 A short story
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Catherine's Secret
The waves crash revealing their strength as Catherine buries her feet in the warm sand. She slowly opens up her journal and reads: The blinding lights above blur my vision making everything dance, a ripple of tags blow in the undercurrent, luring me into their spell. I run my hand under them feeling anxious anticipation as the prices increase. Cashmere, crepe, chiffon and velour, only the best is to be the reward for such a calculating endeavour. I say to myself, "You can have anything you want, you deserve it" as I pick up a soft summer tanktop and lay it lovingly across one arm. I am surrounded by elaborate fabrics worn only by the privileged few and they are all mine for the taking. I casually glance out of the corner of one eye and target my escape route. Now free to shop like a star I skip the inexpensive sections and head straight for the gold. Only the finest and most unique garments receive my attention. My standards have changed. With an arm full of carefully placed items I watch for the saleslady to turn her back so I can make my move. My breath is slow and shallow like that of someone hiding, waiting to be found. In an instant, I go unnoticed into the safety of an open change room. I've made my final move. Catherine is addicted to something she can't consume. Rather, it consumes her. She spends endless days looking, planning and preparing for her next trip, caught in a vicious self-defeating cycle. Her magic bag clings to her wherever she goes, her motto is always 'be prepared'. Friends admire her skill as she showers them with the latest fashions. Her world is surreal, a feeling she can't shake. "What do I want the most?" I ponder to myself. Trying on one ensemble after another I reduce the pile to an unnoticable size. I meticulously roll each item into a thinner version of its original self and pack the fabrics tightly into my trusted bag. This is the crucial last step to my invisible exit. My ear remains glued to the door as I peer through the wooden panels to determine the ideal moment to leave. I am met by a polite saleswoman asking how things had fit and offering to return the clothes to their racks. I wonder why I am always treated with the utmost respect. Could it be the clothes I am wearing? An airy confidence accompanies my nonchalant saunter out of the store. Catherine always feels exhilerated upon arriving home as she carelessly empties her treasures into a heap on the bed. She removes all the tags and the ritual begins. First, everything must be added up and compared with the previous shopping spree, then room is made to accommodate her new belongings. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, she revels in her talent. This doesn’t last long though, only days go by and that insatiable craving compels her once again. This time she raises the stakes just to prove her expertise. A new challenge is the fix. I no longer feel satisfied by my predictable sprees so I add a new element just for the thrill of it. On one occasion, instead of dressing in my usual designer garb, I wore my sweaty gym attire, hair in a ponytail and bag stuffed with my street clothes on my back. I knew I had little storage room but would be satisfied at merely conquering a small store. It is not my usual routine to go where sales attention is abundant. I was greeted with courtesy and offered assistance if need be. I noticed that the racks were small, holding only a few articles each and the change rooms were locked, further increasing the level of difficulty. Though this did not deter me, it only demanded that I display a greater amount of skill. I lay a couple outfits across one arm questioning how I would make it inside the dressing room. Startled by a sudden tap on the shoulder, I quickly turned around. "Would you like me to start a room for you, ma’am?" the saleswoman asked, not noticing as I swung the clothes to one side. "Oh yes, that would be great!" I replied as I quickly thought up an excuse to send the woman away. After the woman unlocked the door I asked, "Would you please get me another size in this?" as I held a sweater to my chest. "Sure, no problem," the woman replied. I felt a sudden sense of delirium as I knew I was about to win. I swung the clothes in the room as soon as the woman turned her back. She hadn’t seen a thing. Everything went without a hitch. As I weaved my way out of the store, a girl caught my eye. She was looking at me as if she knew something. I turned and walked away. As I was making my way down the crowded street, I felt a presence right behind me; I turned and there she was. "Can I help you?" I asked.>P> "No, but I can help you!" she replied. Amy, an experienced shopper herself, had recognized Catherine's behaviour in the store and immediately pinned her as one of her own. She offered to show her the ropes, to teach her some clever tricks and techniques that would give her a high she'd never had before. They became quick friends, allies in a twisted game of deceit. It wasn't long before they were taking valium to enhance the experience, followed by endless cigarettes to calm their rushing adrenalin. Catherine and Amy began taking orders only from a trusted few to whom they sold at rock bottom prices. Although Catherine had been feeling faint pangs of guilt at her illicit behaviour, Amy had convinced her to simply disregard them. And yet, the guilt continued to fester, eating away at her hand-stitched spirit.
I love watching the birds flying, soaring above with a freedom I don't yet know of. I have been feeling confused and angry that the one thing I relied on for pleasure is becoming less and less fulfilling. My stash of expensive linens, electronic equipment, and funky decorations--the ones that they jazz up the furniture floor with--are all abandoned on the floor of my closet, while the clothes above I've seen no more than once are jam-packed begging to be worn. I look out into the vastness of the ocean and wonder if true happiness lurks somewhere beneath the surface. Catherine stands up, gently brushing the sand from her legs and filling her lungs with salty fresh air. She opens up her bag and stares into its emptiness, placing her journal in the bottom. Swinging it casually over one shoulder, Catherine sighs to herself, "I think it's time for a new beginning." © Kirsten Anvik 2001
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