Page 3 of Lift Me Up

But then I feel it. The searing sting on my inner left thigh, the built-up pressure releasing, that all too familiar pop and the sticky warmth on my skin. I press my thighs together tightly, willing the universe to listen, begging for it to just let me make it out of here before the disaster happens.

“I was really hopeful—you know—to work in a place where shoppers could see that all sizes are represented in the clothing and staff. It was hard not to notice your lack of a plus-size section out there, and I hoped I was wrong. I wanted to give the benefit of the doubt. But I can see that I was wrong. So, while I appreciate… whatever this was, I will see myself out.”

I shoulder my purse and turn to make a hasty exit, and I am almost home free when I hear her say to herself, “What is that on the chair?”

The ball in my throat bobs. My eyes press shut and I sigh, head tilting back to the sky as if to ask why are you doing this to me, universe?

I glance over my shoulder to the chair where I was sitting moments before. I can see the aftermath on the chair plain as day, a sheen of something that was not there before. Though she doesn’t know what it is, I definitely do. She looks over at me with a look of disgust, and it takes everything in me to not run away in embarrassment. Turning back to the chair, I can see the drainage there in a thankfully localized spot on the easy-to-clean black leather. I don’t make eye contact with Tracey as I reach into my bag for the disinfectant wipes I keep handy for such an occasion.

The bloody-brownish coloured mess disappears from her office chair, and I take the wipe with me. I turn to leave again; I explain nothing—say nothing—and I hope I can make it out before she says another word or before my breakfast resurfaces in embarrassment and humiliation.

But today is not my day.

“Whatever that is, it’s disgusting, and it’s on your shorts.” She says it with such disdain and disgust. Every word becomes an arrow aimed directly at me, poised to kill. The words stop me dead in my tracks. It’s one thing to feel humiliated when something like this happens in public, and you have to try your best to keep your brave face on and pretend that you are unfazed by it all. It’s another thing entirely to have it pointed out to you by someone who doesn’t understand what you’re going through, for them to say hurtful things like that intentionally.

It takes everything out of me; it takes every ounce of confidence I have to brush it off, turning it to nothing. My hands tremble, my lip follows. I silently beg the tears brimming at my lashes to go away. I pray they don’t fall until I am out of here, out of the public eye, hidden away where I can let every emotion go and clean myself up from the mess I never meant to cause.

I don’t turn back. I can’t bear to let her see that she has bothered me any more than she already has. I know she’s intentionally trying to hurt me. For whatever reason, I can't be sure. I wish I could say that this was a rare occurrence, but it happens so much more often than people would believe. You learn to let it scratch the surface. You wear an armour so thick to protect yourself. You trudge on—keep going, even when it feels impossible.

I make it to the storefront before the cracks in my well-built armour form. I release shaky breaths, sniffling back the tears threatening to escape.

You’re almost there, almost to a place where you can cry. Keep it together until then. This is the mantra I keep telling myself.

“Miss?" I flinch at the sound of the cashier, but something in me tells me to turn around to face her. Gone is the look of scrunched nose and distaste, and instead I am met with an expression of empathy and sincerity.

“I may have overheard what Tracey said. Honestly, I don’t feel like she gave you a fair chance and I know what it’s like to have… something like that happen. Here.” She hands me a flannel shirt and I knit my eyebrows in confusion while taking the shirt in my hand.

“I paid for it, it’s from our men's section, but I thought the sleeves might be long enough to tie it around your waist, so you’re covered.”

“Oh,” I respond, unsure what else to say. For someone who made me feel uncomfortable entering the place, she has just made me feel so much better about the situation. “Thank you. But… why are you helping me?”

“Like I said, I’ve been there, and I didn’t have someone there to help me. But I wish I did. Besides, no one deserves to be treated like that for something they can’t control. And I am sorry if I made your experience any worse than she already did. It’s been a rough morning, and I know that’s no reason to take it out on you.” After looking down at her hands and then back up to me, her expression tells me everything. She glances toward the closed door of the office behind us. “I know it doesn’t make up for how I treated you earlier, but I truly am trying to work on being a better person. Hopefully I don’t end up like her someday.”

“I…. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, I appreciate that.” I take the shirt from her, a dark brown-black plaid that will definitely cover me until I’m able to find a bathroom or get home to clean up. I wrap it around my waist, not caring that it takes away from the look of the now soiled white suit that I knew I shouldn’t have worn in the first place.

“Should I call a taxi for you?” She offers a smile, and I offer one back, but I know that mine does not meet my eyes. It’s a fake and forced smile I have perfected over time.

“That would be great, thank you.”

Minutes pass without us saying anything. I take the cashier in a different light this time. She no longer comes across as closed off and judgmental like before. She’s slender and tall with long blond hair pulled back into a perfect ponytail. She covers the bare essentials in a pink tube top falling just above the midriff and dark, skintight jeans.

Her name tag reads, ‘Stella’. She has a tattoo of a flower on her shoulder, the bold black lines swirling and twirling down to her elbow. Her red lipstick has smudged onto her teeth from the straw in her drink. Her blue eyes—once judging and calculated—have shifted to a softer, kinder stare.

“Looks like your cab’s here.” She points to the taxi waiting outside the shop window.

“Right, I should probably…” I point, taking that as my cue to head for the door. I can feel her watching me leave. Turning back to her, I’m just in time to see a stone-faced Tracey leaving her office and glaring at me. I glare right back, prior embarrassment be damned.

“Stella?” I call out, watching her eyes flash from Tracey to myself, head tilted in question. “There’s lipstick on your teeth. If it were me, I’d want someone to tell me.”

She gasps, quickly rubbing it off with her finger, cheeks pink.

I clear my throat, gaining her attention again. “And Stella?”

“Yes?”

I don’t break eye contact with Tracey as I say, “I think you have the potential to become a really great and caring person. I am glad you’re trying to be better than some people. We need more people like you in this world.”

Tracey’s jaw drops as I give a curt nod, turning to shove the storefront door open. Hands shaking, heart racing, confidence nearly depleted again, I don’t look back. I simply enter the car to go home and prepare to clean up the mess that is my life in every possible way.