To Turn Around
A single person stands in front of a white background. They have on a black hat with black veil, red heart sunglasses, a reddish face scarf and black clothing. Their face is entirely covered. They have long brown hair.
By. Chloe Landisman
Today, I dressed myself like a young-adult novel heroine, sporting a faux leather jacket and a red scarf to guard my face from particulates that wander the air, seeking out a body to poison. I had bought the scarf when I was sixteen and constructing a costume (we call it a cosplay, within the community) for my first anime convention. It was odd to exalt the piece from the costume, wrap it around my face to armor myself from a contagion that was very real. It doesn’t have a filter like the real, powerful masks do, and I’m honestly not sure it will protect me from anything but it's worth the try; all the truly protective masks are backordered in a few weeks. The outfit I was wearing was intended to be my unironic clothing choice for the day; the scarf was matched with a black jeans, a faux moto-jacket, and my Doc Martens so it made it look like more of a costume.
That said, I felt much more confident as a faux Katniss Everdeen than I ever did as a Chloe. If my mother hadn’t been forced out of her office we probably would’ve stayed home and I would not have had the chance to don my post-apocalyptic garb. We waved to the janitor who unlocked the door to her office building from about twelve feet away. I brandish our final bottle of hand-sanitizer, it looks anachronistic with my leather jacket, as my mother unlocks the door to the space we can no longer afford to rent. Not because of the pandemic, but because her business partner fell through, again. s.
“There’s always this sense of failure,” She said, to me, folding up a table, “every time I’ve closed up an office.” It’s true that it wasn’t her first time packing up a space that she gave life to. She works as an English literature tutor, mainly for homeschooled children and teens. In order to pay rent to teach her classes she’s needed partners but they haven’t been as committed to the work. One of them hated kids, that was wholly ironic.
“You haven’t failed.” I said to her, knowing that this year, she taught a twelve-year old boy who has suffered from dyslexia all his life to write stories. Whatever she will do next will be better, whatever that may be. “I don’t think you’ve failed at all.” She offers me a wrinkled smile in return and I only hope that she believes me.
____
We had packed the car with as much of mom’s office as we could contain in the back of a Kia Sorento. My mother let me quickly pop in to the The General Store & Delicatessen across the street from her office. It’s been one of my favorite places since I was a greasy-haired tween.
I had lessons with my voice teacher every Friday afternoon in highschool in the theater next to my mother’s office in highschool. I remember the room being built so acoustically smooth that I didn’t need a microphone for my voice to brush the ceiling. I’d long ago decided that it was, in fact, the place I felt the most home in the world.
After my lesson I would go across the street to The General Store; ten dollars in my fist for a sandwich and some starburst. They had been in business since before my mother was born in a red barn-like antique storefront. It's the type of place that makes you feel warm from the inside out when you see in aglow during the night or in the dead of winter.
They knew me there, watched me grow up and I watched them grow up too. Lisa was at the end of her highschool career when I first met her there, she was poker faced for the most part, but always smiled before saying goodbye to me. She’s Latina, with long black hair and eyeliner that is always impeccably straight. That store would get so crowded on weekdays that you could barely find space to stand and wait for your bacon, egg, and cheese to be finished cooking.
Today it was nearly completely empty, it felt vacuous, chairs were flipped upon tables. I knew they were never taken down.
“We aren’t serving hot food, anymore.” Lisa said to me, not looking up from wiping the counter. “It’s good to see you, Chloe.” I couldn’t see her mouth under her mask, not seeing her smile felt like speaking to somebody over the phone with a choppy connection. I almost make out her expressions for a moment before it's unclear once more like words frozen before leaving the phone speaker.
“The feeling is mutual, I hope you’re well.”
“I am, thank you.” I waited a beat, but not too long. I didn’t want to take too much of her time or overexpose either of us to the risk of passing along the contagion. “Can I have a small french vanilla cappuccino and a small black coffee with splenda?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I spotted a ring-shaped bulge underneath her rubber gloves as I watched her pour the coffee. I wondered if she had fallen in love while I was away at school. I slid her my credit card underneath the sheet of glass that separated us from each other. “You look really pretty today.” She told me, as I went to leave. I was flustered, red cheeks hidden the same way I did when she told me my hair was pretty when I was younger. My apocalypse garb proved itself to be more enticing than I ever thought it would.
“Please stay really safe!” I said to her, more for my sake than hers. I didn't know if she’d still be here when I came back. In that moment, I longed more than anything for Lisa to have not been labeled “essential” by a government that does not seek to protect her. I also didn’t know if she’s legal or not; should she become ill and need hospital care there may not be . She certainly wouldn’t receive a stimulus check should she need to take time off of work.
I still couldn’t see her mouth under her mask, I wondered if it looked the same as it always did when she bid me farewell.
I want to turn around, say something more, but I walk straight for the car.
Chloe Landisman is an up-and-coming fiction, nonfiction, and poetry author based in New England. Her poetry and prose is forthcoming in Iō Literary Journal, Fearsome Critters, and Ruminate Magazine. She is currently completing her bachelor's degree in English with a concentration in fiction at Sarah Lawrence College. When not in school she spends her time reading, writing, and watching 1970s Japanese horror films.