May We Be Forgiven

say.
    “Oh, sure there is,” Brad says. “So what do you say?”
    “They’re yours,” I say, giving him the kittens, the cardboard box, and what I’ve got left of my samples.
    “I’ll spoil them silly,” Brad says.
    Doing my due diligence, I collect his full name, address, and phone and tell him that I’ll check in next week and I expect to see a photo.
    “I really appreciate it,” Brad says. “And if there’s something I can do for you, let me know.”
    “Thanks,” I say, painfully pinching my finger as I fold the card table down, but otherwise happy to close on an up note.

    A cop car crawls through the parking lot. In the distance, I spot a school crossing guard working the intersection. She uses her body, her orange vest, her meter-reader hat like the elements of a human shield, spreading her arms wide as she blocks the crosswalk; the children spill forth, truly oblivious.
    I keep thinking about the missing girl. I’m not sure why, but I feel guilty, like I’m somehow a participant. It’s not a sensation I’ve had before—but this one crawls under my skin. Because of the woman I met at the A& P, because of Ashley, because of Jane, because I am now more awake than ever before, because I can’t stop thinking …
    There is a world out there, so new, so random and disassociated that it puts us all in danger. We talk online, we “friend” each other when we don’t know who we are really talking to—we fuck strangers. We mistake almost anything for a relationship, a community of sorts, and yet, when we are with our families, in our communities, we are clueless, we short-circuit and immediately dive back into the digitized version—it is easier, because we can be both our truer selves and our fantasy selves all at once, with each carrying equal weight.
    I stop at Starbucks. I take a good look at the poster taped to the phone pole outside. Is it the woman from the A& P? I don’t think it’s her, but I don’t really know. I try to remember what the girl I met looks like. I remember the dirty-blond hair—which the missing girl also has. I remember her breasts, larger than I expected, pale with beautiful blue veins, like an ancient river under the surface of the skin. I remember that her face was plain, blank—her eyes blue-gray.
    And I wonder—how does a person take another person? A news truck is setting up on the corner, cranking its satellite up high.
    Inside Starbucks, the girls behind the counter are in tears; apparently, the missing girl worked there last summer part-time; they all know her. I leave without coffee—it’s too upsetting.
    Pulling into the driveway, I’m really depressed. I carry the empty carrier to the house, the metal door of the cat box swinging open and closed repeatedly, slamming my finger. I’ve done a terrible thing; I’ve taken something that’s not mine, the mama cat’s children, and given them away. I enter empty-handed. The cat approaches, sniffs me, checks the carrier, and seems to have gotten the news. She goes under the sofa. Tessie doesn’t bother getting up until I put her dinner down.
    The 6 p.m. news begins with “Breaking Local News”—the story of the missing girl. Heather Ryan is twenty years old and was home visiting her parents for the weekend. “Ryan reportedly went for a run last night and never returned. According to police, her family is especially concerned as she had been having some personal problems and was on a new medication following a basketball injury to the head. We hear a lot about the guys and football or soccer injuries, but as girls’ sports have become more competitive, we’re seeing some of the same injuries. Last fall, while playing a regular-season game at Leduc College, she was struck …”
    The reporter prattles on as they replay footage of the ball bouncing off the side of Heather’s head, her head slamming to the left as another girl mows her down, knocking her to the gym floor. “It’s repeated incidents of brain shears that worry us,” says the doctor they’ve brought in to comment, “the banging of the brain against the inside of the head.” The reporter closes by saying, “If anyone has seen Heather or has any information, please call the special hotline.”
    Great. So the missing girl has problems. What kind of problems? Problems like she can’t say who she is? Like she’s living in some kind of fugue state? Who is or was the woman from the A&P? There was something odd about her, about that