Elina

Why does shopping have to come with so many bags? You start with a purse, every store adds a bag, and then, somehow, those bags breed more bags, little bag families that fill up both hands and bang against your legs as you walk. And the weight of them! My arms, my feet—if I was the complaining type—

“Mommy?”

“Put it back, Joey.”

“How’d you know I took something?” Uh-oh! There’s a certain note creeping into his voice: the danger note. We’re nearing meltdown territory. Better hurry.... “Mommy? How’d you know I took something?”

“Eyes in the back of my head.” I squeeze his hand. Half an hour more; half an hour, and we’ll—

“Mommy!”

What was I even here for? I’m staring at a rack of insoles and corn pads, and there was something I needed, something essential, but....

“Mommy!”

“Okay, Joey....” I go to ruffle his hair—red as mine, but ten times softer—and wind up with a finger up his nose. He giggles.

Insoles. Corn pads. Ace bandages. Not those, but...foot powder? Pumice bars? What...?

It’s so bright in here. There’s not an inch of my body that doesn’t boast some ache or pain, but my eyes are raw. It’s like they dial the lights up to eleven in these places, like...like the more you see, the more you’ll be tempted to--

“Mommy, just look!”

And now, I can’t—

“Mommy!”

It’s a little stuffed rabbit, pink satin, black button eyes. Cute as hell. Total choking hazard. I’d have loved one, at his age.

“Joey, I’m going to need you to put that back.”

Nail clippers! That was it: I need nail—

“Daddy would get it for me.”

I close my eyes. It’s blissful. Blessedly dark and restful. If I could just—if there was some cosmic pause button I could hit; if I could collect my thoughts, swallow the lump in my throat, before I turn around and soothe my cranky son....

I count to three, slow as I can.

I don’t turn around. Can’t let him see the expression on my face. Besides, I don’t need to, to know his lip’s wobbling, to know he’s about five seconds from beaning me with that rabbit.

“Listen, if you put the rabbit back, we can go by the pet store on the way home. Maybe they’ll let you pet a real one!”

And...there it is: one tiny stuffed rabbit, bouncing off the back of my head. Kid never misses. Little League’s going to love him.

I grab the nail clippers and pick up the rabbit. Joey must’ve been carrying it a while: there’s no rack of rabbits, no bottom-shelf hutch, in sight. Probably knew I’d say no. Probably wanted to hold it as long as he could before....

Maybe just this once.... I’ve been saving everything for Christmas: I need him to have that one day of feeling special, hell, of feeling like a normal kid. Having the childhood he deserves. But that shouldn’t mean every other day has to suck.

I glance at the price tag: $7.99. I can’t. I just...can’t. For a brief, mad moment, I consider stuffing the thing down my pants. It’s barely worth a dollar. Who’d even care?

“Where’d you get him, sweetie?”

“No.”

Oh, great. The no phase. Next up: uncontrollable howling. Got to head that off at the pass.

“Okay, well, why don’t you pick out a toothbrush, any color you want, while I—“

“No!” Joey goes splat, flat and boneless on the floor. We’re starting to attract an audience. I’m about to be that mom, begging my shrieking four-year-old to peel himself off the linoleum, while a pack of baby boomers reminisces about how their parents would’ve tanned their hides, if they’d dared. Yeah, I see you, Your Ladyship in the red stretch pants. Grab your Depends; move along.

I kneel down beside him. The floor smells like Windex. My eyes water. “Joey, listen—Mommy’s tired, and...and if you can wait a few weeks, it’s going to be Christmas, and you’ll have a whole stocking full of toys to play with. Maybe if you’re a good boy, and get up off the floor, Santa’ll even bring you one of those—“

“You bought stuff for you in every store,” he wails, and it’s over, it’s over, it’s so over. I’m that mom, and I’m not getting those nail clippers; he’s not getting that toothbrush; and, oh God, contact lens solution! I’m totally out, and my tips suck when I wear glasses, and...

...and is it just me, or has the background hum turned unfriendly? I can’t make out what anyone’s saying, but I’d swear I hear spiky accents. Angry mutterings.

