The woman had been following us through the department store for almost ten minutes.
I noticed her first in Housewares. Late fifties, maybe. A tan raincoat buttoned all the way to the neck. A plastic shopping basket hooked over one arm with a jar of fancy olives and a box of candles inside. She’d been standing behind us at the display of crystal bowls, close enough that I could smell her perfume.
“Some people,” she said to nobody in particular, “will do anything for special treatment.”
I didn’t think she meant us. Not at first.
Then she followed us to Women’s Accessories. Then to the escalators, which we didn’t take. Then to the elevator, which we did. She took the stairs and was waiting at the top when the doors opened.
And when we finally got in line at the accessible checkout on the second floor, she got in line right behind us.
“Unbelievable,” she said loudly. “Look at this. She just rolls right up to the front.”
My mother didn’t turn around.
“I watched her in Housewares,” the woman went on, to the cashier now, to the people in the next line, to anyone who would listen. “She was reaching for things on the top shelf. Leaning forward. Twisting. People who really can’t walk don’t move like that.”
Mom kept her eyes on the cashier. She had a silk scarf in her lap, pale blue, that she’d decided not to buy after all. She folded it neatly into a square.
That seemed to make the woman angrier.
“You’re not fooling anybody,” she snapped.
When Mom still didn’t answer, the woman stepped forward and kicked the back of her wheelchair. Hard. Hard enough to make the front wheels jump off the floor.
For one terrible second, I thought Mom was going to tip forward out of the chair. 