Shop Till You Drop

When Mother sits on the edge of my bed and shakes my shoulder in the morning, I groan and roll over. But she doesn’t give up.

“Jessica,” she says, “shopping, remember?”

It’s still dark and I’m oh so cozy. But this day is a big deal for her, I bet—a regular mother and daughter going out for some retail therapy. It’s a two-hour drive to the big city, so I had promised we’d leave early. I will my eyes to open.

“Be down in five,” I croak.

She leaves and I crawl out of bed and throw on some clothes. As I come down the stairs, Father’s voice carries from the kitchen.

“Let’s cancel it,” he says, “and do something low-key. Only the four of us.”

I step into the kitchen. “Cancel what?”

Father shrugs. “Oh, a little get-together for my birthday. Your mom goes a little crazy about these things and sent out invitations, like, five years ago. The big five-oh is a big deal, apparently.” He stands up with his coffee cup and plants a kiss on Mother’s cheek. “Have fun tearing up the town today, ladies.”

I scarf down a bowl of cereal and then we are in the car, heading down the gravel road as the sun rises over the fields of hay bales. The windshield is slightly foggy, so Mother turns on the heat. With the warm air and the soft tinkle of gravel hitting the underside of the car, I can already feel my head nodding forward in sleep.

Mother tells me which mall we’re going to—the smaller one, with easier parking—and which department stores are having sales. There is no way I will be able to keep my eyes open for the long drive. We turn onto the highway, and a few miles of silence later we pull into a gas station. I pop the door open as soon as we roll up to the pumps.

“Want anything to drink?” I ask. Mother shakes her head.

I’m looking for a bottle of juice in the cooler when I spot something better: a Red Bull energy drink. This could be the pick-me-up I need. The tall blond guy at the cash looks about my age, but I don’t recognize him. He obviously knows me—everyone in this small town probably does—because he’s watching me with interest as I walk up to the counter.

“Want something with even more kick?”

“Huh?” I answer with my usual wit and charm.

“More of a boost?” He slides a small green box of mints across the counter. “Jolt mints. They’re caffeine pills.”

I nod and pick them up. He rings up the Red Bull, and I pull the cash out of my pocket to wait for the total. “Four bucks,” he says.

“And these?” I ask, shaking the box of mints.

He laughs. “Can’t get those here. They’re on me. It’s the only thing that pulls me through this morning shift. Consider it a little gift, Jess.” He winks.

I mumble my thanks. I’m about to push the door open when I stop and crack open the Red Bull. I’m not aware of Mother’s opinion on these kinds of things, but I’m sure she has one. I pop two mints in my mouth, chug them down with the Red Bull and pocket the box.

“Whoa!” Blondie says. “That should do the trick.”

I wave my thanks and get back in the car. The first stretch of the drive, Mother and I make polite conversation about what clothes I need, Stephen’s geothermal experiment in the basement, where we should eat lunch. We don’t mention the accident or school or the bison or anything else of any significance. I am kind of enjoying myself. So this is mother-daughter bonding. I can do this.

“By the way,” I say, “you weren’t going to cancel Father’s party because of me, were you?”

She glances at me with narrowed eyes. “Hmmm,” she says, and I know the answer. Of course. How can you celebrate and act like everything is normal when your daughter is obviously anything but? It stings a little. The last thing I want to be is a drag.

“I think we should have it,” I say. I play the pity card. “Honestly, we could all use a little fun. I’m sick of tests and rehab and serious stuff. I need to get a life again.”

She chews her bottom lip. “I don’t know—”

“What’s the worst that could happen? If I get tired, I’ll go to my room and rest. Pinky swear.” I stick out my bottom lip in a silly pout, and she laughs.

“We’ll see,” she says. “I’ll talk to Dad about it.”

I do a little clap of faux excitement.

Then we are out of things to say. The sun is now shining above the fields that stretch out in every direction, and the only sound is the hum of the tires on the pavement. The seat belt is too tight at my shoulder, and my legs somehow don’t want to stay still. I fiddle with the box in my coat pocket, slip two more magic mints into my mouth and swallow without even tasting them.

I feel so awake, but the silence is unbearably heavy. Then it occurs to me: maybe I can use this opportunity to get to know my mother better. Maybe I haven’t been giving her a chance.

“So,” I say, my voice louder than I mean it to be, “how did you and Father meet? Was it love at first sight?”

Mother glances at me, then her eyes go back to the road. “Well, we met at a dance. I was still in high school, if you can believe that.”

