A Sudden Crush

by Camilla Isley

  I need to calm down. I’m just having a panic attack! Aha! Mark the roots of a problem and then find the solution. What did Dr. Oz say? Ah yes, I simply need to take deep, profound breaths: air in, air out, in…and out…

  Gradually my respiration returns to normal and I feel able to inhale and exhale properly. I have to decide what to do. Clearly, I can’t go to work in this state. The mere thought makes me sick. Well, more sick than I already am! Wait, sick…I am ill! This is my way out. I’m going to pull a sickie. Genius!

  I haven’t taken one illness leave in the five years that I’ve been with my company. Surely no one is going to suspect me, and it’s not going to affect my career too badly. I mean, it’s just one day. Yes! I just need the one day to calm down, regroup, and think of a strategy for what to do next. Of course, she will know why I’m not there today. Oh, screw her! She can think whatever she likes.

  Where is my cell phone? I need to put on my glasses, because without them I am basically blind. Usually I do that on autopilot before even opening my eyes. You know, that way I can pretend I can actually see, but I guess today my routine went out the window. I grope the nightstand, grab the glasses, and put them on.

  Ah, this is better. I scan the bedside table for any trace of my cell but it’s not there. Instead, nicely perched next to my table lamp, there is an innocent looking Sugar. I follow his not-so-innocent gaze to the floor and finally spot my mobile lying discarded on the carpet. I grab it before I change my mind and dial the office’s number, all the while shaking my head at my vindictive cat.

  “Good morning, you’ve reached Crispy Koob Corporation.” Instead of hearing Michelle’s voice, the company’s receptionist, I am redirected to voicemail. “Our offices are open Monday through Friday, from 7 a.m. to—” I end the call.

  This is weird. The answering machine is never on during the week; they only turn it on for weekends and holidays. Hold on a second. What day is it today? I look at my phone’s screen and there it is, the sweetest writing I have ever seen:

  Saturday, May 16

  Yes! Yes! This means I have not one, but two full days before I have to face the world. This is so much better. I’ll have time to recover, think a little, and craft a plan.

  Duh, why am I always this dumb? What made me think it was a weekday? As my self-questioning goes on, I spot the culprit standing right there on my night table—the abominable alarm clock. Why the hell did it wake me on a Saturday? I never—and I swear never—turn on my alarm clock on weekends. I mean, sleeping in is the best part of the weekend, so why…

  Bizzzzzt.

  The doorbell rings, interrupting my train of thought. Who’s at my door this early on a Saturday morning? Surely it’s not going to be any of my friends; they all went away on a couples’ weekend. I was supposed to go, but I wasn’t really in the mood for being the only single person in a romantic cabin lost in the woods amidst three perfect examples of fairytale-like happily ever after. Of course, in that moment, I thought that was the worst possible scenario for me. I certainly didn’t foreshadow what heinous threats would await me in the city.

  Why didn’t I go? Anything would have been better. Anything. Now I wouldn’t be in so much pain; I would still be in oblivious bliss. Well, ok…maybe I wouldn’t exactly be in very high spirits, but at least I would not find myself in desperate, hopeless awareness! What do they say? What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over, right?

  Anyhow, back to present. Who can it possibly be? No one ever visits me unexpectedly. I don’t have intruding neighbors. The landlord never shows up, unless of course you’re late with the rent (even if it’s merely by one day and definitely a genuine mistake on your part, as you forgot there are only twenty-eight days in February). And the handyman is a fugitive in hiding, unfindable for the life of you…so, who’s left? Awk, I gasp. Could it be…? My stomach does a double flip. No, I won’t even allow myself to go there. Those things only happen in movies, not real life…

  Bizzzzzt. Bizzzzzt. Bizzzzzzzzzzzzt.

  The buzzer goes off again in such an annoying way that any hope that might have been rising in my heart is promptly dissipated, as only one person in the world could think that buzzing people this way is funny. My mom.

