Lost in the Mall

Jennifer Gay Summers

Word Count 1664

I perched on the edge of the family room couch where I had been told to stay, waiting to see what strange outfit my ten-year-old daughter would surprise me with next. I had explained to her that we were going all out for my husband’s parent’s wedding anniversary, renting a limo, eating in a fancy French restaurant, and posing for family photographs. I offered to take Lee* shopping, but she said she had a better idea.

“I’ll pick out something from my closet. I’ll give you choices. It’ll be fun!”

I looked down at outfit number four dumped at my feet– a floral T-shirt paired with camouflage green leggings and sandals with plastic daisies. “Too beachy,” I’d said.

“Close your eyes,” she said from down the hallway. “Ta Da!”

My eyes flew open, and I took in Lee’s newest version of dressy. She’d matched a brown blouse covered in green and yellow daisies with a jet-black skirt with magenta roses. Wide pink chandelier earrings floated above a large shark tooth necklace around her small neck. Her freckled face was framed by an auburn bob, combed neatly for once, but her makeup took my breath away. Pouty lips, glistening with the “Wow! Violet” lipstick she had taken from my makeup drawer. “Please?” Heavily-shadowed eyes over rouged cheeks begged me to say yes to the outfit.

“Honey, I’m sorry. You need to wear something more…appropriate.” I hated spoiling her fun, but it was time to get serious.

“This is my freedom of expression, Mom, and you can’t take it away!”

We were so different, the two of us. When I was ten years old, I followed the straight path my mother laid out for me. I never complained about the dresses she sewed and matched with gloves, hats, little white purses, and patent leather shoes. I felt so pretty, so grown-up in my mother’s choices. I never knew, until I turned thirteen, that I could have my own style, my own “freedom of expression.” Even then, I never defied my mother’s hand-picked outfits for a formal evening, which was usually an elegant dress, a strand of pearls, and low heels.

But that was the 1960’s, and this was 2009. My husband and I had adopted Lee, our little redheaded baby who would be diagnosed at the age of seven with ADHD, anxiety, and sensory processing disorder. Driven by her impulses, Lee had difficulty letting go of them. When I said no, she often exploded with hot anger, yelling and slamming doors. The therapist I’d gone to had warned me not to give into this behavior and told me to set boundaries. If I said yes to this outfit, I worried she might never comply with a no again.

I looked at the clock. One hour before the mall closed. “Let’s go shopping, Lee. Is Nordstrom okay?”

Lee threw off her clothes and muttered, “I don’t care. Whatever’s close.”

It wasn’t that I wanted to take her to the mall. Shopping for clothes meant having the patience to look at racks and racks, make decisions, and stand in line. All of this was difficult for my daughter, whose body was in perpetual motion and easily swayed by any distraction.

She stormed down the hall to change her clothes. I thought back to how excited I’d been as a child to shop with my mom. The more stores, the better. A high fashion model in her twenties, Mom always had a knack for putting together stylish outfits. What fun we’d also had as adults, getting dressed up and setting off for a trip to Nordstrom, her favorite department store. Then I remembered yesterday when Lee and I went over to her house for lunch.

“ Lee’s volunteering at a nature camp,” I told my mom, but she just stared at her fashion magazine. I squeezed Lee’s hand, holding back tears. Alzheimer’s had crept in on cat’s feet, but there was no avoiding it now. Mom’s sister was already in the mid-stages, so I’d had a glimpse of the train barreling toward us. My beautiful mother’s incandescent light was going out, leaving her helpless. The thought of losing her to this cruel disease was losing a part of myself. Mom pointed at a photo of Kate Moss, sporting a hot pink boa and matching hair, and clapped her hands. The model was more real to my mother now than her granddaughter, whom she’d forgotten.

“Let’s get this over with!” Lee’s voice brought me back to the present as she raced past me, headed for the car.

She was quiet in the backseat, sitting on her knees as usual. Her face rested in her arms on the open window. Wind whipped her hair back, and she closed her eyes. I breathed in the calm minutes that sped by all too fast. As I pulled into the mall parking lot, I could feel Lee’s anxiety mounting, like the ripples of heat coming off the cement. I knew that she was anticipating what would come next: crowds, glaring lights, and loud sounds.

