grip tightened for a second before her skinny fingers let go, throwing me off balance. I stumbled but caught myself, just as my cell phone, buried deep in my purse, started ringing with a little preschool song.

Digging my phone out while simultaneously replacing my wallet inside, I answered the call. It was Debbie, our teenage babysitter. “Hello?” she said, “I don’t mean to be a pain or anything, but I have a date tonight. Do you know how much longer you’ll be?”

“Yeah, I just need to grab the boys’ cake and I’ll be right there, probably—,” I pulled my phone away to check the time. I blinked and looked again. Somehow, an hour had passed since I pulled into the lot. “Oh my god!”

There was a brief pause before Debbie asked, “Mrs. Pratt, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said, fighting to clear my undeniably confused head. “I got held up a bit. Sorry about that. I’m on my way now.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Pratt. I’ll let the boys know.” As if they even cared. Still, as I put my phone away, double-checked my wallet, and made sure I zipped it closed, I slung my purse beneath my arm and continued toward the cake counter. Before I could feel confident that everything was back on track, I made sure I was alone—just like when I’d arrived.

The cakes all looked perfect, lined up in a row with colorful buttercream or Cool Whip toppings, in all shapes and sizes. From cupcakes to dessert bars, wedding cakes to birthday characters, they all had the perfect visual balance. Every one of them promised some sort of celebratory good time. And there was Sheryl, with her back to me, working on another great design. I didn’t want to disturb her while she worked, but I was sure she was used to it. Before I had a chance to call her, a familiar voice did.

“Excuse me, dearie,” the old woman crooned, lifting her tiny arm over the display case and casually waving it in Sheryl’s direction.

In an instant, Sheryl whipped around, spotted me, and smiled brightly as she walked toward me.

“Over here, sweetie,” the woman called again. That’s when I noticed a cart brimming with groceries beside the petite old nuisance. “I ordered six eclairs for the grandkids the other day. Are they ready yet?” she asked. “I sure hope so. Devon could use a pick-me-up,” she added, turning her attention to me. “You know how much a little treat like this can mean to someone used to providing for their family when they get hurt at work. It’s a real shame.”

Sheryl’s attention, originally focused on me, quickly shifted to the under-my-skin grandma. I reassured myself that I only needed the cake, and then I’d be gone.

“Thank goodness!” I sighed, not realizing I’d said it aloud until the old woman’s face pinched tightly into a frown.

“I beg your pardon!” she huffed, loud enough for several passersby to take notice.

My mind raced to figure out why she was so irate. “Oh, I didn’t mean—What I meant to say was—I didn’t even mean to say it aloud, I was talking to myself. I’m sorry,” I apologized sincerely. “I’d never wish ill on anyone.”

Taking the eclairs from Sheryl, she placed them next to her bag on the small seat in her cart—it was the only space left. And then, she waited.

Trying my best to mask my discomfort, I ignored her burrowing eyes as they drilled into the side of my smiling face. I could feel the burn of her gaze scanning every inch of my profile. “Is my order ready, Sheryl?” I asked, doing my best to remain patient, or at least sound that way.

With a little dance step and her face aglow, Sheryl glided to the refrigerator and returned with a birthday spy cake. Two figurines were present—one behind a bush and the other at the edge of a building—each with a walkie-talkie pressed to their ear. “Happy 5th Birthday, Kayson and Kingsley,” the cake read, and Sheryl proudly held it up for me to see. “What do you think?” she sang.

Before I even had a chance to respond, the elderly woman took an assertive step towards the counter. “Let me see!”

The question hadn’t even registered before Sheryl held it up for the woman to see.

“Splendid!” the woman cried with glee. “Kayson and Kingsley are going to love it, aren’t they?”

Unsure of how to react, I decided that short and sweet was the best approach. I only had a few minutes left before I’d be gone and never see this peculiar woman again.

“Yes.” I took the cake and bid Sheryl a good day, just as a withered, skeletal hand secured itself to my forearm.

Sheryl, in my peripheral vision, was watching as the woman drew near. “My cart is so heavy, could you be a dear and—“

“I’m sorry,” I cut her off, doing my best to sound sincere, “but I’ve got someplace I need to be.”

The wrinkled old face softened. “That’s okay,” she said, turning to Sheryl. “Could you help me, dear?”

Sheryl’s face winced. She glanced at two cakes behind her on the counter that were plain white with tubes of frosting poised beside them. She was practically begging when she asked, “Could you, please?” 

With a sigh of defeat, I convinced myself it was no big deal. I could drop her off at one line and then rush to the express lane, leaving this awful day behind me. “Of course,” I reassured her. Then it hit me: if I had to push her cart, she’d have to carry the boys’ birthday cake. The old woman, with no more strength than a brittle autumn twig, would hold the fate of my boys’ birthday party in her hands.

The checkout wasn’t that far away, I realized. If I didn’t rush her, we’d both get what we wanted. Still, with the cart’s weight, I couldn’t help but wonder how it got this full in the first place. “Can you please hold my cake?” I asked.

