Chapter 17
Vic spent a sleepless night recounting events of the past few weeks, and—more painfully, much more painfully—ruminating over choices she’d made and hadn’t made in her life.
She went on her phone, but instead of watching endless reels, she conversed with ChatGPT, starting with, “Why do I get super anxious when someone is nice to me?”
And then, not wanting to confess everything to her friendly AI buddy—as in, she didn’t want to enter in text that she was a thief—she asked, “How do you stop compulsive behaviors?”
The search results were surprisingly enlightening, and she both hated and felt huge relief at seeing aspects of herself, past and present, that were spot on.
She entered similar questions into Google, and the AI summary was similar, just not as in-depth as ChatGPT’s responses.
What she’d wanted to see with this query, however, was not so much links to professionals’ opinions, but just regular people’s responses.
And sure enough, there were plenty. Reddit and Quora links were chock full of questions like hers, and, surprisingly for the Internet, the vast majority of responses were kind, genuine attempts to be helpful.
Who’d a thunk? Though she wasn’t particularly optimistic for herself at this point in time, it was comforting to see how many regular people seemed to struggle with similar things.
Also, she hadn’t always been this much of an absolute screw-up.
Her issues with men, okay, sure, it was fair to say they were pretty longstanding—but the stealing was new since her break-up with Brent and return to her mother’s house.
Then she thought to heck with it and asked what triggered kleptomania. The information was eye-opening and humbling—and she cried a little. She also felt strangely comforted.
You’ve got this, Angel said. You’re on the right track.
Yeah, who knew all that woo woo crap you look up these days might actually be onto something, Devil said, never one to pass up a moment to be snide.
Finally, it was late enough into Thursday morning that she could get up. Every single part of her was heavy and weighed down, especially her heart, as she made her way downstairs in search of coffee.
She’d been pretty sure that Audra hadn’t registered the details of her new “job” or noticed that she was away for eight hours every day, though, of course, she’d told her about it.
In classic Audra style, however, when it suited Vic least, she had paid attention.
“So, what? You couldn’t even keep your temporary job?” Audra cackled behind her as Vic was adding cream to her freshly poured mug.
Vic jumped, startled. Of course, today of all days would be the day her mother made an exception to holing up in her bedroom, watching morning TV.
“Good morning to you too,” she said—then was shocked by the next words out of her mouth. “If you could have a do-over in life, what would you do differently?”
Audra stared at Vic like she’d grown three heads.
Then she chewed at the edge of her lower lip.
For a moment, Vic thought she was actually contemplating the question and might answer it.
She was both intrigued and slightly terrified by what the response might be—not have you, she suspected. And what would she say to that?
Nothing, Devil said snidely. Because you never say or do anything.
Audra’s reply was typical and came as no surprise—though it wasn’t as hateful as Vic had imagined.
She took the coffee Vic had intended for herself and fixed her with a baleful stare.
“Namby-pamby questions like this are ridiculous. There’s no such thing as ‘do-over’ nonsense.
In this life, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset. ”
Vic blinked. You get what you get. No, she didn’t buy it.
Or she didn’t want to buy it. Not anymore.
She stared at Audra, and something cold walked over her psyche.
It was like being visited by Dickens’s The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, except that it wasn’t Christmas, of course.
Not yet. Still, if she wasn’t careful, she was going to not only live with her mother, she was going to turn into her mother, bitterly unhappy with her life and everything in it, but unable—or unwilling—to see her own complicity in her unhappiness.
You get what you get. That line of thinking seemed like it might be the root of her whole problem.
She’d always accepted whatever she got, not liking it, it hurting her over and over again, but never making any changes.
Being so damn passive in her own life. Worse, with her stupid, compulsive behaviors, she was now actively destroying her own chances for friendships and respect—especially self-respect.
Had she ever had that? She didn’t think so.
And that brought Madeline to her mind. One of the reasons, she suspected, that Madeline was so unflappable and kind about seemingly everything was that she didn’t give a shit about what other people thought of her—in a nice way.
She had self-respect and confidence that wasn’t based on other people’s opinions.
Vic’s mind flashed on Madeline’s discomfort when she’d thought her five-finger discount joke might’ve hurt her feelings.
So, it wasn’t that she didn’t care how other people felt.
The opposite, in fact. She had a high standard of how she lived—but it was her own standard, her own bar, she was concerned with meeting.
And Madeline was wonderful, yes. Creative, compassionate, hardworking, funny, generous, and so on and so on—but she wasn’t that much different than Vic might be able to be if she disciplined herself.
Madeline was someone to aspire to be like, but also not totally out of the realm of possibility for her to become. Maybe.
Vic poured another cup of coffee as Audra complained there wasn’t enough sugar in “hers,” added the requisite two teaspoons of the white stuff, then traded Audra mugs.
Audra sniffed.
I think you should take the day off, hey .
. . In fact, make it a couple. The words rang in Vic’s head, not in Angel or Devil’s alternating croon or shrill voices, but in Madeline’s somber, firm one.
It didn’t take a genius to realize that “a couple” probably meant permanently.
And that sucked because Vic finally saw things clearly.
For whatever reason, life had offered her a second chance via The Second Chance Shop. That was what Madeline had intended. And she’d blown it.
“Would you like eggs, Mom?”
Audra did not want eggs. Or cereal—hot or cold. Or fruit. After that, Vic stopped offering.
She went upstairs, studied her juvenile room for all of thirty seconds, then, in quick, decisive movements, took down every single item hanging on her walls—except for the stolen swallow.
She removed them carefully. They were mint-condition vintage, after all, and she just might know a place that would sell them on consignment.
If she still had even a tiny in with the owner, that is.
With the walls bare, she could already breathe easier. She stripped the bedding too. She would wash it and bag it and see if Aisha could use it for anything—well, she’d see if Aisha could use it if she got another chance with her too.
She slipped into a hooded sweatshirt, leggings, and a pair of beaten-up sneakers that must’ve been thirty-five years old.
Then she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail.
Without glancing in a mirror or bothering with even a stitch of makeup, not even lip gloss, she grabbed her purse and headed back downstairs.
“You’re going out like that? You look like something the cat dragged in.”
A cat! Of course. Audra’s words were like gold. How come it hadn’t occurred to her before? If it was love and affection she was longing for, she should get a cat. Audra might fight it, but, for once, Vic would put her own foot down. Probably. Maybe. She’d think about it.
She was humming when she walked into the Second Chance Shop a few minutes before closing.
She had no idea what Madeline would say, and no one could’ve been more surprised than she was to realize Madeline’s response didn’t matter.
She, of course, had an outcome she was hoping for, but it was secondary to her main goal.
For once in her life, she was going to handle herself and own her mistakes in a way that she could be proud of.
Or at least not horribly ashamed of. Baby steps, Vic, our girl, baby steps.