What I Remember Most (10 page)

Thoughts of what to do with the black flapping plastic versus a roof went pinballing through my pounding head until I finally went to sleep, or passed out, the flu flattening me like a rabbit under a steamroller.

I woke up at seven in the morning, cramped, my head stuffed, my cough deep, my body aching and trembling. It took a long time to get my sweats off. I grabbed my pee cup and peed. I was totally dehydrated. I wiped, threw the tissue in my handy-dandy plastic baggy trash bag, and dumped the pee onto the ground on the passenger side. I noticed the fog was back in the trees in the mountains. I did not need to see that suffocating stuff this morning.

I washed my hands and scrambled back into my sleeping bag. I hate peeing like this. It is one of the worst things about being homeless. The no-toilet disadvantage.

I put my hand to my head. My forehead was sweaty. I thought I might toss my cookies. I did not want to pay for a hotel at all. I wanted to save the money for my car window and an apartment, whichever came first.

It was Sunday, though. I didn’t work today, and wouldn’t work again until Tuesday at five-thirty, so I had some time to rest, if I could.

Hail pounded on the roof. I could hear the plastic taking another beating. I watched it start to slide again.

I groaned. My body shook. My throat burned. My sneezes made me pee in my sweats.

“Oh, my shoutin’, spittin’ Lord. You’re gonna freeze to death, Grenady,” I said out loud. “Move or die.”

I went to McDonald’s but did not bother to get out of my sweatshirts, jacket, a red knitted hat, and sweats. I was too sick to care what people thought. I’m sure I looked homeless. I am homeless. That was a hard one to come to terms with. It had been before, too.

I had to spend a lot of time on the toilet as I now had diarrhea, the butt curse. I tried to go only when I heard the other toilets flushing because I was embarrassed. I tried not to moan at all.

When I could stand up, leaning heavily on the door handle, I washed my hands and sweaty face and pits with my washcloth and brushed my teeth.

Two little girls bopped on in and didn’t seem to find anything odd about watching me brush my teeth. One even said, “Hey! I use that toothpaste, too!”

I said, “Fabulous.”

She said, “My sister and I have big teeth in our mouths. See? You think we have big teeth? Show her, Carissa.”

The two girls opened up their mouths as wide as they could, eyebrows shooting into their blond bangs.

“Those are some chompers,” I told them through my toothpaste.

“I bite my brother.”

“Good for you, vampire kid.” She giggled, thought that was funny.

“I don’t bite,” the other one said. “That bad.”

“Yeah, it is.”

They chatted more about their tongues, which they thought were long, and I agreed when they showed me. “Maybe you’re part frog,” I said. “They have long tongues.”

I think they took me seriously, and seemed pleased by the frog thought. They hopped out.

I used a wet, somewhat soapy washcloth on my Big V and privates in the stall, dried off with tissue, buttoned up, waited until no one was in the bathroom, rinsed out the washcloth, went back into the stall and rinsed off. I felt disgusting. My self-esteem was in the toilet. I looked in the toilet. Yep. Right there.

I brushed my hair but left it down. I had no energy to braid it, and my hands refused to do anything else. I didn’t bother with makeup. I felt so ill, I could hardly stand.

I left the bathroom with my bag, bought a huge coffee, dumped six creams and sugar in, then hid in the back in a booth, leaning against a wall. I downed the coffee with four Advil.

I could feel myself nodding off, the flu slaying me like a stuck pig.

Before I humiliated myself, I noticed a man with thick black hair walk in. He was the tallest man I’d seen in a while, with shoulders that seemed to block light from the door. He looked my way.

Holy Mother of fire and brimstone.

I would not want to meet that badass on a deserted street. He had the squared-off jaw of a fighter and a couple of scars on his left cheek. Lines fanned out from his eyes and from nose to mouth. He also had a hard and steady gaze that warned, “Don’t mess with me. You’ll lose.” He was hellaciously handsome, though—compelling, like how a sexy bad guy would be in a movie.

I couldn’t look away. He stared right back at me. I blinked and wondered if we’d met, but then knew we had not. I would not forget some bull-kickin’ stud like that.

Another time, feeling healthy, I would have smiled. I like the tough, bad-boy type. The testosterone and manliness is a megaton turn-on. But there was no smile in me today. I thought I saw him smile, a small smile, but I wasn’t sure.

Another round of sickness seemed to invade my body at that unfortunate moment, and I bent my head and drank more coffee, then shut my eyes for a second. I put my coffee on the table and forgot about the badass.
One second,
I told myself. You can sleep for one second. Or one minute, two minutes. Three. No more than three. Don’t be a homeless person asleep in the back of a McDonalds. Don’t . . . be . . . homeless . . .