“Of course, dearie,” she said, stretching out her puny and wrinkled arms. But then, I had an idea!

“Wait, what if I have you carry the eclairs and we put the cake on the handle for me to carry?” I suggested.

“That’s silly, dear,” the woman protested, “You’d need to balance and push this heavy cart at the same time. This cake looks far too important to take a risk like that, isn’t it?” She sighs. “We could be checking out right now.”

“Good point,” I agreed half-heartedly, placing my hands on the cart’s handle and giving it a push. “This thing weighs a ton. How did you manage to get it to the cake counter?”

Holding the birthday cake in both hands, she shuffled along behind me. “I left the cart there and put my items in little by little. It must’ve taken at least an hour, but it’s all stuff I really needed. I don’t get out much.”

At a glance, I noticed her gait wasn’t too shabby. We’re good. We’re gonna make it.

As we approached the first line for shoppers with more than fifteen items, I pushed the cart into place behind three others. “They can have someone help you out to your car with your things,” I told her, “so you’re cleared for take-off!” I snatched my cake from her hands and headed toward the self-checkout, where quick exits were the norm. I was about to set a record! My legs moved on autopilot, each one trying to outpace the other as they took turns in the lead.

Of the numbered squares above the counters, only two were lit. Lucky for me, no one else with a small purchase was in sight. Focused, I was determined to get out of here faster than the old woman could make it to checkout. That shouldn’t be hard at all.

As I neared the self-checkout, both cubes flickered and blinked off. Before I could stop myself, “What?” slipped out. A pimple-faced woman, about twenty, emerged from behind the candy bars. She looked bewildered, though not as much as I was by the interesting colors in her hair.

“Sorry, my supervisor says that when there are fewer than five people in line, we should close the self-checkout.”

“But it’s Friday!” I protested. “Why aren’t you busy on a Friday?”

With a shrug of one shoulder, she gave her blue-green-gray hair a flip with one hand and continued her nonchalant duck-walk, never looking back.

I realized I shouldn’t have hesitated—there wasn’t time. Poor Debbie must be going out of her mind by now, and I was about to join her. Taking a deep breath, my shoulders rising and falling, I turned back. The line had moved up one person, and a group of three teenage boys with armfuls of snacks was heading toward the checkout from the other direction. Still, with careful precision, I could still beat them. I picked up the pace, barely edging out the teens as I smoothly glided into line, drawing odd looks from six red-eyed stoners.

“Wow!” one of them exclaimed. “Like, where did she come from?” Then his eyes fell on the cake. “And who’s Kayson and Kingsley? They got a seriously cool cake.”

“Those are her little five-year-old boys,” the old woman responded from in front of me with an all-knowing smile.

“Cool,” one of the other boys chimed in. “You must be their grandma then. Otherwise, how would you know that?”

One of the other kids called out, “Congrats!”

Too exhausted to correct them and lacking the energy to care, I patiently and quietly waited.

The line moved up one more person—it would be old cuckoo-bird grandma next, then me. By the time I left the store, I’d probably need to change the five on the cake to a six. As if on cue, my phone rang the cute little tune I decided I was going to change when I got home.

“Hello?” I answered, while the boys behind me were involved in their own conversation, and the old woman moved up to the counter. One of the boys shot me a dirty look as he squeezed past to help her unload her cart onto the conveyor belt.

“Mrs. Pratt, hey, I know you’re in a tough spot and all, but Mr. Pratt isn’t home yet, and my date’s going to be at my house in less than an hour. I still need to shower!”

As the old woman began unloading her cart at the checkout, I noticed a carton of eggs with a few broken inside, the mess barely contained by the plastic wrap. Just great. All while I was trying to focus on Debbie’s voice in my ear, asking for updates about her date and how much longer I’d be.

“Okay, okay,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice down. “I’ll pay you double when I get home. Then you can have a great date later.”

“Mrs. Pratt, it’s a concert. As much as I’d like them to, they won’t reschedule for tomorrow. I’ve gotta go!”

And before I could utter another word, the line went dead and the cake was being scanned.

“Did you find everything alright?” the clerk asked, her fake lashes fluttering and her pterodactyl-like fingernails clawing at the plastic base of the cake package. Her makeup looked like it belonged on an ancient Egyptian.

“Yes,” I replied, a tiny bit of testiness to my tone. “It’s a cake. I knew right where to find it, yet it took me over an hour to get to the checkout line.”

The cashier slid the cake across the scanner, and a little beep registered. “Yes, your mother said you were having a rough day and that I should be extra nice.” She gave me a wink, which made my face crinkle in distaste. “Anyway, your total is $857.22.”

“Excuse me? I don’t believe I heard that correctly.”

“$857.22, please.” The cashier kept her painted-on smile. The line had grown considerably now that people were off work, and the three teens behind me were clearly having munchie fits as they eyed and fingered all the candy on the shelves.

“For one cake?”

“Yes,” the cashier said, “as well as the groceries your mother is taking out to the car.”