  Now it all comes back to mind. Why my alarm clock was on, and another reason why I said no to the weekend gateway. I promised my mom to accompany her to the flea market. The flea market? Really? I am in this state of misery for a stupid flea market?

  I ponder telling her that I don’t feel well and that I don’t want to go. But if I do she will come up anyway to check on me and she will plant herself in my apartment for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s better if I just go, be done with it in a couple of hours, and have the rest of the weekend for myself.

  I get up, crawl all the way to my tiny entry hall, and push the intercom button.

  “Hi Mom, did you find any parking?”

  “Hello, dear. Yes, I got lucky. I’ve found one of those two-hour off-street parking.”

  I live near Lincoln Park in the north side of Chicago, finding an available car spot on the street is a rare stroke of luck.

  “Great. I’ll be down in just a sec.”

  “Do you want me to come up?”

  “Actually, I didn’t really have time to make coffee, so would you mind going to the Starbucks across the street and getting it for the both of us? I’ll meet you there.”

  “Ahhh, always trying to get any second of sleep you can, huh? Alright, I’ll see you there. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “No, Mom, I just need five minutes. I promise.”

  Since I’m nowhere near ready, the second I release the buzzer button I rush back into my room to dress at top speed. My mom was right in saying I always try to sleep until the last minute; I’m definitely not a morning person. On the bright side, after years of waking up late I have acquired the useful skill of being able to get ready as fast as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Anyway, the coffee shop across the street is always super busy on Saturdays, so it will take her at least fifteen minutes to order, pay, and actually have the coffees ready, which is plenty of time for me.

  I select my favorite pair of stretch jeans, a classic plain white t-shirt, and an old pair of Converse. This is one of my all-time favorite casual looks; it makes me always look good and it never goes out of style. I don’t have time for a full shower, so I quickly wash my face and other body parts, brush my teeth, and arrange my brown hair in a bubble bun. I have to say a small, ridiculously poor-looking bun, as I have such thin hair that not even folding my ponytail over twice accomplishes much of a volume. I don’t have the time to do a sock bun, which usually helps a little.

  Of course, Vanessa has great hair! Long, silky, and voluminous. Bitch! Oh, forget her! I’ll deal with her later. Let’s see, deodorant, a bit of perfume, clothes, shoes…et voilà, I’m ready to go.

  “Meeeoowww.” Oops, just one more thing to do. I select one of Sugar’s premium feline meals and serve it to the prince of the house, who shows his appreciation by purring loudly.

  Before exiting, I grab my maxi bag and the biggest pair of sunglasses I own to try to conceal my puffy eyes. I don’t hope to maintain the secret from my mom for very long because she’s going to notice. Somehow, she always does. I just want to postpone the interrogation for after coffee.

  As I shut my building’s heavy glass door behind me, I spot my mom coming out of the coffee shop holding two big cups in her hands and looking around for me. Despite the situation, a big smile spreads across my lips and a surge of affection rises in my chest. I love my mom. I wave and run toward her. I hug her tight and gladly take my cappuccino.

  “Darling, what’s wrong? Have you been crying? Something happened?” she immediately fires worried questions at me.

  Ouch, I should have known I didn’t stand a chance, not even for five minutes.

  “No, Mom, I’m ok. Don’t worry,” I state unconvincingly.

  “So you haven’
t been crying?”

  “Yes. I mean, no! I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” She is silent for a moment. Then she sighs, deeply inhales, and asks the question. “Is it still about James?”

  I flinch at the “still” in her question and say nothing in response, bracing myself for what’s coming next; something I know only too well, because I’ve already heard it. Not just from my mom, but pretty much from everyone I know. In fact, here it comes pronto.

  “Sweetheart, it’s been more than a year. I know it has been hard, but the time has passed for you to move on.”

  I keep my silent treatment going.

  “You are young, smart, and beautiful—you will find someone else. You just have to stop thinking he was the only one for you. It’s just silly. The world is full of—”

  And here I snap.

