The following is an excerpt from my novella "Proceed to Checkout"

On the surface, Jennifer looked better than ever — her body now slimmed down to pre-baby contours and clad in staggering variety of the latest fashions. Baristas would smile a bit too long and ask her too many questions about her lattes (soy, unsweetened, extra hot) until they noticed she was also buying a chocolate milk box for the toddler peering over the counter. Jennifer’s life seemed to take on a rhythm and productivity of its own once again, but she occasionally worried about her girls.  

“What are we going to buy today?” Claire asked, pinching a circle of dry cereal between her chubby fingers.  

“I don’t know, we don’t need anything,” Jennifer responded, without looking up from the wiping off the baby’s high chair tray.  

“But everyday we buy stuff, Mommy. You bought two shirts yesterday, and I didn’t get anything. I want SOMETHING!” the girl howled.  

Jennifer cringed, the bile of guilt churning in her stomach. Some good I’m doing staying at home with these kids. They’d probably be better off with a nanny who would take them to the park and teach them Spanish — or Mandarin— while I went to a job that paid for a kitchen remodel and set a better example of what it means to be an educated woman.  

They would go to the public library this morning, Jennifer decided, for the story hour she and Claire had once frequented. And it was indoors, so she could wear her new suede ankle boots without fear of water stains.

Resolving to be a better mother, she pushed the double stroller through the automatic glass doors of the library, her heels click-clacking on the tile. From the children’s section came the librarian’s familiar storytelling cadence, mixed with the bubbling energy of toddlers and the muffled snorts of infants. There was a space for Jennifer to leave the stroller along the outer perimeter of the circle of women and children, and she encouraged Claire to take an open seat on the rug where the older kids were stomping light-up tennis shoes and pumping plump arms, mimicking the soldiers of the “Grand Old Duke of York”. Jennifer hung in the back, surveying the crowd — slightly different from the mommy’s group. She thought of her freshman dorm roommate. Dana was her name, with that wavy red hair and lanky vegan frame. At the end of the year, she stuffed her men’s 501s and fleece vests into a backpack to hike the John Muir trail with her boyfriend. 

And the books! Besides the plentiful selection of children’s titles, there were shelves and shelves appealingly displayed for adults. From her location in the children’s department, she could see the cover of a large coffee table book featuring portraits of babies by Anne Geddes. In fact, there was a section devoted to photography, with glossy hard-covers and the familiar yellow and black manuals for dummies. Claire was happily watching a green felt caterpillar gobble felt fruits, and Lily had fallen asleep in the stroller. Jennifer could just duck away for a minute and grab a few books for herself while the story time was going on. After all, going to the library could be a good thing for Mommy, too.  

Excusing herself past a couple of women carrying their young in elaborately wrapped cloth slings, she darted over to the display and picked up the book of photographs. Not only were there colorful images of pink cheeked babies in beds of flowers, but tender black and whites of large hands cradling premature newborns and pregnant bellies shrouded in spider web thin gauze. Like the cocoon the caterpillar in the librarian’s story was spinning, meaning the story was almost over. Jennifer furtively added a how-to manual for digital cameras and another book on people photography. As she turned for the children’s department, she heard a familiar shriek.

“Mommmmy!”  

A group of mentally disabled adults was plodding through the walkway, some of them in wheelchairs, others carrying bulky backpacks and lunchboxes. Claire’s crying was turning hysterical, all heads in the building turning toward the children’s section. Jennifer pushed her way through the disabled tour group. “Some people don't think about anyone but themselves,” the guide stage-whispered as Jennifer jostled past a wheelchair, knocking a DVD out of its rider’s hands.

 By the time she reached the children’s section, the crowd was breaking up, and Claire was no longer crying, just shuddering through her snot covered mouth. The girl was sitting in the lap of a stout brown-faced Chinese grandmother.

 “Ta shi ni mama, ma?” Is she your mother?  The old woman gently asked the girl, as if protecting her from a predator. Her yellowed eyes met Jennifer’s with a tired gaze.

 “Xie xie ni” Thank you, Jennifer stuttered, not letting her eyes dwell on the woman for very long. The grandmother released Claire to her mother, tsk-tsking something in Mandarin. Jennifer did not fully understand the words, yet she understood fully.  The grandmother was dressed in the uniform of no-nonsense old women from Taiwan: baggy khaki pants and a long sleeved shirt buttoned all the way to the collar. Her permed hair was framed with a sun visor with the tilt-down face shield like the one Anna wore. Anna!  Jennifer realized the tawny toddler clinging to the grandmother’s side was Anna’s daughter Sarah. What Jennifer almost did not notice was that across the room, another woman was also watching the situation. As the other woman turned away, Jennifer saw the multi-colored flash of crystals on the back of her jeans. Anna had seen everything.

 There was no use in pretending to be a good mother anymore. Dropping the photography books, Jennifer rushed Claire and her sleeping sister out of the library as fast as she could.  The car sped out of the parking garage, with no clear destination in mind. Jennifer headed to the freeway, hoping to lull the girls to sleep on the way home.  

“I need to go pee-pee!” shouted Claire from the back seat.

 “We’re almost home, just hold on,” Jennifer instructed. 

“I can’t! I need to go NOW!” They were still several blocks from the freeway entrance. Cleaning out a urine soaked car seat would probably serve me right, Jennifer thought. But it was a penance she did not feel like paying. So she changed lanes, and headed for the nearest restroom she knew: the one at the mall.