Free Mommy Tracked by Whitney Gaskell Page B

appease an angry god.
    Chloe got control of the impulse again and went a long time without stealing anything. And then, a few years later, when she was in the throes of planning her wedding—an event far more stressful than she’d ever imagined, especially for Chloe, who always wanted to please everyone, which was pretty much impossible when you were gathering together three hundred of your touchiest friends and relatives—Chloe went on a binge. She took a purse from T. J. Maxx, a half dozen men’s silk ties from Stein Mart, a pair of pink topaz earrings from Macy’s, and a leaf-shaped air freshener from the car wash while she was waiting to pick up her recently detailed car.
    She promised herself that she’d stop after the wedding, and, other than one tiny relapse on her honeymoon—she pocketed a Bermuda-themed snow globe in the hotel gift shop—Chloe had managed to kick the habit. It had been hard, but she’d finally done it. But now…now she could feel the urge creeping up and grabbing her, until she was overwhelmed with the need to take the cherry-adorned shoes.
    Chloe looked around and saw that the salesclerk—who had been studiously ignoring Chloe—was now chatting away on the phone and had her back turned. Quickly, Chloe slid the shoes into her handbag, feeling a rush of excitement and her heart thumping wildly as she did so.
    I did it! she thought, with such a fierce pleasure it took her by surprise. I’m going to get away with it!
    She knew not to run out of the store immediately. A hasty departure might arouse the clerk’s suspicion. Instead, she walked calmly over to the register and waited patiently—hands folded on her round stomach—for the young woman to finish what sounded like a personal call.
    “Yeah, I know, he’s, like, such an asshole. I totally don’t know what she sees in him,” the salesclerk was saying into the phone. She glanced back at Chloe and dropped her voice. “I gotta go. I have a customer. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. See ya later.”
    “Excuse me,” Chloe said patiently, when the clerk finally hung up. “Could you please tell me where the mobiles are?”

    Twenty minutes later, Chloe left the store with the mobile she’d purchased and the shoes she’d stolen. The mobile had stuffed bears, bunnies, and elephants hanging from a white hoop, and it played “Hush, Little Baby” when you wound a white knob on top. It was perfect , exactly what she’d wanted for the gender-neutral nursery. And the clerk had wrapped it beautifully, folding it in pink and blue tissue paper before slipping it into a cellophane bag with scalloped edges.
    Chloe had waited until she got into her car—which took her a while these days—and locked the doors before she slid the shoes out of her handbag, cradling them in her hands.
    But the pleasure at having taken them, that wild rush of victory, abruptly deserted her. It always did. Owning the things she took never brought her any pleasure. Instead, the shoes made her feel dirty and tainted and just a little nauseated, and she was overwhelmed with the urge to get rid of them.
    Chloe started her car and quickly drove to the parking lot of a nearby Publix grocery store. She pulled up next to the Goodwill drop box, which was already overflowing with rusted bikes and faded curtains. She lumbered out of her tiny Jetta, pausing to catch her breath after she’d finally managed to push herself upright, and then—glancing around to make sure no one was watching her—she tossed the shoes into the donation box.
    Chloe had just eased herself back behind the wheel when another Braxton Hicks contraction hit her. She held on to the steering wheel, squeezing it until the palms of her hands hurt, while the pain of the contraction washed over her.
    Breathe , Chloe told herself, but her breath came in short, strangled gasps.
    Even after the contraction ended and her breath stabilized, Chloe sat for a few minutes, feeling too shaky to drive. Finally, her hands still