Shelter Us: A Novel (14 page)

Where to start? “Well, what’s the shelter like? Do you have your own room?” I keep wondering where to picture them in the days between our lunches.

She chews, swallows, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line until she starts to talk. “We sleep in a big room with other moms and kids. No men. I’ve heard that if you have a son, he can’t be older than twelve, or you’ll both get kicked out.” She stops, turns around, and checks on Tyler at the fountain, then turns back and takes another bite of food.

“This morning was tough, actually,” she says. “Tyler needed a fresh
diaper. So I looked for the stroller with all our stuff in it, and I couldn’t find it. I was getting scared it was gone. I saw a lady over on the other side of the room had it. So I went over to her and said, ‘This is my stroller.’ And she yelled at me, like ‘I didn’t take your stroller.’ Then we look down and see her little girl, maybe four or five, and she starts crying because she took the stroller to play baby or something. So I’m there, Tyler’s on my hip with a full diaper, the little girl is crying, I’ve barely slept because it’s not that quiet with all those people.” She stops. “I guess that’s more than you wanted to know.”

“No. I want to know.”

“Okay, well, some mornings you wake up and forget where you are—you know how it takes a second? You think you’re home in your bed, but then you realize,
No, I’m here
. It’s depressing.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Yeah?” She looks at me; I nod. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think about how I’m going to get us out of there.” We listen to the fountain, its melodious tinkle. I wonder what plans she has formed during those sleepless nights.

“Why don’t you just go home to your mom?” I ask.

She shakes her head hard as though she’s answered this question for herself long ago. “No way. I couldn’t tell her what happened. I would be so humiliated.”

I look at her, amazed. I don’t know what I expected her to say—maybe a story of maternal abuse or drug use, but not shame. Not pride. I try to tell her that no mother, certainly no grandmother, would care about any of that, but she is adamant. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe there is something wrong with her. “I don’t get it. If I were you, I’d just go home.”

She leans toward me. “I want to do it without her help. And then I can talk to her.” Then she says, more softly, “My mom had to do it herself; no one helped her.”

“You helped her,” I counter. “With Michael.”

She thinks about that. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

“Is it the bus fare?” I ask. “Because I would be happy to—”

“No. Just let it go, Sarah. You don’t understand. You probably never fought with your mom. You’re probably best friends.” She sounds like a sullen teenager, and I pause before answering to avoid responding with my own smart-alecky tone.

“Actually, my mom died when I was seventeen. I would give anything for more time with her, so I guess I’ve got a different perspective on all that.” I skip over the fact that I don’t talk to my dad; it doesn’t lend me credibility on this subject.

“Wow. I’m so sorry.” The adolescent defiance disappears.

“It’s okay.” I regret the hoarseness of my voice, which reveals how not okay it feels. I can’t start crying today or I may not be able to stop.

“How did she die?”

After all the sharing Josie’s done, I owe her some of my own. I tell her about my parents’ anniversary trip, the accident, the narrative I’ve come to know. I find it easier to open up to her than to most people.

“I’m really sorry,” Josie offers again.

“It was a long time ago.” I brush our crumbs off the shiny stainless-steel table into my palm. “I guess that’s why I was thinking about your mom. But you obviously know how to take care of yourself and Tyler.”

“I’m going to get out of this. I want to do it on my own.”

“You’re a lot stronger than I would be.”

I notice her eyes getting red, and that she does one of the tricks I’ve mastered to cover up the sudden onset of emotion: she coughs, and then changes the subject away from herself. “Do you miss your mom, Sarah?”

I nod until I can find my voice. “Yes. A lot. I wish she could have known my kids.” I watch Tyler circle around the fountain, one hand brushing along the rough stone. Maybe Josie will listen now; maybe she’ll reconsider going home to her mom. “I miss her most when I’m with Robert’s mom. I mean, it’s not fair—it’s not like Joan had anything to do with it—but it’s hard for me to be with her.” I draw circles on the table with my finger and confess in a half voice, “Sometimes I wish it had been her instead, and that my mom was the one dropping by and babysitting.” I feel heat spread across my face. I’m mortified
that I’ve said that out loud. I cover my blushing cheeks with my palms. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s okay. It’s just how you feel.”

