The Woman Beside Me

It started in Target, where I was picking out some creme-colored, large towels for the bathroom. She, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-40s with a blonde, short, choppy, inverted bob with a side-swept fringe and chunky highlights, looked like the definition of a Karen. Because I never did learn her true name, she inwardly, was always "Karen" to me.

'Excuse me," said Karen when she bumped into me when I unfolded a bathroom towel to make sure it was the right-sized towel. She looked almost comical in her baggy capri pants, too-tight bright floral halter top, and sandals - especially since it was already freezing and almost winter.

Confused, I responded with a "no problem" and assumed she went on her way.

I saw Karen the next day when I went to Starbucks, watching her throw a hissy fit because she was sure she saw the barista only put one shot of espresso instead of two into her Grande Blonde Vanilla Latte. This time, she still wore the still too baggy capri pants with a bright yellow halter top, and sandals. Gosh, how did she not feel the cold in her bones?

"Ma'am," the barista tried to reason with her. "I promise you it was two full pumps, but I can make it again."

"No, I want a refund!" shouted Karen. "I come here all the time, and you get my order wrong all the time. I know what I saw. I will hold up the line if I have to get my refund! It's the principle of the matter."

"That's no problem," signed the barista, prompting the cashier to refund the transaction on her credit card.  

"I will not be made a fool of!" yelled Karen, wildly waving her hands around to everyone in Starbucks, who held a variety of expressions such as shock, amusement, impatience, and fear. I personally stifled my laughter, shaking my head at her absurd behavior.

Later that day, I saw Karen in the parking lot after I saw an unremarkable movie. Karen, in her bright red, Hyundai Elantra, had parked too near me. And I saw her soon after at McDonalds when I stood in line to order a Big Mac with fries.  

"There are not enough fries in this carton!" yelled Karen. "This is absolutely ridiculous! I want a refund!" 

In Ross, while I tried to figure out what size shirt would look best on me, I noticed Karen staring at me. It had to be more than a coincidence that she appeared in every store I was in.

Hesitantly walking toward her, and then becoming increasingly confident as I approached her, I spat out, "Are you following me?" to her, her mouth hanging open. 

"Of course not," Karen squealed just as quickly as I had spoken. "You're nobody - and your sense of style is horrendous. Just please stay out of my way. And don't approach me again because then I know you're just looking for a fight. If you see me, you go the other way"

"No problem," I responded. "But I just want to let you know I see you and whatever you're trying to do, doesn't scare me."

"If you see me again, just stay out of my way," Karen declared angrily, stomping off.

A small crowd had gathered near me and someone finally spoke: "Ma'am, are you okay? Do you need any help?"

"I'm fine," I answered. "That lady has been following me yesterday and today - and probably even before then before I noticed. But I'm okay, young man, thanks for asking," as I finally decided that I was too tired after the Karen confrontation to finish shopping. I walked back to my car, where I locked eyes with Karen, but being the bigger person, I avoided her stare and got into my car. 

At night, I dreamt of Karen in her hideous, bright outfits, her unrelenting gaze, her high-pitched and whiny voice, and her yelling that everything was absolutely, ridiculously wrong and that she wanted a refund. I saw her dressed in khakis and a bright purple halter top in the grocery store while I shopped, following me as I took a stroll in the park, could see her under a hair dryer at the salon I always went to. I almost felt like I could hear her high-pitched, whiny voice in my house. Sometimes, the hairs on my arms stood up, as if Karen were watching me from nearby.

Consuming my thoughts, I thought I'd have a day without her while shopping at Marshalls when she'd suddenly appear. Or when I went to grab food at Chick-fil-A, I'd hear her berating the employee for not putting enough pickles on her sandwich. 

“I want a refund!” she’d scream. “How much is it to ask for enough pickles on my sandwich?”

People stared wherever Karen went. Several people would try to escort her out of the restaurant after she’d gotten her refund, Karen pulling her phone to record the person as “racist against white people” or “sexist against women” or “jealous of her hot bod and style.”

“Don’t shop here!” She’d howl into her video while filming the onlookers, wearing her classic baggy khaki pants, bright halter top, and sandals. “They’re crooks here!” she’d shout. 

Karen’s voice filled my head, and I’d put my hands over my ears to drown out the sound of her voice, the voice I couldn’t help but hear constantly. 

Finally, I decided to stay home, hoping that Karen’s incessant whines and shrill voice wouldn’t follow me, and I found myself having nightmares about her, waking up to see her staring outside at me on the opposite side of the window, gesturing wildly. I ran back to bed, hiding under the blankets, not wanting to go out anymore in fear that I’d see or hear Karen, although I heard her every day in my head. 

One day, someone knocked on the door, and I could feel with all my energy that it was Karen, finally coming to scream in my face, to make me feel negative and unwanted and crazy and unloved. 

After some time, the door burst open, and there stood a lanky, late-twenties woman with blonde hair, flanked by two police officers. 

“Mom!” She cried, throwing her arms around my back. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner. You should have answered.”

“Who are you?” I asked, but at the edge of doubt in my mind, I could see memories starting to form. Of giving birth. Of teaching her how to ride a bike. Of cheering her on for cheer practice. Of helping her find a prom dress - and giving her the sex talk. Of watching her graduate and leave me by myself, my husband leaving me decades ago once he found out I was pregnant, to navigate the world without my precious baby. 

“You’re my daughter,” I spoke slowly. 

She nodded. “You have a brain tumor. You were diagnosed recently, and it’s inoperable. You probably have a good year left, as I now know. You didn’t tell me how bad it was or how far it progressed because you wanted to live your life and not make me feel like you were a burden. But, Mom, I’ve seen you on the internet, and I knew I’d have to come. You’re not a burden to me. And no matter what I say, I won’t leave.”

Nodding slowly, I collapsed into my daughter’s arms and cried. 

The police, their welfare check over, left me in the capable hands of my daughter. She led me into the shower, where she helped me step out of my sandals, strip off my khaki pants, and take off my bright blue halter top, ready to be welcomed into the warm stream of water. 

Catching myself in the mirror, I realized with startling clarity that I was the mid-forties woman with a blonde, short, choppy, inverted bob with a side-swept fringe and chunky highlights. I saw flashbacks to me ordering food, buying clothes, or making other purchases—and never finding anything acceptable. I’d throw tantrum after tantrum, mistakenly believing that I was an innocent bystander when I was the main aggressor. In my mind, I was akin to Dr. Jekyll, but in reality, I was Dr. Hyde. 

I look in the mirror and am buried in the shame and sadness of realizing I am my own stalker. It doesn’t seem to bring me as much embarrassment to realize that I am also the person, the cliche, I always feared I’d become; Karen. 

Oh, shit.