Not Alone in There
By Kitty
For Julie
In late October of last year, I traveled to DC for a work conference. It was in the middle of a government shutdown, so the sights to see were slim—parks, museums, national landmarks, all off limits. On a free evening, my coworker and I decided to sign up for a walking ghost tour of Georgetown. After carbo-loading at a pasta restaurant that looked like it could’ve moonlighted as a nightclub on a cruise ship, we wandered the cobblestone streets to meet up with our tour guide.
As the sun went down, guests gathered at the steps of the Old Stone House. I scanned the crowd, wondering whether they were tourists, skeptics, or full-blown ghost hunters. I, myself, had never had a paranormal experience, but I wasn’t a naysayer. More like a rational, analytical thinker who defaults to “walls up.”
I stepped into the circle of ticket-holding strangers, giddy at the prospect of hearing about creepy, shape-shifting figures and mysteries that couldn’t be explained. “Raise your hand if you’ve ever seen a ghost or experienced paranormal activity,” our tour guide declared. Mine rested in the pockets of my coat as I looked around, counting about a half dozen of those eager to share encounters. In an effort to solicit additional responses, he went on to explain, “Paranormal activity doesn’t always center around sight. Think about your other senses—things you’ve heard, felt, or smelled. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a sense of presence…a feeling that you’re not alone.”
At that moment, I wasn’t in DC at all, but back inside a bathroom stall at my local Kohl’s store, fielding questions from friends about how I’d ended up there. To be clear, I didn’t visit the restroom to touch up my lip liner. In fact, I’d set up shop, messaging the group chat between waves of nausea. “POV: Currently shitting in hell!”
Kohl’s touched down in Rhode Island in the early 2000s and I’ve had a strong distaste for it since. As a Libra hungry for justice and truth, I found their pricing strategy deceitful and the invention of their own currency totally unnecessary. My late mom, Julie, on the other hand? A proud Kohl’s card carrier. A suburban pre-school teacher who loved capris but refused to drive a minivan, she fell instantly victim to their prey. We argued endlessly over the wall of the fitting room about whether the slacks originally marked $79.99, then $39.99, then $24.99 (if you were paying in Monopoly money) were worth it. “What’s the point in buying expensive pants if they’re going to get covered in Play-Doh by the end of the day?” she’d say.
I begged her to consider a trip to Macy’s, but she’d counter with the fact that there was an expiring wad of Kohl’s cash in the bottom of her quilted Vera Bradley bag. I’d cringe, not in an embarrassed-by-your-parent type of way, but likely because her coupons were covered in remnants of Hershey bars…She truly loved an errand and a sweet treat. With hindsight, I wish I hadn’t served her up so many eye rolls; my adolescent angst hindering me from admitting to her that I did too.
That day in the bathroom, I’d headed begrudgingly to the store with my husband, Nick, who needed a pair of pants to wear to a wedding. It was the first time I’d strolled through those aisles in seven or eight years. We were right in the middle of trying to sell our condo and move into a house. It felt like we were single-handedly keeping DoorDash afloat—living on takeout and delivery so as not to dirty the kitchen in case someone called for a last-minute showing. I imagined the vanilla latte and chicken cutlet sub I’d eaten earlier sliding down into my gut.
My stomach started to cramp mere minutes into scouring the racks. The men’s suiting section was a mess, and nothing seemed to be organized by style, size, or color. I threw in the towel pretty quickly, knowing we’d leave empty-handed and he’d resort to buying his look online. A certain unmistakable grumbling began to take hold. I excused myself to the restroom and told Nick to take his time, wincing in discomfort as I passed an in-store Sephora counter, my pace (and heart rate) increasing past a pile of polyester peasant blouses by Lauren Conrad.
When I flung open the bathroom door, I was met with a scene from my childhood. It looked exactly how I remembered, save for the installation of a few automatic hand soap dispensers. The lighting was shadowy and subdued, and in my state of subtle panic, I hadn’t clocked whether or not any other patrons were inside taking a load off. I sat down and exhaled the breath I’d been holding, surprised that it seemed to echo throughout the room. Was someone else waiting there politely? I listened closely for the gentle roll of a toilet paper dispenser, the shuffling of feet, or the clink of a belt buckle. Instead, I was met with an eerie stillness. I cleared my throat loudly, as if it would elicit a response, but the hush coupled with the feeling that I wasn’t alone in the space sent me spiraling.
I can’t tell you how long I sat there, leaving Nick to search for his inseam all alone. Shopping sprees of years passed flooded my memory, leaving me glued to the bowl as they played out like sitcom episodes. The one where my mom grabbed a new denim jacket to debut in spring, or the one where she let me buy those roll-down Soffe shorts in every color, fully leaning into my excitement about cheerleading camp, and not saying a word when I quit a week later. It occurred to me that the stomach ache might have nothing to do with fried chicken and two servings of whole milk, but the grief in knowing my mom was no longer spending her Kohl’s cash earthside.
The final scene was her reaching for a sleeveless, white A-line dress, covered in yellow flowers with a thin, matching belt. “It’s cute, but do you have somewhere to wear it?” I asked. “Who cares,” she replied, “there’s just something about it that I love.” Neither of us knew it at the time, but that dress hanging unworn in the back of her closet was the one my family would choose for her funeral.
I snapped out of my toilet trance when I realized I was going to be a 37-year-old woman with a ring around my ass because I’d been playing a weird game of bathroom chicken. I did what I needed to do and flushed the toilet, fully prepared to face my stall neighbor at the sink. As I emerged to wash my hands, I looked around the restroom. It was completely…empty? I walked up and down the row of stalls, peeking under the doors for dangling feet, hoping to be met by the gaze of another latte-guzzling, tummy-troubled shopper. Seeing a human being would’ve reassured me that I wasn’t imagining things. I felt it come up to the surface—a quiet, “Mom?”, catching in my throat before I swallowed hard into the mirror. I knew, without a doubt, that I hadn’t been in there alone.
Back on the steps of the Old Stone House my unexplained feeling was unexpectedly validated. I took my fists out of my pockets and raised my hand to the sky.
Kitty is a co-creator of The Gullet and also runs her own candle company, Aster.
Hayley Watson is a Scottish illustrator currently based in Sydney, Australia. After working in a variety of creative-adjacent roles, from community arts to fashion, she decided to follow what comes the most naturally to her -drawing - and began to pursue a career in illustration in 2022. Since then, she has been rapidly building her career, working with clients globally, including The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, and various European publications. She is driven by the desire to evoke connection in her work, creating illustrations which inspire nostalgia, imagination and reflection.
Such a beautiful piece Kitty! You remind us that memory and meaning can be found in the most unlikely situations. <3
The most beautiful gorgeous funny and sad thing I've read that mostly takes place in a bathroom. 🩷🩷🩷