This Is Not Really Happening

Mom stood next to the store owner in the private office by the corner, her arms folded protectively. He spoke in a hushed voice, but I could hear what he was saying seated on the office chair just a few feet away.

“I’m well within my rights to call the cops, lady, ” the store owner threatened. Mom sniffled, trying not to cry, her long fingers wiping away tears.

“I’m so sorry, Mister Jackson. Ever since I lost my job, it’s been difficult. I was desperate.”

“Don’t make excuses. You tried to steal from me. I could throw the book at you!”

Then he looked over to me and his expression changed. “But you have a good girl there. She has an honest soul, so you must have done something right.”

I winced. There was no doubt now; Mom now knew I tipped off Mr. Jackson. I didn’t know what got into me. Mom always made it sound like shopping lifting was some kind of bonding experience between the two of us. Henry warned me not to fall for her antics, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted her approval more than anything. Whenever we pulled off a heist at DJ Holmes or Macy’s Mom showered me with affection, at least momentarily, calling me “my sweet!”

But this store wasn’t a soulless corporation she was stealing from. It was a mom and pop and Mom always said she would never steal from independent shopkeepers. Maybe that’s why I nodded to Mr. Jackson to watch out for her. Maybe I was just getting tired of playing the decoy. Mr. Jackson put his hands on his hips, considering.

Mr. Jackson sighed. “Listen, thanks to your daughter, no crime was committed, so I’m gonna let you go. But I don’t want to see you in here again, you hear me?”

“Oh, thank you, Mister Jackson,” Mom blubbered, kissing him profusely on the cheeks and lips. Most men responded to that as Mom was attractive. He pried himself off her.

“Just take care of your daughter. She’s special.”

“Oh, she is indeed, Mr. Jackson,” she said, dripping with honey. Mom took my hand as we left the store. When we were on Canal Street, Mom broke her hold and walked away, grabbing the keys out of her purse.

“Mom!” No reply. I ran to catch up with her and heard Mom curse as she approached the car. “Mom, please!”

She shot around and glowered at me, her gray eyes slicing into my soul.

“Don’t. Call me––’Mom!”

She got into the Toyota Celica. I tried getting in, but she drove off.