INFECtIOUS Read Online Free Page B

a service. We'll bring back as many clothes as we
can for the clothing bank at the U.R. And our bravery means getting to pick out
some nice things just for ourselves.

 
    Aunty opens the
trunk hatch and hands me a bundle of empty bags, some recycled plastic shopping
bags and some fabric duffle bags. I situate a few on each arm and with a
"here goes nothing" glance at each other, we walk cautiously towards
The Gap. Aunty parked the SUV a few rows away from the store, just a short walk
or run depending on what we encounter.

 
    The parking lot
is surrounded on all sides by stores. The mall is a big rectangle with the
parking lot on the inside of the box. Three sides of the mall are connected to
each other, a long C shaped row of potential goodies. The fourth partition of
stores is shorter and parallel to the middle of the C with access to the
highway on either side—the only way in or out of the parking lot. If we stay on
the C shaped side, we are able to see if anyone enters the secluded lot.

 
    My memories of
when the world was right are few and far between, but one thing I do remember
is this outlet mall in all its glory. My mom brought me here to do my school
clothes shopping a few days before I started the first grade. We bounced from
store to store and she bought me almost everything that made me smile. I
remember eating lunch, just the two of us, and sharing a milk shake. It hurts to recall her face and her smile and our happy life. That ache in my heart, that comes so rarely these days,
flares up in full strength. I still miss her so much. My time-traveling
nostalgia adds to the haunted loneliness of the mall.

 
    Aunty, always
watching, always able to decipher my private feelings, notices my sudden
decline into depression.

 
    "I'm sorry,
Ivy. I just thought we could still have a nice time together. I had hoped once
you got here you'd enjoy being out. I suppose I shouldn't have forced you to
come."

 
    "No, I'm
happy I'm here."

 
    Aunty raises her
eyebrows in obvious disbelief, her mouth sagging with disappointment.

 
    "I just was
remembering my mom," I say with an apologetic tone.

 
    I feel bad for
missing my mom. Aunty tries so hard to fulfill that role. I try not to let on
when I'm lonely for my parents. I'm afraid it somehow insinuates that I'm
unhappy with her, that she's inadequate. When, in reality, she's an amazing
aunt, friend and fill-in mother. She
just isn't my real mother and that isn't her fault. I don't want to ruin our
day before it's even started; so I make my face smile and work hard to push
away the sad thoughts. I want to be happy here with her. Today. Right now. I reach for her thin hand and, clasping it
tightly, we walk cautiously into the store.

 
    Today's weather
is perfect for shopping. There isn't a cloud to be seen in the cold, blue sky
and the sun is reigning overhead, offering its bright butter-yellow beams for
the needy world below. Those golden rays are our only source of light once
inside the store. We have small flashlights with us, but batteries are scarce
and for emergencies only. The door to The Gap hangs open on broken hinges behind
us. Of the store's two front windows, one is shattered with not a piece of
glass left in place. A good amount of light is pouring in—enough to see the
color of a shirt and check the size on the tag.

 
    The merchandise
closest to the front of the store has been ruined by time and the elements. The
floor is littered with garbage and the decaying remains of fashion. Dead leaves
roll gently around the clothing racks, inspired by the winter breeze. The
store's thin industrial carpeting has rotted. The cement floor beneath shows in
patches as though the disease that ate away at humanity has run out of victims
and has come here to ingest this place as well.

 
    Winding my way
through overturned racks and unrecognizable piles of decomposing clothing I
wonder if we'll find anything worth bagging here. Towards the back of the