how to help or what to do. I am clueless about soup kitchens and shelters or any other services. I should have done research or something. So why did I feel compelled to come? Is it what I imagine my mom would do, or would want me to do? Am I trying to follow in her footsteps? A different question that’s been whistling in my subconscious finally swells up with sound: Will helping them save me from the darkness I’ve lived in since Ella died? Will my own hurt shrink? I cringe and ask myself,
Am I using them?
I miss the green light as I debate myself. I press the button again.
Okay, let’s say I am using them to feel better. Would that be wrong? They obviously need help. They don’t belong here. But why help them and not someone else? The baby, for starters. That’s obvious. But there’s something more. It’s hard to explain, but she’s different. It’s as though she has just barely lost her hold on the ordinary world, missed the last rung by inches. Maybe she could reach it again with a little boost. Maybe I’m the one to give her that.
Oh, who am I kidding? I barely have a grasp myself. I should go home and forget this folly. I start to turn back—then something catches my eye. Across the street, moving behind the street lamp—could that be? Yes, it is; yes, a stroller. My heart begins to race. I squint to get a better view.
I can’t believe it. After all this time.
24
I recognize the Lightning McQueen lunch box on the back of the stroller, and the woman’s profile, and her baby’s blanket, as they make their way down the sidewalk. I don’t know what to do. I want to run over to her. I want to run back up the hill.
A car trying to make a right turn while the light is still green beeps at me, so I run the rest of the way across the street. The artful, clever phrase “What the fuck am I doing?” pounds in my head. I have never felt so out of place. I am untethered. A brief burst of courage carries me. I am almost next to her. “Excuse me? Hello, miss?” I call out.
She turns around and looks at me. We are standing no more than three feet apart. She calls to my mind how Bibi might have looked at that age—young, alone with a baby, an outsider from the mainstream, with no resources but a visceral self-confidence. I get a closer look at her baby, a little boy, asleep in the stroller under an Elmo blanket. Her face registers confusion, then recognition. After a few seconds, she says, “Oh, here you go,” and offers me Oliver’s lunch box. “Sorry you had to come back for it.”
She thinks I’ve come for the crusty old lunch box.
“No, no,” I protest, taking a step closer. “No, I don’t need . . . That’s not why . . .” I stammer. “You can keep it.”
She puts it down. “Okay.” We stand there for a moment, looking at each other shyly. She is wearing the same sweatshirt she had on the first time I saw her, but it looks clean. She must have a place towash her clothes. Her fingernails are clean, too, so unlike those of the man on the sidewalk. I’m dying to know what her story is. “Is there something you want?” she asks.
I consider how to answer her question in the cold shadows of the old buildings. The filtered sunlight evaporates before it reaches these dirty cement sidewalks. I’m used to sunshine in my LA. Even here, far above us, the sky is brilliant blue and sunny, but the warmth doesn’t make it down this far. I think about Oliver and Izzy, at this moment the sun touching their skin, Izzy playing at the club with Joan, Oliver on the preschool playground. This woman’s child is wrapped in a blanket up to his chin, dozing against the cold of the concrete’s shadows. “I just, um, I just wanted to see if you’re okay.” The moment I say it, I want to take it back.
She considers me. Her eyebrows wrinkle as she tries to figure out what my game is. We stand facing each other in awkward silence. I realize I’m staring, so I look down at my hands. With no better ideas, I
Am I using them?
I miss the green light as I debate myself. I press the button again.
Okay, let’s say I am using them to feel better. Would that be wrong? They obviously need help. They don’t belong here. But why help them and not someone else? The baby, for starters. That’s obvious. But there’s something more. It’s hard to explain, but she’s different. It’s as though she has just barely lost her hold on the ordinary world, missed the last rung by inches. Maybe she could reach it again with a little boost. Maybe I’m the one to give her that.
Oh, who am I kidding? I barely have a grasp myself. I should go home and forget this folly. I start to turn back—then something catches my eye. Across the street, moving behind the street lamp—could that be? Yes, it is; yes, a stroller. My heart begins to race. I squint to get a better view.
I can’t believe it. After all this time.
24
I recognize the Lightning McQueen lunch box on the back of the stroller, and the woman’s profile, and her baby’s blanket, as they make their way down the sidewalk. I don’t know what to do. I want to run over to her. I want to run back up the hill.
A car trying to make a right turn while the light is still green beeps at me, so I run the rest of the way across the street. The artful, clever phrase “What the fuck am I doing?” pounds in my head. I have never felt so out of place. I am untethered. A brief burst of courage carries me. I am almost next to her. “Excuse me? Hello, miss?” I call out.
She turns around and looks at me. We are standing no more than three feet apart. She calls to my mind how Bibi might have looked at that age—young, alone with a baby, an outsider from the mainstream, with no resources but a visceral self-confidence. I get a closer look at her baby, a little boy, asleep in the stroller under an Elmo blanket. Her face registers confusion, then recognition. After a few seconds, she says, “Oh, here you go,” and offers me Oliver’s lunch box. “Sorry you had to come back for it.”
She thinks I’ve come for the crusty old lunch box.
“No, no,” I protest, taking a step closer. “No, I don’t need . . . That’s not why . . .” I stammer. “You can keep it.”
She puts it down. “Okay.” We stand there for a moment, looking at each other shyly. She is wearing the same sweatshirt she had on the first time I saw her, but it looks clean. She must have a place towash her clothes. Her fingernails are clean, too, so unlike those of the man on the sidewalk. I’m dying to know what her story is. “Is there something you want?” she asks.
I consider how to answer her question in the cold shadows of the old buildings. The filtered sunlight evaporates before it reaches these dirty cement sidewalks. I’m used to sunshine in my LA. Even here, far above us, the sky is brilliant blue and sunny, but the warmth doesn’t make it down this far. I think about Oliver and Izzy, at this moment the sun touching their skin, Izzy playing at the club with Joan, Oliver on the preschool playground. This woman’s child is wrapped in a blanket up to his chin, dozing against the cold of the concrete’s shadows. “I just, um, I just wanted to see if you’re okay.” The moment I say it, I want to take it back.
She considers me. Her eyebrows wrinkle as she tries to figure out what my game is. We stand facing each other in awkward silence. I realize I’m staring, so I look down at my hands. With no better ideas, I
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