The Sister-in-Law, Pamela Crane [have you read this book txt] 📗

edges. To make up for that, I rarely said no to them. Especially when all they wanted was some Dollar Store candy.

One tended to spoil children after losing a loved one, especially when that loved one was their father. Maybe it was out of guilt, or maybe it was out of empathy, or maybe it was just to stop the whining. Regardless, candy seemed to make things better, if only for a moment. But that single moment was priceless.

The line at the Dollar Store reached halfway down the hair accessory aisle. This gave Elise ample time to ponder the merits of headbands over hair bows while the cashier checked out customers with the speed of a corpse. My hair dripped on my shoulders, still wet from our mad dash across the parking lot in an impromptu downpour. I couldn’t wait to get out of my damp, white oxford shirt that I was certain now showcased my bra.

The cramped store – where everything was $1 or under! – was the only place I could afford to shop for unnecessary extras, like candy or toys. Without a job, or Ben’s income, or my savings account, or the life insurance payout, money was tight. No, not tight – invisible. Suffering didn’t get you much more than sympathy and a prayer these days, neither of which paid the bills. I was still paying a huge mortgage on the house, and I wouldn’t see my first rental check for another month. And I couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept Lane’s numerous offers of financial support. He was already giving me room and board for free; I couldn’t take his money on top of that. I had stretched the cash I had on hand for the past seven weeks since Ben died, but I needed money. Fast.

It was the last place I wanted to work – I preferred the company of plants over most people – but when I saw the Now Hiring sign posted in the Dollar Store window, I had decided to stop in. With half a dozen résumés sent out for more fitting jobs – secretary work, greenhouse manager, craft department supervisor – but no hire yet, I couldn’t afford to be picky. After handing the store manager my application for a job as a cashier – though, based on the current staff, possessing all of my teeth probably made me overqualified – I let the kids wander. Two minutes in, they were both whining for candy. My ‘no’ lasted another minute. By minute five they had each picked their favorites and were bumping into the legs of a cardigan-wearing man in front of us. When he scolded the children with a soft-spoken ‘how would you like it if I took your candy, little girl?’ then peered at Elise with buggy eyes made buggier by inch-thick wire-rimmed glasses, I was convinced he was a child abductor whose fashion sense was inspired by Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

The grandmother behind us wrestled with her grandson’s cowlick, slicking the tussock of hair down with a wad of spit. Her impatience at his endless babble was stamped on her face, a face wrinkled by exhaustion from raising her negligent daughter’s kid. At least that was the story I had made up for her.

Jackson counted the caramels in his bag while Elise fumbled with the packaging on her Sour Patch Kids gummies.

‘I thought you didn’t like the sour ones,’ I commented.

‘I didn’t used to, until Miss Eileen got them for me. I liked the ones she gave me.’

The name didn’t ring a bell. ‘Who is Miss Eileen?’

‘Grandma’s neighbor, duh,’ Elise said, as if I should have known who my mother hung out with.

‘When did you meet Grandma’s neighbor?’

Elise thought for moment. ‘The night Daddy died. Grandma dropped us off at Miss Eileen’s house after you left. And she gave me Sour Patch Kids.’

‘Oh.’

It was more of a concerned ‘oh’ than a satisfied ‘oh’ because I couldn’t imagine why on earth my mother would have dropped my children off at a stranger’s house when she was supposed to be watching them. What could she have possibly been doing that was more important than ensuring her grandchildren’s safety? And more pressing, why didn’t she tell me?

‘Can I have one?’ Elise asked, pointing to the bag of lollipops I held in my hand. A peace offering for Candace. I remembered during each of my first trimesters being constantly queasy, but lollipops seemed to offer a short-lived cure during the worst of it. I figured maybe it could help Candace too.

‘You’ll have to ask Aunt Candace. These are for her.’

It was the first time I had referred to her as Aunt Candace to the kids, and it felt comfortable, like a fuzzy sweater. My sister-in-law – there, I said it! – was still a mystery, but after she had opened up about her past to me, we connected. We had both been broken by someone we loved. Maybe we could heal together.

A feisty woman, with a small frame but a big voice, standing in front of the child abductor began arguing with the cashier over the price of an item, insisting it was two for a dollar. I was cursed to always pick the wrong checkout line. It happened at every store I shopped; I could switch to a faster-moving line, but whichever I chose, the curse would follow. The cash register would malfunction, or the cashier would go on break, or a customer would pay with a check. Who used checks in this day and age? The curse had given me every possible line-stalling scenario. This was new, however, finding the one person in the universe who would argue over a price at a store where everything was a dollar!

Shaking my head, I pulled out my phone. After my chat with Candace, we had left things between us in an awkward space. We hovered in the void between acquaintances and friends. She had been through some real tough experiences, and I wanted