May 12, 2020
From collection of short stories - End Times.
She coasted around the corner, as the stale green stoplight rotted to a definite red.
Hands firmly gripping the vinyl steering wheel of her suburban mom Subaru sanctuary, the lightly tinted
glass and chaos of the streets providing her with more privacy than she could ever achieve within the four
walls of her own home. She turned down the volume and took a deep breath, holding back tears as she
pressed the pedal to the floor, driving through the automatic doors of her local Target. Glass shattering
against glass, much more than a suicide, a self-destruction.
At least that’s what she imagined doing when she saw that her spot in the fourth aisle next to the
shopping cart corral was taken by a flashy red Camaro convertible, the type of car where you had to put
the groceries in the trunk and even then it would never be enough room to fit food for a family of five.
Instead she drove home, careful to dim her headlights before pulling into the driveway, although
the most important part was to not jingle her keys once she got inside. A particular challenge, since Karen
kept every key she’d ever used with her at all times—all the way back to the house she grew up in, now
two towns away. She also made sure to slip off her shoes before opening the door and stepping onto the
hard-wood family room floor she advocated for without realizing how the loose panels would one day
give her away.
Across the house, there was the usual 8 pm murmur of local news, video games and YouTube. It
drew their attention, so maybe if she moved quiet enough, or quick enough, they wouldn't notice her. And
at first they didn’t.
“Mom? Is that you? There’s nothing to eat!” The inevitable call came just as she reached her bed.
There was a stampede down the stairs as one voice became a cacophony of requests.
“Did you get ice cream from the store?”
“Where were you?”
“I’m hungry.”
Maybe she could pretend to be asleep or cationic or dead.
It didn’t used to be like this. Before, Karen would sit by the window, watch until Susy’s bright
pink JanSport backpack cleared the bus door, and then watch until the bright yellow bus cleared the
corner of their quiet street. Then she took a breath, made coffee and got to work, doing anything, or
nothing, to fill her day. But that life feels very far away; now she only breaths when she’s at Target. By
the second week she went 27 times.
The first, because Tim came back from college and drank all the milk.
The second time because the news got worse and her husband said maybe they, she, should
prepare for the worst.
The third to the twenty-seventh times were mostly just to get away. Each time when she went—if
she even went in—she made sure to buy something to prove the visit was essential: another roll of toilet
paper, a carton of organic eggs, Easter decorations to convince herself that, with enough faith, life would
return.
She knew it takes exactly seven minutes to drive there, unless she got stuck behind one of
Munster’s many elderly drivers. Only three turns, four including out of the driveway. Her favorite time to
go was 8:44 pm just before the new state enforced closing time.
“Are you coming in?” her oldest son Abel asked, interrupting her thoughts, she’d already
forgotten that she told the kid that if he wanted ice cream he would have to buy it himself.
“No. Hurry up. They’re about to close,” Karen said, putting the car into park watching a group of
young people stumble out of the store, into the nearly otherwise empty parking lot.