“I’ve never said that to anyone before. It’ll be our secret, okay?”

“You got it.”

We laugh and give our tears an excuse to come out. It occurs to me now that I have made my first new friend since Ella died. In the intimacy of our storytelling, I decide to tell her about Ella. It is her birthday, after all. And this moment, though full, feels as though it could expand to hold everything I need to say.

Before I begin, Josie blurts out, “I miss my mom, too.”

“Yeah?” I tuck Ella away for now. We’re making progress about her mom. “You should call her.”

“I know. I should. Actually, it’s sort of weird, but I follow her on Facebook.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I can get Internet at the shelter, for job searches, so some nights I check Facebook to see how she’s doing. Sometimes she’ll share something about Michael, like if he did well in school or in a basketball game. Those are my favorite posts. She doesn’t know I’m reading them. I never comment or ‘Like’ anything. And I don’t post anything of my own. I mean, really, what would I say? ‘Love the breakfast at the shelter!’”

We chuckle and sigh. She looks at her hands. I look at mine. My ring, dull from soap and time, reminds me of my mom. I used to watch her polish her diamond ring with a special little brush. I would study its facets while she read me stories or cut my food or tied my shoes. Her hands were more beautiful than anything on TV, more graceful than any of my friends’ moms’. Sometimes when I’m rubbing Izzy’s back or playing cars with Oliver, I watch my hand and pretend it is hers. I imagine she is there, doing those things. I grant her more time.

My phone interrupts with a trumpeting flourish that I programmed into my reminders: Get boys.

“Shoot, I have to go,” I say. I could sit here all afternoon with her.

She looks around the garden. Tyler is still at the fountain, his fingertips playing in the water. “I think we’ll stay awhile. I like it here.”

Seeing her relaxed, I breathe in, too, try to lower my shoulders. “I’m glad you like it. Want to meet here same time next Monday?”

“Yeah, sure.” She nods. “See you Monday.”

At night I take the time to make a dinner that everyone will like. As we sit down to eat I announce, “We have cupcakes for dessert!” which puts huge smiles on Oliver’s and Izzy’s faces. I don’t spoil it for them by explaining why. It’s enough that Robert and I know. We go around the table, each of us saying the best thing about our day.

When it’s my turn, I say, “I made a friend today.”

Robert looks genuinely pleased. For me, for him. For the hope that we have turned a corner. “That’s great. One of the moms?” he asks.

I consider all the things I could tell him, all the explaining I could do. “Yes,” I say simply. “One of the moms.”

I go through my days with a new lightness, and anticipation for the start of every week. I may not have a plan to “save” Josie, but at least we have made a connection, and that’s a solid start. One of the hardest parts of these past months, she tells me at lunch one week, is that people don’t make eye contact with her. “It feels like you’re outside the whole world.” Talking with me, she says, lets her know that at least one person sees her, that she exists. That one comment keeps me going for days.

“You look beautiful,” Robert tells me one night when I come to bed.

I smile, looking into his eyes. I consider that the source of my restoration is something he tried to stop. I wish I could share it with him, but I don’t want to jeopardize this new friendship.

He reaches for me. In the dark we make love. There remains a glimmer of our lusty beginnings, along with the rote familiarity bred of seven years of marriage. There is also the disconcerting sensation of making love to a stranger. When we are finished, what fills
me is sadness over the distance between us. I vow to tell him soon about Josie and Tyler and our burgeoning friendship, and fall into an unsettled sleep.

M
ondays
are my favorite day now. I had forgotten the giddy feeling of making a new friend—a platonic falling in love. Tyler is adorable, and Josie is impressive—bright, tough, and somehow still optimistic. Time is running out on their shelter term, though. It’s almost May. She has to figure out what to do. Jobs are hard to come by, harder still without money for child care. In the meantime, we keep our lunch dates, and she gets to “feel normal” once a week.

I’m waiting for them on the sidewalk outside Disney Hall. She is late. I check my phone to see if she called. I missed a text.

