The sound of a TV blaring wakes me from my sleep, and I sit up in bed feeling disoriented. My eyes are heavy and thick and my body is achy. I move to the edge of the bed in what feels like slow motion and plant my feet on the floor and stand, waiting for my eyes to adjust the room from blurry to clear.
Then I yawn as I step forward in the direction of my closet until my foot catches on something, causing me to stumble. Looking back, I scan the floor trying to identify the offensive object and see a shoebox tipped on its side a few feet from my bed.
Memories from the previous roll in like storm clouds. I walk over to the box and kick it hard, causing the lid to fly off and papers to explode across the floor. Then turn back toward the closet contented with the resulting mess. I rifle through my clothes, as guilt begins to overtake me and my sudden rebellious streak, so I turn and head back over in the direction of the box. The last thing I need is my mother finding papers all over my room, these papers to be specific. I’d never hear the end of my “frivolous”, “childish” nature for keeping such a box in the first place.
I arrive at the box and crouch down, then sweep my hands out, scooping up all the strewn papers and stuffing them back where they belong. Then I grab the lid, cram it on, and shove the box far under my bed, making sure this time there will be no reappearance.
I get up and head over to the closet glancing at my clock on the way, “what?? It's 9:30 am? Crap, I overslept, I’m going to be late for work”. Grabbing random clothes out of the closet I hurry for the bathroom.
Twenty-five minutes later I punch in at Bertson’s Grocers with two minutes to spare. Okay that was way too close. All I need is to be late and lose my job. I’m lucky to have this job in the first place, as my mother often reminds me.
Which is true, but not for the reasons she thinks, working at Bertson’s is my sanctuary. If I didn’t have it as an excuse to get out of the house on a regular basis, I think I might commit a crime involving my mother.
And, there were other things I liked about the job too; like talking to the customers and reconciling my drawer at the end of my shift. It felt like a challenge to get it to balance out to the penny which 99% of the time I did, thank you very much.
But my favorite part was by far my work friend Eveey. She was the coolest person I’d ever met.
Eveey was an artist, who lived in her own house; inherited from her grandma. She was so confident and funny and loved shows on the BBC just like me. We spent our lunch hour going over the latest BBC shows, giving our critics of the characters and their stories, and speculating on what we thought might happen next.
Eveey was a bright life saving buoy in an otherwise dark sea.
After I punch in for my shift and grab my work shirt from my locker, I walk past the break room, where I overhear people laughing. I quickly reach up and smooth my hair, then run a hand over my face feeling for something out of place.
Then, I glance over at the people in the break room again, and notice they’re gathered around watching something on one of their phones. I feel my cheeks flame realizing it wasn’t about me after all. Why did I always do that? Not everything’s about you Ruby.
It’s just that I never felt like I fit in with other people. It’s like I was living on one side of a glass wall, peering at life on the other, always desperate to figure out how to get over there, yet never one day closer.
In fact, if Eveey hadn’t approached me at lunch one day when she saw me reading Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time, I wouldn’t even be able to count her as a friend. I definitely never would have approached her.
I head to the front office for my drawer thinking about just how lucky I am have a friend like Eveey in my life, when I notice Eveey’s blonde curls in the distance and my heart leaps, yippie, I forgot she was working today. I up my pace, excited to say hi.
Eveey looks up at me, as I arrive, and smiles, “Jane Eyre”, she says with a dramatic tone, “pretty awesome”. Crap, I forgot all about Jane Eyre.
“Oh…yeah…uh…I didn’t get a chance to watch it.” I say embarrassed as my cheeks flush. “What happened?”, Eveey frowns, “You were so psyched to see it.” I grab my drawer and busy myself organizing the bills in each slot, not wanting to make eye contact,
“Something came up…no big deal, they’ll air it again,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Don’t tell me…did something happen with your mom?” Eveey grimaces. I look over at her in surprise, then back down at my drawer, mortified. Crap, How does she always know? It’s not like I talk to her about my mother. But she did meet her in the store once, and ever since, she seems to have drawn some conclusions about her that are scary in their accuracy.
The problem is… as much as Eveey thinks she knows about us, she doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know the real reason behind the challenging relationship with my mother. The dark and painful reason that gnawed at me like an ice pick ruthlessly chipping away at my soul day after day. That’s a piece of history I keep to myself.
In fact, who knows if Eveey would even be my friend if she knew the truth. And the thought of losing Eveey is more than I can bare, so I keep that dark secret from her and the rest of the world too, for that matter.
I glance up and see Eveey looking my way, with sympathy. “Your right…” she says, then smiles, “they always replay these shows, besides you didn’t miss much, the 2011 version with Mia Wasikowska, is still the best”.
Then Eveey shifts gears, “Hey, do you wanna have lunch together today? I have to tell you about this new guy I met.” she rolls her eyes for added effect. I smile back grateful for the change of subject, “yes, that would be great” I respond trying to sound chipper, then I walk over to my register, punch in my code, and put my drawer in.
My conveyor belt starts rolling forward with a tub of margarine, and I smile up at my customer, happy to have something else to occupy my mind. The rest of my eight-hour shift goes by fast, highlighted by the entertaining lunchtime story of Eveey’s hilarious date at the marine aquarium of all places.
I spend the last hour of my shift stocking magazines in the checkout lanes, which I always look forward to doing. The magazine covers are fun to read, my favorite being, The Enquirer, no one offers a better ufo sighting story than them.
Opening the last box of magazines, I see the new month of Martha Stewart, with a headline, “Start Your Own Craft Business. Make Jewelry From Home.” I look around to see if any store managers are nearby, then open the magazine and flip to the correct page. There’s a beautiful image of turquoise stone encrusted earrings, wooden beaded bracelets, and necklaces with leather accents.
The article goes on to explain just how easy it is to set up a craft business from the comfort of your own home, for just pennies, and sell your finished products at local farmer's markets and online. I scan the rest of the four-page article trying to quickly take in all the details, then feel guilty for my selfish misuse of time while on the clock and close the magazine, placing it on the shelf.
I finish shelving the rest of the magazines just in time for my shift to end and after returning my smock to my locker, I head to the front of the store, grab a shopping cart, then make my way down the aisles with the shopping list my mother gave me that morning.
Twenty minutes later I watch the last of my items run down the conveyor belt, as I think of something. “I forgot something, one second”. I sprint from the register, returning moments later, then place the additional item on the conveyor belt and watch her ring it in and add it to my bags.
After I load the groceries into my trunk, I grab an item from the top of one bag before shutting the trunk, then get into the driver’s seat and place the item on the passenger seat with care. I start the engine, then pause to look down at the Martha Stewart magazine on the seat next and feel a flutter of excitement deep in my stomach, then I pull out of the parking lot to head for home.
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