“So were you hot for him on the spot?”

Even I am surprised at what has come out of my mouth.

“Excuse me?”

I swallow hard. “Sorry. Cute, I mean. Did you think he was cute?”

“Yes, I did. There was something about him, about the way he carried himself. He was confident, but not arrogant. I was thrilled when he asked me to dance.”

“Was he a good dancer?”

She lets out this light musical giggle that I’ve never heard. I remember the long-haired, big-eyed girl I saw in the old photos. “No, not really,” she says.

“When did you know you wanted to marry him?” I ask. “Was it right away? Did your parents like him?” I know I should stop and let her answer, but somehow my mouth won’t give it up. “Did you have any other, any other… suitors?” An image of Mother sitting out on a front porch, wearing a dress straight out of Gone With the Wind, pops into my head, and I let out an obnoxious snort. “I bet they were pounding down the door.”

The quiet that greets me tells me I’ve gone too far. Mother’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

I take deep breaths and try in vain to calm this crazy buggy feeling that has now taken over my whole body. She finally speaks, her voice soft but crisp. “There were a few, actually. But I only had eyes for your dad.”

“Of course,” I say. “I never met the others, but he’s a keeper.” Change the subject, change the subject, I tell myself, and before I have a chance to consider my choices, my mouth has chosen for me. “You hate the farm, don’t you? Are you dying to sneak out in the middle of night with the rifle and shoot all those bison, or what?”

The car veers toward the side of the road. Mother makes an odd sound, like clearing her throat and gasping at the same time. I chew on a hangnail. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I mean, they are ugly, right? And kind of smelly?”

I don’t mean a word I’m saying, but I have to have to fill the air, can’t keep any random thought in my head where it should stay.

Mother’s face is bright red, and I’m sure she’s ready to toss me out on the side of the highway. But, unlike me, she can’t find her voice.

“Oh my god, I have to pee!” I screech. “Pronto!”

Now the car swerves suddenly to the right, and we lurch to a stop. She turns slowly, deliberately, and glares at me. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Brain damage, remember?” I shove a few tissues from a box in the back-seat into my pocket, open the door and bolt across the ditch. The long grass is wet and slippery, and I barely make it into the shelter of trees before I have to whip down my jeans and crouch among the pine needles. A feeling of relief washes over me as I go, hands shaking as I pull out the tissue. The air in the bush is fresh and cool. One, two, three deep breaths, my pants back up, and I start moving out of the trees.

Odd angles of light land on the car, and Mother gazes out toward the field on the other side of the road, where bales glisten with dew. I see only her shoulder and the back of her head, but I stand there for a minute and watch her. She’s a tough woman, and not exactly easygoing. But I want to rush to her, suddenly, and wrap my arms around her and never let her go.

I want to be her little girl again, have her take care of me and tell me everything is going to be all right. But the sad truth is, I am not her daughter at all. I’m a rude, crazy stranger who is posing as her darling Jessica. I move slowly back to the car, open the door and slump into the seat. Energy is still pulsing through my veins, but somehow the spark in me has flickered out.

“Sorry,” I say.

She turns to me, eyes red, and nods. We pull back onto the highway, Mother clicks on the radio, and we listen to country music for the rest of the drive.

By the time we make it to the mall, I am less wired. I can act normal—or what is normal for me anyway—and I make an effort to go along with all of Mother’s ideas. Yes, jeans, a few T-shirts, a nice top, maybe a skirt. Absolutely, some new shoes and socks and underwear. I follow her around as she plucks clothes from racks and asks me for approval; I nod and occasionally proclaim “cute” or “very nice” for good measure.

We pass through the dress section, and Mother runs her fingers through a rack of floral numbers. “How about one of these?”

I shrug, but she’s already checking labels for sizes. I end up trying four in the dressing room, and they all look a little too cheerful on me, with my lopsided hairdo and pale face. But Mother oohs and aahs over a turquoise-and-brown one with satiny straps. I tell her I like it so we can get out of there.

We end the morning with lunch at the food court, and I crash in the car on the way home. When we pull up in the driveway, I am so out of it that Mother has to lead me from the car to my room.

I crawl into bed, clothes and all, and for a few seconds before I drift off, I imagine that I really am her little girl again. Mother has carried me in, asleep, from the car and tucked me into bed. How warm and safe that must have felt, being held in adoring arms all the way to the coziness of my froggy room, knowing I belonged perfectly there with my family, in my home and in the world.