Madwoman by Chelsea Bieker

Author:Chelsea Bieker [BIEKER, CHELSEA]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2024-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

I did not write and I did not do my yoga and I did not call a friend to get tea. In my first moments of having someone else in charge of my children, truly in charge, I found myself driving back to Earthside, the job application humming in my purse. The same day I found Jane, Tootsie had appeared like a cosmic permission. So why not stay in that flow, sit in the parking lot and fill the application out now before I lost my nerve? Was it desperate to return the very same day, or was it showing initiative? All I knew was that I had to act.

The automatic doors welcomed me, my second time in, not unusual; I came in three times a day if my anxiety called for it. The smoothie bar emitted its comforting Vitamix whirr, the produce section twinkled under the bright but not bothersome lighting, and the long aisle of bulk bins, the contents of which were 25 PERCENT OFF TODAY ONLY, told the story of wholesomeness — everything here is good, everything here is safe. The cashiers scanned and smiled, punching in the item codes of wet cucumbers and ripe nectarines, knobby thumbs of ginger and turmeric root, codes they had memorized, codes that would be rooted in their subconscious forever, and the meatpackers in their gloves and black coveralls playfully hassled one another, bandanas on their heads, toothpicks between their teeth. The show of grocery played on with grace and precision, each person a vital part of the production. My diaphragm released the slightest bit now in the safest place on earth. Grocery, the opposite of violence.

There was Sandra at her usual checkout station. “Back already?” she said.

But I would not be embarrassed. “I’m being proactive,” I said, handing her the application.

She assessed my information and nodded a lot. “A writer.” I felt a thrill at the suggestion that my English and creative writing degrees made me a writer in her eyes. Had she said this to me just weeks before, I would have objected, but since receiving your letter, Mother, I found myself overflowing with words in response. “I like writers in grocery. You all do a good job with those staff-pick cards. Customers love that kind of thing.”

I briefly imagined a whole Instagram page called Writers in Grocery, maybe an off-Broadway musical. “I can start today,” I blurted out, for a moment feeling as bare as I had that day at the market, standing before the Butcher for the first time, asking him to choose me.

Sandra mimed a series of exaggerated thinking expressions. Finally: “I guess we could get going on training while we run your background stuff.”

Celine’s background stuff. It never failed to produce panic. Every record from my marriage license to my children’s birth certificates had her name on it. I tried to remind myself that I had accepted the gift of Celine’s information to not feel like this, though. This was the freedom Christina had offered. Yet why had it never quite felt that way? “Great.

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