it, then take a small bite of the sandwich, scalding a small patch of skin on theroof of my mouth. “Careful, it’s hot,” I warn. She unwraps hers, closes her eyes like she’s praying, and the steam evaporates while she sits still. She opens her eyes, catches me looking at her, and then takes a bite. She lifts the coffee cup to her mouth and sips it, then sets it back down. She pauses, breathes, the urgent ache of hunger eased.
Her son wakes up and rubs his eyes. Noticing, she leans over and lifts him out of the stroller and onto her lap. His T-shirt and shorts are too baggy for his skinny frame. His smooth skin is a couple of shades darker than hers, and his head is covered with tight black curls. “Hi, baby. You hungry?” Seeing the food, he begins to reach for it. She breaks off small pieces of his egg sandwich and feeds it to him until it is gone. “More,” he says.
She opens the yogurt, putting the lid on the tray yogurt-side up. She takes a white plastic spoon out of its plastic wrap, scoops yogurt onto it, and brings it close to her son’s mouth. He opens it as wide as he can.
“You like it? Want more?”
His gaping mouth makes plain that he likes it. Spoonful by spoonful, he finishes the yogurt. She puts the spoon down and shrinks into her chair. There is an awkward moment of waiting, not knowing what to do or say.
“I’m Sarah,” I offer.
“I’m Josie. This is Tyler.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I smile.
It is unbelievable to meet you
. “How old is Tyler?” I’m guessing she’ll say eighteen months.
“Almost two and a half,” she answers.
“Oh.” I try to hide my surprise. He’s older than Izzy, but smaller. I consider malnutrition, and it whacks me back to helplessness: one meal changes nothing.
“Do you have kids?” she asks. We are just two ladies making small talk.
My answer emerges from my mouth more easily than it has since Ella died, as though being in this unlikely place has neutralized the damage, at least for right now. “I have two boys. Oliver is almost five, and Izzy is two.” I say in my head,
And I have a daughter, Ella
.
“That sounds like a handful.”
“Yeah.”
“Their dad around?” she asks, then cuts herself off. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
“No, that’s okay. Yes, their dad is around. I mean, I’m married to him.”
“That’s good. That must help.”
“Yes, he’s great with them.” I wish I hadn’t said that—it sounds like bragging.
“What about Tyler’s dad?” I ask. I figure she opened the door.
“He’s not around,” she says. Her voice closes the door to more questions.
“Uh-huh.”
She straightens her back, as if to emphasize that she is strong enough, she can handle it. My mind fills with questions. How could this baby be two and a half? How old is she? Where is the baby’s father? Where is her own mother? (I could almost
be
her mother.) Where and when will they get their next meal? I don’t want to hammer her with an interrogation, so I bite my tongue, sit in the silence and try not to worry about whatever happens next.
Outside on the sidewalk, our breakfast over, we say our good-byes. It’s beyond awkward, like the end of a first date on Mars. What is the protocol for this parting?
“Okay, well, bye.” She begins to walk away. Is this it? Will I ever see them again?
“Josie,” I call out, wanting to prolong our relationship by another minute. She stops and turns. “I just wondered, where are you headed?” I’m not sure I want to know.
“There’s a playground on Olive. It’s actually just a swing set. But it’s something to do. We have to be out of the shelter until five.”
I think I know it. I used to pass it on my way to the courthouse. It’s centered in a square cement lot, iron bars painted gunmetal gray,black plastic seat connected to two metal chains. It always looked abandoned. I assumed the lot was used mostly for drug deals and assorted creepy stuff. I never pictured an actual
Her son wakes up and rubs his eyes. Noticing, she leans over and lifts him out of the stroller and onto her lap. His T-shirt and shorts are too baggy for his skinny frame. His smooth skin is a couple of shades darker than hers, and his head is covered with tight black curls. “Hi, baby. You hungry?” Seeing the food, he begins to reach for it. She breaks off small pieces of his egg sandwich and feeds it to him until it is gone. “More,” he says.
She opens the yogurt, putting the lid on the tray yogurt-side up. She takes a white plastic spoon out of its plastic wrap, scoops yogurt onto it, and brings it close to her son’s mouth. He opens it as wide as he can.
“You like it? Want more?”
His gaping mouth makes plain that he likes it. Spoonful by spoonful, he finishes the yogurt. She puts the spoon down and shrinks into her chair. There is an awkward moment of waiting, not knowing what to do or say.
“I’m Sarah,” I offer.
“I’m Josie. This is Tyler.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I smile.
It is unbelievable to meet you
. “How old is Tyler?” I’m guessing she’ll say eighteen months.
“Almost two and a half,” she answers.
“Oh.” I try to hide my surprise. He’s older than Izzy, but smaller. I consider malnutrition, and it whacks me back to helplessness: one meal changes nothing.
“Do you have kids?” she asks. We are just two ladies making small talk.
My answer emerges from my mouth more easily than it has since Ella died, as though being in this unlikely place has neutralized the damage, at least for right now. “I have two boys. Oliver is almost five, and Izzy is two.” I say in my head,
And I have a daughter, Ella
.
“That sounds like a handful.”
“Yeah.”
“Their dad around?” she asks, then cuts herself off. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
“No, that’s okay. Yes, their dad is around. I mean, I’m married to him.”
“That’s good. That must help.”
“Yes, he’s great with them.” I wish I hadn’t said that—it sounds like bragging.
“What about Tyler’s dad?” I ask. I figure she opened the door.
“He’s not around,” she says. Her voice closes the door to more questions.
“Uh-huh.”
She straightens her back, as if to emphasize that she is strong enough, she can handle it. My mind fills with questions. How could this baby be two and a half? How old is she? Where is the baby’s father? Where is her own mother? (I could almost
be
her mother.) Where and when will they get their next meal? I don’t want to hammer her with an interrogation, so I bite my tongue, sit in the silence and try not to worry about whatever happens next.
Outside on the sidewalk, our breakfast over, we say our good-byes. It’s beyond awkward, like the end of a first date on Mars. What is the protocol for this parting?
“Okay, well, bye.” She begins to walk away. Is this it? Will I ever see them again?
“Josie,” I call out, wanting to prolong our relationship by another minute. She stops and turns. “I just wondered, where are you headed?” I’m not sure I want to know.
“There’s a playground on Olive. It’s actually just a swing set. But it’s something to do. We have to be out of the shelter until five.”
I think I know it. I used to pass it on my way to the courthouse. It’s centered in a square cement lot, iron bars painted gunmetal gray,black plastic seat connected to two metal chains. It always looked abandoned. I assumed the lot was used mostly for drug deals and assorted creepy stuff. I never pictured an actual
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