I abandon my basket, scoop up my limp, tear-streaked son, and start walking. The bus stop’s way at the other end of the mall. Joey’s bawling his grievances right in my ear. He’s hitting this high, piercing note, like a policeman’s whistle. It’s making my eardrum flutter. Making me dizzy.

Can a human voice rupture an eardrum?

I’m so thirsty. Think I’m dehydrated. When’d I last sit down? What I’d do for a strawberry milkshake!

And now he’s pulling my hair. And my earring—ouch! Ouch! Not the earring! Didn’t I already pass that Bed, Bath, and Beyond?

Somewhere between the Body Shop and the juice bar, he pees on me. I choose to believe it’s an accident.

By the time we step out into the fresh air, my left shoe’s squelching, but Joey’s screams have dwindled to whimpers. I buy a Times I can’t afford from the paper box, so he won’t leave a pee-print on the bus. Joke ends up on me: it’s standing room only. I point his wet butt at the man giving us the dirtiest look.

By the end of the ride, the bus smells like an outhouse. I think I’ve reached my threshold for embarrassment: all I can feel is a dull all-over ache that starts at my lower back and threads its way through every fiber of my body. Even my toenails hurt. Or my toes hurt, where my unclipped nails are digging into them. Whatever.

Fortunately, the bus stops right in front of my building. I tuck my bags out of sight, under the stairs, so I can hold Joey in both arms on my way up. He’s gone all snuffly-sleepy. Stinky, but cute.

He rubs his snotty nose on my neck when I try to set him down at the door.

“Mommy?”

“We’re home, sweetie! Don’t you want a nice, hot bath?”

“No.”

I jiggle him on my hip. “C’mon, tiger. Mommy’s got to open the door.”

Now he’s wiping his whole face on my neck. “I’m sorry I was bad.” He sounds like he’s about to cry again. I hug him as tight as I can, turn my head to whisper in his ear. “I’ll tell you a little secret: everyone hates shopping. Everyone.”

“Even rich people?”

He pulls away to look at me, and I finally manage to put him down. “Especially rich people. Rich people hate it so much they hire poor people to do it for them.”

“That’s gonna be my job, when I grow up.”

I laugh, but I’m distracted. Something’s not in my pocket that ought to be. “Sweetie, have you seen my keys?”

Joey cocks his head. “You told me to hold onto them at the Rite-Aid. They kept smacking into your leg.”

My heart sinks. “And did you?”

He shakes his head.

“Joey? Sweetheart? What have you done with my keys?” I crouch down to his level, but he won’t meet my eyes.

“I traded them for the bunny.”

What the...? I never let go of his hand, let alone lost sight of him. How could he have—who could he have.... “Traded them? To whom?”

“The Elf on the Shelf.”

“The—“ Oh, my God! Gales of laughter tear through me. I’m shaking, snorting, can’t help myself. This! This, right here! This is one of those stories you tell and tell, and it never gets old. If we don’t freeze to death on the stoop like the Little Match Girl, I’m going to be embarrassing him with this one till he’s forty.

“It’s okay, Mommy.”

“I—I know, Joey! I’m sorry; it’s just—“ I bite my lip, but another guffaw breaks loose anyway.

“No, I mean, the door’s open.”

“Oh, well, that’s—“ My blood runs cold.

The door is open. Not unlocked, but open, just a crack, barely noticeable in the dark.

“Get behind me, Joey.”

“Mommy?”

“It’s—it’s all right. Just...just stand behind me, real quiet, huh?”

He wraps himself around my leg. I push the door open, tense as a greyhound, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But there’s nothing there—nothing there. Not even the stuff that’s supposed to be; not even—

I hear a horrible, guttural moan, and I’ve already snatched Joey into my arms before I realize it came from me. The high cabinet, the one above the fridge, the one with the Christmas presents, the ornaments, everything Christmas... It’s open. Empty. And every other cabinet, every drawer—

“Mommy? Where’s—?”

“It’s...it’s....” What to say...what to say? “Ah....”

“Did we go in the wrong door?”

“Uh...ah....” Say something! “It’s...it’s....” A nightmare. “A game, sweetie! We, uh...it’s a... It’s like hide-and-seek, but, uh...my friends from work? They’ve hidden my things all over town, and—and if I find them, I get...better things. Everything brand new!” Smooth, Lina.

