Chapter 7 - Ten Minutes in the Parking Lot
I didn't see any of it happen. I learned it later, in pieces, the way you learn everything that hurts you most. A sentence from him in the hallway. A sentence from his mother that didn't match. The time stamps on my own phone. I put it together in my head until I could see it, and now I can't stop seeing it.
He told me the drive to the mall was quiet at first. Ten minutes, he kept saying to himself. That was what she'd asked for. Drop us at the mall first, ten minutes. He was gripping the wheel too tight, and his mother was sitting in the passenger seat with her dark handbag in her lap, checking her lipstick in the visor mirror.
"She's been having those pains for days," she said. He told me she said it like she was talking about heartburn. "First babies take forever, Blake. You have plenty of time."
He didn't answer her. He said the light on Route 9 stayed red a long time and he watched a school bus turn in front of him and counted the seconds. His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He told me he saw my name light up. Claire. He didn't pick it up.
By the time they reached the mall lot, it was already past ten minutes. The lot was half empty, that bright mid-morning kind of empty where you can hear carts rolling. She made him park near the north entrance, not just drop her off at the curb. He asked her what she needed so fast that it couldn't wait, and she said she just needed to run in for a gift bag. A birthday thing. She'd left her wallet, so she needed him to come in.
That was the part he paused on when he told me. Like he wanted me to understand how it happened. How he got out of the car.
He said he told her no at first. He said, "Mom, I need to get back." She said it would take five minutes and she didn't like walking that lot alone with her knee. He went in with her. I can picture him so clearly, checking his phone while he walked, his dark jacket half zipped, keys jingling in his hand. Not my kitchen keys. The car keys. He still had the car.
Inside, the mall was cold and loud with music. He stood by the registers at a card store while she compared two bags, a blue one and a gold one, holding them up like it mattered. His phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and saw my text. I know what it said because I wrote it. Contraction just ended. Please hurry. He read it with his thumb over the screen and put the phone back in his pocket without typing anything. He told me he thought, if I answer now she'll panic more. If I just finish this, I'll be back fast.
That was his exact phrase to me in our kitchen. I'll be back fast. He carried it all the way to the mall with him.
Back outside, she wanted to stop at the car for her coupons, then she realized she'd left her list at home, then she wanted coffee. He stood in that parking lot holding a small gold gift bag and a coffee he didn't want, and his mother dug through her handbag for her keys to the house, for gum, for something. An older couple backed out slow in front of them and blocked the lane, and Blake just sat there behind the wheel and waited instead of going around. He told me he didn't want to make a scene.
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It was his mother who finally said they could go. Not because she believed me. Because she saw his face. "Fine," she said. "If you're going to sulk, take me home and then go hold her hand."
He turned the car out of the lot toward home. The clock on the dash said he'd been gone forty-one minutes. The hospital duffel was still on our entryway floor. My phone was with me. And he was already late.