I woke up to a young girl, maybe three, grinning at me. She was in my booth, leaning over the table, watching me. “You sleepy!”

“Yeah, I am.” What was with the kids here today? Why did they keep talking to me? I sat up straight and reached for my bathroom bag, which also held my black twenty-dollar purse that Covey hated. Relief swept through me. It was still there.

“You take nap.” She was wearing a hat with a monkey on top of it, a blue frilly dress, and red and green striped Christmas tights.

“Yes, I did.”

“I take nap.”

“Good. Then you won’t get bratty.” I don’t know why kids like me, they just do.

“You sick?” She pointed at my nose. “Red.”

“Yes, I’m sick, so you probably shouldn’t get too close.”

“Here’s my lizard.” She held out a stuffed purple lizard. “It’s Tipper Lizard.”

“She’s floppy.”

“She a bad lizard.”

“Being bad can be fun.” I blew my nose. “Why is your lizard bad?”

“She eat snails.”

“Ah. Gross. That’s a dumb lizard.”

She giggled. “Ya. Dumb lizard. And poop. She eats poop.”

“I didn’t need to hear that right now.”

“But I tell you about the poop.”

“Yes, I know.” I felt like death.

Her mother called her over. The girl with the Christmas tights waved at me. “Bye-bye.”

“Bye-bye.”

Her mother gave me a funny look. I didn’t blame her. If I had a kid and she went over to talk to a homeless woman dressed in layers of clothes and a red knitted hat who was asleep in a McDonald’s booth, I’d get antsy, too.

I checked my watch. I’d been asleep for about two hours and was frozen cold. Obviously the coffee hadn’t helped keep me awake. I headed back to the bathroom to handle another round of Cursed Butt. I scrubbed my hands and rinsed my sweaty face, brushed my teeth in hopes of getting rid of the putrid bile taste, then wobbled out to my car, where I ate a can of pineapple. I crawled into the back, squeezed into my sleeping bag, covered myself with my blankets, and conked out for three hours.

I woke up when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I knew it was Covey calling again from someone else’s phone. The son of a gun would have about lost his stupid head when he couldn’t reach me from his own phone. He left a message. Pleading. Yelling. I blocked that number, too. I went back to sleep.

I woke up feeling worse. The flu had settled on my body like a thousand tons of germs.

Snow floated down. My plastic crackled. I gave up.

I drove to a hotel with a statue of pioneers in front called Pineridge Pioneer Hotel, which I thought might be moderately priced, and asked for a room. When he said $140 a night, I said, thank you, but no, and limped out, arms around my churning gut.

I went to two more hotels—too expensive. I drove into town, then off a side street into an area of well-kept homes. I saw a sign outside a light blue Queen Anne home with a white porch and white gingerbread all over it. It said Talia’s Bed and Breakfast.

I stopped the car and stared. It was glorious. It had personality, grace, and class. I coughed. Blew my nose.

I didn’t fit in that home. I was grimy. Exhausted. Sick. I had spent weeks in my car. I was doing my best to keep my chin up, but the flu had knocked me down and almost out. Physically and emotionally I felt totally beat up.

The B and B would be way too expensive. I knew it. Plus, I shouldn’t be staying in someone’s B and B. I was sick. But. If I could afford it, I could go to my room, keep the windows open a bit to get the germs out, and not come out to infect anyone else. I climbed out of the car like an old and creaky woman to check the price, wondering why I was torturing myself.

I climbed the steps slowly, my body a swirling mess of virus, and for five blissful seconds I pretended that I lived in that house. The yellow chrysanthemums in the pots on each step were mine. The porch swing with the red pillows was mine. The attic room on top with the pointed roof was mine, as was the window seat. I rang the bell and waited.

A woman answered, about my age. She had blond hair in a ponytail, one of those huge smiles that took up half her face, and brown eyes. She was wearing an Indian sari in red and gold.

“Hello,” she said. “Looking for a room?”

“Yes, I am.” I crossed my arms over my layers of sweatshirts and my coat.

“Come on in.”

I didn’t want to waste her time. She seemed cheerful and I’m sure she had better things to do than chitchat with me.

“I don’t want to take up your time.” I made sure I did not get too close to her. “How much is a room for one night?”

Her eyes did a swift assessment of me, from my red knitted hat to my boots. I saw it, and put my chin up. Inside I quivered. I knew this judged, “less than others” feeling. I’d felt it for years of my life. Not good enough. Outsider. Dirty. A burden. Not wanted.
Stupido.