“Hi. Will be in LA this week. Can I come by? Love, Dad.”

I have to give him credit; at least this time he warned me of his arrival. Robert’s lecture about forgiving him runs through my head. It would be a relief not to be angry with him. I put my phone back in my purse. I don’t delete him, but I can make him wait.

I look down the sidewalk for Josie and Tyler’s approach. The proud sunshine of a warm, dry spring reflects off the building, and I block the light with a salute over my brow. The sun warms the top of my head until it’s too much of a good thing and I step into the building’s shadow. A group of ladies, all with hair in shades unnatural for their age, has gathered while I wait. I eavesdrop on their conversations. One is looking forward to a trip to New York for her granddaughter’s forthcoming graduation from Columbia. She boasts loudly about
magna cum laude
and a job in New York. Of course, she’s simply devastated
the girl won’t be coming home to California. Her friend commiserates—her grandson is staying on at Harvard for law school—such a pity. A third is grateful her grandson went to Stanford so at least he’s still in California. The conversation turns to book clubs, then opera, then back to grandchildren. At noon, they enter the building for their scheduled private tour.

I watch passing cars. The bus I once took downtown to search for Josie and Tyler stops across the street. That seems like such a long time ago. I wonder about the old man with the cane, how he has filled his days since then.

After thirty minutes, I start to worry that something bad has happened. The tempo of the street continues, steady and unhurried, ignoring my growing alarm. Traffic lights turn green, yellow, red, repeat. People exit the concert hall; new people replace them. My stomach starts to rumble with hunger, but still no sign of Josie and Tyler. I walk to the corner, look up First Street, then back to Grand. I go back to the shade. I twist my wedding ring, check my phone again for new messages. Nothing. Something is wrong.

At last I see them. She’s running, causing Tyler’s stroller to bump and zigzag on the sidewalk as she pushes faster toward me. Her face looks ashen. She’s breathing hard.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Josie? Did something happen?” She stares ahead blankly. “Say something.” It occurs to me for a split second that she could be on something. My voice takes on an edge. “Josie, what
is
it?”

She looks at me, her eyes glazed, body frozen. I stare back, my heartbeat increasing. A tour group walks around us as if we’re a boulder in a river. They join up again after they pass by.

“I . . . I went on Facebook last night,” she finally says.

“Yes? And . . . ?”

“Michael’s missing.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘missing’?”

“Missing! My mom had all these posts that Michael was gone, missing, and if anyone has seen him or knows anything to call her. She doesn’t know where he is, Sarah.” Her expression is total disbelief.

“Oh my god.” I say. “How long has he been gone?”

“Two nights. It sounds like he went to play basketball and he didn’t come home.”

“Oh my god!” I repeat. “Your mom must be terrified. Did she call the police?”

“I think so.”

Not again; not another child gone. I feel the light-headedness that signals imminent fainting swirl in my head. I push it back. Maybe he’s fine. Maybe he’s safe. “What can I do? How can I help you?”

She lifts her face and looks at me like she’s deciding something, and then makes her first-ever request of me. “Can you help me get to Oakland?”

Without delay I answer, “I’ll take you tomorrow.”

I
will
have to think about logistics. I consider different explanations I can give Robert. There’s the truth—I could say, “Robert, remember when I told you I met that homeless mother and child, and you said we couldn’t help them and I got mad? Well, I’ve been secretly meeting them for lunch every week. Her little brother is missing, so I’m driving her home to Oakland to help look for him.”

I’m going to have to make something up.

The boys are running through the sprinklers in the front yard when Robert pulls into the driveway.

“Daddy!” they shout, and run to his car.

“You’re home early. Is everything okay?” I say. He looks like he’s had a rough day.

“Everything is fine. I had a meeting canceled, so I thought I’d take the rest of the day off and be with my boys and my beautiful wife.” He gives me a kiss. “I’ll go change my clothes. Be right back.” He comes down in shorts and a T-shirt and plays with Oliver and Izzy. I take the opportunity to go to the market alone, a rare luxury, and come home with fixings for a special dinner—steak, salad, and mashed potatoes, as though attentive homemaking will make everything okay.