  “I am not silly,” I almost shout. “He was the love of my life—he is the love of my life. You don’t forget the love of your life. Not in a year, not even in ten years. You never forget. NEVER!”

  It’s her turn to be quiet. After my little outburst, we walk in silence until we reach the car.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” She stands beside her door, not opening it. “I didn’t mean to say you were silly or to hurt your feelings.”

  “No, Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap that way. It’s just that everybody keeps telling me how I should feel…and well, I just feel the way I feel, and I can’t do anything about it.”

  “Ok, I will not do it again. But would you please tell me what happened this time? Did you see him?”

  “Yes, I did see him.”

  “How was he?”

  “He had his hair shorter,” I reply evasively.

  His soft curls were no longer visible, I think with a pang of longing. She probably had him cut it.

  “Did you talk?”

  “No, he was…he was busy,” I say, my voice slightly cracking.

  Silence on both sides. She’s giving me time to elaborate.

  “Was he with a woman?” she finally asks, when I don’t offer anything further.

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “And that’s the worst part—I don’t just know her. I see her every day and I hate her!”

  “Oh hush, darling, you don’t hate anyone. It’s such a horrible thing to say. And just because this person is going out with James, it doesn’t mean you have to have all this, well…animosity for her.”

  “Oh, Mom! Would you please stop being ever trusting in humanity? Not everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt. And Vanessa most certainly doesn’t!”

  “Vanessa? Not that nice girl you work with.”

  “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” I say, exasperated. “She isn’t nice, or sweet, or even polite…she just pretends to be. She’s pure evil, and I hated her way before I saw her with James!” I notice her wince at the word “hate.” “Yes, Mom, hate. Because that’s what it is.”

  “I find that hard to believe. When we met her she seemed so genuine.”

  “Well, yes, she’s very good at pretending,” I reiterate.

  “What did you do when you saw them?”

  “I panicked,” I admit, flushing. “I froze in the middle of the street, turned around, and ran away.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “I’m pretty sure she did.”

  “So, do you think there’s something serious between them?” Mom asks.

  “Mmm…that, I don’t know. But I’m sure she’ll fill me in first thing Monday, enjoying every minute of it,” I whine. “And she’s going to flaunt it in my face every single day after that. She has already tried, only I hadn’t noticed because I didn’t know.”

  “Oh darling, I am sure she can’t be that bad.”

  “Mom, haven’t you been paying attention?” I ask rhetorically. “I told you she’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Ah well, anyway, what do you plan on doing, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t know yet, Mom, and I don’t want to think about it right now. Can we just enjoy the market and not talk about it anymore?”

  “Sweetie, I’m sure everything will turn out all right,” she says with a big, loving smile, finally opening the car for us to get inside and head toward the market.

  2

  A Little Coffer

  We are going to the Randolph Street Market, a European-style indoor and outdoor antique market located in the historical West Loop neighborhood of Chicago. It is one of the largest and liveliest urban antiques market in the USA. My mom simply adores it.

  We don’t say much on the ride there. I stare out of the window most of the time, admiring the skyline of my city, which I never tire of. Upon spotting the rusty elevated railroad of the central line, I also think I am glad Mom came with her car so I don’t have to use public transportation…at least for one day. Traffic is not too bad and we get there in good time. Luckily, they have a cheap valet service, which means we won’t need to circle around for an hour to find a spot or pay thirty dollars for a two hour stop.

  “So Mom, what do we need to find today?” I ask her as we exit the car.

  “Well,” she answers, while handing over the keys to the valet, “I need to find a corner wrought-iron rack for my vases. It has to have different layers like a stair, but sort of rounded.”

  I take her arm under mine and we jump into the search of the numerous stands displaying all kinds of antiques. The market is bursting full of people and sounds. There are some vendors shouting to attract the attention of passers-by, others vivaciously negotiating with their customers, and the general chitchat of shoppers enjoying the market’s colorful display on this sunny day. A live band is playing traditional bluegrass music on a side stage, adding more verve to the already kinetic-energy filled environment.