Nordstrom’s parking lot was full, so I decided to shop at J.C. Penney’s, at the other end of the mall. “Sweetheart, we’ll be out of here in no time flat.” A straight line from the car to the store was my strategic offense. Our shopping trips had to be fast with me in sergeant mode, one eye always on my child. Quick decisions were necessary before she got bored and had a meltdown.

As we walked into the store, I made note of Lee’s bright orange lizard T-shirt and the Vans shoes with the fire flames. J.C. Penney’s was crowded, and I would have to be hyper-vigilant. Lee spotted clothes on a sales rack.

“Look, Mom! Our favorite color!” It was a turquoise cotton shift with spaghetti straps in a size 16.

“Too big, honey. You’re an 8.”

“I think you should buy it right now!”

“Try it on if you don’t believe me. It will fall off you.”

She threw the dress at me and stormed away, hiding under the sale rack.

I stood still, my hands starting to shake. Why hadn’t I gone to the mall by myself? But deep inside, I knew. I still wanted what I couldn’t have, those days shopping with my mother. Before the ADHD diagnosis, a time when I felt like the world’s worst mother, I had a mother who held me and told me everything would be okay. Over chicken salads and ice teas in Nordstrom’s Café with sleek, silver shopping bags at our feet, she listened while I broke down. “How,” I’d asked her, “…could I be so desperately in love with my child and have no idea of how to parent her?” “Just love her,” she’d said, and that was now my mantra.

Looking under the sale rack, I saw the red-flamed shoes and leaned down. “Let’s go, ” I whispered. As she crawled out, I noticed another mom’s surprised glance at the sight of my ten-year-old acting like a preschooler. My cheeks burned. Why couldn’t Lee just stay at my side like my friends’ daughters? I heard the therapist’s advice, “You only get into trouble when you compare her with a typical child. You’re not doing Lee any good wallowing in denial.”

I shot the other mother my best “mind your own business” look and reached for Lee’s hand, but she was faster. In the blink of an eye, she shot out of the store and over to an escalator. I followed, running like mad. As I got on, she got off and scampered down the mall. I moved as fast as I dared, nudging people aside.

I hit the ground level and saw Lee up ahead, running. Past the startled shoppers, past the curious vendors hawking their wares, past Wetzel’s Pretzels, Things Remembered, and Claire’s Accessories, out of sight. I ran too, searching for the auburn bob and the bright orange lizard shirt, trying to avoid knocking down the slow movers, my heart hammering. I noticed a flash of orange up ahead, Lee’s face scared and lost, looking for me.

Catching up, I knelt and held her tight to my chest, tears of relief running down my face. Guilt pooled in her eyes, and she started to cry, hugging me back just as hard. I didn’t have a book of instructions on how to parent this child, but I knew one thing. I might have lost the mother I’d always known, but I wasn’t going to lose my daughter. None of this was worth it. To hell with the damned dress. She could wear whatever she wanted. “Just love her,” echoed in my head.

It was time. Time to accept my daughter for who she was, not who she could never be, some carbon copy of me as a child. I wasn’t my mom picking out an appropriate dress. I was the mother of a child with enormous challenges who needed my understanding and compassion.

We stood up, and she grabbed my hand. We were steps away from Nordstrom. Lee pointed inside the store.

“It’s OK, honey, let’s go home.”

“No, Mom, look. Roses!” She gestured at a rack of girls’ dresses positioned by the door. One with pretty puckered roses over teal green jumped out at both of us.

“Perfect,” she said.

It was a blessed size medium, and I knew it would fit. Oh, the irony, I thought. Of all the places to find the perfect dress. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered.

Lee started in on an accessory rack, fingering headbands. “This, too!” She grabbed a feather one with turquoise jewels. She would have her freedom of expression, my strong-willed child, and no one would ever take that away. It was the very essence of her soul.

We left the store, Lee’s silver shopping bag held tight in her fist. She bounced ahead a little, then turned back and reached for my hand. “Come on, Mom!”

*Lee is a pseudonym.

Jennifer’s articles and essays have appeared in ADDitude, Adoptive Families, Whole Life Times, and Chicken Soup anthologies, among other publications. She is the co-author of Any Way I Can; 50 Years in Show Business, written in collaboration with her father, screenwriter, John Gay. She is currently writing a memoir about parenting a neurodivergent child based on her long-running blog for ADDitude. You can follow her at www.jennifergaysummers.com