For years I’d built a life for myself so I could put my chin up and feel equal. Now I was back to the first life, but I would not put my chin down again. Unless I had to vomit into the dirt like I had last night. Then I’d put my chin down.

“How about eighty dollars?”

“Are you kidding?” I could hardly breathe.

“Not at all.” She looked out at my car. “And I’ll tell you where to go to get that window fixed, too. It’s called Billy and Billy’s.”

“Thank you.” Second recommendation for Billy Squared. This was a good sign. “One thing, though. I’m sick. I came down with it two days ago. Do you still want me to stay here? I could go somewhere else.” No, I couldn’t.

“Don’t worry at all. I’m immune to germs. I have two boys, they had the flu last week, so did my husband, Lyle. You probably have the same thing. Germs are all over, no matter what I do. I’m Talia Kallelemoto. My sister’s in India, and she sent me this sari. Whaddya think?”

“I think it’s colorful and sparkly.” I had judged her too quick. I thought she was judging me based on my sweats and multiple sweatshirts, my yucky appearance. She wasn’t. And, if she was, she met it with compassion and invited me into her home. For a second I wondered how many times I had assumed someone was judging me harshly who wasn’t judging me at all . . .

“My sister’s always traveling and bringing me back scarves and jewelry and stuff. I live vicariously through her. Most exciting thing I do is book group. Partly because one of the ladies drinks too much and tells us about her raunchy sex life, which I like hearing about, and two of the women hate each other. Makes for an exciting evening. Bring your stuff in. Welcome.”

“This is your room.”

I gaped. It was like walking into décor heaven.

“Is it okay?” Talia wrung her hands.

“It’s a room out of the old movies.” I stepped in and away from her, keeping my germs to myself. She had decorated it in the style of the 1900s. A pink-and-white canopy decorated the top of a four-poster bed, a footstool next to it. Pillows were piled high on a pink flowered bedspread, with a thick, white down comforter at the foot. A comfy beige chair and a rocking chair were in front of the gas fireplace. I love rocking chairs. They’re my image of a peaceful home. I’ve never had one, but it’s on The List.

Wallpaper with red camellias gave the room a feminine touch, as did the lace curtains on all three windows. There was an antique roll-back desk.

“I don’t think I’ll ever leave,” I muttered.

“Okay,” Talia agreed. “I could do with more women around here. I’m surrounded by testosterone. And you don’t need to leave tomorrow until one, because I don’t have time to clean the room until then, anyhow.”

“Thank you.”

She laughed at my heartfelt thank-you, and I handed over the cash.

I was still freezing, weak, but being in this room, knowing I could sleep in it, be warm, tucked in bed, with a fireplace, I started to feel less like a corpse.

I brought my bags in, then stripped and stepped into the white, deep tub. I turned on the hot water, dumped in bubble bath that spelled like cinnamon spice, and sank right in.

I let the water soothe my tight back muscles and my banging head. The shampoo, cream rinse, and soap smelled like cherries. I was in the bath for an hour and a half and pumped more hot water in twice. I used a fluffy white towel to dry off, then brushed my hair.

I caught a glimpse of my back in the mirror. The scars had faded over the years. Still there, but not glaring anymore.

I moved so I wouldn’t see them and that particular memory. I tumbled into bed and pulled that flowered bedspread and white comforter right over my body. I think I was asleep before I covered myself.

I woke up from my nap at eight o’clock, starving. I pulled on two sweatshirts, sweats, and my jacket. I knew I couldn’t walk far, so I planned on opening up another can of chili and some peaches.

I almost stepped on a plate of lasagna, a salad, and bread outside my door.

I was so grateful I about cried.

I slept for another twelve hours at Talia’s. Twelve hours of sleep, particularly if you’re not squished like a slug in your car, will do wonders. I put in a load of laundry, as Talia said I was welcome to, then took a bath as I was still cold, but not as cold as I’d been before.

I padded down the stairs in my sweats and heated up the breakfast that Talia made me. I hadn’t even heard the kids or her husband last night.

There was a note on the kitchen counter to me, saying that my breakfast was in the fridge. Eggs Benedict, a cinnamon roll, bacon, and fruit in a pile.

It was the prettiest piece of breakfast art I’d seen. I ate all of it, starving like a pig, then made coffee, dumped in whipping cream that I found in the back of Talia’s fridge, and drank two glasses of orange juice, then more coffee and cream.

Talia and Lyle’s home was a family home. She had a true talent with decorating, but it was friendly, too. Yellows, blues, green, and tons of soccer and football equipment lying around.

I could feel my fever coming back, so I cleaned up the kitchen, then climbed the stairs and went back to bed. I set my alarm for twelve forty-five.