  Weird and wonderful treasures may hide in this labyrinth of objects from all eras, but a lot of it just looks like heaps of rags and old junk for sale. We pass a giant stand completely covered in mounds of bric-a-brac, porcelains, vases, plates, and, to my utmost disgust, even an old chipped chamber pot. It was no doubt something used by royalty from the look of it, but it is still a used chamber pot. Ewww.

  Despite this, the more we walk around the more I am enticed by the atmosphere of this place. My skepticism begins to evaporate, leaving me free to feel the pull of all these objects, of the lives that have been lived in them. Moving forward, I get more and more fascinated by the diverse array of vintage fashion, art, fresh flowers galore, jewelry, and decor stalls showcasing eclectic artwork and crafts. I am particularly taken by an old rusty booth displaying antique charcoal sketches. I feel transported into a bohemian Paris, so I spend a long time leafing through them, imagining the secret history behind each one together with my mom.

  After that, we wander around for about an hour. We have fun deriding the vast selection of plaster Snow Whites, old scratched toys, and various knick-knacks, and admiring the magnificent display of wood furniture, vintage accessories, and art from the fifties—one of my favorite decades.

  As we’re walking, a movement of the crowd separates me from my mom, pushing me against a cart of used shoes and her toward a lopsided scaffold acting as a stage for a bunch of colorful, old-fashioned furniture. This place is way too packed for me. I am becoming all sweaty and sticky, which is even less to my taste.

  “Mom!” I shout. “I am moving over there to the side lane.”

  “Okay!” she shouts back, “I just want to have a look there.” She points at the rear end of the furniture stall.

  I give her the thumbs-up and push my way out of the crowd. When I finally manage to disentangle myself from the coils of this anaconda of humanity, I spot a drinking fountain at the end of one of the lateral alleys and head there. In my present overheated status, it appears as inviting as an oasis in the desert. I reach it with a few quick steps and quaff as much fresh water as I can without choking.

 
; I already feel much refreshed, and since there is nothing else to do, I slowly find my way back to the uncongested part of the market. As I poke around lazily, looking for an unknown object, two men are bargaining over an old fire fender, the bygone music of a lost opera plays from an ancient phonograph being tested, and the air seems infused with a mystical atmosphere.

  I am attracted by the smallest stand. A very old lady is sitting behind it in a rocking chair, an odd hat obscuring her face almost completely. On each side of the stand are two vertical panels, and dangling from them is the most amazing collection of bizarre objects. The horizontal surface of the cart is covered by an amazing array of cute little boxes; jewelry cases, I think. I am particularly drawn to one, and I grab it to have a better look. It’s made of some kind of metal, maybe brass. It’s really shiny and beautiful, all carved with small opaque stones attached on each side and a roundish, protruding grip on the top.

  “I see you have been chosen!” the old lady says out of the blue with a shrill, croaky voice.

  She startles me so much that I almost drop the little case.

  “You are a very lucky young woman, my dear,” she continues, standing up. She seems completely unaware of my recent distress. “After today, your life will be changed forever.”

  “Mmm, yes. Sorry, I was just looking,” I say, putting back the box.

  This old lady must be nuts.

  “Oh no, no. This will not do! It chose you, now it is yours,” she insists.

  “Eh. No, really, I was just poking around. I don’t really want to buy anything, thanks.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense, my dear.” She shakes her head vigorously while retrieving the little box from the cart and offers it to me again, outstretching her arms in front of me with a pleading expression.

  Her face is a crisscross of deep wrinkles that give her such an air of frailty that she’s making me feeling sorry for her. I begin to think it would be easier to just buy the damn thing and be done with it. Granny here is either completely wacky, or she has the best selling strategy I have ever seen. I am about to ask her how much it is when I am saved by my phone ringing. I gladly grab it from inside my maxi bag and answer right away. It’s Mom.