Every weekend for the past six years, Lana visited the supermarket on her way home from church. First, she’d stop at the eggs, and place a half-dozen in her cart. Next, she’d stroll over to the fruit section; the melons would receive a firm tap with her knuckles – they couldn’t sound too hollow or else it’d simply be a waste of money. Beside the eggs, she’d place half a loaf of bread, a small wedge of brie, and 100 grams of sliced ham, and as she traced her way through the store, her cart would slowly fill with the necessities of the week. At the check-out, she’d smile politely at her cashier as she left, pulling her squeaky cart behind her.
* * *
Lana awoke one Sunday with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in her chest. She wasn’t hungrier than usual, and she didn’t have a fever. Maybe it’s heartburn, she thought, but then scoffed at the idea – she would never be silly enough to eat something that would cause heartburn.
Arriving at church, her discomfort grew, itching its way between her ribs. She entered the foyer, smiling and nodding at the familiar faces clustered together, laughing and chit-chatting away. As she shuffled to her favourite seat, she realized there was a young woman already sitting in it. Should I ask her to move? But the thought of asking made the itching in her chest more desperate. Not today, she thought.
But before Lana could step around the woman, Mary leaned over the pew behind her and whispered to the woman, “You’d better move, dear. Old Lana hates anyone else sitting in her spot.”
Flustered, she blushed and hastily slid over, far enough away that she couldn’t hear when Mary leaned over to Lana.
“Just doing you a favour, dear.” Her voice sounded smug.
I’m sorry, Lana tried to say, but the woman kept her head down and wouldn’t look at Lana, not even during the sign of peace, when everyone was meant to shake hands and offer peace to one another. When Lana shook Mary’s dry, leathery hand, the itching in her chest turned into a knot, pulling her ribs together. She snatched her hand back, gasping as the knot squeezed all the air from her lungs.
Lana walked back from receiving communion, eyeing the congregation, suddenly very aware that everyone seemed to be with someone else: husbands were with wives, children with parents, old ladies nestled together like hens in a coop. Even Nasty Mary was with Lucy, who had rushed in late, as usual.
The knot squeezed again as Lana left the church, alone. It felt like the knot had grown, now taking hold of her heart and throat.
* * *
After Lana finished putting away her groceries, she settled in her armchair, unsure of what to do with herself. The knot had loosened slightly and she was relieved.
Suddenly, a thought struck her. I haven’t felt this way since Harry died. As soon as she formed the words in her head, she felt a pang strike her heartstrings. I can’t really be this alone. I can’t. She wracked her brain, trying to recall the last time she’d had a real conversation with someone, panicking when she realized she couldn’t remember. She used to be so close with Alice, at least until Harry died. It can’t be that long since I’ve chatted with Alice. I’ll give her a ring.
Lana pulled out her old phone book but dialed the number from memory.
Rrrrrrriiiing
What if she doesn’t answer?
Rrrrrrriiiing
I should just hang up before she does.
Rrrrrrriiiing
But I need her. I hope-
“Hello?”
“Alice! It’s Lana!”
This is so exciting, isn’t it!
“Yes. What is it?”
“Lana! Your old pal?”
Oh dear, what if she’s forgotten me?
“Yes Lana. What is it you want?”
“I just wanted to chat –”
“Six years, Lana. It’s been six years since I gave up on reaching out to you. Six years without a single word from you, and now you want to chat? No, Lana, I will not chat.”
Click.
The silence was broken by the dial tone from the phone hanging in Lana’s limp hand. She let her head fall back against the chair and shut her eyes. The knot squeezed tighter.
