open my purse and pull out my last $20 bill. “Here, please take this.” Even as I hand it to her, I’m ashamed—by the act itself, by how little it is in the scheme of things. It’s not going to change her life. It’s not even going to get them a place to sleep tonight. It’s guilt money. But I don’t know what else to do.
“Um, okay. Thanks,” she says. She puts it in her pocket. She looks at her feet. I look at my feet, too. I am horrified by my lack of creativity, my utter helplessness to fix her problem. I was a lawyer. I should know what to do. But I’m useless—who cares if I can prevent a shopping center from being built on a wetland?
She breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Okay, then—bye.”
I guess that’s it. “Bye,” I reply, then head back toward the crosswalk. I’m cold to the bone and want to get the hell home, where I can have a shower and a good cry. I walk toward the museum bus stop, berating myself with each stride:
Really? You came all the way down here, on the freakin’ bus, you actually found her . . . and that’s it? You’re done? That’s pathetic. That’s completely pathetic, Sarah
.
“Wait!” she calls. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I turn around and seeher walking toward me, pushing the stroller. Her voice is clear and articulate. “I just wanted to say, I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I really appreciate it.” Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, until it almost breaks and she seems taken by surprise by the tears that threaten to form.
And just like that, she saves me. My heart wants to spill out onto the square of sidewalk, flood the street with gratitude for making me feel like I’m not a fool, like what I’ve done is not nothing, when I know it is. “You’re welcome,” I mumble, embarrassed by how little it takes to be appreciated. For another moment we stand there, not knowing what to do next. A young black guy with a McDonald’s to-go bag walks past us. I smell whatever is leaking grease through the paper bag, and my stomach rumbles. I point toward the McDonald’s a couple doors down and ask her, “Would you like to have breakfast with me?”
She tilts her head, examines my face, trying to distill my motivation—
What does this lady want?
—but hunger or curiosity outmatches whatever reticence she has. “All right.”
I open the door for her, and she maneuvers the stroller through. I follow, transported by the smell of deep fryers, salt, and cooking meat. The door closes, and a sensation of butterflies—at once giddy, strange, and familiar—overwhelms me. While waiting to order, I recognize the feeling: the Ferris wheel, just as the ride begins.
25
I haven’t been to McDonald’s in years; it is a point of pride that my kids do not recognize the Golden Arches. I feel fairly traitorous to be here.
“I’ll have coffee, please,” I say, my head tilted up at the illuminated menu. “And an Egg McMuffin.” Oh, guilty pleasure. I step aside to make room for the young lady, the object of my obsessive searching. She orders the same things I did.
“Anything else?” the cashier prompts, following protocol. She looks to be about forty years old, dark-brown complexion shining under fluorescent lights. Her fingernails are thick and long, to the point of curling at the ends, painted royal blue to match her eye shadow. Her eyelashes are heavy with layers of mascara.
“Maybe he’d like the yogurt parfait?” I say to my companion, pointing to her baby.
She looks at me, then back up at the menu. She agrees. “Okay, I’ll have the yogurt, please.” After a moment, she adds, “And another Egg McMuffin. And hash browns. Please.” The cashier looks up from beneath her nearly closed eyelids, then back at the register, and punches in our order.
We go to a corner table where there is room for the stroller. I carry our plastic trays. I sit down across from her, unwrapping the paper from my McMuffin. I peel melted cheese off the paper and eat
“Um, okay. Thanks,” she says. She puts it in her pocket. She looks at her feet. I look at my feet, too. I am horrified by my lack of creativity, my utter helplessness to fix her problem. I was a lawyer. I should know what to do. But I’m useless—who cares if I can prevent a shopping center from being built on a wetland?
She breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Okay, then—bye.”
I guess that’s it. “Bye,” I reply, then head back toward the crosswalk. I’m cold to the bone and want to get the hell home, where I can have a shower and a good cry. I walk toward the museum bus stop, berating myself with each stride:
Really? You came all the way down here, on the freakin’ bus, you actually found her . . . and that’s it? You’re done? That’s pathetic. That’s completely pathetic, Sarah
.
“Wait!” she calls. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I turn around and seeher walking toward me, pushing the stroller. Her voice is clear and articulate. “I just wanted to say, I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I really appreciate it.” Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, until it almost breaks and she seems taken by surprise by the tears that threaten to form.
And just like that, she saves me. My heart wants to spill out onto the square of sidewalk, flood the street with gratitude for making me feel like I’m not a fool, like what I’ve done is not nothing, when I know it is. “You’re welcome,” I mumble, embarrassed by how little it takes to be appreciated. For another moment we stand there, not knowing what to do next. A young black guy with a McDonald’s to-go bag walks past us. I smell whatever is leaking grease through the paper bag, and my stomach rumbles. I point toward the McDonald’s a couple doors down and ask her, “Would you like to have breakfast with me?”
She tilts her head, examines my face, trying to distill my motivation—
What does this lady want?
—but hunger or curiosity outmatches whatever reticence she has. “All right.”
I open the door for her, and she maneuvers the stroller through. I follow, transported by the smell of deep fryers, salt, and cooking meat. The door closes, and a sensation of butterflies—at once giddy, strange, and familiar—overwhelms me. While waiting to order, I recognize the feeling: the Ferris wheel, just as the ride begins.
25
I haven’t been to McDonald’s in years; it is a point of pride that my kids do not recognize the Golden Arches. I feel fairly traitorous to be here.
“I’ll have coffee, please,” I say, my head tilted up at the illuminated menu. “And an Egg McMuffin.” Oh, guilty pleasure. I step aside to make room for the young lady, the object of my obsessive searching. She orders the same things I did.
“Anything else?” the cashier prompts, following protocol. She looks to be about forty years old, dark-brown complexion shining under fluorescent lights. Her fingernails are thick and long, to the point of curling at the ends, painted royal blue to match her eye shadow. Her eyelashes are heavy with layers of mascara.
“Maybe he’d like the yogurt parfait?” I say to my companion, pointing to her baby.
She looks at me, then back up at the menu. She agrees. “Okay, I’ll have the yogurt, please.” After a moment, she adds, “And another Egg McMuffin. And hash browns. Please.” The cashier looks up from beneath her nearly closed eyelids, then back at the register, and punches in our order.
We go to a corner table where there is room for the stroller. I carry our plastic trays. I sit down across from her, unwrapping the paper from my McMuffin. I peel melted cheese off the paper and eat
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