“Can I play?”

“Yeah, definitely, but...but tomorrow, okay? It’s dark now, so, uh.... We’ll start tomorrow. After playgroup. In the park. But for now, ah, I’ve got to... I’m going to take you next door, and you can play with the cats, and I bet Mrs. Thing’ll give you a gingersnap, if you say ‘please’.”

“Mrs. Thing!”

I’m going to owe Mrs. Dzhokharova the biggest fruit basket I can afford. Which will probably amount to a single banana and a Fruit Roll-Up, at this rate. Brownies, then. Or...or I’ll clean her bathroom. Anything, just....

I’m freaking out.

Okay, calm down.

I must be in shock. Can’t think straight. Need to move, need to....

“Okay. Okay.” I go to take Joey by the hand, but he’s—

—where the fuck, ohmygod where’s he—

—he’s already run ahead, down the hall. The light’s spilling out, under Mrs. Thing’s door. He must’ve snuck off, and knocked, and been let in, while I was...staring into space? Wringing my hands? What was I just doing?

I don’t have time to go to pieces. My sweaty fingers slide on my skin when I go to pinch myself. Forcing myself into action feels like wading through cold molasses. I trail after Joe in a fog, and I must manage to say something to Mrs. Thing, because she fusses, and the cats crowd my ankles, and Joey ends up in her grandson’s PJs. Someone calls the police, and a locksmith, and I’m dimly aware I can’t afford a locksmith, but what choice do I have?

I blink, and I’m back in my doorway, alone. I don’t want to turn on the light. There are lumps on the floor, unfamiliar shapes, shards and clumps and broken things that crunch underfoot. Whoever was here, they didn’t just rip me off. In the dim glow of the hall light, I can see where they tore up the carpet, tagged the walls, cut the curtains to shreds.

I take two steps into the kitchen, needing a glass of water. Something squelches under my heel: Joey’s goldfish, dead in a spray of glass and aquarium pebbles. I scream. My legs give out and I go down hard. There’s something digging into my knees and the tops of my feet—Cheerios; they dumped out a week’s worth of breakfast, for what? For what? Spite?

I drop my forehead to the floor, mouth open wide. I can’t cry like I want to. Can’t, can’t, cannot. I blink hard. Two huge tears break free, roll down my cheeks, and drip off my chin. I breathe deep till my eyes stop stinging.

Can’t even afford a proper cry.

The cops are coming; there’s that to deal with.

Get up.

I stand at attention. Brush Cheerio crumbs off my pants, which are still wet, and starting to chafe.

Get changed?

My bedroom’s a war zone in its own right. The nightstand’s in pieces, and it looks like someone’s run a lawnmower over the bed. Feathers and fabric scraps are everywhere, chunks of mattress foam too. Every lamp’s been shattered. And my clothes...my clothes are on the floor, covered in—yep. Yep. That’d be piss. I fight back another round of hysterical laughter. I came in here so I wouldn’t smell like I wet my pants, and...and...it’s funny, right? Like, in someone else’s life, or on a sitcom, it’d be a scream.

The closet’s a forest of empty hangers...empty hangers, and my gym bag, still stuffed with my sweaty old workout gear. So...do I want to reek of pee or BO when the cops get here?

Not fair. Not fair, not fair, not fair.

Joey’s laughing, two doors down. Mrs. Thing must’ve got out the laser pointer again. Joey loves it more than the cats do. I find myself smiling in spite of myself. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Right now, this has only happened to me. All I need to do is keep it that way.

My smile grows as a plan forms. We will hunt for our stuff. It’ll be like...a new adventure every day. We’ll ride the subways. Find Pizza Rat. Hit up a museum or two. Pretend to spot our furniture in showroom windows and other people’s living rooms. It’ll be educational, kinda. Even a little magical. And I’ll work a few extra shifts, and in a couple of weeks, we’ll do a Dollarama run. We’ll get fun stuff—plastic tables with toes on their feet, lamps shaped like clowns, whatever’s silly. Joey’ll love it. And Christmas...Christmas....

It’ll be fine.

I’ll make it fine.