Chapter 4 - COSTUME NUMBER SEVENTY-NINE
The shopping trip continued because Ava wanted bananas, cereal, strawberries, and chocolate milk.
Denise instructed employees not to block the aisles.
The store returned to ordinary motion with one difference.
Crowns moved everywhere.
A cashier scanned groceries while wearing pink plastic jewels.
A security officer directed carts beneath gold cardboard points.
A man comparing coffee brands wore a tiara over his hood.
Ava laughed every time she discovered another one.
For fifteen minutes, she forgot the wheelchair waiting in Troy’s truck.
Forgot the medicine scheduled for noon.
Forgot that her right hand could no longer hold a banana without help.
Troy remembered all of it.
He placed groceries into the cart while monitoring her breathing.
He watched her eyes for fatigue.
When her smile weakened, he lowered himself.
“Ready to go?”
“Cake aisle.”
“We did not come for cake.”
“Princess law.”
“That law sounds recently invented.”
“Cake aisle.”
They went.
Near the baking section, Ava pointed toward a box decorated with stars.
“For eighty.”
Troy stopped.
Costume Eighty had not existed in their agreement.
Seventy-nine first, she had said.
Then forever.
He placed the cake mix inside the cart.
“What costume for eighty?”
Ava leaned back and thought.
“Doctor.”
“You want me to dress like a doctor?”
“With sparkles.”
“That violates several medical licensing regulations.”
She giggled.
“Sparkle doctor.”
“Under protest.”
Walter turned away so Ava would not see him crying.
At checkout, Denise opened a register personally.
“No charge for the crowns,” she told employees.
Troy shook his head.
“I’ll pay for merchandise.”
“They were damaged party stock.”
“Then I’ll donate the value.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That sentence mattered.
Troy did not want their compassion converted into charity he had not requested.
Denise respected it.
She placed a store gift card beside the receipt.
“This came from employees who contributed privately. It is for groceries during hospital days. You can refuse it.”
Troy looked toward Ava.
She had fallen asleep in the cart beneath the glittering wings.
“I can work.”
“I know.”
“My club helps.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because people want to stand beside you without taking over.”
Troy turned the card in one hand.
That was different from pity.
He accepted it.
Outside, nearly forty motorcycles waited at the far edge of the parking lot.
Troy’s club had seen the post too.
They wore crowns over bandannas and helmets.
No engines revved.
No one wanted to frighten Ava.
June stood beside Troy’s truck holding a garment bag.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Costume Eighty.”
“She just invented it ten minutes ago.”
“Ava called me from your phone in the cake aisle.”
Troy looked at the sleeping child.
“She can barely hold the phone.”
“She told the cashier to press my name.”
June opened the bag.
Inside was an oversized white lab coat covered in silver stars.
A glitter stethoscope hung from the collar.
Troy laughed and cried at the same time.
“She works fast.”
“She is your daughter.”
They carried Ava to the truck.
Before Troy closed the door, Walter approached.
“May I give her something?”
Troy looked at the small paper bag in his hand.
“What is it?”
“A crown for tomorrow.”
Troy’s expression changed.
Walter quickly added:
“No obligation. My wife died of cancer twelve years ago. People kept telling us to be strong. She hated that.”
“What did she want?”
“For people to sit down and stop making speeches.”
Troy nodded.
Walter handed him the bag.
Inside was a simple cloth crown, soft enough to wear in a hospital bed.
“My granddaughter made it.”
Troy gripped Walter’s shoulder.
“Thank you.”
Walter looked toward Ava.
“You gave this town something.”
“No.”
Troy shook his head.
“She did.”
That afternoon, Costume Seventy-Nine hung inside the spare bedroom beside the others.
The pink boots remained muddy from the parking lot.
Troy did not clean them.
He placed the store receipt inside the left boot.
Then he hung the glitter wings carefully and closed the door.
May you like
For the first time, seventy-nine costumes no longer looked like proof of how many days they had completed.
They looked like a countdown.
