The sun had nearly set by the time she had exited the shopping mall. Fumbling with a box, a purse, and two large shopping bags, she waddled towards the parking lot.
The parking lot not only served the shopping mall, but several local restaurants and businesses. A semi-frequent bus line snaked through the lot. Even though the mall closed at 7:00PM, the parking lot was still crowded. She typically parked at the end of the fourth aisle, which seemed an unfathomable distance when burdened with so many packages. She looked worriedly at the pink, Midwestern sky; she hated driving in the dark and dinner would be late, and Tommy would be sleepy and hungry and fussing. She sighed, for their bedtime routine would be particularly troublesome today.
It was a bitter, March evening and she would have infinitely preferred to be home, catching up on reading, eating dinner with Tommy, and going to bed early, a luxury for a single mother who was working and going back to school. Of course, she wasn’t thinking about the telephone call she was waiting for, about her father’s results. Her father had had a slight cough all winter, and the doctors thought that it could be something more serious.
The only respite she knew was during her literature classes. She aspired to be a fiction writer, though she currently worked as an assistant in a publishing company. But she read many manuscripts every week and met occasionally with their authors. She had learned much about what was good, bad, and mediocre. What would be published, and what would be sent back with a rejection slip. By slyly writing a few sentences here and there, she had slowly amassed a short novella, of which she was both proud and ashamed. Once, she had timidly asked for an opinion on her work from a colleague. The one person she had showed it to, not realizing whose work it was, had branded it “immature”. She, however, believed that she needed more “foundation” for her writing; a thorough course on the modernists, with a dash of the Beats. Thus, she was determined to learn what she had not had the luxury to study at community college.
Of course, that meant extra reading, in addition to her regular work; and if her father really were ill, then, she didn’t know what she would do. He lived two states over and had been irascible and distant towards her for years; her mother’s death had only increased his behavior. She was unclear about his financial situation and whether she should move closer to him or move him in with her. Either way, his house needed a thorough cleaning. When she had last visited him there had been piles of newspapers, knick-knacks, books, and furniture circa 1950. The house had not been maintained and would probably lose money in the depressed market. And she didn’t know the first thing about what to do.
She had nearly walked to the end of the fourth aisle, and spotting her car, couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she should have called home before she left; Tommy was with his babysitter, but she was already late, and there was no dinner. She should have used the payphone. But it was too late to go back, and she would be home within half an hour. Reaching for her keys, she realized that the brown sedan wasn’t her car; it was a similar make and model but not the same license plate. She walked over to the next aisle, annoyed. She hated her car; it was old, noisy, and difficult to maneuver. It was an unattractive shade of brown, but she had gotten it when her ex moved out, and she didn’t have the money to purchase even a used car. Of course, her ex never helped her. It went without saying that he would be of no help with her father, would never even offer to watch Tommy. Her best friend, Sheila, who worked in a real estate office, might be able to help her. She could watch Tommy at least and did not seem to begrudge her anything.
By this time, the sun had set, and she had walked across two aisles; her car wasn’t there. Fighting panic, she doubled back. This is what I need, she thought nervously, I probably parked in the third aisle. I’ve been so distracted lately. She adjusted her packages and stopped for a moment to rest. She then walked back to the third aisle, and of course, the car wasn’t there. She felt as if she were in a vast ocean of cars, all of them brown. She walked back towards the mall, scanning license plates, not knowing what to do. It was 7:00PM and the mall was closing; several cars were leaving, and she thought, almost hysterically, that she’d eventually find her car when hers would be the only one left.
Why did she even need these new clothes? They were far too expensive for their cheap quality, and they fit her poorly. But they were the unofficial uniform in the office. Black and white. Everyone wore black and white. Penguins dressed in newsprint was what they were. It would have been funny if the clothes hadn’t cost so much. But her skirt had snagged on the copy machine and the blouse had acquired an ink stain from witnessing a contract. Normally she would have waited for a sale, but her other clothes were frayed and worn, and the malls were so crowded on the weekends. That’s why I decided to do it this evening. I’m really saving myself a lot of time.
She had circled back and had nearly reached the entrance of the mall, without spotting her car. For a moment, she considered going back inside and asking an employee for help, but in the end, she was too embarrassed. Of course, it’s here, she thought, just try the next aisle. By now her packages had become very heavy, and she considered abandoning them. But this had been her only time to go shopping for new work clothes. If she had only stopped in the food court for a bite to eat, then she wouldn’t be so ravenous and light-headed. She would find it; she knew that she could do anything if she put her mind to it. If not, all she had to do was call a taxi from a payphone. There was a phone near the mall entrance. But that was a silly idea! For how would she get to work tomorrow? She walked farther in the labyrinth of cars, finally spotting a brown car of a similar make and model. She nearly wept, running towards it! She fumbled for the keys, tried to fit one of them into the lock, but oh! It wouldn’t turn. And the inside of the car was too messy to be her own, and it wasn’t the same plate. What would her father say? Irresponsible Louise! Yes! She always had her head in the clouds; it’s why she couldn’t remember anything or accomplish anything worthwhile. Her father, who had been a successful corporate lawyer, had always been frustrated with Louise’s whimsical ways and her taste in men. She lacked ambition, he said over and over. She denied this and retorted that she didn’t want to be uptight and stressed like he was. That she wanted to enjoy life, enjoy time with her son. But now, that the car was lost, what would he say?
She heard a bus roaring away in the distance, her last chance to escape. A new idea came to her. Maybe her car had been stolen? The car was old, and the lock was rusted, it would have been easy to break-in. But who would steal it? Her ex? Had he been here the whole time? Stalking her? This was 1988 for God’s sake! What cruel joke was this? He’d knock me up with Tommy and I love Tommy, love him, but he leaves me, and I have no money. He burned through our savings with his stupid restaurants, and I was so sick that one time, so sick of all of it, I just lost it at him. So, he left, and it was for the best really. Tommy doesn’t need a man in his life. I would have been better off if my father hadn’t been around. Tommy is in a better environment now and it’s just us. We don’t have the best life, but I try hard, I try really hard to provide for him. Oh God, he wouldn’t be trying to get custody of Tommy, would he? It’s not like I endanger him. It’s not like I bring strange men home. Maybe I do spend too much time away at work and at class. But Tommy is never alone, he gets nutritious meals, and we need the money. But I could stop going to class and writing, if that only means we can still be together. She makes this bargain with God, if only she’d find her car. Once she had her car, she’d be respectable and responsible and together in all aspects of her life. She’d be a dutiful daughter and mother.
She turned around, looking for her ex, looking for some shadowy figure which could be lurking behind one of the poles or inside one of the cars. But no one was around. She walked more quickly until she was at the end of the lot.
There she paused. The sharp wind cut her face. Loneliness cloaked her. She was nobody. Nobody loved her. Everyone took, and no one gave.
Somehow her packages were gone, and she was only clutching her purse when the police cruiser pulled up. She looked helplessly at the officer when he asked for her name.
Photography Credit: Jason Rice
Sarah Daly is an emerging American writer with previous work in The Round.
