15. Not Yours To Fix
NOT YOURS TO FIX
FAITH
W hen someone knocks on the motel room door, I don’t answer at first. I’m off the clock, curled up in bed, trying to remember what it feels like to be human.
I’m re-reading Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. It fits my mood—guilt, emotional repression, the slow, aching search for identity. I borrowed it from the library, when I finally found my way back there.
Another knock. Louder this time.
I open the door and nearly slam it shut again.
It’s Bob, the landlord from my old apartment—the one who kicked me out, tossed my life in a trash bag, and probably pocketed my cash and stole my suitcase.
Next to him is Kyle Brewer. He looks like a boy who finally realized the fire he started burned down the whole damn town.
“Faith,” Kyle says, “I?—”
“Why are you here?”
I don’t have time for recriminations. I’m not interested. These people are the worst of humanity.
Bob steps forward.
“Here.” He holds out an envelope, thick and creased. He slides my suitcase, the one I bought so I could have my life packed with dignity and not in trash bags. “It was wrong what I did. I...didn’t know the whole story. Merry Christmas.”
I take the envelope. Inside is four hundred dollars. Money I thought I’d never see. Money I painstakingly saved while I worked at Ripley’s.
Kyle nudges him, and Bob nods, grimacing. “Ah…if you want to come back, the apartment…yeah, it’s available.”
“No, thank you.”
I’m about to shut the door when Kyle speaks again. “I’m really sorry, Faith.” He clears his throat. “It was Paula. And Melody. They framed you.”
I look him dead in the eye.
“Go fuck yourself, Kyle.”
He flinches.
Whatever!
I close the door.
I touch my suitcase and feel a sense of relief. Now, when I leave, or I’m kicked out, I can pack my things in a proper suitcase, not shove everything in a trash bag.
I’m not trash .
Tears fills my eyes.
Fall.
I swipe at them.
I push the suitcase under the bed. There isn’t room in the small closet that holds the few clothes I have. My coat hangs on the hook behind the door. It’s the one that Cain, thankfully, brought back when he came to Nectar to…I have no idea why he came.
Maybe to gloat?
Look at what I did to you—now, you’re mopping up urine?
I hide the envelope of money inside a sanitary pad. It’s an old foster child trick. I even put some ketchup on the pad so it looks like dried blood, and no one will touch it.
I have now saved six hundred dollars. I can leave Silverton, go to Los Angeles.
I could also stay.
I like it here. It’s quiet. Especially, this new job. No one bothers me. I work alone in silence. I do my job, get my paycheck, and keep at it.
Is this living or surviving?
Same difference for someone like me. And what did living give me? I tried, didn’t I? I fell in love and trusted, and what did that give me?
I got hurt here, but I also found solace.
Should I stay or should I go?
Since I don’t know, I leave the question hanging in the air.
Thankfully, my alarm goes off, which means it’s time for my shift.
Cleaning is like meditation, or at least it is for me.
Focus on the small things. The speck of dirt. The stain that won’t go away.
Leave the world behind.