At one o’clock, I padded back down and paid Talia for another night.

“I’m delighted to have you. Thanks for cleaning up the kitchen. You didn’t have to do that. That was so nice. Want a sandwich?”

I sure did. It was egg salad. Delicious. I thanked her for the lasagna. Talking to Talia was a ton of fun. She was irreverent and funny and said being a mom was the best thing she’d ever done, but the woman in her was gone. She was going to go on a “woman-finding journey” someday. “When football and soccer are over with and the kids have graduated.”

“Yes, hunt your womanhood down,” I said, “and when you find it, shoot it with an arrow and bring her on home.”

When she left to shuttle her sons around, I cleaned up the kitchen again, swept the floor, and put in another load of laundry. I felt so much better getting my clothes clean.

I then went back up for a nap, my body’s tiny burst of energy now completely gone.

My appointment with Kade Hendricks was the day after tomorrow at one-thirty.

I wanted that job.

I would learn how to use a saw if I had to and I’d damn well like it.

That night I took another hot bath as I was freezing again, my fever moving up and down. I would sweat, then freeze, then back to sweating.

I almost fell asleep in the tub with the cinnamon spice bubble bath. I dried off and crawled like a beat chicken to my soft bed with the soft pillows. I was so glad I wasn’t spending the night in my car. It was now hailing. I had to get out of my home on wheels immediately.

I had brought my pink ceramic rose box with the lily bracelet in with me. I attached the bracelet to my wrist but couldn’t sleep. I felt too sick to sleep.

I closed my eyes, concentrated. I needed the oblivion. This frustration went on for an hour.

When another roll of ghastly sickness overwhelmed me I heard,
Sleep, Grenadine.... Go to sleep, hummingbird daughter.

It was them.

I knew it.

Sleep, Grenadine.We’re here.

I put my hand on my lily bracelet and slept.

I had a nightmare about prison, which woke me up a few hours later. The fear of a forced vacation in a
cage
made my whole body shake as if a warden were standing on top of my liver, electrocuting me.

I will never forget the smell of my stint in jail. So many women, crammed together, hormones, tempers and all. Some unwashed, most of us sweating at some point, poor food, thin mattresses, little air ventilation, no open windows, the pungent aroma of fear and desperation, and a faint whiff of unwashed vagina. The smell of cleaners, particularly bleach, was heavy and nauseating.

The women at this jail, downtown, were in and out, some for only twenty-four hours, or a weekend, then released. Others were there for weeks or months as they awaited trial.

One woman was screaming with anger; one was muttering to herself. A few argued with each other; one argued and swore at the prison staff, and was put back in her cell

Some were talking, being cool; others were ready to take your head off if you peered cross-eyed at them. Some were quietly crying.

I shared a cell with a woman who said her name was Jane. Then she said it was Hecks. Her third name was Prime Number. When she asked, I told her my name was Dina.

“I’m Dina now. You are Prime Number,” she told me. “I’ve got a kitty cat under the bed and a pig on the shelf.”

I peeked under the bed to humor her. She meowed at the imaginary cat and snorted at the pig. She smelled like urine. She was bony and had straggly brown hair and a face that looked as if she had been surviving on the streets for a long time, worn and tired. I put her at about thirty-two, though the lines made her seem older.

“Cat’s name is Pickle. No. Now it’s Ed. No. I think its name is Amoeba Plus Vector Calculus. Pig’s name is Quantum Physics. No. Now it’s Cylindrical Shell Method. Pig changed his name. It’s Derivative.”

I nodded.

Jane was in for robbery. Apparently she walked into a 7-Eleven wearing a red, furry cape. She put a whole bunch of Hershey’s candy bars into her bag, then went up to the checker, pretended she had a gun under the red, furry cape, and said to him, “I’m going to talk to you about the surface area of a revolution while you hand me nine dollars in quarters, then I’m going to shoot a quadratic equation.”

The clerk, who did not speak English well, as he was from Vietnam, only understood the word “shoot” and handed over the cash. He handed over three hundred dollars, in bills and change, which made Jane mad. She had asked for quarters! She started counting out nine dollars in quarters, and was still counting when the police arrived.

She had no gun. She did have a cat under her red, furry cape and was extremely upset that the cat was taken from her. Apparently she kicked at the police officer who took the cat, which was probably Amoeba Plus Vector Calculus, but it could have been Pickle.

She told me this whole story while waving her hands, wriggling her fingers, and swaying. At one point she stroked the imaginary cat in her arms and bent down and petted the pig, Derivative, aka Quantum Physics.