| Chapter One |
Diana's knees ached as she bent over the wooden crate, balanced precariously on the balls of her feet with both hands wrapped around the steel handle of a kitchen knife. The lid of the crate was being particularly stubborn, and even with the knife's tip wedged deep under its side, it refused to pop open.
She leaned forward in frustration, a tiny droplet of sweat trickling down her left temple. The blade of the knife began to bend beneath her weight, but the crate's lid remained sealed to the box. Twenty pickle jars clinked together inside the crate as Diana wedged the knife deeper and pushed down again.
"Shit-fuck!"
The knife slipped as the lid finally gave way, jerking upwards with a satisfying pop just as the blade dug into the skin of Diana's palm.
She fell backwards onto the concrete flooring, spitting out a colorful string of curses and clutching her left hand with her right. The kitchen knife had slipped out of her grip, and Diana kicked it with the heel of her sneaker out of fury, so it spun away and clattered against the bottommost crates in the stack along the cellar wall.
Diana held her left hand up to her face, slowly peeling back her fingers to peek at the damage. Her palm was washed with red, a diagonal slice along the tendon of her thumb down to the heel of her hand. The sight made her swear again, loudly.
The wooden stairs behind her creaked loudly as a pair of footsteps rumbled down them. "What happened this time?"
It was her Dad. Diana was flat on her back, holding her damaged hand to her chest, and she tilted her head back to look at the upside-down image of her father hurrying over to her. In a calm voice, she explained, "The knife slipped. I cut my hand off."
"Good one," he mused – he knew her well enough not to take something so dramatic seriously. "Let me see."
Diana lifted up her hand and spread her fingers open, wincing only a little from the movement. Her Dad was crouched by her head, the edge of his apron – so dirty it hadn't looked white for years – tickling her forehead as he took her hand and gently inspected it. Her palm burned as the cool basement air swept over it, from a draft that leaked through the square window just above the stacks of wooden crates.
"I need stitches," Diana announced. "Ten, probably. That's only if they let me keep the hand."
"You need a Band-Aid and some Neosporin, Miss Soap Opera."
He helped her to her feet, and Diana stared down at the open crate of pickle jars with a glare full of loathing. That bastard. If her Dad hadn't been standing beside her, she would have said it out loud. And probably given the box a nice kick.
"Get upstairs and clean out your hand," he told her, patting her shoulder as though that was going to make her feel better. "Then take over the register. Your mom wants to eat lunch."
Sourly, Diana cradled the hand against her chest and watched as her Dad bent to pick up the open crate. The jars rattled together as he hefted it upwards. He gave her a reproving look as he turned for the stairs, nodding to the knife that she'd kicked halfway across the room. "And pick up that knife, too. I think you hurt its feelings."
"It hurt my feelings," Diana protested, but her Dad was already halfway up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking loudly beneath his boots. She rolled her eyes once he had disappeared from the cellar, still bitter about the lack of concern over her sliced hand. If she'd lost a finger, maybe he would have agreed to stitches (and a break from working), but only maybe. Her Mom was the same way: Diana was only allowed to miss school if she was bed-ridden with the flu and a 103°F fever. It was infuriating.
With much reluctance, Diana swiped the damned knife off the concrete floor with her good hand and headed back upstairs. She dumped the blade into the dishroom's sink, glad to finally be rid of it and watching with some satisfaction as the steel handle disappeared beneath the soapy water.
To get to the bathroom, she needed to trudge up a second flight of stairs to where the family apartment was. Downstairs was the pickle storeroom, kitchen, and dishroom – or Bane of My Existence, as Diana had taken to calling it after many hours of scrubbing hardened brine out of pots and jars. In other words, downstairs was Hell, and upstairs was a safe haven that Diana felt she rarely had time to appreciate.
It took a good deal of effort to pull out the First-Aid kit from beneath the bathroom sink, using only her left hand to dig it out from piles of spare tissue boxes and toilet paper rolls. Diana sat cross-legged on the tiled floor, popping open the lid and rummaging through the white plastic box to search for the largest Band-Aid possible.
In the end, she went with a thick roll of cotton bandaging in the hopes of gaining a little sympathy from her Dad. The cut hurt like all holy Hell when Diana poured rubbing alcohol over it, washing the porcelain sink light red with the rest of her blood. She wanted to spit out further curses, just to make herself feel better, but figured it best not to have any customers downstairs overhear.
