Shopping
by Florence Wong

Our heads popped out of the fitting room doors like curious neighbors in a cul-de-sac. Two teenage girls were trying on identical red gowns with rhinestone straps. A blonde woman tried to calm down her young, pouting daughter. An older woman tried on a brown pantsuit. My mother was tying the satin bow in the back of my turquoise party dress when we heard it. Before a knot could be secured, the scream had interrupted the whole department.

Outside, the saleswomen stopped what they were doing—one was on the phone, another was ringing up a customer, and the other one was dressing a mannequin. They had all stopped working, just like we had all stopped dressing. Our ears and our eyes were open, and for that second after the scream, we questioned ourselves of its existence. But then we heard it again. It wasn’t a child’s scream, or a laughing scream, but one that came from an adult, a woman. It was a speaking scream. The scream said No!—not like the ones from scary movies but one that carried so much horror it could only be real.

The saleswomen ran over to the neighboring children’s department. Fitting room attendants followed. A redheaded woman hunched over the countertop and screamed, her cayenne curls spread out like the head of a mop. The scream now had a face. The woman straightened up and there on the countertop was a toddler, a baby really, lying motionless. He had a bald head and wore plaid overalls and blue socks. He looked like a doll my sister had when she was young. “A seizure! He had a seizure!” the mother said desperately to the paramedic, clinging onto his shirt. By then a crowd had gathered and the paramedics had to carry the boy through all the people. My mother told me to look away when they walked past us, but I didn’t. The paramedic turned and twisted to avoid the crowd, shielding the baby from our scrutiny. As he walked away, I caught a glimpse of his tiny arm that jutted out from between the paramedic’s arm and waist. It looked like he was reaching out to me, asking for my help. Without thinking, I grabbed it. Still warm, it was the softest thing I’ve ever felt, a feeling lighter than organza, more delicate than satin, softer than any ribbon slipping through a mother’s fingers.

Florence Wong is a recent English graduate of California State University, East Bay with an option in creative writing. After joining the work force, Florence plans to come back to CSUEB for her master's degree to fulfill her dream of teaching college English.

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