InsaneJournal

Who: Mary + OTA (or narrative I suppose)
What: One of those awkward moments that's bound to happen when you come back from the dead
When: Afternoon of the 29th
Where: Grocery store
Warnings: tba!
Mary had always liked grocery shopping. When she was a little girl her mother would let her ride in the cart and would lift her up so that she could grab cans or boxes off of the highest shelf. Some of her earliest memories were of peering over the tops of shelves, the never-again-replicated sensation of looking down at the top of another adult’s head. With a child’s exaggerated perception of adulthood she’d thought, someday I’ll be this tall, and it had thrilled and terrified her just like all thoughts of being ‘grown up’ some day. When she was a teenager it had been a sign of independence, a small defiance. Deanna Campbell had been finicky about the ingredients she used in her cooking, and hadn’t trusted her daughter not to pick out a bruised apple or unripe banana if sent out on her own. So when a teenaged Mary Campbell did enter the grocery store it was to buy something for herself, gum or, when she was eighteen and the drinking laws hadn’t yet changed, a few beers to put in a cooler she and John were taking to the beach. When she herself had become a wife and a mother it was proof of her normalcy, and exercise in security. Reaching for the cut of meat she knew was John’s favorite for steaks proved she had a husband she loved and knew well. Lifting Dean up out of his place in the cart to reach for a can of green beans on the highest shelf was a moment with her son, the time when she planned how she’d actually get him to eat the vegetables later (“They’re dinosaur snakes” she’d ended up going with, while John hid his laugh behind a napkin, “look how green they are. Dinosaur snakes that big dinosaurs eat for dinner to get strong!”).

Now, like most things in Lawrence, it was new and strange. The grocery store where her mother had taken her, where she’d taken Dean and sometimes Sam, was still open, but everything seemed to be in a slightly different place. She’d been ID-ed once, by a smiling clerk younger than her son, and had raised an eyebrow and asked if she looked eighteen, only to get a puzzled reply that, no, but she did look under forty so policy said…and anyway the drinking age was twenty-one. She’d grown, however, to like it again. She’d even become rather fond of the fact that had changed. Now when she picked up a package of frozen french-fries to bake in the oven she tried to think of what seasonings would make them most like the fries her daughter-in-law loved, or enjoyed the challenge of shopping for a meal that would please both of her sons’ completely diverse tastes. Though if I served them tire-rubber they might just eat it and ask for seconds, she thought wryly as she picked up a block of cheddar cheese and turned it around to check the expiration date. You could never be too careful with the way they stocked their shelves. She’d never taken it on faith that anyone could organize so many groceries and never slip up even a little, even if they were a huge corporation. The cheese was satisfactory, and she dropped it into her basket and turned towards the front of the store, about ready to head home.

A sharp gasp and the sound of breaking glass stopped her. Years of a hunter’s instincts, and recent apocalyptic events, had her reaching for the knife in her pocket, but the face of the woman who was staring at her now stopped her. She was an older woman, about sixty, with more grey than light-brown in her hair and her skin had gone white as paper. ”Catharine?” Mary almost cried out, but bit her lip to hold in the sound. Her next impulse was simply to run, to take off down the aisle, past the checkout, and into the street until she was back at the complex again, back safe in her new life. She restrained that too, however, knowing it would risk exposure, risk the others at the complex. Instead she arranged her features quickly into an expression of concern and puzzlement, using every trick at subterfuge her parents had taught her, and took a step forward.

“Ma’m?” she asked, her tone all solicitous concern, the young woman afraid of the frailties of the old, afraid that this was some kind of collapse. “Are you all right? You look—“ But the woman had collected herself again, one hand over her heart and the other clutching the shelf she stood next to for support. Catharine always had been dramatic, Mary remembered much as she tried not to, much as she tried to slip into the role of a person who had not known Catharine Howard since she had been Catharine Perkins and Mary Campbell’s best friend all through middle school. She’d gone away to school to be a teacher, had come home to Mary’s maid of honor for her wedding, but she hadn’t been there for any of the incident with Azazel. When Mary had died she’d been teaching in Indiana. They’d written each other letters from time to time, exchanged photos of their children. She might have grandchildren now, Mary thought, and bit down on her lip again.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry…I mean…it’s just, you gave me such a fright, you look so much like her…” Mary must have looked inquiring despite herself, or else Catharine just needed the excuse to ramble on because she continued, “An old friend of mine, Mary, we grew up here together you know. Went to middle school together and then we were cheerleaders at the high school and when she was married… I’m sorry, going on like this, it’s just she’s been dead so many years now and seeing someone who looks so much like her just after I’ve moved back here…” For a moment even Mary’s new life, the fries and the mixture of meat and salad ingredients in her basket wasn’t enough and she wanted to reach out to Catharine, wanted to talk to her about that silly math teacher they’d had, wanted to ask her if she remembered coming over to the Campbell house after school, if she remembered Mary’s parents…

“Oh that’s…that’s awful. I’m sorry,” Mary stammered out, hoping her choked voice and shaking hands would be taken for awkwardness. “I’ll…I’ll see about getting someone to clean that up…just…I’ll go get someone,” she managed, motioning to the broken glass on the floor, olives rolling on the linoleum amidst the shards of glass, as she backed away.

Once she was out of sight, however, she didn’t stop to talk to anyone. She dropped her groceries by the door and half walked-half jogged out to her car, the little Volvo John had teased her about, and leaned against the side of it, willing her hands to stop shaking. Shaking hands aren’t a habit I can afford to get into she thought, trying to get herself under control before someone in the parking lot noticed that something was wrong.