“She was here?” she asks, though she knows; the memory is clearer now.
“Yes.”
It doesn’t add up. “And she sent the message? The one about Aimee and Warren Geary?”
Her eyes are still closed, but she senses his nod.
She opens her eyes now and looks at Felipe’s face. Misery etched all over it.
“I did some googling while you were asleep,” he says. “And there’s something you should know.”
27
Susan
Sunday
A wheel wobbles on the trolley and I consider returning to the front of the supermarket to switch it for another, but I don’t. It was tricky enough finding one with a seat for babies as young as Bella, and she’s snoozing now. Also, this is quite possibly the biggest Dunnes supermarket in Ireland and the walk back to the front might just end me. I throw two bags of pasta into the trolley, then grab a jar of pesto, reaching past a diminutive elderly lady who looks confused. On seeing Bella, she smiles, then goes back to staring at the shelves, immobilized, perhaps, by the mind-numbing boredom of grocery decision-making.Hard relate, I think as I push the trolley further along the same aisle toward the condiments section. Jon usually does the groceries because I’m terrible at it and he is a grocery ninja. But while I’m on maternity leave, it makes sense for me to take over. I’m still terrible at it—zig-zagging inefficiently up and down the same aisles, taking twice as long as Jon does. And now I realize I forgot to grab tinned tomatoes along with the pasta. Leaving the trolley beside the ketchup, I walk back down the aisle and grab two cans, the onesat eye level that probably cost twice as much as the own-brand ones, but I’m running out of steam and don’t have the energy to shop around. The elderly lady catches me yawning and smiles. “It’s hard when they’re small,” she says, and I smile back. God, if only it was just Bella keeping me awake, and not the constant ping-pong of worries. That, and the noises from outside I’d never normally notice—front doors and car doors, engines starting and stopping. Even at half three this morning, I could hear the hum of an engine outside. I got up to look, but by the time I made it to the nursery window all I could see was tail lights in the distance. Jon reckons it was a taxi, but still, I sent another email to the gardaí.
My phone beeps now with a message from Leesa, checking in on me, asking me if I want to call in, and I send a quick voicenote to tell her I will but that I’ll drop Bella home to Jon first. Then I turn back toward the condiment section. I see ketchup and mayonnaise and rows and rows of dressing. But the aisle itself is empty. Even the elderly lady has gone. I stare at the space where my trolley was only moments ago.Bella. Bella’s gone. My heart stops. Panic floods my body, making me light-headed. My back was turned for no more than ten seconds. Am I misremembering where I left her? I’m not; I know I’m not. I run to the top of the aisle and look left and right, but there’s no sign. In front of me is a row of freezers, perpendicular to the aisles. She’s not here. I turn back down the next aisle, parallel to the one we were on, but she’s not here either. Where is she? I go back to where I was, back at the condiments, and there are people here, and trolleys, but none of them are mine. I run down the aisle, through to the next one, but she’s not here either. She’s not anywhere. I’m struggling to catch my breath, from running or panic or both. Ahead is a quiet section for stationery and cards and I can see right through to the line for the tills. No Bella. I’m going to throw up. What do I do? Indecision and panic freeze me momentarily, then common sense takes hold again and I run to a uniformed teenager who’s stacking shelves.
“My trolley with my baby, she’s”—I’m breathless, struggling to get coherent words out—“it’s gone missing. Can you do an announcement?”
He looks confused.
Deep breaths. “My daughter is in the trolley, and it’s not where I left it. Please.” I grab his arm now. “Make an announcement. Get help.”
He nods, still unsure. “I’ll ask for them to announce it. Um, what age is the baby? What does she look like?”
“She’s tiny, only four months old. In a yellow onesie. I’ll keep looking.”
Checking back over my shoulder once, to make sure he’s really on his way to get help, I move one aisle over, into a chilled-goods section lined on both sides with fridges. Busy with shoppers and trolleys, but no Bella. Pushing past a man with three small kids, I ignore the “Careful!” he calls after me and dodge my way back up to the next chilled aisle, my head whipping around, and oh my god, oh my god, there she is. There’s the trolley. There’s Bella. In three strides, I’m with her, undoing the buckle and lifting her into my arms. She’s still asleep. She’s still asleep and she’s not gone and she’s not hurt and she’s here. For a moment, I stand there, rocking her, trying to calm my breathing.
“Are you OK?” It’s the man I passed in the other aisle.
“Yes. Sorry.” A gulpy breath. I’m close to tears. “Someone took my baby, but it’s OK.”
A puzzled look. “Someone took your baby?”
“Well, my trolley, I mean.”
“Oh yeah.” He grins. “I’ve done that before. Walked off with someone’s full trolley and only realized when I spotted dog food in it. We don’t have a dog,” he adds, to clarify.
I want to say more, I want to say nobody takes a trolley with a baby in it, but my words won’t come, and he’s walking off. Maybe someone moved her because she was in the way? But surely not to another aisle?
An announcement comes out over the intercom now, asking customersto look out for a four-month-old baby, and it sounds so ridiculous I want to laugh, but I also want to sit on the floor and cry.
There’s no way I can focus on groceries now, and no way I can stay here in this supermarket. With Bella on my shoulder, I push the trolley one-handed to the till to let staff know I found her and to pay for what I have. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m conscious of a figure walking toward the supermarket exit. Someone vaguely familiar. When I look up, the person is gone, and I can’t place who it was. But a sense of foreboding seeps into my bones.
28
Susan
Sunday
Leesa’s in her front garden with a watering can when I arrive at four on Sunday afternoon, holding back the skirt of her pink sundress so it doesn’t get wet as she pours. The weeks of sunshine that have lightened her hair and bronzed her skin have also parched her flowerbeds. She turns when she hears me, pushing her sunglasses to the crown of her head. Her greeting is slightly flustered, accompanied by a sheepish expression.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
