Note: It totally slipped my mind to post last week. Not that I think anyone cares, which, oh well.
That said I really hope you enjoy this chapter - it's an idea I've written out in a lot of different forms but I like this one the best. If you're confused as to what's going on, take a second to remind yourself what happened in 1x08 "Night of the Hawk" - you shouldn't need anything more than that.
Sara takes a vindictive pleasure in switching the order of the towels as she restocks them. They're supposed to go gray, green, blue, white, beige, but she puts the beiges next to the greens and makes sure that there are several blues hidden behind the whites. Carl would freak out if he knew – in fact, he will freak out when he notices – and Sara will smile dumbly and watch his blood pressure rise. It's a rebellion in a petulant sort of way that reminds her of her teenage years, when all the reason she needed to do anything was that someone had told her she shouldn't. Everything Laurel had been smart enough not to do, Sara delighted in being smart enough to do anyway and get away with.
Some days, this comparison to teenage-Sara feels like a positive, like a fading of the scars from the mess since then. As she places the last towel in with the label facing away from the aisle, she imagines Carl's frustration and is glad this is one of the positive comparison days, because the other kind, the days where any thoughts of the life she used to have just remind her how much she's lost, are terrible.
An elderly woman comes around the corner. "Oh, hi," she says, taking in the nametag. "Can you show me where the showerheads are?"
She has a pleasant enough retirement-vibe that Sara's smile, while forced, is not fake. "No problem," she says. The lady goes to collect her cart, and with it a fragile, squinting woman who makes her look robust by comparison – presumably her mother. The shower section is not far away, but as Sara leads them through the store, the two women inch along like snails, making the distance seem to stretch before her eyes. She takes short steps, so that her pace doesn't look insultingly slow, and remembers to smile whenever she makes eye contact with the only one of her customers who can still see.
"I think we could've found the showerheads on our own," the elder one grouches. Her voice is creaky and thin, and something about it gives Sara an aggravating tickle of deja vu. She throws her mind at the problem, can't put her finger on why, and with nothing better to do buckles down to eavesdrop well enough to remember who this old lady reminds her of.
"We probably could have, but it's fine that we didn't," the younger one soothes. She glances over at Sara – at her nametag – and adds, "Sara here seems happy to help us."
The mother turns her pale eyes on her and smiles. "I love your name," she creaks.
Sara smiles back, a little confused. "Thank you."
"Oh, don't mind her," the daughter interrupts. She places a fond hand on her mother's shoulder and explains, "There's a story she loves to tell, and it has someone named Sara in it. She's just excited because this looks like a chance for her to tell it again."
"Not a story, Judy," the woman gripes. Then she turns to Sara with eagerness. "See, when I was young, working in an asylum in my hometown, I met an angel." She pauses for dramatic effect, in the background her daughter looks patiently despairing, and Sara narrows her eyes with a thought. "There were these bird creatures there, don't ask me what, but the angel was beautiful and powerful and saved my life from them."
Sara nods slowly. "That's cool."
"I'm not quite done," the woman insists. "You see, at first, she pretended to be one of the other nurses, so I got a chance to meet her. That was the second way she saved my life, by helping me realize some things about myself. Point being, her name was Sara, like you."
Judy sends an apologetic smile to Sara. "There's no stopping her."
Sara smiles back, but the memory of the hoarse voice of the old woman is starting to come together. "Well, I'm flattered, I like my name too," she says. "And what's your name?"
The tight smile of the younger woman smooths out in gratitude. "Lindsey," the old woman answers, as they finally reach the shower section.
"Thanks for showing us the way," her daughter says, and after making the employee-appropriate farewells, Sara retreats a couple aisles away to watch the two meander down the row of showerheads. It takes her a moment or two to do the math – twenty in the fifties means ninety now, so that matches up.
The insanity of the whole thing tugs at her for a moment, but she brushes it off. At the least, it's nice to know Lindsey Carlisle remembers her fondly, and got a happy life after all.
At the end of the aisle, her manager appears. "You better have finished with those towels, Freckles," he scowls. "If you're over here slacking off…"
"I," she interrupts jauntily, "Was helping customers." He narrows his eyes at her suspiciously, and she smirks back. "You can ask them if you want. Judy and Lindsey, in the shower section. I was really nice to them, so they'll definitely remember me."