Once her right hand resembled a small ball of stuffing, the pain was only a dull throb along the heel of her palm. Diana cleaned up the mess she'd made in the bathroom as best she could and then headed back downstairs, before her Dad could come searching for her.
"Diana. What did you do to your hand?"
Her Mom's exclamation was a little too loud for Diana's liking, and it came as soon as she rounded the corner into the store, causing an elderly lady inspecting the Old Fashioned pickles to crane her neck toward the register in curiosity. Diana ignored the old woman – to prevent herself from shooting a what-are-you-looking-at glare across the room – and allowed her Mom to gently grasp hold of her bandaged hand.
"I was opening a crate downstairs and the knife slipped," Diana explained. Almost as an afterthought, she quickly added, "My hand almost came clean off."
Exactly as her Dad had reacted, Diana's Mom scarcely seemed to hear this second part. Curls of her graying hair danced before her crinkled brown gaze, having slipped from the loose Dutch braid that reached her lower back. Her Mom leaned back and swept the hair from her eyes, letting go of Diana's hand and giving a heavy sigh. "You really ought to be more careful, sweetie. Don't use a knife to open crates next time."
"You're right, I should have used my bare hands," Diana muttered under her breath. How else was she supposed to crack open a crate as stubborn as that?
Her Mom stood from the wooden stool, patting Diana's shoulder and kissing the top of her head. "Hold down the fort. I'm going to get lunch."
Tiredly, Diana sunk into the worn seat behind the cash register and huffed. She propped her chin onto the palm of her good hand, leaning into the counter and trying to ignore the throbbing pain elicited from her cut. She should have thought to take aspirin while upstairs, but it was too late now – there would be hell to pay if either of her parents discovered she left the store unattended.
While the old lady continued to peruse the shelves, Diana stared out the storefront glass windows at the gloomy Seattle weather. It was always murky and cool, but today the clouds hung especially low and exuded a particularly dull gray color. Bored, Diana imagined the mist was unfurling itself from the sky and pulling itself down between the skyscrapers to flood the streets below. Stephen King had written about it, she was sure.
"Young lady, you're out of Bread and Butter pickles."
Diana exhaled through her nose. If only she could be so lucky as to fall prey to some bizarre creature emerging from The Mist. Dealing with that would certainly be easier than answering to the elderly lady, who peered down a wrinkled hook-nose at Diana like she had been personally wronged.
"Yes, we ran out yesterday afternoon," Diana replied, as politely as she could muster. "A tourist bought the last one right before we closed."
"Can you check in the back?"
As the front door swung open behind the old woman, the bell clinking in a high-pitch, Diana bit the side of her cheek to steady herself. She forced a smile, very aware it probably appeared more pained than cheerful, and spoke over the sound of the door clapping shut. "I'm sorry. We don't have any more Bread and Butter."
The lady leaned forward, lips pursed – was she trying to smile? "Would you be a doll and check for me anyway? Please."
There was a screech as Diana pushed back the stool and stood. She told the woman that she would have a look, and it took everything in her power to disguise the sarcastic note in her voice. There were a few choice words she'd have liked to include, but a fake smile had to be better than a lawsuit.
Once safely out of the woman's sight, Diana stamped back upstairs to return to the bathroom and take an aspirin. She didn't need to check the basement to rediscover what she already knew: there were no more Bread and Butter jars, period. Besides, she'd had enough of that basement for one day.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Diana apologized sweetly, returning to the storeroom after washing down a painkiller with tap water. The woman had been leaning against the counter, eyeing the back of the teenage boy who had come in while Diana had been biting her tongue to remain civil. At Diana's return, she straightened quickly and gave a look of distaste at Diana's empty hands. "There aren't any Bread and Butter in the back."
"Well," the old lady replied, turning up her nose and leaning away from the counter as though she was about to leave. "Shame."
Pinching the inside of her right arm, Diana forced out, "Come back in two days. The next batch should be ready."
"I'm heading to the grocery store," the woman called over her shoulder, halfway to the front door already.
Diana glared daggers at her back, lips parted at the nerve of this woman. As the glass door swung shut behind her, she muttered nastily under her breath, "Good for you, Shoulder Pads."